Page 90 of Weekends with the Sunshine Gardening Society
‘Von, you remember my friend Kathy,’ Cynthia says, her hand in the crook of the older woman’s elbow.
As Von holds out her hand Kathy feels like kissing it, but she doesn’t, of course, because that would be quite odd. Instead she takes it and squeezes it.
‘Thank you,’ she says.
‘What an interesting greeting,’ Von says, her eyes twinkling.
‘Yes.’ Kathy clears her throat. ‘I meanthello, of course. And … well, thank you too. For creating the society. I didn’t say that last time. It has …’
She stops and sighs heavily, mainly to stop herself becoming too emotional, because she feels slightly embarrassed about it. She doesn’t know these people, so they don’t know how much the society and the companionship and sense of achievement it’s brought mean to her.
‘Oh,’ Cynthia murmurs and puts her free hand on Kathy’s arm. ‘Are you all right?’
The movement and noise in the room have stopped and Kathy is conscious that the others must be observing the tears now rolling down her cheeks.
‘I understand, dear,’ Von says, and she pats Kathy’s cheek. ‘I felt the same.’ She smiles at Cynthia. ‘And you probably do too.’
Cynthia locks eyes with Kathy and nods. ‘I do.’ The smile that follows is relaxed and radiant. ‘I’m so happy you could both be here. We have much to celebrate with our little gardening victories, don’t we?’
‘Is that champagne I see?’ Von points her cane towards the barely drunk glasses.
‘It is,’ Cynthia says. ‘And I’ll pour you one too.’
‘Wonderful.’
Cynthia lets go of Von’s elbow, and Von offers it to Kathy. ‘Would you mind?’ she asks. ‘I feel more stable with help.’
‘Not at all.’
Kathy guides her towards a couch just as Cynthia bustles across holding a leather-covered book.
‘I want to show you something,’ she says. ‘Both of you. Von, have you ever seen this before?’ Cynthia has a funny look on her face as she says this.
‘No,’ Von says. ‘Is it a diary?’
‘Sketchbook.’ Cynthia angles it so Von can see the first page. Kathy peers over and seesDiane Schefferwritten on it.
‘It was my mother’s,’ Cynthia says to her, and Kathy remembers Cynthia saying something about it, months ago.
She turns to a page in the middle, where there’s a drawing of a plant labelledLolly bush. The drawing is mostly clean lines with some smudges. Done with a 6B pencil, Kathy would bet.
‘Your mother was an artist?’ she asks.
‘Not that I knew of.’ Now Cynthia’s staring at Von. ‘So you didn’t know? It looks like she might have been doing these while she was in the society.’
Von shakes her head. ‘I didn’t. Or I didn’t see her doing any of these.’ As Von smiles her eyes mostly disappear. ‘But she was a creative person, Cynthia. You remember how she kept this house – always moving things around to create different tableaux. Arranging flowers and paintings. Surely these drawings don’t surprise you?’
Cynthia’s mouth opens, then she shakes her head. ‘They shouldn’t. But they do.’
‘I used to paint,’ Kathy says. ‘When my kids were little. It was my outlet. They wouldn’t know that I did.’ She squeezesCynthia’s arm. ‘So your mum isn’t the only one who keeps stuff like that to herself.’
‘You don’t paint any more?’ Von says.
‘No.’ Kathy tries to remember the last time she did. Or where she put all those paintings. Owen probably has them now, since he’s still in the house. Or did she throw them out years ago?
‘Perhaps you should,’ Von says.
The baby starts a soft cry.
