Loop

Loop

THE GARDEN

Deep in their roots,

All flowers keep the light.

Theodore Roethke

Christian

14 July 2006

The rain, which has been threatening for days, finally begins, spattering like bullets into the tarpaulin that covers the mound of soil at the graveside.

Christian stands alone in the crowd of mourners, staring down as the coffin is lowered into the straight-edged grave. The prayers have been said, and the small stereo placed beside the grave is playing Rodrigo’s Aranjuez Concerto – the second movement. Remy’s favourite piece of music.

The two women across the grave from him are staring and whispering. Stage-whispers, as subtle as a slap in the face.

‘…don’t understand what the old man was thinking …’

‘He’s a street-kid, for God’s sake …’

The unaccustomed suit feels tight around his shoulders, and the collar irritates his neck, but he refuses to fidget or show any sign of discomfort. He is already under the microscope.

The coffin reaches the bottom of the hole, and the straps are retracted. He looks down at the bunch of flowers in his hands. Spring flowers, worthy of an English garden in May – a splash of unseasonal colour, in stark contrast to the dull grey of the clay which lines the walls of the grave – peonies, foxgloves, marigolds, a clutch of purple-white wisteria and a single, blood-red rose. He pulls the bow on the ribbon that ties them and scatters the blooms across the lid of the coffin.

Then he turns from the grave and wipes the tears from his eyes.

‘Come on,’ he says to the empty air beside him, and moves away, alone, towards the waiting motorcade.

Behind him the whispers continue, but he is oblivious to them.

Alicia

30 September 1882

The pain is less intense today.

Last afternoon, Doctor McKinley instructed Mama to increase the laudanum, and she began sobbing uncontrollably, for she knows that it represents another small but inescapable step towards the inevitable.

She is so strong in my presence, and I know that she would be mortified to think that I was witness to her momentary loss of control, but I have become rather adept at eavesdropping.

Months ago, I discovered that if I place my ear to the ventilator in the wall near the bedroom fireplace I can hear every word and every movement that takes place in the parlour downstairs. It is how I glean most of my information on the progress of my condition.

Progress … Now there is an interesting word.

Ellery talks of progress in terms of steam engines and manufactories. I watch him sometimes, preening himself and slicking down his hair with brilliantine, as he prepares to visit with Ameline, and I admit I feel mixed emotions.

Part of me is deliriously happy for my big brother. He deserves to be loved by someone apart from his adoring sister. Ameline is pretty and not too vacant, and I think that eventually she will be the one he marries. But the other part of me knows that, in all likelihood, I will no longer be here to see the wedding.

Never a bridesmaid, and never a bride …

I try to imagine the church – a spring wedding, with garlands of roses and campanula and perhaps some sprays of peonies. Sitting at my bedroom window, or lying on the daybed in the arbour, with the breeze on my skin and the sun dappling through the wisteria overhead, I can almost smell their perfume in the church, almost hear the organ and the singing.

The garden is my one haven.

On my better days, when the strength returns and the pain is in temporary respite, I love to sit in my bathchair amongst the blooms. The glorious geraniums and Sweet William, the tall foxgloves, the timid forget-me-nots, the marigolds with their sunny orange dispositions, and, of course, the vibrant impatiens, which grows in a huge, untidy bush in the corner beside the well.

I love to sit and watch Papa tending to their needs. Sometimes I even help, pruning the plants that I can reach without standing or bending down too far.

I know that Papa spends so much of his energy on the garden because of me. Because I adore it so. I can feel his gaze at times, when he things I am absorbed by the flowers and the busy commerce of the bees and do not notice him. And I know that he is hurting, though his manly pride will permit no outward sign of any such female emotion.

He is stoic, and I love him for it, for it is a strength that I can draw strength from. It is a model of resilient character that helps me bear what I know is to come.

Lavinia, of course, does not understand the pall of despair which hangs over the household, in spite of our parents’ best attempts to smile in her presence and go on with life as normal.

She is six and particularly precocious, but still too young to understand the notion of her sister’s dying. But she feels sometimes the background vibration of hopelessness, and responds with a six-year-old’s only response to disquiet – a gentle, persistent mewling, like a lost kitten, a litany that continues until either Papa scolds her or Mama sweeps her up in enfolding arms and carries her into the garden.

It is Mama’s strategy to distract the child – and herself, I think – with tales of fairies in the wisteria. Fairies which Lavinia, of course, can clearly see.

I think at times that my death will be a merciful release for Mama – and for Papa, too – almost as much as it will be for me, though I am certain they would never see it in that way.

But for now the pain is less and the sun is shining. And I have my garden and the company of the bees …

Remy

16 June 1936

The sound of the copper’s whistle gradually moves away down the street towards the railway station, and Remy Lennox grabs the top edge of the high wall, pulling himself up until his eyes are level with the upper course of the crumbling stonework.

He risks a quick peek. Apart from a passing automobile, the street is deserted.

Dropping to the ground, he turns and slides down into a crouch, with his back against the cold stone, then he reaches into his oversized jacket and draws out the small loaf which so nearly landed him a trip to the watch-house and a date with the magistrate.

Taking a huge bite, he looks around him for the first time.

The garden is incredible: plants of all kinds, climbing trellises standing in orderly rows of turned earth, bushes neatly trimmed, a mass of pinks and golds and blues and purples – a vision of spring, even with winter almost upon them.

He stares at the display. No other garden in Sydney has blooms like this in June. For the past half-dozen years, with the spectre of the Depression stalking the streets, few have found the time – or the spirit – to tend to anything but the small patch of vegetables that helps to keep the hunger at bay.

He looks up at the house. No light. No sign of life inside. He moves towards the back door and tries the handle.

It is open.

Inside, the house is warm. The glowing embers of a coal-fire smoulder in the fireplace of the parlour, and he pauses, alert for sounds of movement, but he can hear nothing. The late afternoon light struggles to find a way inside around the heavy drapes, and a clock ticks imperiously somewhere deep in the gloomy cave of the house.

The kitchen is much brighter. West-facing, and opening onto the garden beyond, its window casts a thick beam of pale light across the wooden butcher’s table that occupies the centre of the flagged floor-space.

Then he sees what he is looking for.

The huge dresser fills one wall of the kitchen, plates arranged along the top shelf, cups hanging from hooks underneath. But it is not the dinner-service he is interested in.

Sliding open the drawers, he feels beneath the serviettes and tea-towels for a hidden purse or a small roll of notes. There is nothing.

‘Damn!’ he whispers, and moves his attention to the larger drawers that line the dresser at waist height. Tablecloths, doilies; nothing of real value he can unload at the pawnshop, until …

The second-last drawer sticks a little. It is heavier, and as he forces it open, careful not to make any noise, the weak sunlight reflects from a recently polished set of silver-plated cutlery.

‘Finally …’ He mutters the word under his breath and reaches for a handful of knives and forks, secreting them in one of the large interior pockets of his jacket – pockets which he has sewn into the lining for exactly this purpose. In a few seconds the drawer is empty and he can feel the weight of success dragging down the material around his shoulders.

A quick search of the rest of the kitchen reveals little more of value, and he is about to check out the sunroom when he hears a sound from upstairs – a gentle thump and drag across the hardwood floorboards.

The sting of fear chills his heart. The front door is closer than the back, but to reach it he must pass in front of the stairs.

Almost as a reflex he decides to take the risk, but as his hand touches the door he senses a presence on the staircase. Turning, he finds himself the subject of a woman’s intense stare.

She is about sixty and very frail, and she leans with her left hand on the banister-rail for support, a wooden walking-stick in her other hand. There is no fear in her eyes – and, strangely, no anger either.

She takes an awkward step down towards him, and he notices the glint of metal from the caliper attached to her shoe.

Polio, he thinks, while some part of his consciousness registers the urgent need to move.

But the sight of the old woman has frozen him. Not from fear so much as guilt – and something else … the memory of Belle, and the shiny calipers that enclosed her tiny legs for six of her nine years, until the scarlet fever took her in the winter of 1933.

He struggles to break away from that searching gaze, and finally finds the strength to turn the handle and open the door.

‘I’m sorry,’ he says.

Running down the path, he arrives at the front gate and pulls it open … and comes face to face with a huge, red-faced copper.

‘Gotcha!’ the cop says, and two hands grab his arms, pinning them to his sides.

There is no point in struggling. The man’s grip is vice-like.

‘And where d’you think you’re going, my lad?’

‘I …’ he begins, but his customary confidence has deserted him, squeezed out of him by the fingers that dig painfully into the muscles of his arms.

Behind them, a figure appears in the doorway. The old woman lifts her leg carefully and slides it forward, leaning heavily on the cane as she twists her hip to drag her other leg into position.

Grasping the veranda-post with her free hand, she addresses the policeman.

‘Good afternoon, Eamon. Mild weather for the time of year, I think.’

‘Miss Forbes,’ the cop replies, ‘I caught this lad sneaking out of your house. I —’

But before he can go on, the old woman shakes her head and smiles.

‘Thank you for your diligence, Eamon, but he wasn’t sneaking out, were you, er …’

She pauses expectantly, holding the boy’s confused gaze until he catches on.

‘Remy,’ he says.

‘That’s right. Remy. So forgetful. When you get to my age … Anyway, you’d better let him go, Eamon. The poor boy was just running an errand for me. He’s been helping me in the garden, and I needed some … bread and milk. By the way, Remy, I forgot to give you the money. We don’t want you running all the way to the shop then having to come back for the money, do we?’

The boy seems unable to respond.

‘Be a good boy and come here for it, will you? I find the steps tiresome.’

The cop releases Remy’s arms and the boy walks slowly towards her.

‘I’m sorry, Ma’am. I thought …’ the cop begins, but she cuts him off.

‘Tush, man. You were only doing your job. It was an honest mistake. Isn’t that right, Remy?’

She holds out a ten shilling note, and he takes it.

‘Now hurry along, boy. We don’t want the shop closing on us, do we?’

‘No Ma’am,’ he manages. Then he turns and runs off down the street, hearing the old woman’s voice behind him.

‘Would you care for a cup of tea, Eamon? How’s that little girl of yours?’

Turning the corner, Remy stops