Page 22 of The Shape of Your Heart
I glance at her with amusement. ‘This looks serious.’
‘It’s only an idea.’ She seems subdued this morning, as though there is something on her mind. ‘Some nights I don’t sleep much – last night, it was one of those. So I thought I’d draw up a kind of plan, but first I need some information from you.’
‘Ask away.’ I pass her a mug of tea.
‘Thanks.’ Sitting down, she turns to look at me. ‘You see, I always think a garden reflects the life of its guardian. I call us guardians, because gardens are only ours for a relatively short time and eventually they’re handed on to someone else. But each of us adds something of ourselves. Take yours, for example. Whoever planted the herbs, I think they were interested in healing – as well as more common ones, you have chamomile, fennel, hyssop, feverfew…’ She pauses for a moment. ‘My garden is a memory garden. The plants remind me of significant times – the empty space does, too. So… what I’m getting around to asking is what’s important to you.’
I guess the empty space is representative of her fiancé’s death. Sitting across the table from her, I start with the obvious. ‘I want it to look nice – and be a relaxing space to enjoy.’
She makes a note on the plan. ‘OK, so that’s where scent comes in, too. Lavender and rose…’
I nod. ‘I like both of those. And honeysuckle.’
‘You have quite a bit of that. Go on.’
‘I’m not sure.’
She leans forward. ‘Can I be personal?’
A feeling of uncertainty comes over me. I have a feeling she’s going to say it anyway. ‘I guess.’
As she rests her chin in her hands to gaze at me, I have the strangest feeling that I’ve been here before.
‘Where are you in your life?’ she says softly. ‘New home, a new interest, new beginning… We all have a story.’
I wonder how much to tell her. ‘I’m healing.’
She’s silent for a moment. ‘Emotionally or physically?’
‘Both, I guess.’ It’s as much as I want to say at this stage. ‘Are you sure you have the energy for this? You did say you didn’t sleep well last night.’
‘I’m used to it. Back to your garden… I love the idea of it staying a healing garden.’ She looks thoughtful. ‘Just being in nature is healing. I know we talked about grasses yesterday. If you like them, we could use different varieties of them. When the wind picks up, they sound beautiful.’ She pauses. ‘So what kind of plants do you like?’
‘I’m not very good on names,’ I say slowly. ‘I like all kinds of things. Tropical gardens and bright colours. I love bluebell woods, architectural plants, ferns, that kind of thing.’ I glance at her. ‘A bit of a mish-mash, I guess you’d say.’
She shakes her head. ‘It’s great, actually. The corner where we talked about putting a table and chairs, it’s quite sheltered. It would be perfect for more tropical plants.’
‘Also, I don’t want it to look too perfect.’
‘Don’t worry about that!’ Her smile reaches her eyes. ‘You have all these corners, too. We could make quiet places to sit and just take it all in. There’s so much we could do.’
I’m bemused at her enthusiasm for so much work. ‘I can’t let you do this for nothing. There’s weeks of work here.’
She looks at me slightly sadly. ‘But it’s perfect for me, too…’ She lingers for a moment. ‘You see, it isn’t just you that needs healing,’ she says quietly. ‘It’s me.’ Getting up, she finishes her tea, then rolls up her plan. ‘I’ll see you later.’
I feel a pang as she walks through the door; of all the gardens to channel her sadness into, for reasons I can’t fathom, she’s chosen mine. I watch from the window for a moment. As she gets to work, it suddenly makes perfect sense. Maybe the digging and weeding and discarding everything that’s died is less about my garden and more a metaphor for her life.
At my desk, as I try to work, my mind is distracted. All I can think about is Callie out there in my garden, alone with her thoughts, working through whatever it is that she can’t let go of. An hour later, unable to focus, I give up and go to join her.
Standing on the terrace, I watch her on her knees dealing with what looks like a particularly tiresome weed. With her hair twisted up under her wide-brimmed straw hat, her wrist adorned with multi-coloured bracelets, she looks ethereal somehow, her slight limbs belying her strength. Yanking the weed out, she sits back.
I walk over to where she’s sitting. ‘I have an hour to spare. Mind if I help?’
‘I wish you’d asked five minutes ago.’ She holds up the knotted tangle of roots she’s been battling with. ‘But yes, that would be great. Those nettles at the back need clearing. It’s easier if you pull the stems up, before you start digging up their roots. Here.’ She passes me some gloves and my garden fork. ‘I’m going to deadhead some roses – if we’re lucky, we might even get more flowers out of them.’
I like the way she useswe. As I start to dig, I realise the nettles have really bedded in, slowly encroaching on more and more of the flower bed. But by the time I’ve finished pulling up their knotted yellow roots, it’s clean and weed free. Feeling oddly satisfied as I look at the patch of earth, I’m starting to realise I get this. Right here, I have my own little piece of nature that can either be a wilderness or a sanctuary.
Lobbing the last of the roots into the wheelbarrow, I go to find Callie. ‘Fancy some lunch?’
