The Gardens of the Dead (28 page)

Nick
found himself explaining to Mrs Dixon how events had wiped clean his mother’s
expectations before she was fifteen. That her father had died suddenly before
her eyes.

‘What
happened?’ asked Mrs Dixon, blinking over her teacup.

‘He
just passed away like a light going out.’

‘But
how?’

A weak
heart.’ Nick understood now, because Doctor Okoye had made the diagnosis.

‘What
was her father like?’ asked Mrs Dixon after a moment.

‘My
mother rarely spoke of him,’ replied Nick. ‘She once told me that not a day
passed without her calling him to mind.’ Nick sipped his tea — it had gone cold
with his talking — and then he said, strangely moved, ‘She said I was just like
him …’ In saying that sentence to this dolled-up stranger, Nick, for the
first time, understood his own adolescence, and his mother’s anguish as a
parent. She’d tried to tell him why they’d fallen out of kilter, but he hadn’t
understood.

‘And
what of Elizabeth’s mother?’ said Mrs Dixon. ‘How did she fare?’

‘Not
very well.’

‘I’m
not surprised.’

‘That’s
not what I meant.’ He paused, not wanting to divulge much more. ‘She died too —
shortly afterwards, from septicaemia.’

Mrs
Dixon seemed visibly shocked, and Nick felt a stab of irritation, fearing that
his mother’s life had become an episode in a kind of soap opera.

‘Thank
you for telling me what happened to Elizabeth,’ said Mrs Dixon, placing her cup
on the table. ‘I now understand why she came to look after me.

‘Really?’
asked Nick, curious now.

‘Yes …
You see … I, too, have had my mishaps.’ She picked up a paper napkin. And I
know what it’s like to lose someone and want them back. Of course, the Council
had all this information in their files, and they’ll have told your mother. So
when she knocked on my door, thank God, she didn’t bring just pity, she brought
… herself.’ The napkin tore in her hands.

Nick
was ashamed of his earlier irritation with this poor woman who was genuinely
distressed. He would have liked to leave, but now was the obvious time to put
the one question that had brought him here. He said, ‘Before my mother died,
she made a telephone call … to you.’

Mrs
Dixon nodded. Her mouth was set, and her eyes were suddenly vacant.

‘Do you
mind telling me what she said?’

‘Not at
all.’ Mrs Dixon appeared tragically isolated in her chair, the only one left at
the garden party. ‘Elizabeth said … “I’m very sorry, but I won’t be coming
any more.”’

Nick
was dumbfounded. The latter part of his mother’s life had been devoted to a
scheme wholly personal in its objectives and significance. But her last words
had been said to a forgotten woman halfway up a tower block who dressed up for
a cup of tea; to the person who probably needed her most.

5

At the mention of going
home, George whispered, ‘Can I?’ Are you ready?’ asked Anselm.

‘Yes.’
His features showed both desire and dread. He shifted in his seat.

‘If you
forget my going,’ said Anselm confidently ‘I’ll surprise you when I get back.’
No truer words, he thought, had ever passed his lips. He was sure that Emily
Bradshaw would be with him.

More
out of excitement than impatience, Anselm banged the knocker to the terraced
house in Mitcham. A figure came to the door, fragmenting in a globe of dimpled
glass.

Emily Bradshaw stood at
the bay window while Anselm, by the arm of a settee, felt the rigour of
hesitation. She’d walked to her post without a word, without offering a seat.
When the past comes to an end, thought Anselm, you panic. He knew exactly what
he was going to say He’d chosen his words carefully on the Underground. ‘You
told me last time that nothing comes of nothing.’

Emily
moved a net curtain with the back of one hand —just an inch. ‘I got it from
The
Sound of Music.’

‘Sorry?’

‘The
Sound of Music.
The Captain and Maria sing it in
the garden when everything falls into place.’ Emily spoke with immeasurable
sadness. The hand fell to her side.

Anselm
became strong; these moments could be overcome. He sat down and spoke towards a
happy ending. ‘I have seen George. He’s ready to come home.’

‘Yes, I
know’

‘Pardon?’

‘He
came back.’ She raised a net curtain once more, looking out hopelessly.

And he
left?’

‘Yes.’

‘But
why?’

The
gate tapped shut and the front door opened. Anselm’s empathies dropped. They’d
been tailored for a happy ending in Salzburg. He felt the coldness of real
compassion. In the hallway feet stamped, shaking off the week. ‘Bloody hell,
it’s cold. But it’s Frida-a-ay’ It was a reassuring sound, kindly and rooted. A
zip hummed down its line.

Emily
moved to the middle of the room. She did not sit, so Anselm remained standing.
She said, ‘George’s place isn’t filled. Don’t think that, please. I can’t
understand our life together, that’s all. And if you can’t understand
something, it’s …’

A round
freckled face, smudged with grease and surprise, appraised Anselm. ‘Oh, hullo,
sorry about the swearing, like –’

‘Don’t
worry. It is cold, I entirely agree.’

‘Peter,
this is Father Anselm. He knows George.’

The man’s
hand was large, stamped with work and decency Anselm reached over. It had looked
like an anvil, but when touched it became a fat sponge.

Emily
said, ‘Father Anselm was just about to go.

Peter
stood in the doorway like a roadblock. His blue overalls were parted, revealing
the V-neck jumper, the shirt and tie. A slight paunch stretched the patterned
wool. He took a shallow breath while practical, no-nonsense eyes seemed to
weigh up a fractured joint, something basic that couldn’t be fixed. Peering
through a sort of spray he said, ‘How is he?’

‘Fine.
Not so bad,’ said Anselm, trapped between honesty to Peter and sensitivity to
Emily.

‘Well,
that’s good news, isn’t it?’

‘Yes,
it is .’

Anselm
pictured the arrival of the big man, his ordered life folded up in cardboard
boxes: a few pictures, his dad’s tin mug, some Corgi cars, mountains of
underpants, a shoe-cleaning box. Anselm said, ‘George makes no claims.’ It was
a strange announcement. He didn’t know why he’d said it.

Peter
rested blue arms on each pillar, his head aslant. He was balding. The remaining
hair had been creased by a regulation hard hat. ‘Emily let him in. Take him
back.’ He drew up the zip of his overalls, as if he’d just emerged from the
locker room. ‘It’s his home.’

Emily
was crying. She pushed past Anselm and said, ‘Peter, would you make some tea?’

‘You’ll
have one, Father?’

‘No, he
won’t,’ sobbed Emily.

At the
door, one foot on the flags, Anselm said, ‘Is there anything you’d like me to
say?’

‘Yes.’
Emily searched her pockets nervously.

Anselm
said, ‘I think I’ll be able to explain without saying anything.’ He was looking
at Peter, out of earshot.

Emily
said, ‘Tell him …’ Her face crumpled. She fetched out a biro that had leaked
and a receipt. With a slap at the air, she threw them against the wall and
slammed the door.

Anselm entered the ward.
George was dressed, his knees crossed, one leg bobbing. He was like a granddad
in a waiting room, ears cocked for an announcement. He’d been smartened up. The
hair hadn’t quite taken to the parting, but the comb lines stood out. Someone
had found an old blazer. It had a crest over the breast pocket with a motto:
‘Legis
Plenitudo Caritas’.
Love fulfils the law.

Before
Anselm could move, George swung him a quick look and grimaced. His feet
slipped, despite the shoes, and he locked his wrists on the armrests. Bony
shoulders took the strain of standing. Before Anselm could stop him, George was
upright, a hand outstretched. ‘Elizabeth said you’d come,’ he exclaimed.

Anselm
felt the grip. It was reassuring; it was strong. He looked aside from cloudless
eyes that revealed nothing but the sky.

‘Funny
thing is’ — George laughed gently at the coming joke —’I’m not quite sure why’

6

Riley unscrewed the box
casing that concealed the water pipes in the kitchen. Nancy stood behind him
waiting for the news.

‘Not
there,’ he said.

‘But he
can’t get out,’ moaned Nancy ‘You said so yourself.’ Riley replaced the casing,
thinking he shouldn’t have said that, because she’d latched on to it. He’d only
expected a ten-minute look-around. But Nancy was ready to dismantle the
building. She’d already made him check the washing machine, the dryer and the
fridge. She wouldn’t give up. That glow of expectation in her cheeks was like
the fog lights at Lawton’s.

‘I’ll
check the bedroom.’ Her voice was tight with the strain. ‘This is a waste of
time,’ he said, thinking of the dark around Limehouse Cut.

Nancy
got down on all fours, one cheek flat on the carpet. Riley stood behind her,
looking down. Her fastidious concentration was ridiculous to him.

‘Where
are you, Arnold?’ whispered Nancy.

Riley
knelt beside her, as if to drink from a stream. ‘Not there,’ he said. These
were bitter waters. He tasted one thing, and she another. His stomach turned,
like it did in his dream.

This
charade was played out in every room until they returned to the kitchen and
faced the empty cage. All at once Nancy slumped into a chair, pushing a hand
through her hair, one elbow on the table. ‘He’s so small, and so weak.’

The
phrase threw up the days when Riley wore shorts. He’d been a small lad.
Everything was heavy, even the shopping. He’d hated his weakness. Coming round,
he noticed that Nancy’s shoulders were shaking. She’s laughing, he thought,
with relief, and it brought a nervous giggle out of him. Like a thing on a
ratchet-wheel, Nancy slowly looked up, and showed her tears.

‘How could
you?’ she whispered in disbelief.

Riley
paled, thinking that she’d known all along; that she’d led him round the
houses, giving him the chance to admit what he’d done. He panicked and
sniggered again.

‘Go on,
laugh,’ she howled, proud and defiant. ‘Join the rest of them who think that
Nancy Riley’s such a joke.’ She hid her face with her hands.

Riley
waited for her to stop, but she didn’t. She moaned gently into her fingers,
shaking her head, and he watched her, as if his mind were on a shelf, while his
body against him, still wanted to laugh. The more he listened to Nancy’s grief,
the longer he observed her covered face, the more he seemed to become separate
from himself. He was retreating from this awful sight — he’d never seen her cry
like this — but his lungs were ready to explode. Unable to stop himself, he
began to laugh.

Nancy
lowered her fingers. Impassively she watched him — as he had watched her. With
a pink tissue she dabbed each cheek as if she were putting on her make-up.

Riley’s
laughter wouldn’t end. Shuddering and out of control, his voice grew loud. He
tried to stop it with a cough and a whistle, but it was no use. It was like
being stripped down, and Nancy could see him for who he was. She didn’t storm
out; she just kept crying and dabbing her cheeks, watching him like it was a
sad film, a tragedy It turned into a sort of game: who was going to stop first,
him or her? The thought allowed him to recover, because he didn’t want to win:
he couldn’t bear to watch her any more. The hysteria was over. And yet …

Riley
didn’t know what was happening. He touched his cheeks … they were wet, like a
rock on the beach. Nancy rose as if someone had banged at the door. She came
towards him, curious and frightened, while Riley backed away His tears kept
spilling out. The muscles all over his face ached terribly and yet part of him
felt nothing, because he was distant, like a balloon, bobbing against the
kitchen ceiling. Then, as if punctured by exhaustion and a will to resist no
more, he felt himself sinking: coming down to a distraught man with a wet,
contorted face.

‘It’s
not your fault,’ urged Nancy appalled. ‘You only left the cage open.

Sobbing
with a sound just like his laughter, Riley yanked open the back door. Cold air
bit his face. He was still falling, but more quickly.

‘I’m
here,’ said Nancy softly at his shoulder. ‘I’m always here, Riley.’

At
those words, he caught himself up. He felt weakened —dreadfully — by the
realisation that he wanted to live like other men; that he’d had enough of the twisting,
the breaching and the wrecking of everything that passed before him. He’d gone
out of his way to smash whatever might break. Nancy was in the yard, at his
side, and Riley saw her as he’d first seen her at Lawton’s long ago, at their
bleak beginning. She was still the same old Nancy still dumpy still hungry.