The Year I Met You

  Today is the ideal day to work because the ground is dry. Having realised that my ‘Indian Natural Sandstone’ paving stones are not going to give me the rugged look that I envisage for my rockery, I have made arrangements for the ideal natural stone to be delivered. Right on time, the helpful young man from the garden centre who has been educating me on each trip pulls up in his car, towing the rocks behind him on a trailer. He studies my sandstone.

  ‘Shame to waste it,’ he says.

  We stand staring at the slabs with our hands on our hips.

  ‘You could make stepping stones,’ he says eventually. ‘Like they’ve done next door.’

  We both look into the Malones’ perfect garden and see their heart-shaped stepping stones leading to a fairy house. Eddie wasn’t exactly careful with the jackhammer, so my stones are irregular shapes. It’s more natural that way and I rather like it. The garden centre man goes on his way, leaving me to amuse myself moving sandstone slabs around on my new grass. I improvise, using the end of my rake to decide how deep to position the slabs. Then I measure my stride and lay the stones so that there’s a stone underfoot for each step. I take my half-moon edger alongside the paver, step down on it to cut completely through the turf’s roots. I make an outline of the stone and then strip out the sod. I dig down to a depth equal to the stone’s thickness, then I repeat this process for the ten stones I have leading away from my house towards where the rockery will be. I mix stone dust with water in my new wheelbarrow until it is the consistency of cake batter. I add two inches of mix to each hole to prevent moving or sinking, and then I wiggle the stone into its slot and pound it with a rubber mallet. I use a leveller to set each stone evenly. All this takes me some time.

  By six p.m. it is dark and I am sweating, hungry, sore, tired – and more satisfied than I can ever remember feeling. I have completely lost track of time, though at some stages I was conscious of Mr Malone pruning his roses and trimming the overgrowth while telling me in a jolly voice that he should have done this in January and February but couldn’t, not with Elsa so sick.

  As I collapse into bed that night, relaxing into freshly changed sheets with the smell of ‘summer breeze’ tumble-drier sheets, I realise that an entire day has gone by without me giving a minute’s thought to my current problems. My mind was well and truly on the task at hand. Maybe it’s the genes I inherited from my granddad, or maybe it’s the fact that I’m Irish, have sprung from the land and this compulsion to dig, and the digging itself, breathes life back into me. I may have walked into my garden all tensed up, but as soon as I started to work, the tension disappeared all by itself.

  When I was seven years old, Mum bought me my first bike, a Purple Heather, with a white-and-purple wicker basket in the front, and a bell that I used to love playing with even when I was sitting on the grass with the bike lying down around me. I loved the sound of it, I felt like it was the voice of my bike. I would ask it a question and briiing it would answer. I spent every day cycling out on the street, circling, going up and down the kerbs, fast, slow, braking, almost as if I was an ice skater swirling around with an audience watching me, judges holding up numbers and everyone cheering. I’d stay out for as long as possible in the evenings, eat my dinner so quickly it would be painfully stuck in my chest before racing back out to the bike. At night I cried, leaving it. I would park it outside in the garden and watch it, alone, as it waited for me and our next adventure. Now I feel like that child again, staring out the window at my darkened garden, knowing exactly what will go where, imagining each feature, how I can mould it and nurture it, all the possibilities.

  I am having the most delicious dream about Monday O’Hara. He is listing, in complete awe, all the things I have achieved in my garden – which is no longer my garden but Powerscourt Gardens in Wicklow. I shrug off his compliments, telling him I’m a snowdrop and that’s what snowdrops do, no big deal, we’re tough, we push up above the soil, like fists being raised in victory. Things are beginning to get juicy between us when the sound of ‘Paradise City’ intrudes on my dream, blaring from a Tannoy system strapped to the roof of the groundskeeper’s van as he tries to clear the gardens for closing time – which leads Monday to realise that I’m a phoney, that the gardens I’ve shown him aren’t mine after all, that I’m a liar. Then the groundskeeper rolls down his blackened window and it’s you. You are looking at me and smiling, a smile that grows and turns into a laugh that gets louder and louder as the music blares. I awake suddenly to hear ‘Paradise City’ still playing. I squeeze my eyes shut, hoping to get back into the dream with Monday, to pick up where we left off before the groundskeeper ruins it, but when I do fall asleep I find myself in a different dream, with Kevin sitting on the grass, making daisy chains. Everyone around is dressed in black and he is speaking and acting as if he is ten again, even though he looks like the man I met in Starbucks, and when he goes to put the daisy chain on my hand I discover it is actually made of roses and the thorns slice my skin.

  I wake up to voices outside. I stumble out of bed, disorientated, and look out the window. You are sitting at the table in your front garden with Dr Jameson. The table is now so worn the wood is chipping and peeling off. It needs to be treated – why this should occur to me as more important than the sight of Dr Jameson sitting outside with you at 3.10 a.m. confuses me. Dr Jameson is facing my house; you are at the head of the table as always. There is a collection of cans on the table and you knock one back, face parallel to the sky as you squeeze the can of every last drop. When you’ve finished, you scrunch up the can and throw it at a tree. You miss and immediately pick up a full can and fire it angrily at the tree. You hit the target and beer foams out from the burst tin.

  Dr Jameson pauses to watch where it has landed, then carries on talking. I’m confused. Perhaps he has lost his key to your house and the two of you are too polite to bother me for my set. I find this highly unlikely. You burp, so loudly that it seems to bounce off the end wall of the cul de sac and echo. I can’t hear Dr Jameson’s words, though I want to, and I fall asleep listening to the soothing rise and fall of his gentle tone.

  This time I dream about a conversation with Granddad Adalbert. Though I am an adult, I feel like a child again. We’re in his back garden and he is showing me how to sow seeds. Under his watchful eye, I sprinkle sunflower seeds, cover them up with soil and then water them. He is talking to me as though I am still a child. He is showing me how he prunes his winter-flowering jasmine, which he tells me can be pruned when the flowers have withered completely. He shows me how he prunes any dead or damaged wood needed to extend the framework or coverage of the plant, and then he shortens all the side growths from the main framework to two inches from the main stems. This will encourage plenty of new shoots that will flower next winter. ‘Plenty of new growth, Jasmine,’ he says, busily feeding and mulching.

  ‘This is not a sign, Granddad,’ I tell him in a baby voice that I am putting on, because I don’t want to hurt his feelings by reminding him that I am an adult now. It might make him realise that he has been dead for so long, and that could make him sad. ‘This does not tell me which direction to take,’ I say, but he has his back to me as he continues working.

  ‘Is that so?’ he says, talking as if I’m babbling and not making any sense.

  ‘Yes, Granddad. The jasmine is pruned back, but it is ready now, ready to grow, and that is not a sign, that is a symbol.’

  He turns around then, and even though I know I am in a dream, I’m sure it’s him, that it’s really really him. He smiles, his face crinkles, his eyes almost close as his apple cheeks lift in that hearty smile.

  ‘That’s my Jasmine,’ he says.

  I wake up with a tear rolling down my cheek.

  15

  It’s Saturday and as soon as I open my eyes to the golden light in my bedroom I want to leap out of bed, throw a tracksuit on and race outside to the garden, like the boy in The Snowman who can barely contain himself, he’s so eager to see his new friend.
Of course in my case it’s not a snowman but a pile of rocks that I need to place on my sloping garden.

  While I’m outside looking at the stones, Amy arrives with the children. They get out of the car and slowly, unhappily trudge away from her. You open the front door, and before you can get down the driveway to greet her she takes off. You are left watching her drive away. Not a good sign. The children hug you – not Fionn, he just carries on dragging his feet all the way up the driveway and into the house.

  Finally there’s silence, and I like that, only it doesn’t last long. Mr Malone is back in his garden and I can hear him brushing his paving stones.

  ‘You shouldn’t power-hose,’ he says, noticing me watching him. He’s on his knees, scrubbing the stones by hand. ‘It ruins the look of the stone. I’ve got to have the place looking tidy for Elsa. She’ll be home tomorrow.’

  ‘That’s great to hear, Jimmy.’

  ‘Not the same,’ he says, clambering to his feet and walking to meet me in the middle where his shrubbery and grass ends and where my car and paving begin.

  ‘Without her?’

  ‘With her, without her. She’s not the same. The stroke, it …’ He nods to himself, as if finishing the sentence in his own head and then agreeing with it. ‘She’s not the same. Still, Marjorie will be happy to see her. I’ll tidy around in there as well, but I don’t know if she’ll notice a great deal.’

  My spell of duty feeding Marjorie ended as soon as Dr Jameson returned from his holiday, but I’d noticed that Jimmy hadn’t been coping too well without his wife around. The kitchen sink was piled with dirty dishes and a foul odour emanated from the fridge. It wasn’t much and it wasn’t invasive, but I’d cleaned the dishes and thrown out the mouldy vegetables and the milk that had gone off in the otherwise empty fridge. He was so used to being looked after domestically that he hadn’t noticed, or at least he hadn’t commented. Still, once Dr Jameson returned to his hands-on neighbourly role, I doubted his duties would include dishwashing. Though his duties with you last night, if that’s what they were, had extended to 3.30 a.m. What you both talked about till then – you blind-drunk, singing and shouting, and Dr Jameson in his North Face jacket and his suntan – is a mystery to me.

  I leave a respectful silence, though I know he hadn’t expected an answer. Then I ask, ‘Jimmy, when is the best time to plant a tree?’

  He snaps out of his maudlin mood, perking up instantly at the question. ‘Best time to plant a tree, eh?’

  I nod, and immediately regret asking. I’m probably in for a long-winded answer.

  ‘Yesterday,’ he says, then chuckles, the sadness still in his eyes. ‘Like everything else. Failing that, now.’ Then he goes back to cleaning his stones.

  Your door opens and Fionn steps out, dressed all in black, hoodie covering most of his face, but the teenage spots and freckles belie his eerie choice of clothing. He comes straight to me.

  ‘Dad told me to help you,’ he says.

  ‘Oh.’ I’m not sure how to respond. ‘I’m, erm, I don’t need help. I’m okay, really. But thanks.’ I like the peace of working alone. I don’t want to have to make small talk or explain what it is I want done. I’d rather just get on with it by myself.

  He’s staring at the rocks longingly.

  ‘They look heavy.’

  They do indeed look heavy. I remind myself I don’t need help, I never ask for help. I’d rather do things myself.

  ‘I don’t want to go back in there,’ he says, so quietly that when I look at him staring at the rocks it’s as if he hasn’t spoken and I question whether I really heard it. How can I tell him no after that? And I wonder whose idea it was to come out here and help me. I doubt it was yours.

  ‘Let’s start with this one,’ I say. ‘I want to put it over here.’

  Having Fionn there makes me move more quickly, make decisions faster than I otherwise would have. At first I struggle to come up with things to say to him – cool things, witty things, young things – but as time wears on and his monosyllabic answers continue, I realise he no more wants to chat than I do. And so we labour on in silence, starting from the bottom of the slope and working our way up, the only communication a word here or there about moving a stone to the right, to the left – that kind of thing. As the hours pass, he starts offering suggestions as to where to place things.

  Eventually we stand back, sweating and panting, and examine the rocks. Happy with their position, we set about thoroughly embedding each rock so it’s securely in place, at least half of the rock buried below the ground. We mix planting compost and sharp sand to make sure the rocks stay in place. On the next level we move the smaller rocks, leaving plenty of pockets for plants. At each stage we stand back and take a good look from different viewpoints.

  Fionn is quiet.

  ‘It will look better with the plants and flowers in,’ I say self-consciously, protective over my patch.

  ‘Yeah,’ he says in a tone I can’t read. His voice is a monotone, expressionless, seeming to care and not care at the same time.

  ‘I’m thinking of putting a water fountain in,’ I say. I have looked into this and am excited to have found a video demonstrating how to build a water fountain in eight hours. I’m further excited to see that I can use my Indian sandstone for the actual fountain.

  We’re both silent as we survey the garden for a place.

  ‘You could put it there,’ he says.

  ‘I was thinking more over here.’

  He’s quiet for a moment, then: ‘Where’s the nearest electrical socket?’

  I shrug.

  ‘You’ll need that for the pump. Look – you have lights.’ He goes on a wander around the garden, seeking out the source of electricity for my garden lights. ‘Here. It would be better to put it near here.’

  ‘Yeah,’ I say, my voice as even as his – not meaning to, but it’s addictive. It’s so much easier not to make an effort, I can understand why he does it. ‘I’m going to put a pipe up through the middle of the stones like this, see.’ I layer the sandstones on top of one another to show him. ‘The water will come up through the middle.’

  ‘Like, explode?’

  ‘No, like … gurgle.’

  He nods once, unimpressed. ‘Are you going to do that now?’

  ‘Tomorrow.’

  He looks disappointed, though it’s hard to be certain, given the general drift between nonchalance and misery. I don’t invite him back tomorrow. I haven’t minded his company, but I prefer to do this alone, particularly as I don’t know what I’m doing. I want to find my way by myself, not have to discuss and explain it. Not that there would be much discussion with Fionn.

  ‘Are you going to use them all?’

  ‘Half of them.’

  ‘Can I have the other half?’

  ‘For what?’

  He shrugs, but it’s clear he has something in mind.

  I look at him, waiting for more.

  ‘To smash them.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘Can I borrow this?’ He indicates my rubber mallet.

  It’s the most hopeful I’ve ever seen him look.

  ‘Okay,’ I say uncertainly.

  He places the paving stones in the wheelbarrow and wheels it across the road to your table. Then he comes back for more. It’s as he is doing this that you come outside to see what he’s doing. You actually ask him what he’s doing, but he ignores you and returns to my garden for more stones. You watch him for a moment then follow him.

  ‘Hi,’ you say, walking up the path to me, hands deep in your pockets. You survey the rockery. ‘Looks good.’

  ‘Thanks. Dammit,’ I say suddenly, seeing my cousin Kevin turn the corner into the street, casually strolling, looking left and right as he searches for my house. ‘I’m not here,’ I say, dropping everything and darting towards the house.

  ‘What?’

  ‘I’m not here,’ I repeat, pointing at Kevin, then pulling the front door to. I leave it open a crack, I want to he
ar what he has to say.

  Kevin strolls up the driveway. ‘Hello,’ he says to you and Fionn, who is placing paving stones in the wheelbarrow very carefully, despite his apparent intention to smash them.

  ‘Hi there,’ you say. You sound more DJ-like when I can’t see you, as if you have a ‘phone voice’ reserved for strangers. I side step to the window and peek up over the windowsill to watch. Kevin looks priestly, poker-straight back, brown cords, a raincoat. Everything is precise, neat, earthy tones. I can picture him in sandals in the summertime.

  ‘Jasmine’s not in,’ you say.

  ‘Oh.’ Kevin looks up at the house and I duck. ‘That’s a shame. Are you sure? It looks like … well, the door is open.’

  For a moment I’m afraid that he’s going to come looking for me, like when we were kids and I absolutely did not want Kevin to come find me. That game when whoever finds you has to join you and hide with you, and you both wait for the rest of them to find you. Kevin always had a knack of finding me first, pushing his body up against mine, cramming into the tight space with me so that I could feel his breath on my neck, and feel his heart beating on my skin. Even as a child he made me uncomfortable.

  You are quiet. I’m surprised you can’t come up with a lie – not that I have any proof of you being a liar, but I think so little of you at times that this is something I’d assumed you’d be a natural at. It is Fionn who comes to my rescue.

  ‘She left it open for us. We’re her gardeners,’ he says, and the lack of emotion, the lack of caring, makes him entirely believable. You look at him with what seems to be admiration.