Page 55 of Weekends with the Sunshine Gardening Society
‘Why didn’t she tell us?’ she says.
‘Because it was private.’
Her father says it plainly, not like he’s resentful. But Cynthia is resentful. She wanted more of her mother than Diane was clearly prepared to give, even if Cynthia has to acknowledge that she didn’t express interest in anything her mother did. And by the time she figured out that mothers are people too, Odette was underfoot and she was wondering where her youth had gone.
‘So why are you giving me this now?’ she says.
‘You’re in that society too. You understand – or you might – her interest in these plants. These flowers.’
‘Do you think she joined the society so she could draw? Or did the gardening introduce her to something she loved enough to draw?’
‘I don’t know.’ There’s a hint of sadness in his voice.
‘And we never will.’ Cynthia picks up the book and presses it to her chest. ‘This is precious, Papa. Please don’t take this the wrong way, but what was it doing in the shed?’
‘Your mother put it there. Or she must have. I found it there after she died. I guess she didn’t want it in the house in case …’ He stops and looks into her eyes. ‘In case someone was fossicking through her things and found her most precious thing. Someone who didn’t know what to do with it.’
As Cynthia wouldn’t have known a few months ago. Now, what might have seemed like a group of pretty drawings is a document of great historical importance. It’s not just a record of the plants Diane observed but of the work of the Sunshine Gardening Society itself, for it’s unlikely Diane would have known which plants were what, or where to find them in order to draw them, without that education. The same education her daughter is receiving now. Which leads her to think of one person.
‘Von,’ Cynthia breathes. ‘I wonder if she knew about it?’
‘Your mother was good at keeping secrets, so I wouldn’t bank on it.’
‘I’m going to ask her.’
‘I figured you would.’ He smiles wryly. ‘Anyway, the book is yours to do as you wish with it. Even if your mother kept it secret all that time, I believe she’d know that you understand how special it is now.’
‘I do.’ Cynthia hugs it closer. ‘I really do.’
He bends down and kisses the top of her head.
‘You’re a good girl,’ he says, then he leaves her holding on to the sketchbook and all the stories she will never know about her mother.
CHAPTER THIRTY
Kathyhasn’t realised how dismissive she is of native plants and bushes and trees until she is standing in the overgrown back garden of some old gent in Little Cove whose property backs on to the national park and her first thought is,Yuck.
In fact, it isn’t a thought because she says it out loud and Cynthia, standing next to her, says, ‘What do you mean?’
Kathy gestures to the hodgepodge of different plants in front of them. ‘They’re so ugly. Where are all the pretty flowers?’
She’s chosen the wrong time to say that because Shirl has come huffing up behind her. Today she’s wearing a Jefferson Airplane T-shirt. Kathy has been taking note, because the T-shirts all look worn enough to suggest that Shirl might have acquired them at concerts for these acts. Last weekend it was James Brown.
‘Ugly?’ she says. ‘Ugly?’
Kathy feels like she did in kindergarten when the teacher made her sit on a stool in the corner after some transgression or other. There was always something.
‘Listen, my girl,’ Shirl goes on. ‘You’re getting an education today.’ She nods at Cynthia. ‘She grew up not far from here so she can give it to you. All right?’
Shirl walks off, shaking her head and calling out to Barb, probably to tell her that Kathy is an ignoramus.
Cynthia looks slightly aghast and Kathy can’t tell if it’s because Shirl is forcing them to spend time together or because she too doesn’t think much of native plants.
Now they’re leaning into garden beds strewn with bracken, trying to sort out the difference between what’s meant to be growing here and what could be classified as leaf litter. It’s not a warm day but Kathy feels hot and scratchy, even more so because Cynthia looks as unruffled as she usually does.
‘I’m sick of this,’ Kathy mutters.
‘Sick of what?’ Cynthia turns and narrows her eyes.
