I know exactly how you feel, but I also see that your wanting to work for another station is purely a way of getting back at your current employers and not because you genuinely want to get back to work. It occurs to me that perhaps taking six months out to think about what your next move should be is the best thing for you. This is an interesting concept, one I had not thought of before. While you feel you are imprisoned, I see opportunity for you. Perhaps I am moving forward.
I am unable to work in my garden because of the photographers outside, though the water fountain is calling me to finish it, and my hangover desperately needs some fresh air. I’d hoped they would leave for a mid-morning snack, but instead one of them disappears and comes back with a carrier bag full of EuroSpar rolls and they all lean against the car and snack outside. I did attempt to go outside while they were taking this break, but as soon as I opened the door, ham, egg, coleslaw and brown paper bags went flying as they discarded their food and grabbed their cameras. Despite my protestations of being a private citizen, they kept snapping at me. Only when they finally realised their memory cards would run out of space and I’d still be on my knees gardening did they eventually stop. However I was feeling too self-conscious to keep working under their gaze, especially given that I don’t know what I’m doing, so I retreated back into the house.
‘Sorry,’ you say when I slam the front door on them all and turn to you, red-faced. When the heavens open for the rest of the day and they all retreat into one car, huddled together with their enormous cameras on their laps, I shout ‘Ha!’ in their faces. ‘I hope your cameras rust!’
You look up from your own silent fury to watch me with amusement.
Dr Jameson calls over, pretending to be annoyed but secretly loving the dilemma and excitement. He wants to discuss the paparazzi problem on our street and what we can do about it. I go upstairs to lie down.
Unusually, my friend Caroline rings and asks if she can call around. I’m surprised to hear from her for two reasons: she works in a bank, repossessing people’s homes and possessions and is never available midweek, and even when she is free she is busy having sex with her new boyfriend who is eight years younger than her and whom she met after discovering her husband had had multiple affairs. I have been happy not to be seeing her, knowing that she is now in a better place. Literally.
She calls over, so excited she is fit to burst, and the only place we can talk is in my bedroom because you are pacing the floor and talking to your solicitor because the paparazzo whose camera you grabbed is threatening to press charges against you for criminal damage. These charges will not stick because he has already made money selling the photos he took. They’ve surfaced on the internet, on a variety of gossip and entertainment websites, and he’s captured you charging at the camera, looking as if you’re going to kill someone. He’s shot you from a low angle, so you look like King Kong with two double chins and a bulging belly, intent on crushing everything in your path.
Dr Jameson and I huddle around the laptop screen to examine them.
‘Jesus fucking Christ,’ you say. ‘I’m glad my kids aren’t there.’
‘My rockery looks nice,’ I say, zooming in on my garden in the background. ‘Wish I’d finished the water fountain though.’ I pout.
I head upstairs before you can do a King Kong on me, and Dr Jameson goes back to watching Homes Under the Hammer.
‘That flat looked better before the makeover,’ he says as I leave the room.
‘This house is a madhouse,’ Caroline says, taking the cup of coffee I’ve brought her.
‘Welcome to my new world,’ I say wryly.
‘So, where was I?’
‘You were at the popping candy bit.’
‘Oh yeah.’ Her eyes light up and she resumes the account of her and her new boyfriend’s bedroom shenanigans, which have long since left the bedroom. ‘So anyway,’ she takes a breath when she’s finished, ‘the reason I’m really here is because I’ve come up with an amazing business idea … and I want you to work with me on it,’ she squeals. ‘All I have is this mega idea and no clue where to take it. You’ve done this loads of times. Will you do it? Please?’
‘Oh my goodness,’ I say, wide-eyed, very excited but a little anxious too. Working with friends is a tricky thing and I haven’t even heard the idea yet. I mentally plan my exit, expecting it to be crap. ‘Tell me about it.’
She is more prepared than I thought. She takes out a folder labelled GÚNA NUA – Irish for ‘new dress’. The idea is that you post a photo of your dress on a website – she’s already bought the domain name – and you choose another dress to swap with. That dress then leaves your hands and a new dress arrives in its place. No money changes hands, everything comes with the promise of being dry-cleaned and in mint condition.
‘There will be a selection of designer dresses, vintage, high street – whatever you like. It’s like getting a free dress, and it’s a way to get rid of the stuff you don’t want in your wardrobe.’
‘So how do you make money?’
‘A sign-up fee. Membership. For fifty euro a year you can get as many free dresses as you want. Honestly, Jasmine, I know there’s a market for this, I’m seeing people’s situations every day and it’s depressing. Dress-swapping is the way to go, I’m sure of it.’
It is not a flawless business idea by any means and I think fifty euro is too expensive, but any problem I can see, I can also see a solution. I’m bordering on interest.
‘I know you really need this right now too, so really think about it,’ she says, in an effort to convince me. In fact, this does the opposite.
It sounds as if she is doing me a favour, which is not the case: she needs me to help develop this further. So far it’s a good but badly thought-out idea. She needs me to help make it a reality. I don’t like her spin of it being a help to me. I feel prickly hot inside with frustration. She isn’t sensing it though and she continues.
‘Your garden leave is up in when, November? We can be quietly working on this until it’s ready to launch and by then you’ll be finished gardening leave. Which is perfect, because I don’t think there’ll be any more room down there for daffodils.’ She means this to be complimentary, but it doesn’t feel it.
‘Daffodils don’t grow in November,’ I say, defensive of my garden.
She frowns. ‘Okay,’ she says slowly.
I leave a long silence.
She snaps the folder shut. ‘If you think it’s shit, say it’s shit.’ She brings it to her chest and hugs it.
‘No, it’s not the idea. It’s, it’s just that, I’m not stuck for work, Caroline, I appreciate you thinking of me and that this would be good for me, but I do have a job offer already.’
‘What job?’
‘I’ve been headhunted – by this gorgeous man, by the way,’ I smile and try to be serious: ‘It’s to set up an organisation dealing with climate change and human rights.’
‘Climate change? Why the sudden interest? Did your snowdrops come up late this year?’ she laughs.
This is meant to be funny. My friends have all been teasing me lately about my dedication to my garden. I have refused coffee dates, I have talked about the process on nights out. It’s the new thing: let’s all tease Jasmine about the garden. I get it, I really do, but … The way Caroline looks at me makes me question if I should even be thinking about going for the job, but I don’t care for her attitude, the implication that I need her.
‘So you’re taking this job?’
‘I’ve been thinking about it.’ I surprise myself with this honesty.
‘Would you get to meet Bono?’
Finally her face softens and I laugh and rub my face tiredly.
‘Jasmine,’ she says gently, ‘do you want to work with me? Yes or no? I won’t take it personally.’
I bite my lip, unable to make a decision there and then. ‘Tell me about the popping candy again.’
Understanding I need more time, she says, ‘Okay but whoever i
t is you’re planning this with, you’ll have to tell them to shave everything down there because it gets a bit sticky.’
And as she talks, all I can think of is Monday. Not because of the popping-candy scenario, but because I don’t want to let him down, this man I barely know who seems to have so much faith in me.
‘Monday,’ I say into the phone, feeling light-headed at the sound of his voice, and a little nervous about what I have to tell him.
‘Jasmine. Perfect. I was just thinking of you. Which isn’t unusual these days.’
It is a beautiful sentiment that is quite unusual, given our relationship, but he moves on quickly as though he hasn’t dropped it in at all. He sounds like he’s out; I can hear traffic, people, wind. Busy man in the city, headhunting people, while I’m here, in my garden, the place I’ve chosen to ring him because it’s the only place where my mind can find peace and clarity these days. It’s day three and the paparazzi are in the car, hiding from the chill, waiting for Matt to come home and misbehave again, placing the pressure on him to explode while the revelations of what actually happened on New Year’s Eve in his studio come to light in the tabloids, a story that was perfectly corroborated by what he’d told me but which has taken on a life of its own in the press, with the prostitute in question selling her story and revelations of her ‘relationship’ with Tony coming to light. It’s a seedy affair that any radio station would back away from.
‘How’s your water fountain coming along?’ he asks.
‘Almost finished. I’m making a deck for it. With hammer and nails in hand. If my old colleagues could see me now.’
‘Those paparazzi better watch out.’
I pause and look around to see if he’s there, though I know from the background on the phone that he’s not.
At my silence he explains, ‘I saw the photos online. Your garden looked nice.’
‘Wish I’d finished the fountain though.’
I can hear the smile in his voice. ‘The rate you’re going, you will. So, the reason I was thinking of you is because I read today that the bluebell will struggle to maintain its range in the face of climate change. During periods of cold weather, spring flowers such as bluebells have already started the process of growth by preparing leaves and flowers in underground bulbs in summer and autumn.’
He sounds as if he’s reading and I sit down on my new garden bench and smile as I listen.
‘They are then able to grow in the cold of winter or early spring by using the resources stored in their bulb. With warmer springs induced by climate change, bluebells will lose their early start advantage and be out-competed by temperature-sensitive plants that start growing earlier than in the past.’
I’m not quite sure how to reply to that. ‘That’s a shame. But I don’t have bluebells in my garden.’ I look around, just to be sure.
‘It would be a shame, though, wouldn’t it, not to have a beautiful blue haze in the woodlands?’
It’s a beautiful image but why he thinks that in particular would convince me to take the job is beyond me.
‘Monday,’ I say and I hear the seriousness in my voice. ‘There’s something I haven’t told you.’
He stalls for a moment, sensing danger ahead. ‘Yes?’
‘I should have said it to you before, but erm …’ I clear my throat. ‘I’m on gardening leave. For one year. It’s up in November.’
‘November?’ he asks, in a tone that I know is not a happy one. He is too professional to show his anger, though he must be angry. I have wasted his time, I see that now, playing some little game with him while he was trying to do his job.
‘It would have been helpful to know this a few weeks ago, Jasmine.’ The way he says my name makes me cringe. I’m so mortified I can’t say anything. I feel like I’ve been caught with my pants down and the paparazzi are around me, snapping away. The one saving grace is that me and Monday are not face to face.
‘I’m sorry I didn’t tell you, I just …’ I can’t think of an excuse, but he leaves me hanging in silence, waiting for me to explain myself. This tells me he’s annoyed and wants an explanation. ‘I was embarrassed.’
It sounds like he’s stopped walking. ‘Why on earth would you be embarrassed?’ he asks, genuinely surprised, the annoyance gone.
‘Gee, I don’t know. I got fired and I can’t work for a year.’
‘Jasmine, that’s normal. That is nothing to be ashamed of. In fact, it’s a compliment that they don’t want you to work with anyone else.’
‘I hadn’t thought of it like that.’
‘Well, you should. Between you and me, I wouldn’t mind getting paid to not work for a year.’ He laughs and I feel so much better already.
There’s a long silence. I’m not sure where to go with this. If this job is no longer a possibility then we will have no reason to meet again, but I want to meet him again so badly. Do I mention this? Do I ask him out? Is this goodbye? He saves me by speaking.
‘Do you want to go for the job, Jasmine?’
I envision the scenario where I say no. He hangs up, I never hear from him again, I return to my gardening leave, my future uncertain, my present boring and terrifying. I don’t want to go back to how I have felt these past few months.
‘Yes. I want a job,’ I say, then realise my mistake. ‘I mean, this job.’
‘Good,’ he says. ‘I’ll have to go back to them with this and see what they say, okay?’
‘Yes, of course. Sure.’ I straighten up, professional face back on. ‘I am really very sorry.’
I hide my face in my hands and cringe for a good five minutes and then, as a way to hide from the conversation I’ve just had, I return to my garden. Eventually all thoughts disappear from my mind as I focus on hammering my deck together, spaced a few inches apart, to place over the basin of water.
It is as I am stacking the Indian sandstone slabs on top of each other and marking the centre with a pencil in order to drill a hole for the pipe, that I suddenly drop the tools on the grass and hurry inside. I go straight to my wall of photographs beside the kitchen table and scan it, knowing exactly what to look for. When I see it, my hands quickly cover my mouth and I can’t believe how quickly I am overcome with emotion. That the image would mean so much to me and also that Monday would know that.
Beside where Monday had sat a few days ago is a photo of me, Heather, Dad and Mum – the only photo I have of the four of us together – taken on one of our regular trips to the Botanic Gardens. We’re all wearing big smiles for the camera, me with my front tooth missing, as we lie in a field of bluebells.
19
The photograph makes me think, it makes me think for a long time about a whole lot of things. This I do while completing my water fountain, and also while hammering together a trellis and painting it red in honour of Granddad Adalbert Mary and attaching vine eyes and wires to my house wall so that my newly planted winter jasmine can climb. And then, when I think I can’t think any more, and people are after me to make decisions about my life, I decide to lay more grass at the side of my house and sow a flower meadow. Eddie returns to dig and I’m no fool this time, he completes the small patch in one full day, I prepare the soil and the following week I sow a meadow seed mix including poppies, corn chamomile, ox-eye daisies and cornflowers. It is a small area, but I sow them beside the space I am keeping for the soon-to-be-delivered lean-to greenhouse which will stand against the free wall of my semi-detached house. To prevent birds from eating the seeds, one of my Sunday activities with Heather is to set up a series of strings with CDs threaded on them across the sown area. Even this we do with thought, choosing songs that we think will scare the birds away.
I plant, and I plant, and I plant. And as I plant, I think; except I’m not aware that I’m thinking. In fact, sometimes I am sure that I’m not thinking and yet suddenly a thought will come to me. It will arrive so suddenly and unexpectedly that I stand up straight, my aching back stretched, and I look around to see who it was or what it was t
hat gave me that sudden thought and did anyone see me having it. March moves to April and I’m still thinking. I do the weeding. I protect the new growth from the cold snaps and while the days are gradually getting warmer there are still some strong winds and heavy showers. I think about my flowers when I’m out at night with friends, especially if there’s a particularly heavy rainstorm and people walk into the restaurant shaking off umbrellas and discarding sodden coats. The first thing I think about in the morning is my garden. I think about my garden when I’m lying in the arms of a man I met in a bar and listening to the wind howl outside his bedroom window and I want to be home with my garden, where things make sense. I keep on moving. I don’t want my grass to grow too long and then appear yellow when it’s cut. It can’t be neglected. I regularly rake out ‘thatch’, not wanting dead grass and mess to accumulate, hoping for healthier grass, for moss and weeds not to establish in it. And all the time I do it, I think.
The daffodils that once rose proud and tall from the ground, the first of the colour in the grey early spring, are now withered. The flowers are going over and so, with sadness, I snap the heads off behind the swollen parts; leaving the stalk intact. If the spent flowers are left on, the plant’s energy will be diverted into the production of seeds. By removing the dead heads the plant’s energy is instead diverted into the formation of next year’s flower bud within the bulb.
In the garden there is always movement, there is always growth. No matter how stuck in time I feel, I go outside and things are changing all around me. There are suddenly flowers where there was once just the tiniest bud, and the open flower will stare at me, wide open and proud at what it has done while we all slept.
Monday has confirmed that the job is to begin in November and he is currently looking for other candidates to offer them too, so the interview is put off until 9 June. I can’t wait; I long to get back to feeling like the old me again. I long for my year to be up, and though I have wished the year away on countless occasions I wonder what will I do when the time comes? In November it will be cold, dark, grey and stormy again. Of course that comes with its own beauty, but it will be time for me to make decisions about my life, hopefully begin the new job – if I get it. Suddenly I want the time to slow. I look at my transforming garden, the movement in the water fountain, the spring flowers that are raising their heads, and I realise that I can’t stop what is waiting for me. So much of gardening is about preparing for what is about to come next, what season, what elements, and I must now start doing that in my life.