The Garden of Memories

Chapter 8

Flora can’t believe how quickly her life has changed over the last six weeks. Not only has she a new satisfying job, she’s been to three pebble-art classes too. However, the biggest and most welcome change as a result of all this has been the new people she’s met. Some, like Rose and Daisy, have become proper friends. Well, they feel like proper friends, anyway. Time will tell. A new ‘almost friend’ is the elderly gentleman who runs the class. James is an interesting character, and three years younger than herself, though he seems older. She suspects it’s because he’s quite serious in his approach to things. James rarely smiles, but is pleasant and informative. The only time he’s really animated is when he’s talking about art. Flora has decided that his seriousness has kept him in the ‘almost a friend’ camp, because she considers laughter and a carefree attitude an essential part of life. However, she does concede that sometimes the essential things are the hardest to achieve.

On a little easel by the patio doors, is a half-finished pebble picture. It’s only small, but immeasurably huge in depth of feeling. So much emotion has gone into it, releasing long-imprisoned creative juices flowing through her fingers onto the canvas, urgent and insistent as blood through veins. Lots of people in her art class opted for beach scenes with little pebble-people holding hands at the shoreline, or walking pebble-dogs into a sunset. Flora painted an Eden – a flower garden. A kaleidoscope of colours, moving, clashing, shouting at each other, yet blending. What should have been irreconcilable differences of style, somehow work, nestling side by side against a turquoise sky, finding peace together under the shade of a vast pebble oak tree.

Flora traces her fingers across the as yet unoccupied canvas space to the left of the garden. Will she allow pebble people to inhabit it, or encourage more of nature to bloom untended? Enjoying the cool smoothness of a pebble seeping into her fingertips, she closes her eyes and thinks about it. Through the vertical blinds at the open door, the sun winks in, the movement of the breeze painting alternate hot and cool stripes on her face. Memories of another garden come unbidden, though not unwelcome. Laughter, the smell of honeysuckle, sweet peas, lilac and heavenly mock orange – a bouquet of summer picked at dawn and brought to her with love and hope. A face still heartbreakingly familiar after all these years fills her mind’s eye, a constant smile, the silk touch of warm fingers threaded through her own, and a love binding them together as strong as willow roots. Yet not strong enough, as it turned out.

Flora opens her eyes and stares at the canvas. She will leave any decision about completing the picture until her mind is clear of the past. The present beckons and it’s Thursday, which means library day. Another thought tags along behind her as she shrugs her yellow mac on and leaves the house. She still hasn’t got round to planting a memory in Rose’s garden, mainly because she couldn’t decide on the right one. Flora knows exactly what it will be now, though. A mock orange will be perfect if there’s room, in a quiet corner. Today’s memory was filled with its scent.

* * *

Daisy’s sitting in the middle of a group of primary school children when Flora arrives at the library. She has their full attention as she tells them about the importance of reading and books. The children are asking questions and saying what their favourite books and authors are. The impossibly young teacher sits to the side, a look of boredom on her elfin features, and she keeps stealing a sly glance at her phone. Maybe she and Daisy should swap jobs.

Flora takes a seat behind the desk and looks around to see who else is here this morning. A couple of elderly gents whispering to each other by the section on World War II books, and a woman, mid-sixties at a guess, sitting by the window at the table Flora used to occupy before she became a member of staff. Dark short curls peppered with grey, neat buttoned-up blue blouse, pressed brown trousers and shiny black lace-up shoes. Very shiny shoes, actually. The kind of shine on a shoe you only get with plenty of elbow grease, polish, a cloth and a shoe brush. Flora knows about these things. She can still remember the turpentine smell of shoe polish as she knelt on the cold kitchen flags of a morning, shining her school shoes. Her dad would come up behind her and always say the same thing: ‘More elbow grease, young lady. I want to see your face in them.’ Then he’d chuckle and add, ‘We’ll make a soldier of you yet.’ Flora had adored her dad. She was devastated when he was taken far too young.

You’d rather it had been me, you mean?Mother’s indignant voice pipes up.

‘If the cap fits, Mother.’

‘Sorry?’ One of the elderly gentlemen had appeared from round the side of the counter.

‘Oh, don’t mind me. Just muttering to old ghosts.’ The man looks at her askance, as well he might, and hands over his books to be scanned. Once again, she has to acknowledge that Mother is butting in more often since Flora’s moved from her old home, despite her hopes that she would stay in Truro. Mother obviously disapproves of her new life, which gladdens her heart. It doesn’t help in the long run, though, does it? Will she ever be completely free of her?

Flora stamps the man’s card, and after he leaves, her eyes drift back to the woman reading by the window. She’s got this nervous habit of pushing her tortoiseshell glasses back along the bridge of her nose with a forefinger, then wiggling them from side to side as they need adjusting, or her eyes do. Flora suspects she’s not really absorbed in her book at all, but lost in thought, as she keeps cocking her head to the window and the warm sunlight, just as Flora used to when she’d sat there. Perhaps the woman secretly wants to be outside, but is unsure what to do when she is. It could be that she likes the quiet security of the reading space, a space where she’s unlikely to be bothered by anyone. Or even that she’s escaped here from a bullying husband, or relative, who makes unreasonable demands on her, and this is the one place she’s free of them. Her safe place – her sanctuary.

There is a chance that Flora is making up stories where none exist. More than a chance, if truth be known, because she tends to do this. People-watching – making up imaginary lives for strangers. The woman might just be here having a quiet read and deliriously happy with her lot. After a few minutes, Flora thinks she might as well give the books a tidy, as apart from the school group with Daisy, and the woman by the window, there’s not much else to keep her occupied. Daisy has done the orders and processed the new stock, so tidying is on the cards. Or on the shelves, to be exact.

Why do people shove books back on shelves higgledy-piggledy? How hard can it be to make sure they are placed back in an upright position next to the others? On a shelf near the woman at the window, Flora finds six books that are masquerading as the leaning tower of Pisa, so she grabs them and makes sure they are put back in the right order. As she turns back to the room, she notices the woman’s cheeks are wet and she’s dabbing at her eyes with a tissue. It could just be that the book she’s reading has moved her in some way, and Flora should mind her own and go back to her desk. Trouble is, Flora isn’t a minding her own and going back to her desk kind of person. If someone is distressed, then she will try to help. Always.

The chair makes no sound on the carpet as Flora pulls it out and sits down opposite the woman. The tissue quickly disappears into a pocket and the woman floats her watery hazel eyes across at Flora and then back to her book. She shifts in her chair and looks at Flora again, and her name badge, obviously discomfited by the impromptu appearance and unsure how to receive her.

‘I hope you don’t mind me interrupting your reading, but I couldn’t help but notice you seem upset.’

A nod, as if answering an internal question, a push of the glasses along the bridge of her nose, and in a wavering voice, she replies, ‘Don’t mind me, I’m trying to distract myself by reading this book about horticulture, but I keep reading the same line, over and over.’

Flora waits, but as there’s nothing else, she says, ‘I tend to do that when I’ve a lot on my mind. The words don’t go in, do they?’ She threads a soft chuckle through her words, because that’s what people do when they try to set others at ease – chuckle. Flora’s not a chuckler, but it’s a socially accepted thing to do, she’s found.

‘No. I always find this day difficult.’ The woman looks directly at Flora and this time doesn’t glance away.

Once again, Flora waits, but eventually has to fill the space with, ‘Oh dear. Sorry to hear that.’ Not Shakespeare, but better than nothing.

‘Yes, my husband died five years ago today. He’d had a long struggle with cancer and it was a blessing in the end, as he was in so much…’ The woman pulls the tissue back out of her pocket and flaps it in front of her face. A face which has turned pink, collapsed in on itself, twisted with grief.

Maybe minding your own would have been preferable to this, eh, Flora? You’ve made the woman even more upset now with your clumsy poking and prodding into her life.

Shut up, Mother!

‘I’m so sorry. Is there anything I can do?’ Flora doesn’t recognise the small, sheepish little voice she’s dribbled out into the still, quiet space between them. She was never great with raw grief like this. A sniffle and a few tears from the students at school she could cope with, but this kind of emotion is wild, uncontrollable. Naked. She notices the woman’s eyes, full of tears, trying to focus on her name badge, so she adds, ‘Please call me Flora.’

After a few moments, the woman heaves a juddering sigh and takes another tissue from her bag. ‘Thank you for your kindness, Flora. But there’s nothing anyone can do. I’ll just have to grit my teeth, stop all this weeping and try to get through it.’ A wobbly smile. ‘My name’s Louise, by the way.’

Louise looks so vulnerable, unloved and alone. Here she is, in her very shiny shoes, revealing her broken heart to a stranger. Well, she needn’t be a stranger much longer, Flora thinks. ‘Listen, Louise. If you’re not busy this lunchtime, would you like to meet me at the café across the street for a bite?’

Louise raises her eyebrows and stutters out, ‘I … I … I think you’re very kind. But I’m sure you must have other things to be doing.’

‘Nope. Nothing. I like meeting new people, as I haven’t been in the area very long. It would be nice to share our stories.’ Flora laughs and waves a hand at the bookshelves all around them. ‘This is a lending library, after all – lots of stories here to share too.’ A twitch of the lips is all she gets from Louise. Unsurprising, as it wasn’t that funny. Maybe the twitch means that Louise can think of nothing worse than sharing lunch with an unfunny librarian, and is frantically trying to think of an excuse. Flora’s wondering how to put her out of her misery when she replies:

‘Well, if you’re sure, that would be lovely.’

It would?‘Great. That’s a date, then.’ Flora’s stomach plummets almost as fast as Louise’s smile disappears. What a stupid remark. ‘Not a romantic date, of course.’ She follows that with a high-pitched embarrassed giggle, which was supposed to be a chuckle. Louise seems unfazed, however, and takes up her book, bag and jacket.

‘I’ll be off, then, when I’ve got my book stamped. What time shall we say?’ she says over her shoulder as she walks to the reception desk.

‘About 1pm?’ Flora smiles as she scans the book and stamps Louise’s card. Things feel much more relaxed between them now.

‘Okay. See you then, Flora.’

* * *

At the café, after Flora has shared her story – well, the introduction and a few background chapters – Louise reciprocates. She was born in Padstow to a cleaner and a fisherman, has two older brothers, and the family never ventured further than Plymouth to visit relatives. Matthew was her first and only love. They met at a village dance when they were sixteen and afterwards it was ‘only ever us’, as she described their childless marriage. They were incredibly happy together, nevertheless, and he left a huge hole in her life when he died. Flora can hardly bear to look into Louise’s doleful eyes. Though her story was very different, there had been a similar-shaped hole in her life many years ago. A hole that she’d plastered over with endless years of dedicated teaching, busy weekend outings and a plethora of activities to fill her empty evenings.

Flora has never allowed anyone to see that hole, that empty space that still refuses to be filled on long dark nights, or sometimes, even in bright sunny gardens surrounded by the memory of a heavenly bouquet. The well-rehearsed lies trip off her tongue whenever required, as they did for Louise today, and if she tries very hard, Flora can pretend that it’s all true. Almost. ‘No, I never met the right one, and I was far too busy with my career. No, I’m never lonely – I love my own company.’

The lies are rarely met with pity and disbelief, though there have been some who have responded that way. Normally, people say what a strong character she is, and how they envy her ability to do exactly as she pleases, without having to get agreement from a partner. It must be liberating to be her, and so forth. And they’re right, mostly. She has friends, a job, a new home and a community to involve herself with – though she still feels a bit of an outsider at times, if she’s honest. It was a big step to uproot and move, after so long living in one place, one house. Albeit a house that was never a home, until Mother had gone. But it’s true that she has freedom and money to do as she wishes. There are times, though, when she peeps through the crumbling plaster around the hole at what might have been and longs for lost things.

‘Do you want another cup of tea, Flora?’ Louise has developed a deep frown line between her eyebrows and Flora realises she’s been miles away.

‘No thanks. I’ll be running to the loo all afternoon if I do.’ Louise looks a bit crestfallen, but Flora’s lunch break will be over in just over ten minutes. ‘Sorry, you were talking about not being able to have children.’

‘Yes. As I said, the realisation of that was very painful in my youth, and it would have been nice to have the comfort of children, now Matthew’s gone. But we can’t have everything, can we?’

Flora thinks it might be best to change the subject, as Louise looks ready to cry again. ‘I guess we can’t. And you said you worked in a shoe shop?’

‘Yes, nearly forty years.’ Louise lifts her foot and examines the shiny black surface of her shoe. ‘You can tell a lot about a person from their shoes, I find. And feet. I learned so much about someone’s life as soon as they took off their shoes. The way they stand, the bunions, and some ladies wear no tights, so you can see the neglected toenails and dry, hard skin. Some people don’t moisturise at all. If they don’t make time to take care of their feet, it means they don’t realise their value. Imagine where we’d be without them?’ Louise stares at Flora intently and gives a slow blink.

My goodness, that’s deep.Louise is earnestly serious too, and Flora wonders if maybe that’s the reason why Louise doesn’t have many friends. Perhaps Flora could teach her to be more upbeat, take life with more levity. Recently, Flora remembers that she missed being someone who people could depend on, learn from, being someone’s point of reference, and that right now, she’s a bit like a lighthouse without a light. Could she be Louise’s light?

‘Yes, we’d be hopeless without our feet, that’s true.’ Flora smiles. That’s a sentence she didn’t expect to be saying. ‘What was your husband’s job?’ She hopes he wasn’t a chiropodist, or she had nowhere to go.

Louise taps her fingers on the library book about horticulture. ‘He was a gardener at a National Trust house. The flowers were a substitute for children, really. Matthew adored them – grew them from seed, tended them, protected them from weeds…’ She sniffs and swallows the last mouthful of tea.

An idea was growing in Flora’s mind and sending out shoots of possibility. ‘Tell me, Louise. Do you have a garden of your own?’

‘No. I have a few pots, but I sold our old house with the garden a year after Matthew…’ The tissue is out again. ‘Couldn’t bear to live in it without him – too painful. He was everywhere I looked. Must admit, I really miss the garden.’

Flora pats her hand. ‘Well, I might just have the solution.’