Chapter Five
I should probably get on with work. I should definitely get on with work.
The manuscript for a children’s book I’m supposed to be illustrating has been sitting in my inbox since last Monday, but I’m ashamed to say I haven’t even opened the email.
The thing is, all my motivation and discipline have simply flown away, like that pesky crow who pooed on my shoulder the moment I arrived in Lily Vale Village. I haven’t drawn anything for weeks - to be honest, ever since Nathan told me he wanted a divorce and my life shattered into pieces, I’ve barely picked up a pencil.
Stirring cornflakes around the bowl until the milk turns them mushy, I stare listlessly out of the kitchen window, trying to figure out where it all went wrong. It’s difficult to pinpoint where the problems began, they were subtle to begin with. Nathan started staying out later after work, going to the pub with his colleagues and meeting his non-workmates for dinner became a frequent occurrence, at least once a week, he’d be out. That was never a problem, I didn’t mind him having fun with friends, but then he’d start spending weekends with anyone but me. There was always some sort of excuse, some reason he couldn’t hang out with me, and I felt as though I couldn’t say anything for fear of coming across as a whiny wife.
This went on for two years, and over that time, my self-worth and confidence were shaken to the core. Imagine your own husband never wanting to spend any time with you, ever. I started to suspect he might be cheating. I’ll admit, I even searched through his phone for evidence a couple of times while he was in the shower, but I found nothing. The truth was he wasn’t out seeing some gorgeous mistress behind my back, he just didn’t want to be around me anymore. Somewhere along the line, I’d become boring to him, unattractive, just not enough.
It all came to a head four months ago when I finally plucked up the courage to confront Nathan on the husk our marriage had become. He clammed up at first, telling me I was being ridiculous and there was nothing wrong, he just liked to hang out with his friends, was I that possessive that I wouldn’t even allow him time with the boys? I tried to protest, but he was having none of it.
It wasn’t until I brought up our sex life that the big bust-up was fully triggered. I guess it must have hurt his ego, but I couldn’t ignore it anymore, it had been months since we’d been intimate, and even longer since he’d shown any sort of physical affection, sexual or otherwise.
I kept probing and prodding, desperate to find out what the issue was and what I could do to fix it. Then it all came out.
‘There’s nothing you can do to fix it, because you’re the problem!’ he screamed at me, flecks of spit showering my face.
The floodgates had burst open, and he ranted and raved about how he was sick of our boring routine, he was sick of looking at me, and he was sick of our marriage. I’d changed too much, I was always nagging, I didn’t try hard enough - whatever problem I brought up, the blame was placed firmly at my door.
Finally, after tears on my side and more bellows on his, things calmed down, and in the aftermath, with his head in his hands, Nathan uttered the six words that would be etched into my heart forevermore.
‘I just don’t love you anymore.’
My world ended that day, or at least, it certainly felt as though it had.
Sniffling, I spoon soggy cornflakes into my mouth, though I’ve lost my appetite. It almost would have been easier if he had been unfaithful, at least then, there would be a tangible reason for our marriage falling apart, other than my husband simply stopped loving me.
I draw my gaze around the modest kitchen, and it settles upon the bag of tools I picked up from the nursery yesterday, still resting against the back door where I dropped it. Well, if I don’t have the mental energy to tackle my growing workload today, perhaps I can summon the physical energy to take on the poor, neglected garden up in the Heather Hills.
Charged with a fresh surge of enthusiasm, I toss the remainder of my cornflakes into the bin and rinse out the bowl before grabbing my trainers and my thin denim jacket. It’s quite warm outside, but it’ll be windy up in the Heather Hills, so it’s sensible to have an extra layer on hand. After all, it’d be better to have it and not need it than to need it and not have it.
I pass a couple of dog walkers up in the hills who wave and nod a polite hello, but the further I explore, the more secluded and empty the area becomes. I cry out loud when I slip on a soft bit of earth, skidding dangerously close to the edge of the cliff.
Victor wasn’t kidding when he said this path was iffy.
Despite the burgeoning ache in my hamstrings, I press on. When I reach the wooded area, I don’t panic like last time and instead, walk smartly through the trees, trying to picture the route in my mind’s eye.
It doesn’t take long to get to the clearing, and instantly, I spot the gate. A thrilling sense of relief washes over me - I didn’t imagine it, the garden really is real!
Eagerly, I fiddle with the lock - which is much easier to manoeuvre this time around - and push the old gate open with a creak and a tug of ivy. The scent of greenery mingled with decay hits me, and I look around the garden, my heart sinking ever so slightly.
It’s worse than I remember, so terribly overgrown and in utter ruin, it’s near-impossible to determine where the flowering plants begin and the weeds end.
Rolling up my sleeves, I slip on the gauntlets and get to work.
*
Sweat pours down my spine and I throw the denim jacket over the lichen-covered bench, panting with the effort. I’m beginning to think I’ve bitten off more than I can chew. In fact, I know I have.
After two hours of continuous work, I’ve barely made a dent in the mass of rotted foliage stifling the garden’s beauty. Every time I think I’ve done a cracking job, I stand back to admire my handiwork and am disheartened to see how much there is still left to do. Despite backbreaking hours of pulling weeds and turning over what little soil is visible, this sad garden doesn’t really look any different.
Swiping my damp forehead with the back of my hand, I collapse onto the bench, suddenly exhausted. Perhaps I should have swallowed my pride and accepted Shaun’s offer of advice, as it’s evident I don’t know what I’m doing. I definitely didn’t get all the tools I needed, and I could have done with buying some wellies, my trainers are utterly destroyed.
Breathless, I take in my surroundings, basking in the tragic beauty of it all, the wild, captivating magic that lies hidden beneath the mass of vines and weeds. An ice cold wave of crushing disappointment crashes down upon my shoulders.
I don’t think I can save this place.
This garden is too big for one person to handle, at least in its current state. I pull the heavy leather gauntlets from my hands and toss them to my feet, wiggling my stiff fingers in the sudden breeze. Let’s face it, I don’t know what I’m doing here - I can barely keep a house plant alive, so this garden has zero chance of thriving under my care. I’ve never gardened before in my life, the closest I’ve come is ‘helping’ Dad plant pansies in the borders back at my family home when I was about nine years old. But this - this proper, painful, physical labour - well, maybe I’m just not cut out for it.
‘I’m sorry, Rosemary,’ I whisper into the ether, hoping that somehow, someway, she’ll hear me. ‘I tried my best.’
Grunting, I push myself up from the bench, gather up my tools and head for the gate. Clutching the handle, I dare to glance back over my shoulder, one last time. The wind rustles rhythmically through the leaves of the cherry tree, and the swing slowly moves back and forth, as if a playful spirit is sitting upon it.
I can’t give up, I just can’t. This garden might have been abandoned and left unloved for goodness knows how long, but it can come back to life, it just has to.
I don’t know why it’s so important to me, it just is.
But if I’m to bring this garden back to its former glory, I’m going to need reinforcements.