The Garden of Memories

Chapter 20

James Morgan might be slowly moving from the ‘almost friend’ camp to the friend one. Flora considers this while he’s talking about her latest artwork, pointing to her ‘unusual’ use of colour, and ‘inspired’ composition. It’s not because he’s praising her work (though that helps), it’s because he’s started to smile and laugh a bit more of late. He was only put in the ‘almost friend’ camp, because he was a bit too serious for her liking, plus the fact that he runs the art class, which could prove tricky if she decided she’d had enough of attending. If they were friends, she’d feel bad about letting him down.

‘So, what do you think?’ James is looking at her, head on one side like an oystercatcher at the shoreline.

Flora had been too busy inside her own head to listen to everything he was saying. ‘About what?’

‘Having a go at painting outside. Forgetting the pebble art for a bit – trying something new.’

How had she missed this? Painting outside sounds just the kind of thing she’d enjoy. ‘Okay. What kind of thing?’

‘Something you love. A landscape, the ocean, trees…’ James raises his bushy grey brows over soft brown eyes and spreads his hands. ‘Anything at all.’

‘My garden?’

‘Absolutely.’

Flora wonders what the others in the class think of the idea, but when she glances around, she finds they’re alone. ‘Right. When would you like me to bring it in?’

James gives a hesitant smile and then tightens the band on his ponytail. ‘Um … I thought I’d come and paint with you … be there to lend a hand. Not that you’ll need one, I expect,’ he adds hastily.

Flora puzzles a moment as she watches his cheeks grow pink above his beard line. Why is he bashful all of a sudden? She’s not sure she’s ever seen a seventy-four-year-old look bashful before, especially not this one. James always seems a bit aloof – pleasant enough, but distant. Though as she reminds herself, he had begun to slowly thaw, hence the promotion from the ‘almost friend’ camp. Maybe he’s not used to making new friends and feels a bit awkward, hence the blushing. Mother’s trying to whisper something into her subconscious, which is wholly inappropriate and extremely unlikely, so with an effort, she shoves the old crone back into her cage.

‘That sounds lovely,’ Flora says, turning her head to look at her work in progress, mainly to break the intense stare he’s giving her.

‘Tomorrow’s supposed to be a nice day. Shall we meet up at yours after lunch, or before?’

‘Mine?’ Flora thinks she might have missed something again.

‘Yes. To paint your garden.’ James looks as puzzled as she feels.

Now it makes sense. ‘Ah, well, you see, the garden is at my friend Rose’s home. Well, I kind of think of it as mine too, as do our other friends. Rose tells us it belongs to us all. Like a community garden, really. It’s such a special place – it brought us all together. We planted our memories there.’

James had begun to look less puzzled, but now the frown’s back. ‘Planted memories?’

Flora laughs. ‘I’ll explain tomorrow when we’re there. It’ll make more sense. Now, why don’t you come for lunch, about 12.30? I’ll quickly jot down the address here.’ Flora tears a scrap of paper off an A3 sketch pad and babbles on about how much she loves flowers and all kinds of plants, while all the time she feels she’s standing apart from her physical body, looking on and listening to herself with growing panic.

What the hell is she playing at? Rose might not like her turning up unannounced for lunch, and with James. What if Rose isn’t even in? How embarrassing would that be? Why does she not think before acting? Mother always said she was too rash. Impetuous, spontaneous, radical even. Radical! The most radical thing she ever did when Mother was alive was paint her toenails green. If only she could see her now, inviting people to lunch out of the blue, dressed in orange harem pants hemmed with purple sequins, a lilac vest top, long dangly turquoise earrings and a scarlet bow in her hair. A giggle is trying to erupt, as she hands him Rose’s address, but she clamps her lips tight together.

James takes the scrap of paper and gives her his biggest smile to date. ‘Thanks. I’ll see you tomorrow, then.’

Flora nods. ‘Yes, see you then.’ She waits, but he doesn’t appear to be leaving. Then she realises it’s because they’re in the community centre at the class he runs, and it’s her who should be leaving. Dear God. ‘Bye, now,’ she flings over her shoulder in a squeakily high voice as she hurries for the exit.

* * *

All the way home, Flora wonders what on earth has got into her. She was like a woman possessed in there, laughing and wittering on like a ninny, inviting James to Rose’s like that. Trouble was, she’d gone so far, it was hard to double back, even though she knew she should. Mother had escaped her cage and was champing at the bit, poking fun, so she ploughed on, maybe to prove a point. The old hag had the audacity to suggest that James had a romantic interest in Flora. At their age. Really? That was preposterous! Flora was determined to ignore her nasty comments and to accept his friendly invitation – because it was just him being friendly, but she’d got carried away. How impetuous of her. The only thing for it is to call Rose and tell her what she’s done. Hopefully everything will be okay.

A strong cup of tea and a whisky chaser sit on the coffee table next to Flora’s bare feet. Ending her call, she replaces the phone in its cradle, which reminds her that Mother used to call it a holster, indicating her dislike of cordless telephones. What would she make of mobiles? With a sigh, she’s torn between relief and anxiety. Relief for three reasons. One is that Rose just told her that Lucy’s on the mend. Hallelujah! Two, she said it wasn’t a problem if James comes over. She’s off out to Daisy’s anyway with Bella and the kids – their grandchildren will be playing together. There will be a spare key left under Madame Agatha’s bee pot. Three, she won’t have to think of a humiliating excuse to tell James why he can’t come. But she’s anxious because she might be awkward around James, now they’ve moved their relationship on a stage. By ‘relationship’, she means friendship, obviously. Nevertheless, they’ll be alone in the garden, having lunch and painting like … well, like… Like what, Flora? Friends do that kind of thing all the bloody time!

Once more, worries that she’s being tolerated, a charity case, surface. These worries are never far away these days, even though the smiles and laughter of her new friendship circle banish them for a while. Maybe Rose feels obligated to allow Flora the run of her garden. Being the lovely person that she is, she hadn’t wanted to say no. More unhelpful thoughts crowd in now. What if she never actually had been the vital part of her community in Truro that she’d always prided herself on? What if she’d been hiding her drab, uninspiring garden behind a brightly painted gate all those years? Maybe Mother is right. She’s actually just a waste of space.

Anger builds. Mother is winning. Even though she’s been dead for years, she’s still jerking Flora’s chain. She grabs the whisky glass and downs it in one, gasping as the liquid turns to fire in her throat. That’s better. Mother can ‘do one’, as the youngsters say. Imagining her mother ‘doing one’ is hysterically funny, for some reason, and it’s a while before she’s calm enough to drink her tea. Tomorrow will be lovely, she decides. In the morning she’ll pop into town to get something nice for lunch. Some freshly made sausage rolls or pasties, and maybe even a couple of her very favourite chocolate eclairs from the bakery. James is sure to love them. Her image of James enjoying the lunch suddenly screeches to a halt. What if he’s vegetarian or vegan? Should she give him a call and ask? Flora watches her hand hover over the phone like an indecisive butterfly. No. Stop it. This won’t do at all. She flicks on the TV and there’s a programme about novice climbers. It’s snowing and they’re struggling at the foothills of a forbidding mountain. Flora’s right there with them.

* * *

James was right about the weather. The heat of the last few weeks is tempered by a fresh breeze, but not so fresh that it could become a nuisance for those who might like to paint outside. Those, being Flora and James. The anxiety from last night hasn’t followed her into this morning, thankfully, and she gives her old picnic basket one last check-through, before making her way up the road towards Rose’s cottage. Thoughts which try and make her second guess about James’s food preferences, and question her decision to pop a couple of bottles of local cyder into the basket, are banished.

Today she has her positive head on, as well as one of her best multicoloured kaftans, complete with silver bells on the cuffs. And no, it isn’t to hide her drabness. It’s because that’s who she is. A vibrant shrub, with sometimes prickly leaves – so watch out, Mother! Flora decides to do her hair in two plaits tied with bee-patterned ribbons, because of the breeze. The last thing she wants is her hair joining in with the painting.

Letting herself in to Rose’s, she puts the cyder in the fridge and flicks the kettle on in case James prefers tea. It feels a bit odd, being in the cottage without Rose, but she feels welcome, nevertheless. The worries of yesterday try to creep back in, but she’s having none of it. At exactly 12.30, James knocks on the stable door, the top half of which is open to let in the gorgeous, scented air.

‘Hello!’ James’s broad smile immediately puts Flora at ease. ‘What a lovely place this is.’

‘It really is.’ Flora steps through the door and nods to the canvases and painting equipment under his arm and in bags. ‘Put that lot inside and I’ll give you the tour. Then we’ll have lunch, yes?’

James does as she asks and then pulls a bottle of wine from one of the bags. ‘I’m not sure if you like wine, or if you drink at all, but I got a light white, as it’s lunchtime.’ It’s clear by his tone he’s nervous, and the skin above his beard starts up a competition with the poppies on his patterned shirt.

‘Ha! Yes, I do drink. I got us some little bottles of cyder too. So, we’re spoiled for choice.’

‘Good job my son dropped me off, then!’ James laughs and tightens his already tight band on his ponytail.

Flora notes he did that yesterday. Must be a nervous habit. And he has a son? That’s news. But then, what does she actually know about James? He used to be an art teacher and he runs a pebble-art class once a week – that’s it.

‘Yes, we don’t want you done for drink driving.’ Flora chuckles, but it sounds like a stuttering cough. His nervousness must be catching.

While Flora puts the wine in the fridge and gets the plates out for later, James chats more about the cottage and how pleasant it is. Then he compliments her on the kaftan. ‘We are both quite colourful in our choice of clothing today.’ He grins and points at his poppy shirt and green jeans.

He’s not normally so colourful,Flora thinks. He usually wears denim jeans, flip-flops and some sort of a nondescript T-shirt. ‘Yes, we are. Though I do wear plenty of colour most days,’ she says pointedly.

He folds his arms and leans against the table. ‘Yes. I’ve noticed. You really stand out in a crowd, and being so colourful gives you a cheerful aura, somehow. So today, I decided to take a leaf out of your book.’ He lifts a finger and waggles it. ‘And seeing as we’re going to paint a garden, I thought that a leaf would be very appropriate.’

Flora laughs, though it wasn’t that funny a joke. Good job she’s not Louise. And she must admit, in view of her worries, the ‘standing out in a crowd’ comment is welcome. Setting her shoulders back, she draws on her confidence and reminds herself of why she changed in the first place. It’s what she wants to be. It fits in with her philosophy, with her ‘rebellion’ after Mother died and retirement. The wanting to be different, the free spirit, the colourful hair and clothes, the magpie tattoo on her arse. She wonders what James would make of that! Flora leads the way out of the cottage and up the garden path before her own blush becomes obvious.

He follows in her wake, oohing and ahhing at the bounty of nature – large and small, colourful, scented, tall, showy, shy and timid, all thriving together in this wonderful space. ‘My word, Flora.’ He stops at the highest point under the rampant honeysuckle, yellow trumpets dancing in the breeze, and turns in a circle. ‘This place is…’ He frowns and strokes his beard. ‘Well, I can only describe it as joyful.’ Then he takes a delicate trumpet between his forefinger and thumb and inhales deeply. ‘What a sweet, heady fragrance.’ Lifting his arms up and out, he says in wonder, ‘This entire garden is absolutely delightful … so uplifting.’ Then he spies the almost finished pond, lets out a whoop of excitement and hurries down to get a closer look.

Flora follows on, laughing. It’s like having an oversized Wesley on the loose.

As she joins him, he gets on his hands and knees by the pile of flat stones Sally has left to one side. ‘What will these be?’ he asks, twinkly-eyed.

‘Sally, the lady who’s building it, is constructing a waterfall with them. The really tall grasses in pots over there by the shed will go around the edge at the back, and various plants and grasses will be dotted in and around. There’s talk of a couple of fish too. But she’s most looking forward to putting her water lilies in. They’re her memory plants.’

James nods. ‘Yeah, what does that mean, exactly? You mentioned planting memories last evening.’

Flora tells him she’ll explain over lunch, and together they bring everything out to the picnic table.

* * *

‘Okay, cyder or wine?’ Flora didn’t bother asking if he wanted tea, she could guess the answer.

‘Let’s try that local cyder first. It certainly looks good. And so do these pasties. Are they from Nicki B’s?’

‘They are indeed. I hope you eat meat – I wasn’t sure if I should get a vegan one as well…’

‘No, I eat everything.’ He frowns. ‘Well, almost. I don’t eat oysters.’

‘Me neither. I can’t stand the look of them when you get them up to your mouth, wobbling like mucus in the shell.’

James holds his palm up and shudders. While they eat, they talk about the garden and how Flora knows so much about plants. Without intending to, she finds herself opening up to him like a daisy at dawn. Everything comes out. Her mother’s dominance, her job, her rebellion (apart from the location of the magpie tattoo), the move from Truro, her newfound friends, the power of this amazing garden, the healing nature of growing things and the significance of planting memories … everything apart from her recent misgivings, her own memory plant and the reason behind it.

Flora’s sure that will be best kept to herself. She’s talked too much already. The poor man has barely said two words because of her yap, yap, yapping. She’s only had a glass of cyder, so she can’t blame it on the booze. Maybe it’s the garden’s influence. She recalls Sally telling her that being here is cathartic. It coaxes what you keep locked away inside, up into the outside. A bit scary, but you feel better for it.

‘Which is your memory plant, Flora?’ James pours her a glass of wine and studies her face, expectantly.

Now what does she say? Maybe she can skirt around it somehow. She can see the Philadelphus behind his left shoulder in a beam of full sunlight. It looks like a rising star in the spotlight on opening night, but before she can find an understudy, out it all comes. Her darling Patrick, the dawn bouquet, their brief engagement, her mother’s sabotage. All. Of. It.

The feel of his big warm hand enveloping her own brings her out of a shocked trance. To her surprise, she finds her cheeks damp. ‘Oh… Sorry, I’ve completely taken over the whole conversation. We’ve not even started painting yet!’

James notices her awkward glance at their entwined hands and releases hers. ‘Please don’t apologise. I’m honoured that you shared your story with me. It’s so very poignant and all too familiar, I’m afraid.’

Flora notes that his eyes look a bit glassy, and she doesn’t think it’s because of the bright sunshine. ‘You know someone with a similar story?’

‘Yes. Me.’

This is not what she’s expecting at all. ‘You never married? But you have a son.’ Flora stops, embarrassed. People have children out of wedlock all the time, for goodness’ sake. She must sound about two hundred years old.

‘Yes, I married. I have a son and a daughter. My experience is very similar to yours, though. You were prevented from marrying by your mother, while I was pushed into it by my father. It felt like an arranged marriage … well, kind of. I never loved her.’ He laughs, though it ends up being more like a snort, actually.

Maybe he’s laughing to lift the mood, but while he might make light of his situation, she can never see missing out on a life with Patrick as anything more than a tragedy. ‘How very hilarious,’ she says, dryly.

James’s face falls. ‘Sorry. I know it’s not funny at all – but if I don’t laugh, I might cry. Your story has brought everything back for me. The sadness, the frustration, the sheer hopelessness of being twenty-one, with your heart set on another girl, while your parents browbeat you into marrying the daughter of their close friends. Janet and I were inseparable growing up. We went to the same school, shared the same interests, we had a laugh, and we really got each other. She was pretty, she was good company – but friends is all we were. At least on my part.’

Flora forgives him his laughter, as she watches the shadow of painful memories grow and diminish across his face. ‘Janet was in love with you?’

‘Yes. She’d told her parents as much too. Her dad was in partnership with mine – they were solicitors. Senior partner at that. When we were in our late teens, there was so much pressure on me from Dad to take her on a date. Apparently, she told her own dad that I was the only man for her, but she daren’t ask me out. It wasn’t really done for women to make the first move back then, as you know. Dad said it would be awkward for him at work if I turned her down. He said if we went on a few dates, it might pacify her, and besides, who knew where it might lead, if I let it?’

James takes a big swallow of wine. ‘We went on a few dates and had a nice time, but then she got really serious. Said she loved me; said she couldn’t live without me. I was clueless. I knew I didn’t feel the same, but I had been her friend since we were tiny. I didn’t want to hurt her. Time went on and both sides put pressure on me to marry her. Mine especially, as I said.’

He stares wistfully at the sky. ‘And if I’m honest, I was flattered, to an extent, that Janet was so besotted – I was stupid, and na?ve too. As I said, I thought I loved another girl at the time, but she wasn’t interested. But I didn’t try very hard to win her over. I gave in to my dad’s wishes in the end. Got married. Got divorced after twelve years.’ James finishes his wine. ‘Janet was devastated. I’d broken up the family. I hated myself, hated my parents. But most of all, I hated myself for being weak in the first place and later causing so much misery to my wife and children.’

Flora knows she should be finding platitudes, words to make him feel better. But she has none. Though in truth, maybe she doesn’t need them. His story is so incredibly sad and should be acknowledged as such. Silence, save for the distant call of gulls and the whisper of the breeze through the tall grasses, are words enough. The telling of the story needs time to sit between them, to settle in the calm of this glorious Eden, to allow the sweet scent of the gathered summer blooms to act as a salve to his wounds. To hers too. Because Flora knows he’s right. Their stories are so similar in some respects, yet completely opposite in others. The end result is the same. Lost love, lost time, self-loathing, and Flora expects on occasion, both of them have a barrowload of ‘what ifs’ trundling through their minds as they lie awake in the small hours staring at the bedroom ceiling.

James doesn’t seem in the least thrown by the silence, and Flora knows that’s because he gets it. He’s a kindred spirit, and he’s so firmly in her friend camp now, she knows she will find it hard, should he ever decide to leave it. But that’s enough of that now. Time to look forward.

‘Thanks for telling me your story, James.’ She gives his hand a quick squeeze and opens the bottles of cyder. ‘I agree, we share similar experiences, and trauma leaves scars. The self-loathing took some time to get through, on my part. The rebellion I told you about when the old bat died helped with that. I became a butterfly, a free spirit. I’d broken the shackles. Years of put-downs, negativity, thou-shalt-nots.’ She takes a swig from the bottle and blocks Mother’s derisory comment. ‘Thing is, from time to time I hear her in my head.’ Oh dear. She’d not meant to say that. A puzzled look crosses James’s face, as well it might. Then he smiles.

‘Yeah. Me too.’ He laughs. ‘Not your mother, of course – my dad.’

This tickles her, and is such a relief. It’s not just her then; other people hear voices of long-dead relatives. ‘Right, that’s cheered me up a bit. I sometimes worry that I’m going ga-ga. Though I don’t hear her as much as I used to in the early days.’ Though she has made an unwelcome comeback very recently. Since I moved, actually. These words remain unspoken, because James doesn’t need to know. If she tells him, she’ll have to talk about her insecurities, and she’s had enough of thinking about those lately. ‘It’s obviously because she had so much of a grip on me, that her negativity still has an influence. Makes me question the little things that I do, like drinking out of this bottle instead of a glass, for example.’

James clinks his bottle against hers and the sun winks off the glass. ‘Yep. How uncouth of us. So, after the divorce, Dad more or less washed his hands of me. Told me I was a coward and needed to grow a backbone. I explained I’d grown one, hence the divorce. Mum and Dad adored my kids, though, which meant he couldn’t disown me completely as he was worried he wouldn’t get to see them, but he was distant and cold with me until the day he died. I’d brought shame on the family, you see. I wish I’d told him exactly what I thought of him, but my backbone didn’t extend to that. As a consequence, I heard his disapproval about certain aspects of my life on a regular basis, the choices I made. I still do, even now. I’ve had one or two brief relationships since Janet, but they didn’t last. Because of me, really – the way I became. I’ve struggled with depression over the years, found it hard to be light-hearted, to laugh.’

This explains a lot to Flora. ‘I did note that you were a very serious kind of guy when we first met. Don’t get me wrong,’ Flora adds as his face falls, ‘you were always pleasant and informative, sometimes animated, especially when you were talking about art. But yes, serious overall.’

James looks at her. ‘Yes. I’ve found it easier to laugh just recently, though.’

‘Yes, I’ve noticed. Why’s that, if you don’t mind me asking?’

‘Not at all. It’s because of you.’

‘Me?’ Flora squeaks, completely taken aback.

‘Yes. You’re such a colourful, vibrant character. Some people have more light about them than others, don’t you find?’

Flora’s too dumbstruck to reply.

‘It emits from their manner: caring, warmth, sense of fun – others gravitate towards it.’ He stops and Flora can tell he’s feeling awkward because he tightens the band of his ponytail. ‘You’re one of those people.’ He gives a simple shrug. ‘I like being around you.’

It takes three swigs of cyder and a false start or two before Flora can say, ‘Thank you, James. That’s one of the nicest things anyone has ever told me. You might laugh, but in my teaching years I thought of myself as a lighthouse. I loved being someone who people could depend on – learn from, find guidance in. And even after I retired, I have often been someone’s point of reference, in various guises. It makes me feel a useful part of my community. Recently, I have doubted the wattage of my lightbulb from time to time, maybe because of my advancing years and the mutterings of Mother. So once again, thank you, James. Thank you.’ Flora shuts up, because she’s aware she’s yapping again, but mainly because she doesn’t want to cry.

James folds his arms and puts his head on one side. ‘Never doubt the strength of your lightbulb, Flora. It’s certainly helped guide me to sunny shores these last few months.’

Flora’s smile feels wobbly, so she dabs the corner of her mouth with a bit of kitchen roll and in her best no-nonsense teacher’s voice says, ‘Well, how very lovely. Now, shall we attempt to put brush to canvas before nightfall?’