For the dark days of January, heres a dark tale . . . GARDEN OF REMEMBRANCE It is a shock to see it in the newspaper. The Property section has long seemed like a work of fiction to Esther, especially the prices, unimaginable sums of money. Desirable, stone-built, semi-detached villa in sought-after area. Traditional family home. Large, well-cultivated garden. Had they been a ‘traditional family’? Did all families start out bonded in faith, hope and love then splinter into embattled individuals a million miles apart? Nothing semi at all about the detachment. A love-knot that unravels into parallel lines towards infinity. Arthur has been dead now for more than ten years. It was a relief to see him go at last, to stop pretending that he was still alive. Their love was long gone before that, along with the faith and the hope. Their only child, that bonny baby boy, has turned into a faraway voice on the telephone, talking of a life she can’t imagine on the other side of the world, urging her to get something called ‘web access’ so that he can send her photographs of her grandchildren. Esther has registered the expression and filed it into the folder of things that she will never understand or attempt to incorporate into her life. There was a time when she made efforts to keep up. Now she has drawn a line and halted the march of progress: no technobabble; no more newfangles. She has sent her son a disposable camera and asked him to take the twelve snaps and send it back to her for developing. The house looks good in the newspaper photograph. The estate agent has told her that it will also be ‘on their website’ so she knows that it is out there somewhere in space as well. Esther is not sure if she finds this a comfort or not. She has taken his advice and waited until May month: spring is the best time for selling houses. Esther dimly remembers the day she and Albert came to look at this house. Not spring, a wet day, heaps of soggy leaves all over the garden. It had looked desolate, ‘needing a lot done to it’. Albert had been the man to do it and Esther had been the woman to back him up. Such energy. Such optimism. So long ago. Viewing Thursday and Saturday afternoons 2.00 – 4.00 pm. It is Thursday. It is quarter to four and no-one has come. She struggles out of the armchair by the window and stands for a moment looking out at the deserted street. A neat suburban street, a row of well-kept houses, the front gardens no more than paved squares bisected by short paths up to front doors. The large back gardens, the sheds, greenhouses and lean-to extensions, are demurely hidden, a surprise to visitors and viewers. She lets the corner of the net curtain fall back into place and, across the road, there is an answering twitch. She acknowledges it with a gnarled hand and a wry smile but the window opposite remains shrouded and blank. A low, silver car slides questioningly into the street and begins to kerb-crawl. A girl with long blonde hair is driving and the man is holding up a sheet of paper, matching the photograph on it against each house. Esther tugs at her cardigan, pats her hair and fastens on the smile she has practised. ‘It’s a lovely house, perfect. Exactly what we’re looking for, isn’t it, Angus?’ The girl is bubbly and innocent. ‘Carrie!’ Esther notes the urgency in his voice and intercepts his warning glance. He’s told her not to seem keen. It’s beyond their budget but he thinks he can beat a silly old woman down. ‘Well, that’s it.’ She eases herself down off the last stair. ‘You’ve seen everything.’ ‘We haven’t seen the garden.’ ‘It’s not worth seeing.’ ‘But . . .’ he turns the sheet over, ‘the spec says “large, well-cultivated”. . . ’ ‘The garden is important, you see.’ The girl seems to be blushing. ‘For the children.’ Esther stares at her. ‘You have children? How many? You didn’t say.’ ‘Not yet.’ Definitely a blush. ‘But soon - in the spring. We’re getting married next month. We’d like three, eventually, wouldn’t we, Angus? Oh, please let us see the garden!’ The girl strides towards the back door. ‘It’s not worth seeing! Please!’ Angus has brushed past Carrie and is opening the door. ‘Come and see this, Car!’ His voice floats back into the house. Carrie leaves Esther in the hall and goes out to join him. Esther stands frozen at the bottom of the stairs. The couple stare at the four rows of stone slabs and the neat, grassy paths between them. In the back row, the slabs are large; in the middle rows, they reduce gradually in size; in the front row, they are small, a few quite tiny. On top of each slab is a statue of appropriate size. There seem to be at least forty slabs. They begin to creep between the rows. Esther has moved to the back door and she watches them. It’s a cemetery!’ Angus exclaims. Carrie giggles. ‘It’s only . . . it looks like . . . Gosh, yes! They’re all animals, cats and dogs - and here’s a tortoise, a rat, a mouse and a hamster.’ ‘Birds as well. Here’s a parrot, a couple of budgies and there’s a canary in the front row.’ ‘I don’t like it, Angus. It gives me the creeps. I don’t want our children playing in a graveyard.’ ‘Oh, don’t worry about that, sweet. We can dig them all up and grass it over. The kids will never know. It’ll be all forgotten by the time he’s playing out here.’ He lays a possessive hand on her belly. ‘But we might dig up bones! And we would always know.’ ‘It’s not for sale!’ Esther has come out and is standing on the tiny scrap of lawn - all that is left of the ‘large, well-cultivated garden’. ‘Not to you!’ Her voice rings out and bounces off the gravestones. Children. Noise. Mess. Toys all over the place. Holes dug and filled with concrete for swings and slides and washing whirligigs. Over my dead body. ‘But look here!’ Angus strides down the garden between the gravestones towards her. ‘The house is on the market. It’s in the Property Centre. You can’t just withdraw it because you don’t like the look of us.’ He comes up close – too close – to Esther. ‘You may not get anyone else interested, you know. It’s a buyer’s market just now.’ She can see the little cracks at the corner of his mouth, one of them quite red and raw. He needs more Vitamin B6. Marmite sandwiches. She does not flinch from his belligerence. They stare into each other’s eyes. ‘Never mind, Angus. I don’t want it anyway.’ Carrie comes to join them. She pulls on his arm, keeps her eyes off Esther’s face. ‘All those creepy statues of dead animals.’ He is still glaring at Esther as he is dragged away and they are still arguing as they get into their car. The statues watch impassively. Arthur disliked the animals. The dogs took up too much of her time; the cats made him sneeze; the tortoises were a waste of time – asleep half the year; the birds were noisy and messy; the hamsters, rats and mice downright disgusting, mere vermin. She had never had a pet before and thought that her lovely baby would be enough. But then a demanding toddler grew into a distant, self-sufficient child and an unfathomable teenager. Arthur forged ahead in his career and in his golf club. She lapsed into the twilight world of a married woman whose family no longer needs her. The kitten was the first: a stray found by the roadside, abandoned, calling out to her in distress, needing her so profoundly, so openly. There was no debate. At least, not until she brought it home. She discovered untapped strength. She fought to keep the little tabby, turning aside ridicule and predictions of disaster. The second pet, a puppy, absorbed her in a way the kitten had not. Sometimes, she forgot about her husband and child and put the dog’s needs first. Long walks brought her home too late to cook a proper meal; big bills in the pet shop left less for the groceries; petting sessions with the dog left little tenderness for her son or passion for her husband. When the first animal died, she was unprepared for the grief. The veterinary nurse who soothed her wild weeping suggested burying the tin of ashes in the garden and marking the spot. The nurse probably had a rose bush in mind but Esther had always venerated old graveyards. The first funeral, grave and the statue were organised in embarrassed secrecy. A small stone hidden at the back of the vegetable plot, barely noticeable. As the years went by and the collection of graves grew, she ceased to care what others thought. There was no hiding the spread of stones and statues and, as Arthur ceased to care for the garden, no need. When Angus and Carrie have gone, she goes into the kitchen and makes herself a cup of tea. She takes her little folding chair and goes to sit beside the slab third from the left in the second row. ‘You were my first, Hector. I knew you understood. The row was incomplete. It made the whole garden look untidy. And I had your lovely statue all ready for you. I saw it in the garden centre when you were only a kitten. I’d been keeping it for four years in the shed. And I was so clever, saving up the tranquillisers from the vet, telling him I needed them for the dogs when they had their annual jags. You slipped away so peacefully and I sung your favourite song to you. We had a lovely funeral. Do you remember? The weather was perfect. I do love a summer one.’ The statue regards her with inscrutable, unblinking eyes – cats are good at that. She looks up and down the rows. She always tries to do it in spring or summer. Unless she is unlucky, forced to have a winter one if the animals take matters into their own hands. But that has not happened very often, not in the last ten years. The last one – the darling little yellow canary - was only a week ago. Quite one of the nicest statues she had ever seen. As soon as she had seen it in the little craft shop, she had recognised it as the next one. She wanders over to the rabbit hutch behind the shed. Three big, handsome rabbits cluster hopefully towards her, hoping for carrots or lettuce: she is the bringer of treats, their much-loved mistress. She stretches a hand in, under the middle-sized one, a bundle of soft grey fur. She lifts it out and fondles it, rubbing noses, murmuring endearments. She puts it back and repeats the performance with the other two, scrupulously fair in her allocation of time and tenderness. ‘You’re all I’ve got now. Your special day is going to be very special. I’ve never done three together. Two, when the rats went, but never three. There’s just enough room left.’ Tomorrow, she will make a trip to that new garden centre and appraise their rabbit collection. Body posture will be important. She has decided to break with custom, have them not in a row but crouching in a semi-circle, as if having a cosy chat together, just like they are doing now in their hutch. She will have to get a move on. Before any more bright-eyed young hopefuls come traipsing in with ideas about turning the garden into a children’s playground.
Posted on: Fri, 09 Jan 2015 12:33:16 +0000
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