Chapter Twenty-four
I convinced myself it was a good thing that Abel was away. And a good thing that he was seeing someone. I was still in a stage of regathering myself, and I needed to do that on my own. Knowing he was with someone would stop me from getting distracted by my undeniable attraction to him.
In the weeks that Abel was in Victoria, life found a rhythm.
Hobart was growing on me. I relished my walks to and from work through Battery Point and past the harbour where the Derwent River reached right into the heart of Hobart.
There were the idyllic days, clear and crisp with silky calm water and a frosting of snow on the mountain.
But the wild and windy days were ruggedly beautiful too.
And when it rained it was soft – not heavy New South Wales rain, but gentle rain, with calm, melancholy skies.
I came to know the gardens of Battery Point that were the most stunning and which tugged right at my core, filling me with a yearning to have my own flowers to care for.
There was something so quaint and pleasantly old-fashioned about the colonial cottages with their rose gardens, perfect lawns and floral edges.
I loved to think of the people who had taken the time to make the spaces around their homes beautiful; it represented a human pursuit that was somehow timeless and deep.
Humble and meaningful. My walk home became more circuitous as it incorporated the gardens that were my favourites.
One cold but sunny morning, I stepped into the backyard on a study break to call my mum. I hadn’t spoken with her since the introduction to Greg and I was feeling increasingly guilty. I needed to keep a closer eye on how she was going.
‘Hi Mary! Honey, how are you? It’s so nice to hear your voice! I’ve got people over for Paint and Sip so I can’t talk long, sweetie, but how are you?’
Her speech was a torrent, a rush of excitement, and it took all of ten seconds of her talking to start my belly clenching in concern.
Paint and Sip had never sounded less wholesome.
There was no healthy way my mother could drink in any context.
Mum was talking too fast. She was too excited.
The conversation was over in less than two minutes and I’d barely said a word.
I was left feeling as though I’d just peered into a room of chaos and swiftly had the door closed on me.
I stared around at the backyard. The weeds. The overgrown paths. The lack of colour and the yearning to fix it, to do something, to try to make the world around me beautiful, was suddenly overpowering.
I decided I needed a break from study, so I set off on my usual loop around the Battery Point streets. After some time, I came past a familiar yard where an elderly woman was weeding around a bed of daffodils that had just started to bloom.
I realised I’d stopped when she stood up and smiled at me, her gloved hands holding a clump of grass and dirt. ‘Aren’t they just beautiful?’ she exclaimed, gesturing proudly to the bright yellow flowers.
‘They are,’ I agreed. ‘I love daffodils.’
I asked her about a few of the things in her garden I didn’t recognise, still trying to distract myself from the conversation I’d had with Mum, and she seemed delighted at the opportunity to tell someone all about it.
‘Do you have a garden?’ she asked eagerly.
‘Not at the moment. There’s a yard where I’m living, but it’s not been cared for in a long time.’
‘You don’t need much space. Just a little patch. You know what I do with daffodils is plant some in a bowl and when they shoot, I bring them inside and they can flower right there on the kitchen bench.’
I gave a small smile, and her eyes seemed to search me for a moment.
‘Let me get you one,’ she said. She disappeared and came back with a dirt-crusted bowl, a single, bare shoot sprouting proudly from the soil.
‘A week or two and it should flower,’ she said, handing me the bowl.
‘Thank you so much.’ I could smell the soil, cold and damp and fresh, and something caught in my chest at her kindness.
She looked thoughtful. ‘And what about liliums? I had too many bulbs crowding each other. I divided them just last week.’ She disappeared again and when she returned, she pressed a brown paper bag in my hand.
‘Here. Bright and colourful ones. And this.’ She grabbed a brown tuber about the size of a small spud from the bag.
‘This is a dahlia – fiery red centre with tight petals. Beautiful display. Don’t plant it just yet, I’m sure you know. ’
‘Thank you so much,’ I said, quite lost for words.
‘I’m Silvia. What’s your name, dear?’
We talked for a few more minutes about gardens and flowers and she made me promise I’d come by again in a couple of weeks, when she’d have some freesia bulbs for me.
When I got home, I treated myself to some time off study. I still felt all churned up after talking to Mum, and my walk had done nothing to dispel the yearning to get my hands into the dirt of Abel’s garden. I wouldn’t do anything much, just a little tidying.
Soon an hour had passed and a pile of weeds had formed.
There was something so satisfying about gardening, how my efforts were tangible, my work measurable.
The beds I’d cleared looked fresh and clean, and I’d discovered there were a few hidden plants, like winter roses, which had been obscured by weeds and could now drink in the sunlight.
When I finally went back to my study, my body felt tingly with the exertion and the fresh air. I cleaned the dirt off the side of the bowl that Silvia had given me and put it on the table, feeling a strange sense of comfort. I stared at it, the bare shoot, the promise of a bright flower to come.
And in the same way my flowers had always calmed me in the past, I felt the knot in my belly loosen, ever so slightly.
On my next day off I walked to the garden shop: a beautiful, family-owned nursery in Sandy Bay boasting brightly coloured blooms, strong-looking seedlings and everything I could dream of to garden with.
It took all my restraint to settle for a pair of secateurs, some gardening gloves, a few more bulbs for summer flowers and two small lavender plants.
As I checked out, I couldn’t help but add a small pack of purple bearded iris rhizomes.
It was late in the season, but maybe there was a chance they’d still flower in spring.
I knew I wouldn’t be around to witness any of the flowering, but that was never the point with gardening for me.
Just the knowledge of putting in something of beauty for the future was where the magic was.
It didn’t take me long to prune the roses at the front of the house. Now they’d grow stronger and bloom even more magnificently when summer came. I could just imagine the way the flowers would set off the cottage and the perfume would hold a welcoming scent to anyone who came to the house.
Planting my few bulbs, rhizomes and lavender was short work. I wondered briefly if I’d overstepped, but it seemed apparent Abel didn’t care too much for the backyard, so I hoped he could excuse my bit of weeding and few plantings – if he even noticed.
My gardening helped my study find a rhythm over the next week. In fact, study time seemed more productive than ever when it was broken up by little snippets of time spent in the garden. And bit by bit, the yard was looking cared for, tidy, a piece of earth that was benefiting from my touch.
I felt myself growing in strength over those days.
It seemed odd that I’d let something as precious to me as planting flowers slip from my life in the time I’d been with Felix.
It made me realise with increasing clarity how suffocated I had felt in the relationship, how unable to really be myself I’d been.
The day before Abel came back, Silvia’s daffodil on the kitchen table bloomed.
Its yellow head had been slowly swelling and finally cracked open, bright and strong.
I was looking forward to seeing Abel, but I realised the time on my own had done me good.
I drank my cup of tea after dinner and just stared at the flower.
And in a strange way, I felt something of myself echoed in the daffodil.
A strength, an unfurling, a blossoming.