The Insistent Garden (19 page)
“So, apart from the Brown brothers' little visit, how was your first morning?” said Jean, scraping coins from the back of the till.
“It was fine.”
“I'll see you tomorrow then, same time?”
“Yes.”
She snapped the till shut and examined my face. “Don't say much, do you love?”
“Hello. . . could I speak to Doris Winehouse? . . . Is this 2-8-4-3-7-3-7? . . . Oh, I must have the wrong number, I'm sorry. . .”
34 Ethrington Street
Billingsford,
Northamptonshire
October 14th 1968
Dear Gill,
I had that girl start on Thursday. You know that little prodijay of Archie's. But you know what Gill, she's not only Archie's little prodijay, she's that girl who's been coming in wearing her brother's socks. Turns out she doesn't actually have a brother so I can see I'm going to have to give her one of my little talks â you know, the one about making the most of your legs. She's actually quite pretty when she's not looking so worried but she's also got that hair that flies up whenever she gets near something electric. Edith's her name. Doesn't suit her one bit. She's more of a Susan or perhaps a Dawn. But talk about mousy. She's hardly said a word since she got here. Funny thing is, when she does speak there's words in there I've never heard. Hope she doesn't turn out to be one of those girls who've always got their nose in a book. Between you and me, I'm not sure if it's going to work out as she seems scared of her own shadow (and mine, she jumped when I unexpectedly came up behind her with a box of chocolate biscuits.) But there is something interesting about her. I can't put my finger on it, she's â how'd you say â got something to say but hasn't managed to say it yet.
Must go. Got a delivery due any second. God knows where I'm going to put it all.
Jean
The time of objects floating down from above began. Fall, they call it in America.
Autumn arrived slowly in Billingsford. Leaves coloured up like chameleons, red chasing green, chasing yellow, before collapsing into brown. The eerie sense of curling and shrinking grew stronger as the last drops of moisture were squeezed from exhausted veins and dead leaves clung to the trees, each hanging by a thread until that first wet weekend in November when rain slathered mud onto the pavement and autumn was suddenly winter.
I looked up at the leaves drifting down towards me, arranging then rearranging themselves against the sky, and felt sad. Something was ending just as something else was beginning. With my plants only days in the ground, autumn had arrived, bringing with it the smell of winter and the platinum colours of decay.
I picked up the rake and began to tidy up. There was something soothing about the pace of the work, no rush, no pressure to finish. Then I heard a noise. The dry crackle of metal on leaves drifted over the high wall.
He
was there, dragging prongs across the ground with slow, methodical movements, a scrape and a scrape and a scrape. I glanced towards the kitchen window and continued to rake, gripping the handle, picking up the rhythm, a scrape and a scrape, and a scrape.
I wished I could sleep late on Sundays. But Sundays in November were tipping into winter and by seven o'clock in the morning cold air had sneaked into the cracks between my sheets and flocks of birds had gathered outside the bedroom window, scrambling for prime spots on the oak tree and fluffing up their feathers before getting down to the murderous job of repelling their enemies.
In spite of my tiredness, I couldn't help but love the dawn chorus. I adored those wild birds that flitted across the garden wall, twitching their heads at nothing, and then flying away at the slightest hint of danger. It took effort to peel my ear from my pillow but as I lifted my head and listened to the rising vibration of avian throats I became aware of a different sort of sound drifting into my bedroom, not the solemn warble of the blackbird or the
chap, chap
of the wren, but the unmistakable sound of slippered feet as they slapped their way towards my door.
“Get up, Edith, we're going to the shop,” Vivian said, poking her head into my room.
My body stood to attention beneath the sheets.
Shop.
Singular
.
I sat up and got out of bed. “Which shop? I bought all the groceries yesterday.”
“My shop, of course.”
Vivian's shop. Three mornings a week my aunt left her house with a packed lunch, an umbrella, and plastic mac rolled up into her bag and returned smelling like a new shoe fresh from its box. I knew this because she carried out the same ritual when she stayed with us, packed lunch, umbrella, plastic mac. I'd never been to Vivian's workplace before. Never in all my years as a niece had she invited me to see how she spent her time way from the house. I scrambled to get dressed and caught up with her just as she opened the front door.
“Why are we going to the shop?” I ventured.
“I need you to move some stock,” Vivian replied.
“How far is it?”
She looked incredulous. “How long have I been working at Hegarty's?” “I know you told me but is it. . . eight years?”
“Eighteen!” she thundered.
“You must like it.”
Vivian scowled, snapped her coat shut and stepped out of the front door.
“What's happened to Jimmy Smythe?” I said, buttoning my collar as I hurried behind.
“That lazybones, he's gone and hurt his back so I'll need a bit of help from you now and again.”
“But, I have this job at the corner shop and. . .”
“And what?”
“Well, she's taken me on.”
She looked sly, “Family comes first, doesn't it?”
“Yes.” I hesitated. “I'll fit it in.”
Forty-five breathless minutes later, we approached a shop with a large âHegarty's' nailed above its window. The âH' had slipped and a bedraggled starling sat perched on the âY,' its tail bent in half, but something about the place reminded me of a shop I had been to once before. I observed the window display while Vivian rooted round in the bottom of her bag searching for keys. The patience of the person making the display had clearly worn thin; the shoes seemed to have been dropped from a great height and the laces were broken on the pair at the end.
“Wake up, Edith, there's work to be done,” Vivian said, pushing open the door.
As I followed my aunt across the threshold, the scent of the interior leapt up to meet me, new leather mixed with a background aroma of day-old socks. I drew air into my nose.
“What are you doing?” she asked.
“Nothing.”
Her eyes lingered on my face then she flipped a grey gown off its peg and slung it over her shoulders, her red dress reduced to a thin line of colour resting on her neck.
“Aunt Viv â”
“What?”
“I. . .”
“What is it?” she said. “Cat got your tongue?”
“I've never seen you in your uniform before. It's. . . nice.”
“Don't be ridiculous! Get your coat off, you need to start moving those boxes from the store room to the other end of the shop.”
Another set of muscles. Another set of ligaments aching. I felt them pull together as I moved the boxes from one part of the room to the next. No pattern, just lift, move and stack. But I didn't mind. There was no dust, no thugs of mortar drying on the backs of my hands and I loved the smell of the leather, unable to stop myself sniffing beneath the lids whenever Vivian's back was turned. I had moved almost all of the boxes when she abruptly removed her gown, reeled out further instructions and announced she was going to the bank.
Left alone I felt anxious but after a moment I walked across to a stack of shoeboxes piled up against the back of the shop. The scent of leather increased as I pulled out a pair of shoes and held them up to the light. Magenta: two-inch heels. I sat down on the bench, levered off my old shoes and slipped my toes into the new ones. Then I stood precariously up. Surveying the shop from two inches higher than before felt good. I sensed my spine adjust to the new angle of posture as I turned in a circle, shifting my weight from shoe to shoe. I tottered towards the foot mirror and examined a small square of myself. Pale ankles, magenta toes, silk bows. With pleasure suspended on a knifeedge I walked round the room, lifting foot after beautiful foot then lowering, and then lifting again, every movement sending a pulse of pleasure up through my legs, one which I had never felt before.
By the time Vivian returned, the shoes were back in the box, tissue smoothed back down and all fingerprints removed with a wipe of my handkerchief. Yet on the walk home, I couldn't help but think of the magenta toes crossing the floor, tiny steps, tiny shadows following behind.
I often felt worn out by the thoughts in my head. Yet lately I'd felt different. Almost imperceptible surges of happiness had started springing up from nowhere, pushing other feelings aside and rippling pleasure through my arms. But then they'd leave just as abruptly and the worry would return, lying across my shoulders like a heavy coat. I worried about my father, I worried about my aunt, and I worried about the tea stain that wouldn't come off. But most of all I was disturbed by the worry that I couldn't identify, the one that was yet to come.
I spent every spare second in the back garden; I loved the damp smell of earth and the crinkled signs of life down there on the ground. I also adored the plants as they prepared for winter, their sugars withdrawn, their leaves hugging the ground. I was looking at a doily of frost draped across a dead flower when the sound of a distant voice entered the garden.
“M-i-ss.”
I hurried back to the house before anyone could be stirred up and opened the front door. “Mr. . . Johnny.”
“Good morning,” the postman replied, grinning.
“This is a late delivery.”
“Oh no, I heard you were planting a new garden and I wondered if you needed any help?”
“Where did you hear that?”
“We posties hear everything. . .” He looked superior. “. . . about everything.”
“I don't need any help, thank you.”
His smile slumped, then re-formed. “Could I come in and use your loo?”
I edged back. “I suppose so.”
He placed a toe onto the doormat. “Cor, is this your granny's place?”
“I don't have a granny.”
“Not one?”
“No grandparents at all.”
“Sorry. Shoes off?”
“No, it's all right. The loo's up the stairs and straight on.”
“Thanks, I'll find it.”
I went into the kitchen and sat at the table.
Heard you were planting
a garden.
How had he âheard'? I pulled my sleeve further down my wrist; my skin felt naked inside my clothes. A constipated toilet broke the quiet of the room so I ran up the stairs and tapped on the bathroom door. “Please, can you try and flush it more quietly, my aunt is staying here and she's asleep.”