Nearest Thing to Crazy (5 page)

CHAPTER

2

‘I’m sorry. I hope you don’t mind about the coach. I don’t think it’s too far, though. You don’t get sick, do you? I know some people can’t stand them.’

We were both giggling as we climbed up the narrow steps. It was a lovely day, with just the hint of a breeze. Ellie could have been dressed for a garden party in a lime-green linen dress, with an enormous straw hat perched on her head, the front brim held up from her face with a fresh Gertrude Jekyll rose. Once again she made me feel dowdy and ordinary but hopeful that her glamour might be contagious.

‘I’m loving it. What a laugh. I haven’t been on one in years. Oh my God, that’s not a loo, is it? You’d have to be pretty desperate – imagine if they did an emergency stop!’

We found a couple of seats.

‘This is so nice of you to invite me. I’m beginning to feel human again.’

‘I’m pleased to hear it.’ I lowered my voice. ‘So everything okay? I mean, you’re all right . . .?’

‘Fine. All quiet, thanks. I’ve had perfect peace. Chance to get some writing done, healthy walks with Coco, and I’m beginning to feel really at home. I’ve been sleeping better than in months. So today I’m going to try not to think about any of that stuff.’

‘Good plan. I hope you won’t be bored. They’re a sweet bunch of people. Some of them have been quite famous in the garden world in their day.’

Ellie scanned the heads of our fellow travellers. ‘I love all the different characters. All the weathered faces and gnarly old hands. Do they have secateurs stuffed in their pockets ready to steal bits of other people’s gardens?’

‘I’m afraid they do. All part of the perks of the trip. They’re quite adept at surreptitious snipping. Watch for the carrier bags stuffed into their pockets.’

‘I was thinking how nice it would be if you helped me with my garden. We didn’t get a chance to talk about it the other day. I don’t want to spend much, or plant stuff that will take years to appreciate. Instant gratification – is that possible?’

‘Sure. I can give you lots of things from my garden. But I think pots would be best. Then if you move you can take them with you,
and Jules won’t object to you digging up her carefully laid lawn.’

‘Did you train?’

‘No. I’m just an enthusiastic amateur, learning from books, magazines, other people’s gardens. It’s just since we’ve lived in the cottage that it’s become a passion of mine.’

‘My mother was very keen. Too keen. I used to think she cared more about those bloody plants than she did about me.’

‘Is she still alive?’

‘No. She died last year. Electrocuted in her bath.’

‘Oh my God! How absolutely dreadful!’

‘Yes. She dropped her radio. Wireless, as she always called it. Shame it wasn’t wireless, as it happened. She struggled with getting batteries in and out because her fingers were so arthritic – thanks to the bloody gardening, no doubt. Bet you never realized how lethal
The Archers
could be. She might have got away with it had she not had a pacemaker fitted.’

‘Ellie, I’m so sorry. What a shock that must have been for you. Oh . . . God . . . I can’t believe I’ve just said that.’

‘Don’t worry. You’re not the first. They tell me she wouldn’t have known much about it.’

I didn’t know what else to say. It just seemed such a horrible thing to have happened. I was beginning to realize that Ellie, this woman who seemed to have everything going for her, was marked by tragedy. As she had said only the other day, it just goes to show that you never really do know about people, do you?

‘I’m just so sorry . . . really.’ I squeezed her hand.

‘Well the way I see it you’ve got to die of something, haven’t you? And she didn’t have some awful lingering illness . . .’

‘I suppose not,’ I said. ‘My own mother’s in a care home. It’s . .
. well, it’s difficult a lot of the time.’ But I didn’t want to talk about my mother today, and I couldn’t imagine that Ellie wanted to talk about hers. We were supposed to be enjoying ourselves. ‘Anyway, let’s change the subject, shall we? Talk about something more cheerful.’

‘Absolutely,’ she said. ‘What about Laura, your daughter. What’s she studying?’

‘She’s doing a degree in media studies. She’s just finished her second year but she’s staying in her student flat in Birmingham so that she can use the library for a project. It’s a worrying time, jobs being so scarce.’

‘Perhaps I’d be able to give her some contacts.’

‘Really?’

‘Possibly. I’ve been out of journalism for a while, but I still know a few people.’

‘That would be fantastic. Laura would be thrilled.’

‘Well I can’t promise, but I’ll help if I can. You must miss her.’

‘It’s not so bad now. Not like at first . . .’

‘No. I can imagine that must have been difficult, especially as she’s your only child. And your husband, where does he work?’

‘He’s in Birmingham too. In advertising.’

‘Yes, I remember now. He did tell me. He’s a sweetheart, you’re lucky. Well both of you are very lucky. How long have you been married?’

‘Twenty-eight years. How can we be
that
old already?’

‘Well you don’t look it. So many marriages break up these days. It’s a bit of an achievement, isn’t it, to have been together so long? I envy you.’

‘It’s not all been plain sailing,’ I said. It was the fact that she’d said she envied me, the fact that she seemed to have suffered so much tragedy herself that made me feel I should underplay my own happiness. I felt guilty for being okay and so as a result I was far more open than I would otherwise have been – even, perhaps, overplaying my insecurities. ‘We went through quite a rough patch after Laura left home. I think I’d been so focussed on her that I’d neglected our marriage.’

‘Really?’ Her face was a picture of sympathy, so I went on, foolishly.

‘It worries me sometimes with Dan, you know, involved in such a glamorous world of creative people, copywriters, shoots, models,
photographers . . . and then there’s plain old me.’ I laughed. ‘He tells me off for putting myself down.’

‘He’s right. It’s a shallow world. I’m sure you and the home you provide are far more important to him. How did you meet?’

‘We were both in London. He did uni, but I didn’t. I just did suitable jobs for a young girl – the usual, secretarial stuff. We met through a friend’s brother. I had assumed he fancied my friend, and do you know, to this day, I honestly think he did. But she knew how much I liked him and she wasn’t that fussed, so she left the way clear. I suppose I always felt amazed that Dan should have chosen to marry me. That’s the thing about Dan. He’s got this craving for the sophisticated creative stuff, the nice cars and the designer labels, but then there’s his working-class background and his lovely down-to-earth mum . . . So he’s a bit of a social chameleon, the original champagne socialist. Balsamic vinegar on his fish and chips.’

She laughed. ‘So both Dan and Laura are in Birmingham. That must be lovely for them. He must get to see lots of her – more than you do, I imagine.’

‘Dan always seems to be flat out with work, meetings and things, but sometimes I’ll go up and meet them for a concert, or something. We’re lucky, really, that she’s so close.’

‘Oh my God, what is that woman wearing?’

‘Which woman?’

‘The one with the orange hat and peacock feather . . . what
does
she look like?’

I giggled. ‘A little jaunty, isn’t it?’

‘Definitely. Do you think she spent hours getting ready? What can have gone through her mind? They all look so wonderfully eccentric, don’t they, like they’ve stepped out of the wrong end of the
1950s? I can almost smell the camphor. I do wonder if I’m actually allergic to old people –’

‘Ellie!’ I laughed. ‘Shush, they’ll hear.’

‘Don’t be silly, of course they can’t hear us, they’re probably all deaf.’

‘We’ll get thrown off the bus for bad behaviour.’

‘Sorry. I promise to take it all much more seriously and to behave myself from now on.’

‘No, no, it’s fine. Honestly. I just wouldn’t want to hurt their feelings. They’re a sweet bunch.’

‘You must excuse me. I’m afraid all this,’ she said, with a wave of her hand, ‘is rather alien to me. You’ll have to make allowances for my lack of country sensibility.’

I was surprised at how defensive she sounded. It wasn’t that big a deal. ‘Don’t be silly, it’s fine,’ I said. ‘Forget it. I’m sure they didn’t hear. Just me being over-sensitive.’

We fell into an uncomfortable silence but thankfully we soon arrived at our first destination, and I could mask my discomfort as we filed off the coach. We were swept along by the tour organizer towards coffee and home-made shortbread on the terrace, followed by an hour-long guided tour of the garden. I’d turned off my mobile, but Ellie’s rang about four times – she even answered it while our host was in mid-flow about how she’d dealt with her box blight. I wanted the earth to open up and swallow me when she said, without any attempt to lower her voice: ‘Darling, you’ll never guess . . . I’m going round a garden . . . Yes, a bloody
garden
for God’s sake. Can you believe it?’

Everyone heard, and everyone seemed very shocked.

I couldn’t help feeling that it was almost as though she was going out of her way to embarrass me. It was all so
weird.
And I’m pretty sure I heard her tell a member of the group that she wasn’t remotely into gardening because she found it boring and, this is where I question my hearing, because I couldn’t believe she really
would
have said it, that she ‘always thought it was for people who didn’t have a life’.

During lunch she appeared to be avoiding me by pointedly taking up the last seat on one of the dining tables so that I was left to find alternative company. I acted as if I didn’t mind a bit and just waved at her as I took my place at the other table and tried my best to enjoy the company of my fellow horticulturalists. It was fine, really it was, and I didn’t want to spoil the afternoon, and I really didn’t want to create an atmosphere between us. So during the next tour I carried on as if nothing had happened, chattering away inanely about planting schemes and the usefulness of specimen trees, but something had changed in her. On the way home I tried to engage her on the subject of her garden, asking her whether she’d seen anything to inspire her; what she’d particularly liked, or disliked, the usual sort of conversations you’d have on a garden tour.

Even though she was pretty unresponsive, I carried on, regardless: ‘I thought the roses were heavenly. I fell in love with that beautiful orangey-red one, Vespers I think it was called. And I wish we’d got the space for some catalpas, the Indian bean trees. There’s a place where I could probably get you a really good deal on pots. I could take you there, if you like.’ I knew I was wittering on to cover up my embarrassment.

‘Would you? Thanks. That would be great.’ She sort of smiled, vaguely, but I could sense her eyes glaze over as if I was speaking Urdu, and then she looked at her watch and yawned.

The garden tour. That was the first time I glimpsed some cracks in her marriage.

I do feel bad about it, but I honestly went with the best of intentions. I was a bit silly on the coach, I suppose, making comments about the other people, but there’s something about people like that that just brings out the worst in me . . . Did I mention my mother? Gardening. God, I don’t know but there’s something about it that really gets to me. I can’t really explain why. I think it makes me a bit claustrophobic, which is odd, as you’d think with the fresh air and all that greenery and colour and open skies claustrophobia would be the last thing you’d feel. But I did find it claustrophobic in the sense that it was so totally her world; it enveloped her completely. There was always something that demanded her attention, her loving care, her patience and time. If I’m honest, I did feel that she loved those plants, that garden, more than she loved me. She looked truly happy when she was on her knees, her ancient tattered straw hat on her head, scrabbling about in the earth. Sometimes when I watched her closely from the window I could see her lips move as if she was having all the conversations out there with her plants that she never seemed to have with me. I’m not sure she was an especially demonstrative person, my mother. But she was very practical. You should have seen her larder shelves. Stuffed full of everything: pickles, jams, preserves, potted fruits. You could stand in front of those shelves and imagine you were viewing a little piece of my mother’s soul. She lined the jars up so that all the labels faced neatly in one way. The handwriting, so carefully penned, sloped to the right and was perfectly centred. She made sure that she put the date of bottling in the bottom right-hand corner. I could tick off the years of my life with that bottom right-hand corner. Then to show how much she cared, she would place a little circle of fabric over the top of the jar and tie it up with a piece of coloured twine in a pretty little bow, like they were bonnets on her little girls. But I’m getting off the subject, aren’t I? I suppose I’m describing it so carefully because she was always so meticulous about it. And, yes, if I’m honest I was jealous. What was I saying? Oh yes, the garden tour. I suppose that’s why I didn’t really want to spend time with those people. They reminded me so much of my mother. It was unreasonable of me to take it out on her, and I’m sorry for that. But to be honest she did spend quite a lot of time talking about herself, and her daughter
. . . and gardening . . . I realized that she was a tiny bit dull, I’m afraid. And provincial. And yes, a bit touchy, too.