The Lost Garden (25 page)

Chapter Thirty-Six

Aileen got an awful fright when she realized that somebody had actually come down to see her all the way from the Botanic Gardens in Dublin. She had sent them the sample out of genuine curiosity, but had not imagined in a million years that they would follow it up.

The day François arrived, Aileen was so unnerved by the fact that he had travelled all this way to see her that she was quite rude.

The first time Aileen saw him, Professor DuPont was crouched down at the foot of one of her flower beds. While Aileen was still somewhat wary of strangers from the mainland generally, she had become used to visitors to the garden. However, this one was not merely admiring her handiwork but appeared to be interfering with it. She had never known anyone, aside from herself, to study soil in such a close-up, interested way, and she was quite put out about it.

She was replanting the pot that represented her brother Paddy in the wild-flower bed. The vegetable plot was so overwhelmed with growth and she was hoping things might calm down if she removed one of the manically fertilizing grasses from it. The wild-flower garden, the very place that should have been wild and unkempt, seemed moderate in its growth by comparison.
It appeared to be that Aileen only had to will patterns of growth and they seemed to happen for her, although, in reality, she knew that she worked at it too.

I’d love if the dandelions all stayed in the one spot on a sort of solid yellow circle, she had thought to herself when designing the wild-flower plot. She knew that dandelions grew in chaos when their seeds blew in the wind and so she meticulously gathered the seeds from the flowering plants and then did the unheard of by actually planting dandelions – and it worked. It seemed that whatever she imagined for this garden came true and the fact that she worked for it was immaterial to her because she loved it so much. All she knew was that what she saw in her mind’s eye had happened in reality, and that was all that most people, most people who were not like François, saw. People had said it was extraordinary – like a miracle. She didn’t pay too much heed to talk like that; in fact, she found it slightly offensive. She read her books and planted her seeds and this was what happened: nature taking its course. She was simply a green-fingered girl. If Aileen found the rate of growth puzzling herself, she did not welcome other people suggesting that there was something odd happening in her garden. Now, here was somebody rooting about in the soil, her soil, with the implication that there was something amiss.

‘You’ll find nothing down there except worms,’ she said to the crouched figure, ‘and you’ll get your fancy pants mucky.’

As he looked up at her, the sun caught his glasses and made them glare so she couldn’t see his eyes. She nonetheless noticed that he was quite handsome, young, with a strong nose and a broad chin and high cheekbones, and the fact that she noticed annoyed her even more.

‘I don’t care about my trousers,’ he said. ‘I just want to know who trained these wild flowers to sit together like this:
there must be some special property in the soil preventing their growth.’

‘That would be me, and I can assure you there are no tricks in there, just potato skins and comfrey juice – I mulched it myself.’

‘Aha – comfrey is a fertilizer, and wild flowers need low fertility. That is how the weeds are contained. Without it, the ragwort would have taken over by now.’

Aileen blushed with a spark of indignant fury. ‘I
know
what comfrey is, and what makes you such an expert?’

‘I am Dr François DuPont from the Botanic Gardens in Dublin,’ he said, standing up to his full height, which was a foot taller than Aileen, ‘and I know a great deal about wild flowers.’

Aileen gasped inwardly, but decided that this was
her
garden after all and she wasn’t going to have this pompous man telling her what was what, no matter how important (or tall and handsome) he was.

‘Do you know how I got those dandelions to grow all at the same rate in a perfect circle?’

He looked taken back. Let him put that in his pipe and smoke it. Although, in truth, Aileen herself was not entirely certain how she had done it.

‘No. In fact, I was just—’

‘Well then, you don’t know everything, do you?’

‘I did not say I knew
everything
; that would be inaccurate, and in fact impossible given the size and breadth of the botanic world. However, there are certainly always anomalies worth exploring and I feel certain that your “dandelion circle” – shall we say? – is one of them and we shall find some perfectly logical explanation behind it.’

‘“We shall find”? What does that mean? Who is this “we”?
There will be nobody rooting around in these beds except me . . .’

‘And yet you are so clever you sent me leaves from a plant that, despite your cleverness, you cannot identify?’ he said, tapping playfully on the pot she was still holding. He was clearly enjoying badgering her in this playful way, and truthfully Aileen found that, despite herself, she was enjoying it too.

‘So,’ Aileen challenged him, ‘did you find out what it was?’

He grimaced in reply, she pouted, and they smiled at each other, unsure quite what was happening.

Once Aileen and François started talking, they didn’t stop. They walked through the garden discussing the flowers and plants. He knew everything by its Latin name and she ran to get her book so she could test him. The Frenchman strutted around effortlessly reciting the name of every plant she pointed to, delighted with himself. Aileen held her own then as she took him through her potting and feeding routine with the exotic fruits and flowers in the glasshouse. He nodded as if he felt he agreed with everything she was saying – as if all of her actions met with his expert approval. She could tell from the questions he was asking that he was deeply impressed by her and she liked that.

Later that evening, Biddy, who eyed the newcomer with deep suspicion, cooked them both a hearty stew. François devoured it and called Biddy a ‘
chef superbe
’, which, once it was translated, seemed to sate her irritation at being landed with an unexpected visitor. It was obvious to Biddy that Aileen felt immediately comfortable in François’s company. They were talking as if she had known him all her life.

‘Can you really not identify my plant?’ she said.

He finally admitted defeat, shaking his head and pouting his lips as he did when he was thinking hard.

‘It is very rare, and very beautiful. I have never known anything like it before.’

Then he looked across at her and Aileen knew he was talking about her too. She smiled and he smiled back and she thought he was sweet and handsome and for a moment she wondered.

‘So it could be . . . a new plant?’ Aileen said. ‘A completely new discovery?’

‘It happens,’ he said, ‘and when it does, it is a spectacular thing.’

‘But how?’ Aileen said. ‘I mean, how is it possible for something to be . . . completely new?’

He laughed at her innocence.

‘Evolution,’ he said. ‘Weather and cross-pollination can make almost anything happen. Nature is a powerful force.’ When he said that last part, he looked intently at her and Aileen felt something pass between them.

‘So what happens next?’

He shrugged and smiled flirtatiously, and Aileen looked at the handsome chin of a man who was undoubtedly brilliant and she thought perhaps he liked her. She thought then of Jimmy. Cursed Jimmy! He was gone – away living the good life in London. He wasn’t in her life anymore. Would she ever be able to look at another man in that way again? Would his memory stand between her and falling in love again?

‘Well, next,’ he said, ‘my colleagues in Dublin will look at a sample, and once they are satisfied there is no record of it anywhere, they will send it off to Kew in London, who will do the same. In a matter of time, if it is not identified, it will be declared a new discovery and there will be a great deal of fuss.’

‘Oh,’ said Aileen. She could not imagine what ‘fuss’ meant, but she had already asked a lot of stupid questions and François
was reaching for more brown bread to mop up the last of his stew.

‘You’d think you’d never eaten a scrap of food before in your life!’ Biddy said.

François didn’t seem to hear her but just kept eating.

‘French!’ Biddy said under her breath, and left the room. Aileen wasn’t sure if it was an insult or an excuse, but she was glad he hadn’t seemed to hear her. François was, she could see, very like herself. Not fully here: caught up in the world of plants and flowers. Jimmy had quipped with Biddy, chatted and flirted and sung around her. Jimmy had made the noise and allowed her to be quiet in the world. Aileen’s love for Jimmy had been certain, but she had thought that his promises had been certain too and yet he had not followed through.

Now here was a man who was as quiet as her, a friend. Certainly a friend, if nothing more.

Chapter Thirty-Seven

The man at 7 Winchester Close, Wood Green did not pay for his package. He was a regular customer, not a notably friendly man, but he always paid. However, when Jimmy called on this particular day, he opened the door an inch with the security chain on, then stuck his hand out and grabbed the envelope from Jimmy’s hand before mumbling, ‘I’ll pay next time. Tell Anthony I’m good for it,’ then closing the door in his face.

Jimmy didn’t know what to do, so he simply went back that evening as usual to give Anthony his day’s takings and told him that the man in Wood Green hadn’t paid.

His boss reacted with weary resignation more than anger. He shook his head and said, ‘It’s important that he pays, Jimmy.’ Then, more ominously, ‘You’ll have to get the money out of him, Jimbo – this stuff is expensive. I can’t be giving it away for nothing to every Tom, Dick and Harry who wants it.’

Jimmy reddened. Perhaps Anthony thought this was his fault.

‘I’m sorry, Anthony – he had a chain on the door and he just grabbed the envelope and . . .’

The scarred ex-soldier looked at him and smiled.

‘Jimmy, I know this isn’t your fault, old chap. I am just pointing out that he
has
to pay, and as the chap on the frontline of all
this, I’m afraid you’re the one who is going to have to make him do it.’

Jimmy almost stopped himself short of saying, ‘But how?’ because he knew the answer, but it came out anyway. Anthony laughed.

‘You’ll find a way, Jimbo – I know you will. You’re a bright boy – you’ll work something out.’

The following day, Jimmy went back to Wood Green. His heart was pumping ten to the dozen as he walked down the High Road and across and over the suburban streets to the short cul-de-sac where this man lived and knocked on the door of number 7. Jimmy knew Anthony’s customers only by their addresses; they were nameless people to him. He banged and banged on the door, then realizing that he would not be expected, he thought that perhaps the man was not in. He was turning away, almost relieved, when the door opened, again by an inch with the chain on. He wasted no time in jamming his foot in the door.

‘What do you want?’ the man said.

‘I want Mr Irvine’s money.’

‘I told you he could have it next week.’

‘Next week isn’t good enough – he wants it today.’

‘Who the hell do you think you are?’ the man said, and he pushed the door into Jimmy’s ankle. It hurt like hell and Jimmy felt anger rising up in him at the attack. He hadn’t felt angry like this since the early days of discovering how he looked after the fire. The days before the deep sadness had set in.

Jimmy reached up his free hand and peeled off his mask to reveal the full horror of his face to the man.

‘I am the man who has nothing to lose,’ he said. ‘Now go and get me Anthony Irvine’s money before I break this door down.’

Jimmy had neither the intention nor indeed the physical where-withal to break down a door, but he was hoping his face would frighten the man into doing something.

The man took a good look at Jimmy’s face and deep into his eyes, searching for some sign of real menace. Clearly he found none because he banged the door in two short sharp bursts on his assailant’s ankle until Jimmy, yelping with pain, withdrew his possibly broken foot.

‘Now piss off,’ the man shouted through the letterbox, ‘and come back next week, like I said.’

Jimmy was enraged and his ankle was swelling fast. He saw a gate at the side of the house and hopped over to it. It was open. He managed to put weight back on his bad foot and leaned over to a half-open window. Still clutching his mask, he started banging on the glass before peering in to see a woman, lying on a bed directly in front of him, looking at him, pointing and screaming. He realized that he had terrified the poor woman who, when she didn’t get up out of the bed and flee, he realized must be sick. He began waving at her and shouting, ‘It’s all right. It’s all right,’ but the more he waved, the more hysterical she became, until the man he knew only as ‘7 Winchester Close’ – her husband in all likelihood – came in and, giving only a pitiful, cursory glance at Jimmy, tried to calm her down. Jimmy saw him produce a white phial from his pocket as if he were about to administer it. Morphine. The cure for fear – as well as other things. Jimmy was shaken by what he had done and went back and stood at the front door hoping that the man would come out and confront him so he could apologize.

The man did come, and he handed Jimmy an envelope.

‘I’m sorry,’ Jimmy said. ‘I didn’t mean to frighten your wife like that.’

‘There’s her gold bracelet in there,’ the man said. ‘I’ll have the full money in cash next week with interest and I’ll be expecting the chain back.’

‘There’s no need,’ Jimmy said. He had already decided he would pay the man’s money himself to Anthony and pretend he had successfully collected it.

The man’s face was set. ‘Take it,’ he said, ‘and you can tell your boss you did your job and I won’t be late paying again.’

‘I’m sorry,’ Jimmy said again. ‘I didn’t mean to frighten your wife—’ but the man had already closed the door on his face.

All through his rounds that afternoon Jimmy felt sick at what he had done. Everyone else paid; as usual nobody looked him in the eye.

At seven o’clock, he returned to his bedsit and, still feeling impossibly sad at his behaviour that morning, took a shot of morphine. Not a full phial, but just enough to bring him up and calm the nervous fluttering in his stomach. Then he changed and, realizing that he had forgotten to eat for several hours, walked across to Manzini’s.

Juliana brought him over a menu. ‘You all right, my love?’ she asked him. ‘You look a bit tired. I’ll bring you paper and nice plate of spaghetti, all right?’

Jimmy smiled at her. The morphine had properly kicked in and he was pleased to note that he had taken the perfect amount: he felt warm and happy inside and yet was still alert enough to read and enjoy the paper.

The first two pages of the paper always detailed the latest on the war, which Jimmy had no interest in whatsoever, so he flicked to page five, where they put something light-hearted to cheer up readers after the doom and gloom.

NEW SPECIES OF PLANT
DISCOVERED IN IRELAND

A completely new species of plant has been discovered on a small island off the west coast of Ireland. The unusually hardy grass is not of a type that has been seen before anywhere in the world. It contains a seemingly unique metallic compound that causes it to glow gold under certain weather conditions. The locals have nicknamed the plant ‘gold grass’ and it was initially discovered by a young Irish woman who found it growing in the gardens of an abandoned house near where she lives. It was subsequently sent to Frenchman Dr François DuPont of the Botanic Gardens in Dublin to be researched. When its provenance was established, it was then sent to our own world-class botanists in London’s Kew Gardens to have its ‘new species’ status verified. The new plant will be named ‘Illaunmor gold’ after the remote outpost of its origin.

The article itself was short, but even at that Jimmy’s eyes barely skimmed the words; they were transfixed on the large photograph, almost a quarter-page of the broadsheet. Aileen was standing holding up a plant, and next to her there was a man who was tall and handsome and certainly not a monster like him. Aileen was smiling broadly. Even in the murky black-and-white he could see that her eyes were shining with joy. She looked hearty and happy, a million miles away from the pale beauty he had fallen in love with and yet . . . it was still her. She was still the woman he loved – it was just that life and time had passed, and he could clearly see from this picture that she had filled out and grown content. She had grown into the woman
he knew she would and he was glad to see her happy. Except that here she was, thriving in the company of another man.

Jimmy knew Aileen would not wait for him, not after he had failed to rescue her family, not when he had survived and they had not. He had known too that she could not love him looking the way he did. His meeting with John Joe had, after all, clarified that for him.

Yet . . . and he reached up and held his hand to his heart and gripped that side of his chest in case it should burst clean out through his skin. Oh, and yet he still loved her and that love had kept some kernel of hope alive in the centre of his heart. Now that kernel had exploded and his heart was breaking.

It hurt and it hurt until Jimmy struggled to his feet and stumbled out of Manzini’s and across the road to his bedsit.

He didn’t bother picking the lock on Anthony’s chest, but simply wrenched it open and took out a handful of morphine phials.

He took three, maybe four, maybe five – he didn’t count or care what happened to him. He just wanted the pain to go away.