The Garden of Memories

Chapter 7

Flora is pacing up and down her living room. Pacing. Pacing. It doesn’t help her think, it just keeps her from sitting in a chair and screaming. She’s wanted to scream since the early hours, when a cheerful robin decided it would perch outside her bedroom window and sing its little heart out. Maybe it imagined Flora would be thrilled, but its imagination was way off, because sleep had evaded her for most of the night. The mystery of who got the library job was driving her crazy. Why couldn’t they ring her and put her out of her misery? If it was a no, then so be it. She can handle disappointment; it hasn’t exactly been a stranger to her over the years. Sometimes it would burst in, rear up and sock her in the jaw, completely unexpected. Other times, it would slip in quietly under doors, and through cracks, creep up behind her, fill her heart with that familiar ache until she acknowledged its return. Mother often put it there as a matter of daily routine. It was on her ‘to-do’ list.

Mother is gearing up to invade her thoughts right now, offer a few ill-placed pointers, so Flora slams the door shut on her and eyes the kettle. No. No more coffee or she’ll be bouncing off the walls. It’s time she was dressed and out. If the library can’t be bothered to call and let her know, she’ll go in and speak to the Daisy woman face-to-face. It’s been three days, after all.

You’re too impatient by half, madam. I’ve always told you that you need to bide your time and…

‘Oh do fuck off, Mother!’ Flora knows she’s being irrational, shouting out loud at a dead woman, but it’s not as if anyone can hear her, is it? In her opinion there is too much of this bottling-things-up lark in society – well, for her generation, at least. It could be argued the younger generation over-share. Especially on social media, which can leave them vulnerable to betrayal and abuse. Stiff upper lips, squared shoulders and keeping calm and carrying on was her uniform growing up, and through most of her life, but when she turned sixty and retired, she burnt it, along with people’s expectations of her.

Ten minutes later, Flora’s dressed in yellow polka-dot baggy trousers, a purple polo neck and comfortable trainers. She twists her hair into a ponytail secured with a leopard-print chiffon scarf and applies her make-up, taking extra care to wing her eyeliner. Very 1960s, which she loves. That decade is often characterised by free love, psychedelic drugs and rock music, all of which Flora missed out on. Mother made sure of that. In the hallway, it takes a few seconds to decide on a coat, but the long zebra-striped mac wins over the scarlet-and-green cape, and slipping it on, Flora leaves the house.

Instead of going up the hill in the direction of the library, she turns left and walks down towards the beach, which is a bit of a surprise, to say the least, but she goes with it. Flora believes that sometimes, you just have to follow your instincts, because you never know what they might lead to. Often, it’s into a cul-de-sac, but this fresh spring morning is scattered with sunbeams, the sky is cyan, and she can bet the aquamarine ocean deeps are sending frothy waves to gently lap the golden sand.

On the beach, Flora takes a deep breath and lets it out with a contented sigh. She’s right. The scene is exactly how she imagined it. And a bonus – just one dog walker and a flock of seagulls means she’s practically got the beach to herself. From a sun-warmed rock, she sits and watches the waves roll in and out. Flora thinks their gentle shushing is having a soporific effect, as once or twice she finds her head nodding, or her chin resting on her chest. Must be the lack of sleep wondering about the library job. Thoughts of the library led to a flyer she saw in there last week, next to one about learning to dance, the same kind that she’d seen at the church hall. The flyer was all about pebble art – creating pictures from pebbles. There are hundreds of them all around her feet and she thinks she might as well collect a handful or two because she never knows when she might need them. Maybe the class would be something she could pursue, even if the dancing isn’t.

As Flora collects pebbles, she thinks about the art college she left behind so many years ago at Mother’s insistence. Those arty types were apparently having a bad influence on her attitude, and what kind of a job would she hope to get with an art qualification anyway? Besides, she’d only be in such a job, if indeed one existed, for a few years until she met a suitable man and settled down. She’d have a brood of children and art school would have been a waste of time. After Mother had worn her down, she’d left art college and studied English literature instead. Mother said a job in a school would tide her over until she met Mr Right. The memory of Mr Right surfaces in front of her eyes as she looks at the wet, shiny pebbles in the palm of her hand. Her eyes try to copy the pebbles, so she shakes the memory away and walks back up the beach.

* * *

Another beautiful spring day. Rose turns her face to the sun and relishes the warmth on her skin and the smell of damp earth and fresh mint in the air. This is the day of planting her gorgeous array of spring flowers she got from the garden centre yesterday, and she bought rosemary and mint too. Since the ‘wild garlic experience’, as her mind is referring to it, her spirits still feel light and the melancholy and box-pondering that has been hanging around since she hung up her uniform seem to have, if not gone completely, certainly faded to her edges. When Rose thinks of the future, she sees possibilities, not dead ends. She’s not entirely sure what the possibilities might be, but it’s nice that they’re in her field of vision.

The ‘prim-noses’ first, she decides, and a smile finds her lips as she picks up the container of blue and pink flowers from a little wooden table she found in the shed. Bella will love them when she and the family come for a visit. She stoops to pick up a trowel and from the corner of her eye, in the distance down the hill, she watches the figure of Hippy Lady get ever closer as she stomps along. The smile falters. After their not-so-friendly encounter last week, she’s not sure she wants to chat, but if the woman’s walking past, Rose can hardly ignore her, can she? Maybe she’ll go back inside until she’s gone. But that thought doesn’t sit well. Rose has never been an avoider of people and she doesn’t plan to start now. She’ll just go about her business and acknowledge the woman with a wave. If she speaks, then fine. If she doesn’t, also fine.

By the time Hippy Lady arrives at the gate, Rose has made a little hole in the border near the fence with the trowel, and aware of her presence, she straightens her back and turns to see that she’s staring at her, arms folded, a frown creasing her forehead. In her stripy coat, she looks like a disgruntled zebra. A disgruntled zebra wearing yellow polka-dot baggy trousers.

‘You’re not thinking of putting those primroses there, are you?’

Nice opener.‘Hello. Well, yes. I was kind of thinking I would.’ Rose’s intention is to set a happy medium between sarcasm and dry humour, and she thinks she’s pulled it off.

‘They won’t last long if you do.’ Hippy Lady’s tone is authoritative. She twists one side of her mouth to emphasise her point and nods at the primroses. ‘Too shady, see. They need some sunshine.’

Rose notes a twinkle in her eyes the colour of acorns and says, ‘Don’t we all?’

The twinkle in her eyes becomes a glimmer and lines crease at their corners. ‘Ha! You are correct!’ Hippy Lady sticks out a hand and says through a wide grin, ‘Where are my manners? Flora Granger, nice to meet you.’

This new demeanour transforms her whole face and Rose has to smile in return. It’s difficult to square Flora’s initial pompous attitude of today and the dismissive short shrift Rose received when she’d hurried past the cottage in the rain, with the now smiling lady in colourful flowing clothes and silver-and-pink hair. This is Rose’s preference. The cheerful smile brings the whole ensemble together. ‘Rose Lanyon. Likewise.’

‘You giving the garden a spruce up, then?’ Flora leans her elbows on the wall and nods at the plants on the table.

‘Kind of. I’m hoping for a bit of a transformation.’

The frown again. ‘I would argue it is either a transformation, or it’s not. You can’t really have “a bit” of one – the word means a radical change. Unless you plan to have one part of your garden radically transformed, and the rest left alone? Is that what you meant?’

She reminds Rose of one particularly pedantic English teacher who made her feel a bit stupid. An easy smile on her lips, she replies, ‘No. You’re right, of course. I did mean a radical transformation of all of it.’ She’s about to leave it there, as Flora’s mouth is already opening again, but out of Rose’s comes: ‘I want my garden and everything in it to mean something – every flower, shrub and herb will be important. I’ve seen how nature can lift a spirit. When I was a young nurse, there was a lady near the end of her life who was pushed in her bed out into the hospital garden. I remember it was early summer; the birds were singing and all the flowers were out – the air was saturated with their perfume. The old lady’s face became animated and she pointed to various plants and shrubs, naming each one. For a short time, she was transformed. The garden had done that. Lifted her out of her deathbed and connected her to nature … to life.’

Well, Rose wasn’t expecting that. She’s not thought about that old lady for years, but the memory of her in the garden, and of the many others she’s nursed, has visited her from time to time in the still quiet of a sleepless night. It’s as if this particular memory has been waiting on the threshold of her consciousness to become a visual aid for her words. Flora nods and her warm smile elicits an uncomfortable knot in Rose’s throat. This woman is a stranger; she can’t allow herself to get emotional.

‘Flowers, plants, herbs – all growing things are so important,’ Flora says and leans a hip against the gate. ‘It’s a well-known scientific fact that they raise spirits. That colours, scents and tastes can invoke happiness and lift a mood. Some doctors have advocated various gardening activities, or walks in nature for people who are depressed.’ She sniffs and shifts her weight to the other hip. ‘Makes sense, if you ask me.’

‘Me too.’ Rose notes that Flora obviously finds standing for a length of time uncomfortable. Should she ask her in, or will she be dismissed, like the other day? Before she can decide, Flora’s off again.

‘I used to have a wonderful garden in my old house.’ Flora folds her arms and stares at the primroses. ‘My mother planted it and I tended it after she’d gone. “What I don’t know about plants isn’t worth knowing,” she used to say.’ An eye roll. ‘Mother used to say that about everything, opinionated old bitch.’ Flora attempts to lighten this statement with a tinkle of laughter, but fails. It’s brittle and humourless. There’s a silence which is hovering on the cusp of awkwardness, until she forces a smile. Rose can tell it’s forced because her mouth looks like an overstretched rubber band. ‘I must say, those primroses are a gorgeous colour.’

Glad of the change of topic, Rose says, ‘Yes. They were my daughter Bella’s favourite flower when she was a child. I’m reminded of those days each time I see them.’

‘Indeed!’ The rubber band assumes a more natural shape and the twinkle in the acorns return. ‘Flowers can invoke such wonderful memories.’

‘They can.’ Rose picks up the tray of flowers and holds their delicate blooms to her nose. ‘Planting these will be like making sure my memories never fade, as they’ll pop back up each year, connecting me to happy times. As long as I have new life growing, there will always be hope and new memories to make.’

‘Oh … oh, that’s lovely.’

When Rose looks up, she sees Flora pulling a tissue from her stripy pocket and dabbing the corners of her eyes. That catches Rose off guard. She doesn’t seem the type to let her emotions show in front of strangers. Neither do you, Rose, but here we are. She finds the flowers have gone a bit blurry and she has to blink a few times and clear her throat. ‘If you’re not too busy, Flora, would you like to stay and have a cup of tea?’

More dabbing and a wobbly rubber band. ‘That would be most welcome. Thank you.’

* * *

They sit opposite each other on the wooden garden bench, a table in between them in the shade of the old honeysuckle. It’s gone rampant, clambering up and over the trellis on the back fence, as if trying to escape its earthly roots. Rose has been meaning to chop it right back, but now that she’s going for a natural look, a less regimented approach to the green space, chopping it doesn’t seem the right course of action. Flora notices her looking at the blooms – little yellow and white fists not yet unclenched, and says, ‘I bet the scent of that is heavenly on warm summer nights.’

Rose imagines it is, but rarely has she taken the time to sit outside. There has always been something more pressing, or more likely something on TV. She promises herself that will change this summer. Too sheepish to admit this to Flora, she replies, ‘Yes, I have always loved the scent of honeysuckle.’ Rose pushes a plate of biscuits towards her. ‘Another?’

‘I shouldn’t really, but it’s not as though I haven’t had some exercise today – and I’ll be walking into town soon – so, yes I will, thanks.’ Rose offers more tea, but she gets a shake of the head, and Flora’s cheeks form pink apples. ‘Better not … and I owe you an apology and an explanation for the other day.’

Rose thinks she knows what she’s referring to, but an apology isn’t necessary. ‘Um … don’t worry—’

‘Thing is, when you called out to ask if I wanted a cuppa the other day, I was hurrying back from the café, where I’d had too much coffee, and then I got caught in the blasted rain, so my mood wasn’t the best.’ Flora’s words pour out machine-gun style to the table, the sky, or the lawn. Rose’s face is never in the line of fire. Flora’s eyes flit away from hers like nervous birds. ‘But the main thing was, I was dying for the loo, and knew if I’d stopped, I would have disgraced myself. Not the kind of thing you want to do on first meeting.’ She laughs and this time it’s less awkward. ‘Or any meeting, come to that.’

‘Don’t give it a second th—’

‘It’s my age, you see – can’t hold the water like I could. I’m seventy-seven.’ A pause, just long enough for Rose to protest her youthful looks. ‘That’s nice of you to say.’ Flora’s apples have returned to normal and she heaves a sigh. ‘I wanted to be honest with you, because I like you, and wouldn’t want you to think me ill mannered.’

Rose thinks how refreshing it is to have someone say they like you right off the top. And despite Flora’s prickly edges, Rose realises the feeling is mutual. Ill mannered – what an old-fashioned turn of phrase. Very proper, and again Rose is reminded of one of her old teachers. ‘Thanks for being so honest, Flora, and nice of you to say you like me.’ She wants to say the simple words – I like you too. But for reasons that escape her, she says instead, ‘Love your direct approach. You remind me a bit of one of my schoolteachers. In a nice way, of course.’

Flora laughs. ‘That’s probably because I used to be one for more years than I care to remember!’

She talks about her teaching days, and while she does, a reason for Rose’s reticence regarding letting Flora know she likes her, prods Rose in the back. It’s not what we do, we British, is it? We aren’t the gushing, no-holds-barred types. We tend to reserve judgement for later, certainly until we know people better. Or maybe it’s just Rose. Time to change that, plot a new course – like she has for the honeysuckle. Let herself ramble where she pleases. Escape her earthly roots. Something Flora says brings her back to full concentration.

‘Library job, did you say?’

‘Yes. I was on my way there when I saw you in the garden. I’d set off from home, intending to go straight to the library, but my feet took me to the beach instead.’ Flora rolls her eyes and scrabbles about in her hessian sack of a bag. ‘Got these while I was there – what do you think?’

Rose looks at the two handfuls of sand-dusted pebbles she’s showing her. Some are charcoal with white stripes, others are grey, some are the colour of wet sand. What’s she supposed to make of those? ‘Um, yes. Some are quite striking,’ she offers, unsure what the knowing look and half-smile on Flora’s face are about.

‘I can tell you’re wondering what I’m doing with these in my bag, eh?’ The twinkle’s back.

‘Yes, I suppose I am.’

‘Well, sorry to disappoint if you think they are all part of my eccentricity – but they aren’t.’ She holds the flat of her hand up to halt anything Rose might have to say. Luckily, she has nothing. ‘Yes, I know people think me eccentric, and I’m happy with that label. But these pebbles are actually for an art class I’m planning to take. Pebble art – making pictures from them, you know?’

Rose kind of does, but not really. ‘That will be nice.’

‘Yes. I’m good at art. Saw the flyer for it at the library … no, the church hall, and thought I might have a crack.’

Mention of the library leads Rose back to, ‘You were talking earlier about a job at the library?’

‘Yes. I applied a few days ago – part-time, obviously. A woman called Daisy was going to let me know, but she hasn’t so far.’

Oh dear. Rose wonders if Daisy’s comment on Facebook about finding the perfect person for the job means Flora hasn’t been successful. It’s doubtful she would have described Flora as perfect … she’s certainly interesting, but some would say she’s an acquired taste. Rose’s mobile phone rings, vibrating itself across the table top.

‘Oh, those things make me jump!’ Flora puts a hand to her chest. ‘They’re like little unexploded bombs going off.’

As Rose picks up her phone, she toys with the idea of pedantically pointing out that if they go off, then they aren’t unexploded. But that would be facetious. Talk of the devil, it’s Daisy. ‘Hi there. No, nothing in particular. Just having a cuppa with a neighbour, Flora. We were talking about the library.’ Rose emphasises her name, hoping that Daisy will put two and two together. There can’t be that many Floras around these parts.

‘Flora with the pink streak in her silver hair?’ Daisy asks.

‘The very same.’ She looks away from her neighbour’s laser stare. She’s obviously twigged she’s talking about her.

‘Wonderful!’

‘It is?’

‘Yeah. Look, I’m in my car on the way to see you anyway, and I’m sure she won’t mind if I join you. Oh, and can you put her on the phone?’

‘Flora?’

‘No. The Queen of Sheba.’

Rose sighs and hands the phone to Flora. ‘It’s Daisy from the library. We’ve known each other since school … she wants to talk to you.’ Rose crosses her fingers and makes a wish. Surely Daisy wouldn’t break bad news over the phone right now, would she?

Flora eyes the phone as though it really is an unexploded bomb and gingerly takes it between finger and thumb. ‘Yes, this is she,’ she says to the sky, wrinkling her nose and holding the phone too far away from her face … and upside down. Has she really not got one of her own? Rose corrects her mistake, and she can hear Daisy talking faintly as Flora’s face lights up and the rubber band returns, impossibly and beautifully stretched from one ear to the other. ‘I have! Oh my goodness, I’m thrilled. Thank you! I’d given up hope.’ After a few seconds of quiet laughter, she hands over the phone and takes a deep breath. ‘Apparently Daisy has been ringing my home phone for ages today. But of course, I’ve been out.’

‘Congratulations! Daisy’s coming over for a cuppa, so you’ll meet her properly in a few minutes.’

‘I know – she said.’ Flora’s cheeks turn back into apples. ‘I’m quite overwhelmed, if I’m honest.’

* * *

‘Three flowers. Rose, Flora and Daisy. How appropriate, as we’re in a garden,’ Flora says, as the three of them sit around a fresh pot of tea and a chocolate cake that Daisy has brought. She’s also brought flowers. Yellow roses, their powerful scent and colour filling the kitchen with sunshine.

‘Oh yes. How lovely. Rose and I were called “little flowers” at school by one of our teachers, years ago.’

Flora sniffs. ‘A bit patronising, wasn’t it?’

Daisy shrugs. ‘It wasn’t meant to be, but I can see how some might think it was.’

There’s a bit of a lull while they ponder on this, punctuated by the clink of forks on ceramic as they eat cake. Rose notices Flora’s eyes on the roses, a wistful expression on her face. Or is it longing? ‘You said you used to have a lovely garden, Flora. Don’t you have one now?’ she asks.

‘No. I have a few pots on the patio – that’s all the space allows. Your garden is heavenly, and will be an Eden once you’ve put your new plans into place.’

Daisy is interested to know about Rose’s new plans, and so she finds herself telling them both about the ‘wild garlic experience’, but she skims around the edges. It’s personal, and if she shares, it will lose something. She’s not mentioning Tristan either, or Daisy will never let it drop. So far Daisy’s not said a word about him, and she was the one taking the photo, so she mustn’t remember that he was there. Rose sketches out just the essence of the experience, and she’s happy it’s put a smile on both their faces.

‘Plants are new life, and new life is hope. We need more of that these days.’ Flora has the wistful look again.

Rose imagines her tending that big old garden of the past and measuring its beauty against a few patio pots. To Rose she seems like a free spirit, despite her proper turn of phrase and pedantry. Flora explained that age had made her move house, draw in her horns, and Rose can tell her spirit has been tamed by the situation. Restricted. So has her garden – reduced to pots on a patio. It makes her heart ache. ‘You know we were talking about gardens and memories, Flora?’

‘Yes.’ She nods then turns to Daisy and puts her teacher’s head on. ‘Daisy, I was telling Rose about how therapeutic plants, gardens and all things growing can be. There have been studies – in fact it’s a well-known scientific fact that they raise spirits. That colours, scents, tastes, can invoke happiness and lift a mood, put a person in touch with nature…’

Rose can tell Flora is going to ramble on, and what Rose is compelled to say will be left behind, its impetus lost if she doesn’t interject: ‘That’s right, Flora. And memories can be awakened, revisited by looking at a familiar flower, or smelling its scent. You are most welcome to use my garden, Flora. Come and plant your memories with mine.’

The tissue comes out of the sleeve again and Daisy’s eyes reflect the shimmer in Flora’s. She says, ‘Such uplifting ideas. Especially your wild garlic day and sharing memories and everything. You’ve convinced me to do a bit of pottering in my overgrown jungle now. I might contribute a memory to yours too.’

Flora dabs at her eyes. ‘Wonderful. I’d love to plant a memory or two – thank you, Rose.’ Her acorns fix on Rose earnestly. ‘Do you know, I feel I might be starting to feel at home round here, at last. Now I have the library job, and have made two new friends.’ She bobs her head as if in deference. ‘Sorry, I know we’ve only just met, so perhaps I’m jumping the gun in the friendship stakes.’

Daisy and Rose both wave that away and Daisy says, ‘Not at all. And we picked you for the job because we could tell you’re used to talking to people, you’re well read, and you have bags of confidence. Exactly what we need from you.’

‘I’m sure you’ll love working there,’ Rose tells her.

Daisy leans towards Rose, a smile on her lips, and says, ‘There’s something we need from you too. I’ve not heard you sing for forty-odd years. Please give us a few notes of “Dreams”, exactly as you did in the wood.’

‘Eh? No. I don’t think so. It’s one thing to sing to the wild garlic and bluebells, all alone in a wood, but quite another to sing to an audience.’

Flora laughs. ‘Well, I love garlic and I’m a bit wild. Tell me, have you met my friend Bluebell, here?’ She points to a laughing Daisy, who’s holding her hand out to shake Rose’s.

This is not something Rose planned for and the thought of it makes her feel nervous, yet not uncomfortable. Part of her might like the idea, if she’s honest. What could it hurt? This is the kind of thing people who don’t have boxes do, she expects. Or the kind of people who used to have a box, but it doesn’t fit them anymore. Recently, going with her instincts has led to good things.

Rose swallows the last of her tea, stands up, and sings.