The Garden of Memories

Chapter 11

Afew days later, a memory of Glen, proudly revealing a majestic blue agapanthus flower, seeds itself through the remnants of Rose’s dream. Still drowsy with sleep, she smiles as she thinks about how much Glen loved agapanthus; he called them Aggies. Or sometimes when he was in a silly mood, Madame Agatha Panthers. He had a particularly grand specimen in a pot, and Rose remembers how exotic and beautiful it was. What on earth happened to that plant? She plumps her pillow and closes her eyes, trying to think. Maybe it died, because she couldn’t imagine Glen would have got rid of it. Is it perched on the dip in the back wall along from the little tool shed? It is suddenly very important that she finds out, so she shrugs on her dressing gown and hurries downstairs.

Slippers of morning dew coat her bare feet as she walks across the grass, and the scents of honeysuckle and Flora’s Philadelphus sweeten the air. A rudimentary search turns up no agapanthus, but an image of a bright-orange-and-black stripy pot rings a faint bell at the back of her mind. Rose hasn’t seen that pot for ages, and it’s not hard to miss. Behind the tool shed, in a space partially reclaimed by brambles, there’s a tumble of old pots, discarded gardening gloves, damp and snail-infested, and at the back of a depleted compost bag there’s an orange-and-black stripy pot – broken and mostly empty. Rose picks up the biggest piece and sees that the soil is gone, but the bulb of the agapanthus reclines naked and mushy – slug and snail heaven. How did that happen? Maybe it was last winter when the wind was particularly voracious. It could have whisked the pot from the little stone wall that Glen had built, and there it had lain undiscovered, until now. Rose hasn’t ventured out this way since he died. Poor Madame Agatha.

* * *

Indoors, a new urgency ignores her thoughts of breakfast and leads her to the laptop to Google information on agapanthus. An involuntary ‘Oh…’ brings a mix of joy and sadness to the quiet of the kitchen, as Rose discovers that agapanthus means ‘flower of love’ in Greek. A need to plant a new one in Glen’s memory is almost overwhelming, so Rose grabs an apple for breakfast before quickly changing and leaving the house.

A knowledgeable young horticulturalist at the garden centre explains how to tend the fine specimen of bright-blue agapanthus with strappy verdant leaves almost as high as her knee. The blooms are still sleeping, but he assures Rose that in a month or so, the spears will emerge, grow tall and explode in a breathtaking show of splendour, come June or July. Rose thanks him and he lifts it into her trolley. Now for a new plant pot. She wanders down the aisles and into the next section which is full of pots, various tools and bags of compost. Immediately she knows which one to buy. It’s olive green with a huge bee on the front. Perfect. Bees are the epitome of nature and the guardians of new life. Where would we be without the bees? Rose chuckles at this thought and heaves the pot and some compost into the trolley.

The sense of urgency that found her early that morning is still at her side when she gets back to her garden. Before she does anything else, she will plant the agapanthus and find a safe place for it to grow. They like plenty of sun, apparently, so Rose thinks it might do well by the back wall (though not on it), so it’s protected from the wind. She will see it every morning when she opens the kitchen blinds. Everything is ready, apart from the new trowel, which seems to have disappeared. ‘Where is the damned thing?’ she asks the interior of the shed. ‘I only bought it recently when I planted Daisy and Flora’s memories.’

Having almost given up the search and now considering using the spade, which would be unwieldy and clumsy, but needs must, Rose notices a rusty little trowel resting in a cobwebby seed tray along the back shelf of the shed. On closer inspection, it turns out to be a child’s trowel, a faded image of Danger Mouse on the handle. Bella’s trowel. A memory of Bella and Glen planting gooseberries with it thumps into her consciousness with such vibrancy and clarity that she slumps down on a makeshift stool – an upturned bucket. Bella’s about six, she’s asking her dad if they can make a crumble when the gooseberries are ready, and Glen laughs at her enthusiasm, tells her yes, but it might be a while yet, and they shouldn’t make the custard anytime soon.

Rose lets out a long breath as the poignant, but predominantly happy memory fades and she’s left staring at dust motes dancing in a shaft of muted sunlight. Strangely, she doesn’t feel as bereft and alone as she sometimes has before when she’s remembered Glen. Instead, she’s surprisingly uplifted. Perhaps it’s the garden, the being here in the shed, the smell of damp wood, and compost, the rusty metal of the lawnmower, and if she imagines it really hard, perhaps a faint whiff of Glen’s cologne.

Rose looks at the trowel in her hands again and realises she has soil under her fingernails. Her brain makes a tentative connection between creating new life in her garden and her life as a nurse. She tended, nurtured, helped people to thrive and survive, and she’s doing that again now with her planting. She’s making the connection to Glen too and Bella, on the long-ago gooseberry planting day. The memory was so beautiful and it’s left her with a feeling of peace.

Rose realises something else then. It hits her like a train. At last, in this old shed, she can admit to herself she’s not really been dealing with her grief. At the beginning, it was too raw, overwhelming, ripping her apart, so she hid from it. Hid it from others in bright smiles and long shifts, in not having time to think beyond work. Now she has plenty of time, she can see it. Rose has blocked it too, just as effectively as a tennis pro returning an ace, smashing it back to where it came from. Game, set and match.

All this new information she’s processing isn’t really new at all, Rose thinks. It’s been there all the time, but she hasn’t quite managed to understand what it was. The shape of it kept morphing, changing into something else, just out of reach. Though she didn’t try very hard to access it, if she’s honest. As a nurse, part of her thinks she should have realised long before now what was happening, as she’d met grief in many guises almost every day of her working life – but this was too close. Too personal. Contentment of sorts comes to sit by her side on the upturned bucket. Grief for her has changed – it’s become acceptance. And for that, she’s grateful. The little Danger Mouse trowel rests on her knees waiting for action, so she takes it outside to the ‘bee pot’ and digs it into the rich, dark compost and makes a new home for Madame Agatha.

* * *

Sally pulls up outside Rose’s cottage and takes a moment to admire the riot of early summer colour in the front garden. She has been only twice before to Rose’s, but can’t remember such a gorgeous variety of plants, shrubs and flowers. She looks at the little cactus in the carrier bag on the passenger seat, wedged between the cake box and a packet of biscuits, and thinks it might be a bit bland. It might be better off on her own kitchen windowsill alongside the on-its-last-legs spider plant … then she thinks better of it and whisks the bag up and out. As she’s walking towards the front door, doubt throws a few arguments into her path, as to why she should have done this before, as she meant to, as it’s been a while since Rose left the surgery … or at the very least, she should have phoned ahead. But Sally had been in the supermarket looking at the cakes, and a now-or-never moment had her buying six of them and zooming up to see Rose.

Thing is, she’s kept putting off the visit. Sally knows she tends to put things off, or on the back burner, as she prefers to think of it. Back-burner things aren’t forgotten about or rejected. They’re just waiting for a more appropriate time. She also knows that she hasn’t been in a good place, as they say – appropriate times for things have been shelved in favour of eating cake, drinking wine and watching mindless celebrity this, that or the other on TV. Anything to shut down her gloomy thoughts until it’s time for work the next day. The bathroom scales are a testament to her weakness for sugar and sitting on her backside. Pippa told her last week that she needs to get a hold on her binge eating and sort her life out, before ‘stuff’ spirals out of control. Her daughter didn’t elaborate on what ‘stuff’ might be, but she got the gist. She secretly agreed with Pippa, but as usual, Sally played things down – alluded to the yoga class she’d been to (once, a few months ago), said she would be fine.

Part of her had wanted to retaliate. More than part of her actually, because Pippa had sounded exactly like her dad. It was as if he was there in the kitchen, just like he used to be, pointing out all her bad points – telling her to do this, that or the other. Making her feel small, insignificant. So tiny, so irrelevant, so unworthy that she often felt like she was invisible. Her ‘mistakes’ were the only thing about her that were ever seen. Sally didn’t retaliate, of course, because Pippa had no idea her dad used to be the puppet master. All Paul’s snide remarks were reserved just for Sally. Quiet, vicious little weapons dropped into her ears, shredding her heart, scattering shame through her like shrapnel.

Before she can knock at the door, it opens, and Rose is standing there looking … well, looking quite amazing. She’s slimmer, fitter and tanned. Her hair is longer and not as ‘done’, but it suits her, and there’s a ‘fizz’ popping about her, an energy, that wasn’t there before.

‘Sally, I thought it was your car pulling up! How lovely to see you!’

This is a relief, as she can tell the greeting is genuine. Sally had wondered if it might be a bit awkward, her just rocking up out of the blue. ‘Hi, Rose. My God, you’re looking great – whatever you’re on, I want some!’

Rose lets out a huge laugh, as if it’s the funniest thing she’s ever heard and ushers Sally inside. ‘I’m high on life, Sally.’ She slaps Sally’s back. ‘Life and new possibilities.’

* * *

Soon the kettle’s on and Rose is oohing and ahhing at the selection of cakes Sally’s putting on a big plate. Then she picks up the little cactus and kisses the pot … actually kisses it. ‘I’d kiss the cactus, but don’t want to prickle my lips.’ Rose laughs and holds the plant higher to examine every angle. ‘It’s just delightful. Thank you so much for spoiling me – cakes, biscuits and cactus. What more could a girl ask for?’ Her turquoise eyes sparkle with merriment and then she returns to her tea-making.

Sally thinks Rose’s ‘life and new possibilities’ mood is rubbing off on her. There’s a bubbly feeling building inside which has been absent for the longest time, and she fights the urge to grin inanely as she looks around the bright, homely kitchen. ‘What have you been up to since leaving, then? I’ve not seen you on social media much.’

‘No time for that malarkey. I’ve been working in the garden mostly. Turns out I’ve got green fingers – who would have thought it?’ Rose wiggles her fingers over her shoulder. ‘I go walking and often go down to the beach too. I’ve booked a horse riding lesson next Tuesday, and then Bella and family are down the day after for a few days. I’ve not seen them for four months, so I can’t wait. I actually painted a picture with her old paints – not sure what she’ll make of that. My new friend Flora often pops up and we do a bit of gardening together, or simply sit and look at the flowers. Daisy comes too, when she can. So, I have been quite the busy bee.’

Sally is exhausted just listening to her as she takes a mug of tea with thanks. ‘Blimey. You seem busier than when you were nursing.’

‘Not quite, but I’m certainly enjoying not being a nurse.’ Rose leans forward across the table, fully engaging Sally’s attention. ‘Do you know, I never thought I’d say those words. When I first left the surgery, I thought my world had been turned upside down. I felt like a boat without a rudder, eggs without bacon, Ant without Dec – you get the picture.’

Sally nods. ‘So how come that changed?’

‘I went to the woods, found some wild garlic, sang my heart out and made a memory garden.’

‘A memory garden?’

‘Yep. I was in the loft looking for some old paints of Bella’s and found an ancient photo album. There’s one of me when I was sixteen, in the woods amongst wild garlic. So off I went to the same woods and relived the experience. It made me feel young again for a while. Made me realise there was still much to take from life…’ Rose pauses, looking thoughtful, ‘…and much to give back. I brought some wild garlic home.’ She pulls a sheepish face. ‘Okay, I nicked it, and planted it in my garden. It felt … right, somehow. Anyway, since that day I knew I needed to transform my green space. It had always been Glen’s domain before, but I realised I love being amongst growing things. The garden lifts my spirits. It’s a well-known fact that being amongst nature is good for you. Flora and Daisy brought plants that have memories attached to them too, and I planted them with mine. I have prim-noses and agapanthus as well as the garlic.’

‘Primroses, you mean?’ Sally says with a giggle.

‘No, I mean prim-noses. Bella called them that when she was little. The agapanthus is to remember Glen. Not that I need a specific plant, as I think about him every day.’

Sally loses the smile. ‘Sorry, Rose. It must be hard, still.’

‘Don’t be sorry. Yes, it’s hard sometimes, but thanks to the garden, I’m beginning to accept it. I only really understood that today… Baby steps, as they say. I imagine acceptance isn’t a one-size-fits-all. There will be days when I’ll need alterations.’

To lighten the mood – hers, not Rose’s – Sally says, ‘It’s a great idea, having plants to remember people by.’

Rose nods her agreement. ‘Not just people who have died, though. There are lots of times to remember and treasure, like my wild garlic days, and happy memories too, like Bella’s prim-noses.’

Sally notes the bubbly feeling she had earlier is swelling like a balloon. Maybe she needs to be part of this garden if it has such a positive effect on people. Then, without intending to, and out of the blue, she tells Rose about Paul. Rose had an idea she wasn’t happy with him and guessed some details, but not all. ‘Yes, he was so controlling.’ Sally helps herself to another cake … her third, she realises, and pushes the remaining two in the box away. ‘Everything always had to be perfect for him. You know, the house had to be clean and tidy, the food cooked from scratch, the kids looking and behaving like those in a cereal commercial – which they never were, of course – and that was my fault, apparently. I had to look like I’d just stepped out of a salon, and woe betide me if I’d put a pound of weight on.’ She sweeps her hand over her midriff and can’t meet Rose’s sympathetic eyes. ‘God knows what he’d say if he could see me now.’ Oh shit. She’s going to cry now. What a stupid cow she is.

‘Hey, who cares what that shithead would say? Seems to me you’re well rid of him.’ Rose reaches her hand across the table with a tissue in it and Sally takes both, though still daren’t look up.

‘I tell myself that all the time,’ she tells the plate of half-eaten cake. ‘Sometimes it works, but not for long. I can’t help but think of him with his new, young, slim, attractive woman, while I’m home alone. My daughter has moved in with her girlfriend, and my son is backpacking the world with his friends. Don’t get me wrong, I’m happy for them … but oh … I don’t know. I made the effort the other night, went out for a drink with a friend, but I felt awkward. Like I didn’t belong, and I couldn’t find anything nice that would fit me in the wardrobe, which didn’t help. Sorry, Rose. I didn’t mean to come here and moan. Just ignore me.’ Sally lets out a sigh and forces a smile.

‘Do not apologise, and I most certainly will not ignore you, young lady.’

Rose has a mock stern tone to her voice. Young lady – that’s a joke, she’ll be fifty next month.

‘Come on. Let’s go and have a look at the garden. It might cheer you up… Bring your tea.’

* * *

Sally’s not really thought much about gardens, one way or the other. She can take them or leave them – a bit neutral, she supposes. But this garden is something else. It isn’t a show garden like the ones the experts create on TV programmes, or trying to be something it’s not. It’s just … uplifting, is the only word that comes to mind. Actually, no. There are a few others too. Cheerful, inspiring, comforting, welcoming. The afternoon sun throws fat shadows at the fence and back wall, and the honeysuckle cascading down and along like a golden waterfall, pushes a sweet scent before it. A white-flowering shrub stands nearby with a similar perfume, and near the gate, a clump of tall, showy, daisy-like flowers nod in the gentle wind.

Sally doesn’t know the names of these flowers and shrubs, but there are pink blousy ones, purple ones at the end of long stems, orange ones that look like the heads of birds with long beaks, and everywhere lush green leaves mingle with tall grasses. Ah, at last there’s one she recognises climbing a trellis near the corner of the cottage. ‘What a lovely rose you have, Rose.’ She strokes her fingers along the velvet yellow petals and inhales the fragrance at the centre of the flower. ‘In fact, what an absolutely wonderful garden altogether.’ Sally spreads her arms and turns in a circle, a giddy feeling guiding her dance.

Rose snaps a dead flower head, pockets it and joins her. ‘Thank you. Yes, this is a Golden Gate rose. Smells divine. We bought it after we’d been to San Francisco on holiday years ago.’

‘Ah right, because of the bridge.’

‘Yes. I always remember that holiday when I look at it.’

‘And is that a veggie patch?’ Sally points over at an area that has what looks like feathery carrot fronds waving in the breeze.

‘Yes! I thought I’d just try a few things, to see how it went.’

Sally looks at Rose’s serene smile and is comforted. Just like when they worked together, the calm and compassion she always carries around with her is working its magic on Sally. The smile reminds her of something too. Or someone. Then it comes to her. Grace Pentewan, who used to live next door to her when she was a kid. She didn’t look anything like Rose, but there is a suggestion of her in that smile. Another suggestion comes to Sally too, and before she knows it, she is sharing it.

‘I had a neighbour years ago who had a little pond. It had beautiful water lilies, white and pink ones. I loved it. I used to look over the fence at it, and in spring it was full of tadpoles and frogs. She had a couple of fish in it too, if I remember correctly. Grace was the neighbour’s name, and she invited me over one time when she saw me peeping over the fence. We became friends. Odd, really – a ten-year-old and an elderly lady. She was wise and kind. She’d been widowed young, but told me she and her husband had been very happy. Told me to never settle for second best in life and go for my dreams. I did settle for second best, though, didn’t I? Stupid fool. Stayed with a man who made my life miserable … the best years of my life, too.’

Rose is about to answer, but Sally needs to get the last bit out. ‘Anyway, what I was wondering, is … can I make a pond for you? There’s plenty of room in the shady bit near the wall. I don’t know anything about how to do it, but I could find out… Water lilies would be so pretty.’

Sally had no idea where all that had come from, but she was glad it had. It felt right. For a moment they stood looking at each other. Rose had that serene smile on her lips again and in the air was the perfume of various flowers, the murmur of bees and the faint shush of the ocean.

‘I think a pond would be the perfect addition to the rest of this remarkable garden, Sally.’

‘Really?’

Rose laughs. ‘Yes, really.’ She puts her head on one side and with a thoughtful expression, adds, ‘You know, your younger years weren’t necessarily the best years of your life, sweetheart. You have a fair few to go yet. It’s up to you what you make of them.’

A rush of affection for Rose, this garden and Grace Pentewan prompts, ‘I’ve missed you, Rose. It’s so nice to spend time with you again … and thanks so much for agreeing to a pond. I promise I’ll try to make it perfect.’

‘No. You’ve done enough of that over the years, Sally. Perfection’s overrated. Just do the best you can, that will be enough.’

Sally wants to answer, but she finds she can’t. Instead, she links arms with Rose and they wander over to where they think the best place for a pond will be.