Walled Garden Read online

  Catherine Dunne

  THE WALLED GARDEN

  PICADOR

  For my father,

  Charles MacAlister

  In memory of my mother,

  Elizabeth (Lil), nee Sheridan

  (1916–1989)

  Contents

  ONE: Homecoming

  TWO: The Green Tricycle

  THREE: Arthur

  FOUR: Abbotsford

  FIVE: Jack

  SIX: Leavetaking

  SEVEN: Holding on

  ONE

  Homecoming

  IT WAS ALWAYS like this, on the last leg of the journey.

  Everything conspired against her: the pale, yellowish light slanting irregularly across the airport motorway, the droplets of rain crowding on her windscreen, the menacing approach of speedy headlights in her rear-view mirror. Cars were hurtling along, ducking and weaving from lane to lane like large, demented insects, keeping her senses on edge. Even the motor-cyclists seemed to be more casually reckless than ever.

  Beth hated this surge of unreason, this uncharacteristic road-rage. She was normally a good driver. But coming home was never normal. Coming home, coming back, whatever – it was always the same. She was glad to turn off to the left, onto safer, more familiar territory.

  But even here, as she drove down Griffith Avenue, she could feel the backs of her knees growing stiff, the slow crawl of tension like a steel bar across her shoulder blades. She had always disliked hire cars. It took her too long to grow used to them. They had a mind of their own. The indicators would somehow manage to be on the wrong side, or the lights in an impossible position. This time, it was the driver’s seat that wasn’t right. She had already tried to ease herself into it, but the back stayed bolt upright, unforgiving. Her foot was beginning to cramp, resting at an awkward angle on the accelerator. She tried again, fumbling beneath her this time, keeping her eyes on the road ahead. Even a couple of inches back would ease the strain, surely. If she couldn’t do it on the move, then she’d have to pull over. Anyway, there wasn’t too much traffic around; the pubs wouldn’t close for a couple of hours yet.

  ‘Come on, come on,’ she urged out loud, crossly, as her right hand closed over the resisting lever. She never knew from one car to the next – was it push back or pull forward?

  Suddenly, there was a swift, sudden movement of oiled metal. It was enough to shock Beth’s hands off the steering wheel, enough to distract her eyes from the road ahead for a split second. The seat shot back. The car waltzed crazily, giddily, gleefully over the white line.

  She watched its mad dance with fascination. From somewhere way above, she could see her hands back on the steering wheel again, her eyes forward, her feet in the correct position. Through the rhythmic windscreen wipers, a huge lorry lumbered towards her. Bulk Cement Supplies, she read. She was surprised at how clearly she could see the letters. The headlights on the cab were bright, blinding. The drops of rain on her windscreen were crudely efficient magnifying glasses.

  The blare of a horn startled her then, and she jumped, finally alert, wrenching the steering wheel to the left. She went flying forward, hitting her chin painfully off its rigid surface. Then the seat belt locked and jerked her suddenly back again. The car lurched obediently out of the lorry’s way. It mounted the kerb, and came to an abrupt, muddy stop on the grass verge.

  It had all taken only a couple of seconds. Beth was surprised at how suspended she’d felt. She hadn’t even been afraid. Strangely, she had been rather interested, watching the way the windscreen wipers had measured the lorry’s rapid approach. Swish, swish.

  A face loomed suddenly at her, out of the darkness. A fist hammered angrily on glass. Calmly, she watched as the electric window slid down. She knew that its rainy surface would have been cleansed by the time she closed it again.

  ‘What in Christ’s name d’ye think you’re at, woman?’

  She saw the man’s black fingernails as he held onto the open window. He was huge in his grey padded jacket, bulky. Like his cement supplies, Beth suddenly thought. She wanted to laugh. His voice was loud, angry, but his red, creased face looked more frightened than threatening. His pores were huge, staring at her blackly. She looked around her. He had parked his lorry: the hazard lights were flashing. She thought that that was a sensible thing to do; she should do the same. There was no one behind her, she had only two wheels on the road, but still, just in case. She began to push at the switches in front of her on the dashboard. Now she couldn’t even remember which one it was. She shook her head.

  ‘I don’t know which one it is,’ she said, puzzled, looking down at his fingernails again. Square, they were, and broad. The hands of a man used to manual labour. When he spoke again, his voice was different, distant.

  ‘Are y’all right, missus?’

  ‘Yes, yes, thank you. I’m fine. Now I must be on my way.’

  She dismissed him with a wave of her hand and made to close the window. He stuck his head in then and filled the car with his rage. Drops of rain were beading across his forehead, running down the cracks and lines of his face.

  ‘Ya could’a killed both of us, ya stupid bitch? D’ya realize that?’

  Dimly, she was aware of the lilt of his accent, the slight interrogative lift at the end of each sentence. It was an accent she had never liked.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she said, firmly. ‘I was trying to adjust my seat and it slipped. I got distracted. I’m sorry if I gave you a fright.’

  He glared at her, disbelieving. He jabbed a squat, solid forefinger in the air, pointing at her.

  ‘I’m takin’ your number. I’m goin’ to report you, so I am. You shouldn’t be let out, so ya shouldn’t!’

  He slammed his open hand on the roof of the car. Its whole body shook slightly. The sound he made was sharp, metallic, as though he wore a heavy ring. She imagined she had seen a thick, gold wedding band. Beth watched him as he ran across the road and hoisted himself up into his cab, his jeans straining at the waistband. The internal light was switched on, and he began to scribble something, leaning forward furiously on the dashboard. The stiff set of his shoulders told her: I’m goin’ to get you; you’ll pay for this, so you will. Then the sickly light went out and he eased the lorry back into the outer lane again. She could feel his glare on the back of her neck as he drove away, could imagine him muttering obscenities to himself.

  She rested her arms on the steering wheel and leaned her forehead on her hands. Her chin had suddenly begun to hurt. A broad band of sweat started at her hairline, sliding its way hotly down the back of her neck. She closed her eyes and saw it all again – the dark, gleaming road surface, the big painted letters on the lorry’s cab, the back and forwards of the windscreen wipers. Then she remembered the man’s fingernails, could see them still, right under her nose. She could imagine the smell of diesel from his hands, the stale stench of damp clothes and male sweat in the lorry’s cab where he sat for hours on end. Her stomach began to shift restlessly as the smells grew stronger; something black and sour plucked at the back of her throat.

  ‘It’s just shock, it’s only shock,’ she whispered to herself. ‘Fresh air. I’ll be fine.’

  She turned the key in the ignition and opened the window again. She breathed in lungfuls of the sharp October night. Cars passed up and down the avenue, squashing the winter leaves to a yellow and brown sludge. Her hands plucked weakly at her seat-belt, not able to undo the buckle. She sat where she was, breathing deeply, dragging her damp hair back from her forehead a couple of times. Gradually, she began to feel better; the nausea subsided. The grey lights before her eyes cleared and she glanced at the clock on the dashboard. The numerals glowed redly. The steady, pulse-like rhythm of the passing seconds made her begin to feel sleepy.
She made an effort to sit up straighter. She had to get going. She was nearly there.

  She checked both mirrors several times, indicated right and drove slowly off the slushy grass. The low skirt of the car made a pained, grinding sound as it bumped in slow motion off the high kerb. Once she was on the move again, she began to feel suddenly better, almost light-hearted. Nothing awful had happened. She was safe, the car was in one piece. She felt cleansed, her anxiety calmed. Maybe she didn’t need to feel so full of dread about what was waiting for her. Maybe this near miss was a sign that things wouldn’t be so bad, after all. Even the memory of dirty fingernails and diesel smells began to lose their power to sicken.

  She steadied herself at the traffic lights, willing them to stay red a little longer. She tried some more deep breathing. The road to home was quiet, its rush-hour evening chaos long over. Once in her own street, she welcomed its silence, the orange glow of the lamps, the winter-night emptiness. Its narrowness was even more exaggerated by the long files of parked cars on either side. It was a street made for trikes and two-wheelers, for scooters and roller-skaters. It was just about wide enough for hopscotch. It had never been made for the growing gridlock that was now Dublin traffic.

  Beth eased her foot off the accelerator. Now that she was almost there, she felt a little thrill, a small stirring of hope. No matter how often she came back, each time a part of her believed that, this time, things would be different. No matter how reluctant she had felt, this time it was the right thing, the only thing to do. She had a sudden vision of herself as, finally, a competent adult – calm, responsible, rising to the crisis. No one need know how she really felt. She owed it to James, and he would be waiting for her.

  He was standing at one of the downstairs windows. He had a book in his left hand, closed over the index finger, marking his place. The short, capable fingers of his right hand restlessly combed the grey hairs of his beard. Beth had known he would be standing there, just like that, felt the familiar mix of tenderness and impatience as he stooped, peering short-sightedly through the bottom pane. Making sure it was her, she supposed. She wondered what he would do if it were someone else. Would he not answer the door anyway, no matter who it was? Why stand so thoroughly on guard, all the time?

  The thought made her feel guilty. He was worried about her; she was late. It was normal: a warm, brotherly reaction.

  She turned the car in the broad driveway and pointed it towards the house, the wheels spitting out gravel. The hazy sweep of headlights caught the wooden plaque on the right-hand side of the front door. Woodvale. Even the name started a tug somewhere towards the bottom of Beth’s heart. It spoke of tranquillity and shelter, something which she felt this house had not offered her, not since she was a very small child. Somebody, no doubt James, had picked out the black lettering again, and the wood was shiny with new varnish. She had never known a man with such passion for detail.

  He was at the car window even before she’d switched off the ignition.

  ‘Beth? Are you all right? I was getting worried.’

  His eyes were a deep blue, magnified behind the solid lenses of his glasses. Before she had time to reply, before she was even properly out of the car, he put both his arms around her and pulled her to him. She was at least a head taller than he was, and she had the impression of being hugged by a large, overgrown boy. He was doing his best to balance a huge umbrella over their heads.

  ‘I’m fine,’ she smiled at him. ‘We were almost an hour late taking off. Fog at Heathrow.’

  ‘I thought you might have had car trouble at this end. I was going to ring Laura in a little while, but I didn’t want to worry her. I’m glad you’re here.’

  He was taking her case out of the boot, folding her coat over his arm, motioning towards her for the car keys. Minding her again. She took the umbrella from him.

  ‘I can do it, James,’ she began, handing over the keys nevertheless. Although his hands were full, he managed to lock the driver’s door with ease. The taillights flashed twice as he switched on the alarm.

  ‘Nonsense. You look exhausted, you’re like a ghost. Come on inside. The fire’s lit.’

  Beth followed him into the large front sitting room, feeling too tired to argue. The familiar pattern of the leader and the led was instantly re-established, as though all the intervening years had suddenly fallen away, crumbling to nothing under her feet like a rickety bridge in a bad dream. It was almost as if the past decades had never happened: they were swept away abruptly, completely, by this surge of the familiar. Beth was irritated and comforted at the same time by all the old assumptions she could read in her brother’s broad, slightly stooped shoulders. They obviously weren’t going to talk about anything until they were inside, until he judged that she was ready. Even in times of crisis, James’s instinctive hospitality had never deserted him.

  She handed him the duty-free bag.

  ‘Your namesake.’

  He peered inside, knowing exactly what he would find.

  ‘Jameson,’ and he beamed at her, eyes glinting. He became immediately busy. ‘A gin and tonic for you?’

  Beth nodded.

  ‘Let me just give Laura a quick call, to let her know I’ve arrived. I’ll be back in a minute.’

  When she returned, glasses had appeared from the cabinet in the corner, there was the chinking of ice. There was even a lemon, sliced, waiting damply under cling-film. How long had he been standing there at the window, prepared, waiting for her?

  ‘You sit down, Sis; I’ll get the drinks.’

  Sis. The word suddenly brought Beth back forty years. Their first trolley, a proud wooden structure, with ball bearings for wheels and a steering mechanism made out of string. She remembered its smooth planed seat and the smell of oil from the sturdy handles her dad had fixed at either side. She could see herself, in tears of frustration, unable to go either forwards or backwards. Her legs were too short: she couldn’t get the necessary momentum to send her whizzing down the grassy slope. Suddenly, two warm hands were on her back, James’s voice at her ear.

  ‘Hang on tight, Sis, and I’ll push you. Keep your feet on the steering bar and don’t move them until I tell you.’

  Rippling shafts of sunlight pierced the bright green of the trees on either side as Beth hurtled down the hill. She had liked the feel of stronger, older hands on her back.

  ‘Here you go.’

  Beth took the glass James offered her, and settled herself in the armchair on the opposite side of the fire to his. His book was now open, face down on the floor beside his chair. She strained to see its title: a biography of Cromwell this time. Sometimes, Beth felt that James kept on reading while he waited for his life to begin. She had never understood his passion for history. All those dates, all those long-drawn-out battles, all that endless rummaging around in the past. Even as a child, he’d never gone through an Enid Blyton phase like everyone else had. He’d never hungered for the next Secret Seven or Famous Five adventures, where children led lives impossibly different from theirs, where parents were conveniently absent and picnics were an everyday wonder on islands, in caves, near mountain-tops, with three types of lemonade and lashings and lashings of food. He’d always preferred reality, badgering his mother to get him books from the adult library from the time he was ten.

  ‘How is she?’ Beth asked finally.

  He shrugged.

  ‘You know, much the same. The nurse will come in at this time every evening, to settle her for the night. Sometimes she gets restless, but most of the time she just sleeps. I think the sedative they’ve prescribed for her is pretty heavy stuff.’

  James sipped at his glass thoughtfully. Beth had the feeling that he was choosing his words carefully.

  ‘Does she know you, James?’

  ‘Sometimes I think she does. A couple of times in the hospital, she pressed my hand. And she’s opened her eyes once or twice. But to be honest, I don’t even know if she saw me. It’s very hard to tell.’

  Jame
s’s voice had gone quiet. He turned his back to Beth and began to poke the fire vigorously. The silence between them was not an uncomfortable one. Beth looked around the room, taking in its shabby grandeur. It was a big, sprawling old Victorian house, but every time Beth came back she was struck by how small it was compared to her childhood memories. Then the rooms had been vast, bright, honey-coloured deserts in summer; huge, bare, freezing plains in winter where a game of hide-and-seek could take all day. The broad, pockmarked floorboards had been varnished again, but the old rug was now badly worn in places; the fabric on the sagging armchairs was threadbare. She felt suddenly overwhelmed by a sense of being home. A great wave of affection washed over her as she watched James’s bent back, heard the orange and red sigh of turf briquettes as they hit the flames. When he turned back to her, his round face was glowing from the heat.

  ‘I’m sorry I couldn’t come sooner,’ she said.

  He smiled down at her, his back to the fire, hands spread behind him towards the flames.

  ‘That’s okay, Sis. They only let her home this afternoon. The easiest thing for me was to move some stuff in straight away. I’m glad you’re here now, though.’

  ‘Are you still going to stay over?’

  Beth did not want to be left on her own. Ever since James’s phone call, she had felt as though she were drowning in quicksand. She had flailed uselessly from one activity to the next. She’d have delayed for much longer, too, had it been up to her. Even her own daughter had been puzzled by her slowness. On the night of James’s call, it was Laura who kept saying: ‘But Mum, you have to go now.’ And Tony had been angry, which had surprised her. She’d hardly ever seen him angry before, not even while they were still married. It was his strength of feeling that had finally jolted Beth into some form of reality. Without it, she knew she’d have allowed herself to be dragged down by a creeping paralysis, sucked under by inertia. She had moved, dreamlike, from one urgent task to the next, her limbs leaden, her mind soggy and unresponsive. Now that she was finally here, the thought of being left on her own filled her with alarm. Especially as the dying woman upstairs was her mother.