Walled Garden Read online

  Alice stopped. A wave of depression flooded her as she looked at what she had written. What had her life been about, after all? She had left nothing of value behind her, her life had been of no significance to anyone other than her own immediate family. And her children’s lives were no great shakes either, it seemed. James was just past fifty, happy only in the escape that his work offered him from the rest of his life. Alice knew that he and Olive were heading towards a much-postponed crisis; she didn’t need a crystal ball to tell her how tense and angry things were between them and, against all her principles, she was beginning to believe that he would be better off on his own. Olive’s incessant demands for him to be other than he was, to be different from the man she had, after all, freely chosen to marry, were finally wearing James down. He was nervous-looking these days, pale, almost bloodless, with those increasingly vulnerable blue eyes watching out for everyone else’s welfare, everyone’s except his own. And then there was Elizabeth. Her malcontent. Married to a thoroughly good and kind man, separated on a whim, it seemed to Alice, living apart for no good reason. Escaping again, as she had always done. Her daughter’s reaction to everything and everyone that had ever challenged her, was to run. She’d been doing it all her life; she was still doing it now. Eventually, Tony would get fed up waiting for her to come back, if he hadn’t already done so: ten years was a long time to be hanging around without hope – and then where would she and Laura be? Alice sighed. These depressing thoughts were doing her no good at all. It was time to stop. She went to glance at her watch and had to pull the tiny face back to where she could see it. It had moved around, sliding easily over her wristbone. She thought of Jack, of the way he’d proudly slipped this watch over her fingers, fastening it carefully and wishing her a happy Christmas, just a few months before they’d become engaged. She smiled at the memory.

  Jack had loved tradition, loved to feel that his life was mapped out by others before him, so that his future was nothing more nor less than a well-worn path he had to follow. Even Alice’s mother had made fun of his predictability. First the gold watch, then the ring; she had teased the young Alice over the family tea one Christmas evening, making her blush furiously, not knowing where to look. Yet, it was this same unshakable belief in the predictability of life that had made Jack into a man careless of the future. He had not thought of leaving a young family behind, and a wife who was ill-equipped to earn her own living. He had thought he’d go on for ever, see his children grown, bounce his grandchildren on his knee. Maybe we all do, reflected Alice, but life had taught her different. She could still feel the guilty rage that had consumed her after his death when she’d discovered that there was nothing left, nothing at all. No savings, no pension, no policies other than the one Arthur had cashed in for her, the one he insisted was hers. It had terrified her, how quickly that had been swallowed up. Money from the sale of the garden had been frittered away too, without her knowledge – lent, as she subsequently found out, to a ne’er-do-well cousin who had blown the lot on a sure thing at Punchestown races. She pulled the bracelet tight around her wrist: she must remember to have a link or two taken out of it. Her arms seemed to have shrunk lately. Half past seven. Keith would be here in half an hour. She pushed all thoughts of Jack away for now, pulling the sheet of writing paper towards her again, resting her elbows on the desk.

  I’m going to stop for now. I feel worn out, to be honest, and suddenly depressed. This is the first time in a long time I’ve felt so hopeless about what my life has meant, what it might continue to mean. I’m not just feeling sorry for myself, either – it’s an entirely different feeling, as though I can see myself in terms of the vastness of the rest of the world. I feel very tiny and insignificant. It is rather a frightening feeling. Writing whenever I can to you and James has meant that I have managed to keep that feeling at bay lately, but sometimes, like now, it returns very fiercely, and I don’t quite know what to do with myself. I must go now; Keith is coming soon to help me with the garden. He usually cheers me up, although I think he probably has much better things to be doing on a Friday night. I hope I’ll be feeling more cheerful in my next letter!

  With much love,

  Alice.

  And I hope that I’ll have the time to write another one, Alice thought, as she wrote Elizabeth’s name carefully on the envelope. She wanted to leave this room now, to go somewhere uncrowded and still, away from the pull of memory; she wanted to escape the grip of feeling that had been merciless in its intensity all day. The garden beckoned. Alice looked out of the bedroom window at all the beauty below her. Everything was bathed in warm westerly light. She knew that the old stone walls would have retained the heat of the day, and that she’d be safe there, sheltered from any evening breeze. She decided she would go and sit for a while on Jack’s garden bench, placed among the wildflowers which were all in riotous bloom. Their lovely disorder appealed to her tonight. She’d had enough for now of thought and memory, times and dates. She wanted to lose herself in the wild safety of her husband’s walled garden.

  Keith would come and keep her company. The evening should pass swiftly enough. And with the extra exercise from the chores of weeding and sweeping, she should sleep well, maybe even right through the night. Then, she would see what tomorrow had in store for her.

  *

  Beth leaned forward and checked Alice’s breathing one more time before she stood up. She smoothed the covers, patting her mother’s hand as she stepped away from the side of the bed, no abrupt movements, and made her way towards the jewellery box on the dressing table. She was filled with a sense of expectation, of almost child-like excitement, as she wondered what her mother’s second letter might hold. This almost-correspondence between them might be little and it might be late, but it had begun to fill Beth with a profound sense of gratitude. She felt that each letter would pull her closer and closer to a mother she had never really known. In their silent, unspoken conversation, mutual understanding had finally begun to grow. Her father had often taught her that wildflowers thrived best in thin, insubstantial soil: the rarest varieties established themselves where the ground was poorest. Beth remembered that now, and allowed herself to feel hopeful that communication between her and Alice might blossom in the same way. She knew instinctively that being home now was one of the most important things she had ever done with her life.

  She leaned down, inserting the little key into its ornate keyhole. She was just about to turn it when she was sure she heard the front door close. She stopped what she was doing, puzzled, and straightened up at once. For a moment, she felt guilty, almost panicked, as though she had no right to be here, rummaging among her mother’s things. She hadn’t time to do anything other than open the bedroom door, as she heard James’s heavy steps on the landing. Her relief was absurd. Who had she been expecting?

  ‘Jesus, James, you gave me a fright . . .’

  Then she saw his face.

  ‘What is it? What’s happened?’

  From somewhere else, from another life, she remembered a saying about troubles coming not singly, but in battalions. James’s face was grey, crumpled. For a moment, she wondered was he having a heart attack, was he going to die on her, too?

  ‘I thought I’d come back and keep you company.’

  He pushed past her and resumed his position at the bedside, as though he had never been away.

  ‘What’s happened? You look awful.’

  She followed him uncertainly to his side of the bed and stood behind him, not knowing what to say or do next. She was aware that she was playing his part now, acting almost like a protector. She was struck by the absurdity of the situation. James took out his handkerchief and carefully polished the lenses of his glasses. Without them, his eyes looked sunken, old, lines etched deeply like the arid surface of an African river-bed. When he’d finished polishing, he held the glasses towards the candlelight, checking for smears.

  ‘Olive’s thrown me out.’

  His voice was dry, cracke
d.

  ‘Jesus.’

  It was all Beth could think of to say, and yet she didn’t feel shocked; she didn’t feel anything. Was she suddenly becoming immune to ordinary feelings? She noticed that James’s hands were shaking, ever so slightly. She rested one of hers on his shoulder.

  ‘Do you want to talk about it, or do you want me to leave you alone?’

  He smiled up at her, over his right shoulder. It was a tight, sad smile that never quite reached his eyes.

  ‘Right now, I’d love you to make me a cuppa.’

  She nodded.

  ‘Of course I will. Back in a minute.’

  She was glad to leave him alone, to escape, glad to bang things about in the kitchen. She slammed the cutlery drawer and kicked the pedal bin on her way past. How dare she! Talk about timing! Could she not have left him alone, at least until his mother died? Had she no decency, common or otherwise? Beth felt the hot, angry tears spilling over as she tried to push away the image of her brother’s grey face. She felt his pain now, as suddenly as a physical hurt. She didn’t know which emotion she felt more keenly: sadness for him, or rage at Olive. She rummaged furiously in the presses for cake, for Mikado biscuits, for any childlike comfort food she could offer him. She wanted to mind him, to look after him and keep him safe from any more wounds.

  ‘Bitch!’ she spat, as she closed the fridge door violently, shoving it with both hands so that the bottles inside rattled and clinked off each other. ‘The fucking bitch!’

  She wiped her eyes with the backs of her hands, hoping that James wouldn’t notice anything amiss in the dim light of the bedroom. Then she made a pot of tea, picked up the tray and made her way calmly back up the stairs.

  *

  Almost an hour had passed since James had thanked her for the tea. They had sat together, for the most part in companionable silence, watching closely for any changes in Alice’s breathing. All of them together like that was strangely comforting, and Beth had a strong sense of family: the three of them, always tightly knit, sometimes close, sometimes unravelling, but family nevertheless. She was torn between urgently wanting to know what had happened, and feeling content to wait until James was ready. Finally, he spoke.

  ‘I’ll make up the bed in the spare room in a few minutes. Then I think I’ll call it a day.’

  Beth nodded.

  ‘Okay. There’s plenty of sheets in the hot press – I noticed them yesterday. I hope the bed isn’t damp.’

  James shrugged.

  ‘It’ll be fine. I’ll make sure the radiator is on full, tomorrow. And there’s a spare electric blanket, somewhere. I gave it to Alice last Christmas, but I know she never used it. Didn’t believe in them . . .’

  He stopped suddenly, aware that he had just spoken of his mother in the past tense.

  ‘Are you going to be all right?’ Beth asked him quietly, ignoring his discomfort.

  ‘Let me get through this, first, and then I’ll tell you.’

  ‘What happened tonight?’

  James paused, and Beth could see the struggle written all over his face. Quiet, private, intensely loyal – she knew all the warring factions.

  ‘It seems I’m not ambitious enough. I’m a stick-in-the-mud, content to let others walk all over me. I don’t earn enough to keep my family, I’m a poor role model for my children. That’s what happened tonight.’

  Beth stared at him, uncomprehending. Olive’s tone, even her voice, was instantly discernible in the words her brother now seemed to be speaking.

  ‘Where has all of this come out of?’

  James shifted on his seat, whether from agitation or discomfort, Beth couldn’t tell.

  ‘The Head of History is resigning in December and the post is being reorganized, restructured, redefined – whatever the current jargon is. The jockeying for position started way back, sometime in early January, I think, when the rumours started first. I hate all that manoeuvring and I’ve already been to more receptions than I can stomach. Olive has been pushing me to go for it ever since she heard of the vacancy. The applications are due in a week. Naturally, with all of this . . .’ James waved his hand around the room, expressively . . . ‘I’ve had other things on my mind. But even without it . . .’ He paused, and Beth could see his face grow stony with anger. She was amazed. This was the second time in a couple of days she had seen her brother this angry; and the second time in forty-five years.

  ‘I don’t want it.’

  He looked directly at Beth.

  ‘I really don’t want it. I’m fifty years of age, my house is paid for, my kids are set up. There’s more than enough to see Keith and Gemma through university; the twins are like their mother – they make more in a month than I do in a year. And more luck to them. May the New York Stock Exchange be all they ever wish for from life.’

  James stopped, his voice bitter. When he continued, he resumed in his old, gentle tone.

  ‘I’m quite happy being a Senior Lecturer. I don’t want to put my foot on the pedal. I’ve been dancing to everyone else’s tune for the last thirty years. Now it’s time to slow down. I feel like it’s my turn. I want to do more research, travel for primary sources, enjoy the fact that my kids are adults. I don’t want to have to watch my back at department meetings for the next fifteen years, wondering where the blade is coming from. I don’t want to have to cover my arse until the day I retire. I want to live a little – nothing too extravagant, just owning the space inside my own head. If that makes me a failure as a husband and a father, then so be it. I’m a failure.’

  It was a long speech, for James. Beth could see at once how Olive would have longed for her husband’s promotion. Finally, James would have done something significant with his life, something public that other people would have to acknowledge. She’d have enthusiastically embraced her new role as the academic wife. She’d give dinner parties for all the right people and set the standard that all others would fail to reach. That, after all, was the whole point of standards. There’d be money and business success on her side, and, at last, prestige and class on his. The perfect partnership, worth all those years of waiting.

  ‘That’s a very odd definition of failure.’

  James looked at her over the tops of his glasses.

  ‘Well, it’s the one that’s currently on the table in my house and frankly, I’ve had enough of it for tonight.’

  He blew his nose angrily. Beth leaned across the bed towards him. She could see by the set of his shoulders that he didn’t want to talk any more.

  ‘Why don’t you go on to bed. It’s nearly one o’clock. Try and get some sleep.’

  He stood up and stretched, wincing as he did so.

  ‘Bloody cramp in my calf.’

  He limped his way past her, pausing to rest both hands on her shoulders. He kissed the top of her head, the same way he had comforted her, a hundred lifetimes ago, after a fall from her bike.

  ‘I’m not avoiding the conversation, Sis. Just postponing it until after I’ve had a sleep. I’m absolutely exhausted.’

  She nodded.

  ‘I know. I’m not surprised. I’m only here two nights and already it feels like at least a year. We’ll talk tomorrow.’

  He hesitated, his hand on the doorknob.

  ‘I don’t know what happened between you and Tony, but if it felt anything like this, I’m sorry I was no use to you.’

  Beth smiled up at him.

  ‘It’s all a very long time ago – nearly ten years now. I’m over it. But thanks.’

  He nodded, pulling nervously at his beard.

  ‘Why don’t I ask Keith to sit with Alice tomorrow evening, and let you and me go out for a bite? There’s a good Italian just down the road, and Keith can contact us on your mobile if there’s any change.’

  ‘I’d like that. But don’t forget Dr Crowley’s coming tomorrow . . . If that’s still okay.’

  Somehow, in the midst of her brother’s unhappiness, it felt less urgent to Beth that her dying mother be dragg
ed back from the threshold of wherever she was to say goodbye. Look after the living. Alice would have approved of that.

  ‘Yeah, of course it’s still okay. All the more reason to go out afterwards, though . . . have a bit of a breather from all . . . this.’ He hesitated, looking towards the bed. ‘To be honest, she hardly feels like Alice any more. Pottering about the garden or making tea in the kitchen – that’s Alice. But this . . . this is . . . something else.’

  Beth looked at him, shocked. And then it struck her: how Alice was vividly alive to her, through the letter she had read last night and the others that now lay waiting for her. But James had no such lifeline. The last time he had felt his mother live and breathe was almost a week ago. His process of letting go had begun a long time before hers.

  ‘I know,’ she said quietly, looking at Alice’s motionless figure. ‘But it’s all we’ve got.’

  Beth glanced down at the little locker, guilty again at the secret they shared. Surely she should tell him? Surely he deserved to know? Why should the good and faithful son be denied the comfort of his mother’s living words, while she, the prodigal daughter, be rewarded for all her past waywardness? She remembered from their youth that James had always been indignant about that particular moral fable, an apparent favourite of the Christian Brother who’d taught him religion. James had been outraged at what he’d seen as the injustice of it all. He’d always said how sorry he felt for the poor fucker who’d stayed at home. How come there was no fatted calf for him?

  ‘I’ll see you in the morning, Sis. Call me if you need me.’

  ‘I will. Good night, sleep tight.’

  ‘Don’t let the bugs bite.’

  They both smiled as he answered her in the tone of their childhood, bringing back a light-filled, summer memory: the silly rhyme, singing out across the landing once they were both in bed. And then he was gone.