The Garden of Memories

Chapter 9

Sally tries on three outfits, looks at her reflection in the mirror and then shoves them all back in the wardrobe. One doesn’t even make it back onto the hanger. The bloody skirt is too tight. She bundles it into a ball and hurls it across the room in anger. Damn it all. She’s only going to the pub with a friend, so what does it matter? It shouldn’t matter. But it does. It matters, because each time she looks at herself in the mirror, she’s filled with self-loathing. Self-loathing that comes from Paul’s voice whispering in her ear when she notices her stomach stretching the fabric, or the bulges that appear between her underarm and the elastic strap of her bra.

‘You’ve let yourself go.’

‘You can’t go out looking like that.’

‘A strict diet for you, Sal.’

‘Your hair could do with styling. And get some decent make-up, for God’s sake. Your complexion looks so sallow.’

These are all things he had said to her in the past, and worse. At the time, he argued that it was for her own self-esteem. He wanted her to feel good about herself, as she knew full well that would help build her confidence. Sally closes her eyes and sits on the bed, his fake concerned voice wheedling in her ears like the whine of a mosquito.

‘You’ve always struggled with confidence, love, so looking like a sack of shit will make you feel worse. Remember how gorgeous you were when we met? You need to be that woman again. You can do it – I’ll help you.’ Then he would drop a patronising little kiss on her forehead and ask where his dinner was, or had she remembered to do his dry cleaning? Sometimes she had felt more like a servant than a wife. A Cinderella who never went to the ball.

Sally’s on the edge of tears now, but she can’t cry, because she’ll ruin her mascara. Why did she let Paul bully her all those years? Why did she just take it? Try her best to please him, make him happy? She realises now (too late) that no matter what she did, she never made him happy. And what about her own happiness? Years of trying to accommodate him at great personal expense. Jumping through impossible hoops, practically starving herself to make sure she looked good enough for him. Humiliation and hot shame flood through her. Even though he’s gone, he’s still there behind her – the puppet-master pulling her strings. The evening out is ruined now, before it’s even started. Why even bother?

Before the mirror again, in her underwear, Sally does her breathing exercises and grits her teeth. More than once over the past while, she’s drawn strength from her old friend Rose. Not that Sally’s actually seen her since she left the surgery, even though she keeps meaning to call, but she often finds herself thinking, what would Rose say or do? How would Rose cope with this or that situation? Rose wore calm and compassion like another uniform, but she was totally oblivious to it and unaware how much help she’s been to Sally over the years. Sometimes a wise word from her or a little praise had meant all the difference. Despair had been turned into determination. Because of Rose’s actions, Sally realised she wasn’t a waste of space or a complete failure. Trouble was, she didn’t believe it for long, because Paul’s will was stronger. Nevertheless, she reminds herself that she made it through somehow, and remembering Rose’s kind words, she’ll try her best to continue to do so.

The crumpled brightly coloured skirt sits on the carpet like a grounded butterfly. Sally used to be a butterfly years ago. Light, carefree, enjoying life. Before she met Paul. A lump of emotion builds in her throat and she asks – What would Rose do? Would she make an excuse and stay home, or go out and try to have fun? She knows the answer even before she asks it. She smiles at her reflection, despite her imperfections. The smile looks unsure – wobbly, but it’s there. The round of her stomach under her hand isn’t going to stop her meeting a friend, nor the dimples in her thighs. So what if she can’t fit into her old clothes? Is there any wonder she’s been comfort eating, with everything she’s had to put up with? Sally pulls out jeans and a smartish T-shirt and blots a few smudges of mascara from under her eyes. The thought of going out and pretending that things are fine is the last thing she wants to do. But she’ll go anyway. That’s what Rose would do.

* * *

The honeysuckle is heavy with moisture from a recent shower. Rose gently shakes the raindrops from a lemon-and-white bloom and inhales its fragrance. Heaven. Barefoot in the grass, she turns in a circle, looking at the riot of colour exploding from every corner and crevice of her hitherto regimented garden. No matter how tired, fed up or indifferent she might be feeling, a few minutes in this space has joy powering through her like sap through a stem – reviving, rejuvenating and filling her with energy. Quite magical. At the end of the garden, she looks over the fence down the hill to where a tiny smudge of ocean peeps back from the steep cradle of the rocky headland. Across the rain-washed blue sky the rainbow fingers of twilight trace a sleepy path for an early star to follow and she takes a big gulp of salt air.

Flora and Daisy are coming over with their memory plants, and they’ll have a glass of wine and nibbles to celebrate. She turns from the view, the cloth in her hand reminding her why she came out here in the first place. It was to make sure the wrought-iron garden table and chairs were completely dry. As she wipes, Rose thinks about Bella and the family and how excited she is that they will be here next week. Though she hadn’t got round to putting brush to canvas since finding the old paint palette in the loft, she hopes her daughter will be thrilled to see it again. Maybe she could even be persuaded to dabble while she’s here. The grandchildren would love it, she’s sure. Flora might even help. She’s always talking about the pebble-art classes she attends. It’s incredible how quickly Rose has begun to see her as a friend. It’s as though they have always known each other.

Just as she finishes, the garden gate clicks open and in Flora walks, a vision in a sparkly silver-and-denim jacket over a pink jumpsuit. And on her feet – leopard-spotted pumps. Immediately, Rose gives her a big smile. Like the garden, Flora always raises her spirits. Flora has in her arms a small shrub sporting lots of green leaves and delicate white flowers, most in bud, dotted around them like confetti. ‘Evening!’ she says and holds the shrub up to Rose’s nose. ‘Have a whiff of that. The scent will be stronger once it’s established and bigger, but you can already tell how gorgeous it will be.’

‘So, this is the memory plant you were telling me you’d chosen?’ Rose sniffs an open flower and catches a faint scent similar to jasmine, but not as strong.

‘Yes. Do you know what it is?’

She shakes her head. ‘I only know certain plants by name. Wish I’d listened more carefully when my gran used to point them out to me. But I’m learning all the time.’

‘It’s a Philadelphus or mock orange, to give it its common name.’ Flora looks wistful. ‘When I’ve had a drink or two, I’ll tell you why I picked it. I feel it’s time to share.’ She gives a theatrical shudder. ‘Much as I hate all that bearing of souls malarkey, something is insisting I must.’

Rose is about to ask why when a car door slams behind them and they turn to see Daisy waving goodbye to her husband, who’s dropped her outside the gate. ‘Hello, you two! It’s Daisy with daisies! Ready to plant some memories?’ She bends and picks up a beautiful tall willowy plant resplendent with huge daisy-type flowers.

‘Oxeye daisy. How glorious,’ Flora says. ‘It’s blooming early too.’

Daisy laughs and looks at her watch. ‘You said get here for seven-ish, I’m not that early.’

Flora looks puzzled and then realises Daisy’s made a joke. ‘Ah, yes. Very funny.’

Daisy walks down the path and sets her daisies next to Flora’s Philadelphus. ‘Oh, I love those.’ She crouches and sniffs at a flower. ‘Such a lovely scent.’

Rose is beginning to realise she’s bottom of the class where flower recognition is concerned. Never mind, the main thing is the development of her garden, being close to nature and enjoying the feeling that growing things gives us. The memories too. Thinking of which. ‘We won’t plant these tonight, obviously, but you can decide where you think they will be best suited. Then you can either plant them in the next few days, or I can do it for you.’

‘Yeah, feel free to plant the daisies. My dad said I should be called Daisy after them. He said I was bright and beautiful, and I’d be tall. I reckon they’ll be best by the gate, nodding at people as they pass, in remembrance of my dad, who loved a good old chat to folk.’ Daisy smiles, and Rose notices her glance at Flora, as if seeking confirmation.

‘What a lovely way to remember him. And a good spot, yes.’ Flora taps her chin with her fingertips and scans the garden. ‘Now … I think my Phil would like to live near the honeysuckle, but not too near. Maybe by the back wall?’

‘Sounds good to me,’ Rose says, as if she knows what she’s talking about. ‘Okay, who’s for a glass of wine and a chin wag?’

The wagging of chins starts as they walk to the kitchen to collect the nibbles and glasses. Mostly it’s Flora and Daisy talking about work, but as they gather around the table outside, Flora raises her glass and says, ‘Here’s to the garden of memories, good friends, and good wine.’

They clink glasses, and Daisy sighs. ‘This is perfect.’ She puts her hand on Rose’s arm. ‘I’m so pleased you’re more like your old self again, Rose. In fact, better than your old self.’

Her old self? What exactly was that? The concept of fitting into boxes seems relevant now, so she answers, ‘Yes. I have decided not to be my old self anymore. I’m my new self. Since I stepped out of the comfort of my nursing box recently, the world seemed a bit scary, a bit alien, if you like. Then I remembered my young self because of the wild garlic experience, and realised boxes are traps we fall into – or maybe we’re wilfully put into them by others. Maybe they feel safer around you when you’re in a socially accepted box.’

Flora and Daisy are wearing identical frowns, and Rose bites her lip to prevent a giggle escaping. ‘What boxes?’ Daisy asks.

‘Well, you know the phrase – think outside the box?’ Before she can continue, Flora jumps in.

‘Yes, but that means thinking in an original way – outside the norms, values and traditions of society. Problem-solving in a creative way, even.’

She’s using her schoolteacher voice which, Rose has to admit, can get a bit wearing. ‘I know what it means, Flora. But when I left my job, I began to think about my life and where I was going to go next. People expected certain things of me.’ She sneaks a glance at Daisy. ‘For instance, horse riding, amongst other things, was seen as something I certainly wouldn’t be doing. I decided I needed to think outside the box. Then I realised we all have our own personal boxes.’ If Daisy frowns any deeper, her eyes will disappear. ‘Do we create them ourselves, or as I just said, are we put into them? Are they created by others – are we weighed, measured up for them because of how we look, how we act, what job we do, our age? Things like that.’

‘Hell’s bells, that’s deep.’ Daisy knocks back her wine and holds her glass out for more. ‘I remember you were on about boxes when I came round the day after you left work, too.’ Daisy shakes her head as though she thinks Rose has become a bit obsessed. Maybe she has.

Rose pours her another glass and looks at Flora, who’s staring into space, a half-smile on her face. ‘You know, Rose, you’ve just described what happened to me when I was about your age. I completely dumped my box. I ripped it up and started again. But it wasn’t really until now that I knew that I had – so thanks for that.’ Flora finishes her wine and Rose refills her glass. ‘Thing is, I have a new box. You’re right, people put you in them very soon after meeting you. Or even before – maybe on first sight. I’m the ancient hippy with ridiculous hair, who can be a bit pompous and suffers no fools.’

Rose can’t meet her eye as she thinks of the moniker, Hippy Lady.

‘I kind of like it, because some of it is true, but I’m so much more than that. We all are.’ She takes a big swig of wine. ‘But can we ever truly escape our boxes?’

‘Hmm, not sure.’ Rose pours more wine for herself and considers this. It’s not something she’s really thought through. Her first job was to ditch the old box, but won’t the new box be just as restrictive? Then she has a brainwave. ‘Thing is, if we keep changing what we do, be more impulsive, do things we aren’t expected to do, surely our boxes will have to change along with us. So maybe we will have a long string of boxes … or maybe, just as people are happy with the one they’ve made for us, we can leap out of it and surprise them.’ She does jazz hands. ‘Ta da!’

Daisy laughs. ‘Well, I think you belong in a crazy box right now. What does it matter what people think of you, anyway?’

‘It doesn’t really. I’m beginning to realise that at last. I suppose doing different things, and being a different me is my goal right now. I want to feel like I did in the woods that day, as much as I possibly can. This garden is helping so much too. I want to feel that anything is possible – that the world is there for the taking.’ All true, but she keeps to herself that she sometimes still wakes at night thinking Glen is beside her, and for a few seconds the shock of losing him is like a punch in the gut.

‘Hear, hear,’ Flora says quietly, fixing Rose with an intense stare. ‘Time to share my story, if you want to listen. No idea why I feel I must, as I said before. I think it has something to do with this magical garden of yours, Rose.’ She looks at her Philadelphus and takes a breath of the evening air.

‘We’re all ears,’ Daisy says, grabbing a handful of crisps.

‘Maybe you’re influenced by all the new spring buds and shoots popping up. Leaving the old growth behind. They are encouraging you to push your boundaries,’ Rose tells her.

‘You might be right.’ Flora smiles and takes another deep breath. ‘Okay. Here goes.’