The Insistent Garden (41 page)
“What are you doing out here so early?”
I smiled in the darkness. “Thinking.”
“What happened? I saw the ambulance but I thought you'd all gone.”
“My father had a heart attack.”
“Is he alright?”
“Yes, I think so. Vivian called me.”
An odd expression shaped his face. “So you didn't worry?”
“Yes, so I didn't worry.”
His eyes dropped to my legs. “Sweetheart, what are you wearing?”
“A dress.”
He rubbed his hand across his head. “Edie.”
“Yes?”
“Is everything alright?”
“It is.” I flipped my hair off the back of my neck.
He peered towards my face. “Edie, what's wrong?”
“Nothing's wrong.” I adjusted a button that lay in the wrong hole. “But Archie, there's something I want to tell you. Come over.”
“I'm on my way,” he said.
He stepped back and disappeared inside the shawl of darkness draped across the wall. I could not see him cross but I heard him: a belt rattled as his trousers were shaken into position, spitted palms were rubbed together and a word sounding like âgeyerselfover' punctured the dark. He landed in a square of light beaming from the kitchen window.
“It's something important, isn't it?” he said, coming towards me.
“Yes.”
“Well, tell me quickly. I want to know what has brought a smile to my girl's face.”
“I went next door.”
“You mean â?”
“Yes. To his house.” The darkness absorbed the heat from my cheeks.
“Alone?”
“Yes, alone.”
“What happened?”
“I met Alden Black.”
“Alden. . . Black. I haven't thought about him for years.”
“You knew him?”
“Yes, well, I knew the baby. . . Black. He must be what â”
“Nineteen.”
“Yes, you and he were born in the same year. But he moved away, his mother took him somewhere across town.” Archie's eyes narrowed. “What about Edward?”
“Edward is dead.”
His eyes widened. “When?”
“A year ago.”
“But how come we never saw. . .”
“He died in hospital.”
“So the wall was. . .”
“Yes, the wall was for nothing. It was only for my father. And for me.”
“It was more than nothing for your father. For him it was real. He wasn't always like this, you know, Edie. Before your mother died he was happy. But her death, it knocked the stuffing out of him. He misses her.”
“I miss her too.” I said.
“Yes, sweetheart, I know.”
We stood in silence. Jasmine grew.
“Archie.”
“Yes?”
“I can't work on the wall anymore.”
He stepped forward. I could hardly breath as he wrapped his arms around my shoulders, tightening his grip until the collar of his dressing gown scratched my nose. He released his arms and peered into my face. “Edie?”
“Yes?”
“Are you alright? I mean, this a good thing, isn't it?”
“Oh, Archie, “I'm so relieved. . . but I'm scared.”
“Scared of what?”
“Of what's going to happen when my father gets home.”
I removed my clothes slowly, dropping them to the bedroom floor and then climbed into bed naked. I switched off the light and closed my eyes. My eyes fell open and I thought of
him
. That final glimpse loomed large in my mind: his pale forehead sunk into his pillow, his eyelashes damp with wet. Finally, trawling through my memories, still raw, still moist, I allowed myself to dwell on the unthinkable. I had touched the skin of a stranger. I had soaked myself in him. And I wanted to soak some more.
34 Ethrington Street
Billingsford,
Northamptonshire
September 24th 1969
Dear Gillian,
I had two visitors today. Both were talking about the same person but they did not know it. Edith was the main topic but luckily it was her day off. First Archie dropped by. He didn't meant to. He was walking past the shop with his hand across his mouth so I dashed out and got him inside. What's bothering you, I asked him over a cup of tea. Nothing he says, but I know when nothing means something so I went at him from the other side. Not like you to be downcast, I say. Got a problem with earwigs again? I'm worried about Edith he says, all slowly and a bit overdramatic. What about Edith? I say, but you know Gill, he just would not say what about Edith. My Raymond was the same, put a morsel on the table but never get round to dishing up the main course. Anyway, Archie adds to the mystery by saying, keep an eye on her, Jean, â as he's half out the door.
So I'm thinking, I thought he was the one keeping an eye on her when Frank Slammer â the butcher from up on Gravelly Road â shows up. I had to stand back as he always smells of steak, or sausages, or something a bit raw and it gets a bit much up close. His poor wife, don't know how she stands it. Anyway, I just couldn't resist â him being born in this town and that â I asked him if he knew anything about Edith and her mum. Wished I hadn't. He looked really unhappy and said he'd known Miriam, said she'd adored his special sausage rolls with the fancy pastry and said it upset him a lot when she suddenly died. But âhow did she die,' came out before I could stop it and he starts telling me about the inquest, it was in the papers â wait Gill, the lorry's here â I'll finish this later.
In a rush.
Jean
Three hours passed. Three hours encased inside a new skin. New, yet perfectly fitting.
A different person woke up in my bed late the next morning. Someone else's hands felt the darkness of the cupboard searching for clothes. Someone else's toes stretched to a point as I drew my socks over them. It was not until I looked at my reflection in the bathroom mirror that I felt confident I remained Edith Stoker. Remained myself.
Eating toast at the kitchen table I couldn't help but re-live the events of the previous evening. My father's face loomed large in every thought: the sweat that lined the edge of his hair, the slack, dull-looking jaw, but it was a small detail that stuck out in my memory; a piece of paper wedged to the underside of the table. I bent down, ran my hand beneath the wood and pulled something out. But it wasn't a piece of paper. It was a seed packet, faded to white and torn at the corner. I brushed off the dust and read.
Copper-skinned bulbs, purple blooms, endless flowering.
Heat treated to reduce bolting.
I studied the date stamped on the bottom of the packet, but just as I was trying to read the last two numbers I heard a sound. A key turned in the front door, hinges whimpered, the floorboards creaked and a figure stepped into the sunbeam that obliquely crossed the kitchen doorway. I slipped the packet into my pocket.
“Get the kettle on,” said Vivian.
My aunt looked tired. As someone with high demands for sleep she showed all the signs of a person who had spent the night in a chair, lipstick smudged, eye wrinkles lined with mascara. Aware of a minor tightening in my new skin, I stood up and went over to the sink. The water sounded louder than normal as it thundered down into the kettle; the gas ring growled when I lit it with the match.
“How is he?” I asked.
“Did you do this?” Vivian said, resting her finger on the crossword puzzle lying open on the table.
“What do you mean?”
She looked sly. “Misanthrope?”
“It was the only one I knew.” I smoothed out the corner of the newspaper.
“I'm surprised you didn't get seven down. . . w-o-r-m.”
I kept my eyes steady. “How is he?”
“Not too bad â a bit ragged â but not too bad.”
“Is he going to be alright?”
She flashed surprised. “Of course. He'll be home in a few days.”
“Can I go and see him?”
She looked at me suspiciously. “I suppose it won't do any harm.”
“What are the visiting times?”
“Oh. . .” She wafted her hand in the air. “Five o'clock, I expect.”
“I'll go today after work.”
“You do that,” she said, turning towards the stairs. “Oh, and Edith.”
“Yes?”
“I'll have my tea in bed.”
“You're late.”
“My father had a heart attack.”
“What!”
“Yesterday afternoon. He's in hospital. But he's alright. Vivian says.”
Jean came out from behind the counter and pulled my coat back up onto my shoulders. “Edith, go! You shouldn't have come in, get yourself to the hospital now.”
“I'll go later,” I said, peeling off my coat again, “He's alright, really.”
Jean laid her hand on my arm. “You don't want to go there, do you?”
“I. . .”
“It's the stink, isn't it? Gets right up your nose, all that bleach and those rancid old mops lying about. I'm the same.”
“I suppose so. . . .”
“You're not working on the till today.” She steered me towards the back of the shop. “I want you to relax, just run the duster over those bottles, I'll deal with Mavis when she gets here, it's complaining day, remember.”
As someone briefly in charge of me, Jean was in her element. She deflected customers if they veered in my direction, and asked me fifty, no, a hundred times, âyou alright?' She presented me with a biscuit barely half an hour into the morning and when eleven o'clock came around, she placed a bone china cup that I had never seen before ceremoniously on the table in front of me.
“Edith, don't worry, it's a good hospital,” Jean said. “My mum passed away there, oh â I mean, she was in good hands when her time came.”
“I'm not worried.”
Jean tipped her head. “Something's bothering you though, isn't it?”
“I didn't sleep well.”
She laid her hand on my forehead; I smelt cigarette smoke on her sleeve. “You're not coming down with anything are you, your cheeks are flushed.”
I undid the top button of my sweater. “I'm alright. But I wish my mother was here.”
“You've never said that before.”
I looked down at the linoleum, white circles showed where table legs had rubbed the same spot. “No.” I looked back up. “Jean, I wish I knew how she died. They never told me. Nobody would ever tell me.”
Jean's chair creaked. “It's probably not the best time but. . .”
“But what?”
“Well, Frank Slammer, you know the butcher up on Sunderland Road, he was in the other day, gave me a roasting over the new price of butter, he's a bit of a gossip as you know and. . .”
That pause, it had no end. Every muscle in my body tightened, ready to fight, or ready to flee.
“I'm not sure how it came up but. . .”
“Please Jean, just say it.”
“He remembers the inquest; it was reported in the newspaper.”
“What inquest?”
“Well, there was an inquest after your mother died.”
“Jean, what
is
an inquest?”
“It's. . . erm. . . it's when they try and find out the cause of death then put it in the newspaper.”
The newspaper.
Everyone in town had a newspaper. They lined their dustbins with them; they covered up cracks in their floorboards; they used them to wrap fish. “What
was
the cause?” I said.
“It was an open verdict, Edith.” She pulled the tea cosy snugly down over the pot. “Which means they didn't find out the complete cause, but there was some information that partly explained what happened to her.”
“What information?”
“When she died,” Jean tweaked the cozy again, “she had poison in her blood.”
