Chapter Twenty-six
They say that recognising you need help is the first step in healing. So it follows that the ten people booked on Osian’s Perllan Centre for Wellbeing are already at least one step into getting well.
Both men must have been booked by either their friends, relatives or social workers because they look terrible.
Schaefer, a middle-aged man, wears his jumper inside out and doesn’t seem to notice or care.
He never looks up from the ground, as if he is trying to find a way to sink under it.
The other man, Isaias, a slim young refugee from Eritrea, seems deeply nervous – he can’t seem to relax, and his eyes constantly dart here and there.
The women, whatever else is going on for them, at least make an effort with their appearance.
They chat and answer Osian’s questions easily.
Three are dressed up as if for a date. Osian’s first homework is to point them to Workgear Online with instructions to get something baggy, warm and with plenty of pockets.
“First thing today, a few introductions.” He holds up a set of tools. “Meet your first friend. The trowel. You can use this for digging, turning the soil, planting small plugs and blubs, or moving small amounts of soil around,” he explains, sounding like a nicer more inspiring sports coach.
He then introduces the rest of the tools and invites them to practice getting their hands dirty.
“See these fan-shaped gardens? Each has five segments. You’ll each have an hour to practice turning up the soil in one long fan segment.
“Watch me or Evie and copy us. Once you’re done, you can choose which fan garden you want to work on.
There are five of them: blue, purple, orange, pink and red.
First come first served, so the faster you complete your digging the more likely you are to get your first choice of flower colours. ”
As they all start digging, he comes over to me, drops down on his haunches and speaks quietly. “Can you take Isaias and Schaefer under your wing? Just keep them close and look after them.”
I stare at him, unbelieving. “Me?”
“I think they would benefit most from your energy and optimism.”
Energy and optimism? “Osian, they need professional help, and I know nothing about psychology. How am I supposed to—”
“You don’t have to offer counselling. Just work with them the way you did with the boys from the village. I watched you show them how to cut stubborn briars and dig up ivy by the root. If you can make weeding fun, planting flowers should be a piece of cake.”
“I don’t know,” I say, glancing doubtfully at both men.
“I believe in you.”
He’s talking to me like I’m an athlete in need of a pre-match pep talk.
When I don’t answer he must realize I’m still not convinced. “Okay, then do it as a favour to me. Just give it a couple of days. Please?”
He might not be flirting, but his ‘please’ is as irresistible as hot buttered toast on a cold day. “You only want to give me the men so you can keep all the women to yourself,” I say trying to lighten the mood.
His expression sours instantly and his eyes darken with anger. “You really think I’d hit on my clients, particularly vulnerable ones? What the hell, Evie?!”
“Sorry, sorry,” I say quickly, placing a hand on his chest. His heart beneath my palm hammers like an engine. “I was joking.”
“That’s not a joke. Nor is it funny.”
“Okay, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that. But why are you so angry?”
Just for an instant, an expression like doubt or uncertainty flashes across his face. Then, rising to his feet, he nods for me to follow him. We walk a little way so we’re out of earshot.
Frowning, his eyes roam around the group, who are all digging inexpertly at their assigned segments.
“Are you worried?” I search his face.
“Is it obvious?” he asks, almost in a whisper.
“No… but I know you a little better. What is it?”
“I’m supposed to inspire confidence in them. They shouldn’t think I’m worried.”
“Why are you worried?” Stupid question.
I reach to touch his arm but then stop short. Osian is not usually a touchy man and I don’t want to trigger a sudden freeze. So I just say: “It’s your first course; you’re bound to be anxious. I felt like this at the start of a TV programme.”
He gives me a grateful look. “You did? It didn’t show.”
“There were times my mouth was as dry as sand. Because you feel all eyes on you and you have to appear poised and cheerful for the audience while thinking frantically about camera angles and what the producer is telling you in your earpiece. And all the time you’re hoping audiences don’t lose interest and flick away.
” I glance towards the Perllan workers. “At least your audience can’t just leave with a quick press of a button on their remote control. ”
A ghost of a smile curves his mouth very slightly.
“I’m not used to this. I might be an okay gardener; I’ve even taught my nephews to plant things in my sister’s garden.
But it’s not the same as a whole group of adults, half of whom aren’t sure they should be here at all.
And this first group needs to be a big success or I can kiss my funding application goodbye. ”
“How can I help?”
The relief on his face is unmistakable and the strongest proof of how worried he’s been.
“Can you do your TV thing? You know, chat as you work, explaining what and why. You’re very good at explaining things without sounding like a teacher.
And you have this very nice approachable air as if you’re a friend, even to audiences across the country.
It always felt like you were speaking to me personally through the TV screen. ”
After that, I have no option but to take on the two guys.
Isaias has clearly never tried gardening. I show him why we need to turn the soil so it’s loose and ready for planting.
Schaefer works in slow methodical silence. It’s hard to know what to do with them, so I talk about the fertiliser we need to mix in after the soil has been prepared.
“Plants draw nutrients from the soil, but it’s hard work, so if we really want lush, healthy strong plants it’s important to give them additional food that’s easier to absorb.”
Neither man answers or interrupts, which makes me uncertain and a bit insecure.
And there’s only one thing to make me feel comfortable.
So I go on explaining. “This is especially true of flowering plants. Flowers use up a lot of energy. You’ll often notice a plant starts shedding leaves.
One reason might be because all the nutrients are going to feed the flowers so the leaves die. ”
“That’s like being pregnant,” one of the women suddenly pipes up.
It seems I’ve attracted an audience, and Jo, a tall, blonde Aussie woman who’s already finished her segment, has moved nearer and started digging up one of the segments near me.
“When you’re pregnant,” she explains, “the baby takes up all the nutrition it needs from your body, so if you’re not eating enough, it strips nutrition from you.
So many women lose hair while pregnant. Or worse, lose calcium from their bones.
I know someone who ended up with kidney failure. Because the baby’s needs come first.”
I’m glad someone has engaged in the discussion.
“Yes, exactly. Flowers are like our precious baby. But let’s not forget the mother.
Without a healthy plant we can’t have a healthy flower.
And to have a healthy plant, we need to make sure it has space to grow and the soil is soft so it doesn’t…
” My words fade when I notice the anguished look on another face.
Ashe, according to her name tag, looks like someone has slapped her.
“Hi, I’m Evie.” I try to welcome her.
“Do you think…” she begins, then her voice breaks and she wipes her eyes on her sleeve.
“Are you okay?” I ask lamely. What a very stupid question when she clearly isn’t. But it dawns on me why people ask it. Because just in the moment, I don’t know what else to say.
“I’m fine.” She turns away to continue digging up soil, but I can tell she’s still crying.
I send Osian a helpless look. But he’s busy and doesn’t notice me. This is what I was afraid of – making matters worse and not knowing how to fix them.
Better stop before anything else goes wrong. I stand up and dust my hands. “Shall we break for lunch?”
Osian told me he’d paid Leonie to cater for his group. She’s set up a long trestle table on the terrace where she serves cream of courgette soup and platters of sandwiches.
When Osian comes inside the café, I beckon him over to my small table.
“I’m not a therapist,” I hiss, because I don’t want Johnny Cash to hear and repeat. All the Perllans are safely on the terrace, but you never know with this bird.
“You’re not supposed to be a therapist,” Osian says equally quietly, before helping himself to coffee from my mug.
“But look what happened with Ashe. I made her cry.”
His eyebrows climb up almost to his hairline. “How did you do that?”
Now that he’s fixing me with his intense gaze, it’s hard to answer.
“I was talking about fertiliser… and…” This sounds like a joke.
But Ashe’s pain was very real, and as Osian himself said earlier, not funny.
“I know you can’t tell me confidential information about her, but she seems to be grieving, and something I said must have triggered her. ”
Osian watches me while he considers my words. All around us, the café is in the middle of the lunchtime rush. Leonie and her assistant Meredith dash back and forth amidst the click of plates and cutlery and lively chatter.
“Evie.” Osian brings my attention back to him. “Have you ever”—he drops his voice—“lost someone? Or had your heart broken?”
Instantly the lunchtime noise around me fades. Yes, I have had my heart broken. By him when we were sixteen. “Maybe,” is all I say.