The Insistent Garden (6 page)

I let the curtain drop and hurried over to my wardrobe. Light rarely reached this corner of my room so my choice of garment was based on the feel of the cloth rather than colour. I made most of my clothes myself. I did my best but the finished articles never looked how I hoped; buttons were too large for their holes and pockets fell permanently open. Even now as I pulled on my shirt it took great effort to line up the collar with the back of my neck. I prized a pair of trousers from beneath the shoulders of a heavy coat, pulled them on and hurried downstairs.

All the ingredients of another day were laid out in the back garden: the pile of bricks, the bag of cement — its mouth stained with dust, the bucket of water lined with nuggets of mortar and the heap of sand, slumped down one side where the spade had made carefully counted inroads. Suppressing a desire to dig my heel into the heap's fractured north face, I slipped inside the vast shadow that ran down one side of my garden and hurried towards my father. He was standing beside the ladder when I reached him, staring at a brick in the garden wall. I checked his profile. “Everything. . . alright?”

“What?” He picked a piece of dried mortar off the wall.

“Are you alright?”

“Yes.” He turned. “You're late. Where've you been?”

“I'm sorry. I overslept.”

“Don't let it happen again, we need all the time we can get”

The oak tree that straddled the high wall provided a creaking accompaniment to our work
. Quercus ilex
was my father's nemesis. Its great thighs had the power to crush a brick, slowly, silently, and nothing could restrain the weight of the branches, chipping and dislodging chunks of brick from the top of the wall with every winter storm. Even its roots conspired to topple the high wall, bulging up from unexpected places like a powerful living jemmy. Two hours passed. Two whole hours holding the ladder, passing up cloths and turning small pieces of dried mortar over in my hands and willing him to stop. “That's enough,” my father said from the top of the ladder, “let's take a five minute break.”

Five minutes was good. Five minutes meant his mood was generous. “I'm just going to wash my hands,” I turned towards the house. But I never reached the kitchen sink. A sound coming from the direction of the hall pulled me towards the front of the house and by the time I reached it the letterbox was open and two fingers were poking through. A letter dropped to the floor. “Wait a moment.” I rushed forward and opened the door.

The postman was halfway down the path by the time he stopped. Guilty-looking cheeks were replaced by a smile. He half-turned. “Can I help you?”

“Yes, I have a letter to give you.” I was almost through the door, intent on explaining the misdirected letter of the previous day, when I noticed the hedge. “Did you do that?”

“Do what?”

“That hole in the hedge, there. It wasn't there yesterday. Did you make that?”

He studied the thick row of shrubs that divided my neighbour's garden from mine, tilting his head, inspecting it from every angle, as if he had never seen it in his life before. “I didn't make it, I just use it.”

“What for?”

“It's a short cut. I like to be first back at the depot. I just forgot to close it up. Looks good on my —”

“A short cut to where?”

He shifted his bag across his shoulder. “Next door, of course.”

My throat tightened. “Will you help me close it?”

He grinned, a wide, carefree smile. “But then you won't able to nip over and visit your neighbour.”

“I can't do that.”

“Why not?”

“I hate him.”

The words were out; I'd never get them back. I became aware of a long look, eyebrows pulling together just below the peak of his cap.

“Hate is a strong word,” he said sagely.

I looked over his shoulder up towards my neighbour's window. The curtains looked too big for the windows, hems in piles on the sill. Those hems scared me. The whole of my neighbour's house scared me. I'd spent my entire life feeling frightened of the presence on the other side of the wall. I'd asked my father what was over there once. I'll never ask again.

“I really need to close the gap,” I said. “Will you help me? I have to do it before my father sees it.”

His eyes rested on my mouth. “Course, you just need to bend this branch back like this.” He seemed a very young postman. I could not help but notice plimsolls and orange socks pop out from the bottom of his trousers as he knelt down to make final adjustments to the hedge. His uniform gave him the look of a little boy who had tried on his dad's suit and his cap, hiding all trace of hair, added to his youthful air.

“I must be getting back to my round. I've got at least ten minutes to catch up.” He stuffed a bunch of elastic bands back into his pocket. “I'm sorry to hold you up, but I have a letter for you,” I said.

“Can't you just put it in the post box?” He put his hand into his bag.

“It's already been posted. It's for next door, not us, and I couldn't. . .”

He stopped rummaging in his bag and gave me a short conspiratorial nod. “All right. I'll take it.”

I read the nametag pinned to his jacket. ‘
Jonathan Worth,
' printed too close to a gold Post Office crown. “Thank you, Mr. Worth.”

“You're welcome.”

“I'll go and fetch it. I won't be a second.”

My father was sitting at the table, blowing on a cup of tea when I entered the kitchen “Where've you been?” he said.

“The postman is here, shall I give him back that. . . letter?” I said.

He didn't reply at first. He just blew a well-brewed wave across the surface of his tea. Then he turned to towards me, “It's in the sideboard, second drawer down.”

I opened the drawer, picked the letter up by its corners, hurried back outside and placed it face down into the postman's waiting hand.

“It's not going to sting you.”

“Please, just take it.”

“Hey, it's burnt on the edge!”

“Where?”

“There!”

“No, that's just dirt,” I brushed the corner lightly with my fingers,

“Edward Black,” he drawled, turning over the letter. “Does he know you. . . don't you like him?”

I adjusted my sleeve. “I don't know. I've never met him.”

I sat on the grass wearing gloves of orange dust. The garden was silent, mortar quietly dried, and I had a chance to think. I had told my private thoughts to a person I didn't know. Would he tell other people? Would every postman in town stare as they passed me in the street, stroking their baby beards and nodding their heads in my direction as if they knew all the details of my life? He'd made a hole in the hedge, that postman, a body-shaped hole in our boundary while my father and I laboured in the back, repairing and smoothing imaginary cracks. I shuddered; our barrier had been breached and we didn't know it.

I was watching the trees beyond the back fence when I noticed a flash of brown at the far end of the garden. A fox, frozen into its characteristic pose — back straight, head turned at ninety degrees — stood beside the back fence. It turned its horrible eyes on me, paused, then fled, streaking through the long grass before leaping onto the top of the high wall. It paused again, stared accusingly down at me then disappeared over the other side.

Footprints marked the brick dust when I walked over to inspect his launching pad. I touched one of the concentric circles, imagining I could still feel the warmth from the fox's feet, and then sat down in the trough of broken stems where his tail had swished a route through. I tipped my head back against the wall. My eyes closed. Where was the fox now? Was he crouched silently on the other side, hidden by undergrowth? Or was he staring into the face of Edward Black, his feral eyes narrowed to slits? It was then that I heard a cough; it clipped the air. With my pulse thumping in my ears, I tried to recall the qualities of the sound I had heard. Was it the sound of a chest infection? Did it mark the return of a hastily swallowed meal? Or was it the sound of a person who habitually cleared his throat before speaking? An insect cracked a wing as I turned my head to the wall and listened. But I more than listened; I willed a sound to come, pressing my ear against the bricks until it hurt. But the sound was not repeated. Not even a tantalizing half sound.

9

I was standing beside the bathroom sink rubbing limescale off the taps next morning when I heard voices. Loud, masculine questions mixed with gentle female replies. I knew exactly where my father was, at the front door, on the doormat. But it took a few more rubs of the cloth before the words organized themselves into sentences and I realized he was talking to someone outside the house and the subject of the conversation was myself.

He looked smaller as I peered through the banisters but still his voice pounded the ceiling. “What are you doing with
those
?”

I recognized the front part of the person half hidden inside the doorframe, her fingers woven, and her toes together. Una had come early; Una had made a mistake.

“I brought them for Edith,” she replied.

“What for?”

“I thought she'd. . . like them.”

My father stepped back. “You can't bring them in here! Go home, just go home.”

Una opened her mouth to speak then turned, her reply lost in the collar of her jacket. I moistened my lips, placed my foot on the top step, and then stopped. As I watched the dejected figure walk away — feet smearing the path, a bunch of flowers limp in her hand — I saw something I had never seen before.

I saw myself.

I forgot to tread lightly as I rushed across the landing and burst into my bedroom. I forgot to be gentle with the door; it slammed. After turning a small circle of indecision I rushed to the wardrobe, tossing coat hangers into symphonies as I hunted for my cardigan. Finally, I found the photograph of the garden, pushed it into my pocket and tiptoed down the stairs. The memory of flowers lying in Una's hand was strong in my head. I had to do something. I didn't know what but I had to do something.

I paused at the front door, looking from left to right. A church spire I had never noticed before poked out from behind a clump of trees and distant hills sloped in a way I didn't remember. And the air felt clear; it sharpened the squeak of the gate as it swung shut behind me. I glanced at the blue tree in the distant woods then strode down the hill, breaking into a run before slowing to a thigh-burning walk. I crossed the border of my home territory and turned into an unknown street. Euphoria rushed in! It felt so good to relish the unfamiliarity of it all, and I stood up on the balls of my feet, just stood, like a dancer in the street. Then my heels dropped back down; a small car had turned into the end of the street. An old-fashioned Ford, it cruised towards me with a comforting purr and I felt a flicker of premonition as the driver's face came into view, lips pursed in concentration, a woman. As her profile glided by, I saw curls tucked behind her ears, hands high on the steering wheel. Ten yards further on the car stopped, a handbrake groaned, the door opened and a woman heaved herself out, emitting a faint whooshing sound during her lunge for the kerb. She tottered towards me on fancy shoes.