Page 5 of Clara's Secret Garden
The plot was now a chaotic riot of both weeds and produce, allclimbing over each other. Peering closer, I saw tiny pea pods developing ondelicate plants with pretty green tendrils. There was something that lookedlike spinach leaves (but could be anything, really), and a row of plants bearingdozens of shiny, dark green courgettes. All fighting against an army of thistlesand nettles (just the sight of them made my arms tingle) and some kind of greenplant with tiny, white star-shaped flowers.
The name ‘chickweed’ sprang into my mind, taking me by surprise.
Was thisactually chickweed? Had I somehow beenabsorbing gardening knowledge all these years, without even realising it?
Chickweed.
I nodded sagely. Maybe I was a natural? Both Gran and Dadhad green fingers. Was a flair for gardening hereditary? And if not, could Ipossibly learn everything I needed to know on-line?
A sigh escaped as I looked around me. It wasn’t so much adirect line to Alan Titchmarsh that was needed here. It was hard, back-breakingwork that would probably take me days – weeks? – to carry out. Obviously, thatchickweed would need to be uprooted (if it actuallywaschickweed andnot some exotic, newly fashionable herb for which top chefs paid an arm and aleg to flavour their ‘foams’).
But at least it was Bertie’s school summer holidays now, soI wouldn’t have school runs, packed lunches and clean sports kit to worryabout.
I’d made an arrangement with Jen, the mum of Bertie’s bestfriend, Luke, so that during the week, we’d take turns looking after both boys,thus giving each of us some time off from activity duties. This meant I’d havewhole days to tackle the garden while Bertie and Luke tormented Jen with theirdemands, and on the days I hosted, I’d bring them over here and while I worked,they could play football on the lawn (once the grass was mown/scythed, ofcourse). I might even get them interested in a bit of growing themselves. Whatwould sprout up quickly, once planted? (Kids’ attention spans wouldn’t stretchto growing the likes of potatoes which, from hazy memory, seemed to slumber forcenturies underground before bothering to push their way through the soil.)
Gardening books. That’s what I needed.
And nothing too complicated.
Something along the lines of ‘An Idiot’s Guide to GrowingThings’ would be just perfect.
In the house, I passed Irene in dressing gown and fluffyslippers, coming out of the kitchen with what I suspected was a gin and tonicin a water glass. (Irene thought water was appalling and refused to drink it,on principle.) The scent of last night’s alcohol and perfume laced the airaround her.
She frowned into my box. ‘What the hell are those?’
‘Courgettes?’
She snorted and carried on walking. ‘So I suppose we’ll behaving courgette soup for weeks, then.’
‘Well, I was thinking I could make a quiche,’ I say,depositing the box on the kitchen counter and turning. ‘And maybe some kind ofpasta dish or a –’
‘Tasty,’ she calls with heavy sarcasm from the living room.‘Where’s Bertie? I thought he was with you?’
I flick my eyes to the ceiling. ‘I did tell you. He’s havinghis tea at Luke’s house.’
‘Luke who?’
‘Luke? Bertie’s best friend.ThatLuke?’
There’s no reply. I shrug and get on with unloading the dishwasherso that I can get rid of all the dirty plates and cups Irene’s managed toaccumulate by the sink since I left the house this morning.
‘Are you in for dinner tonight?’ I call.
‘No. Damien’s picking me up in an hour and we’re going tothe line dancing. He says I need to get fit.’
‘Right.’ So just Lois and me, then. Bertie can join us forice-cream when he gets back from Luke’s as a special treat.
Special treats are a big thing for me, when it comes to myhalf-brother. Bertie’s my whole world and I know I probably indulge him toomuch. But I feel he deserves it, after losing his dad when he was so little andhaving a parent who’s pretty much abdicated from the role of mum and passed thecrown to me. I’m not sure how Irene squares it with her conscience. But shepays all the bills and seems fine about me continuing to live in the house thatDad left to her.
Irene used to work at the local casino in the evenings. Thenshe signed up on a dating app about a year ago, which at the time I thought wasa good idea. It would be great for her to get out a bit, instead of moping athome every night.
But she seems to have taken it to extremes, dating one manafter another, and out almost every night. She’s always enjoyed a drink, butthese days, I hardly ever see her without a wineglass in her hand. And she nolonger works at the casino. She said they had to let her go because of budgets,but I have a sneaky feeling she might have been sacked for turning up for hershift the worse for alcohol, after one of her very long lunch dates in the pub.Thankfully, it’s not as if shehasto work. Dad left her well taken careof, what with the house and a big life insurance policy.
Irene falls very short as a mother. She would probably admitthat herself. She doesn’t seem to have a single maternal bone in her body. But that’swhat I’m here for – to watch over Bertie and give him the love and care heneeds. The four of us rub along together in this house, a weirdly dysfunctionalfamily. It’s like a deal we’ve made that suits us all, although we never talkabout things that really matter...
I feel quite protective of Lois, though.
People often have her down as a self-centred loud-mouth, andI can see where they’re coming from. Others just find her fascinating becauseshe forges her own path, telling it as it is and not seeming to care whatpeople think about that. And she’s beautiful, of course, with her long blondehair and slim body that suits pretty much anything she takes off the rail whenshe’s out shopping. (In marked contrast to my own panicked shopping trips thatonly tend to occur when I have literally nothing left to wear. Why do mostchanging room mirrors make you look several sizes bigger than you actually are?And lumpier? And paler than Frankenstein’s monster after a night on the lash?)
