Gardens

Gardens

T HE BUS WINDS

its way through the greyer parts of the city. I sit with my knees neatly together, hands clasped. Do not be nervous, Eddie,

the bus bell dings. And yet, my hands are determined to have a little quiver. The sun is doing her thing, lighting the office buildings and the expressway with all the possibilities of morning conveyed in her light. It will not be like the date with Val

, I promise myself. Only the sun herself knows if it will be better or worse, but I know it will not be the same.

Stepping through the gift shop and out into Winterbourne is like walking into the secret garden, and I am Mary Lennox. It barely seems possible that I am only minutes from the city centre. The hiss of the bus brakes, its smell of body odour and diesel, all seem suddenly so far away.

It is so green. I take a deep breath.

‘It’s beautiful in the mornings, isn’t it?’ Grace says, appearing beside me holding a takeaway coffee cup.

The gardens are spread out before us, the grass carpeting down the hill towards a tree-lined walk where the branches

stretch up to the sky. It is beautiful. And yet, it is Grace I am looking at now. Beneath her denim dungarees she is wearing a pink silk shirt beset with flowers and insects. Her hair is held in a neat bun at the back of her neck by a pink silk flower and every finger has a different ornate ring. Bella would absolutely adore this outfit. Madame Butterfly.

‘You look very dashing,’ Grace says.

‘The invitation said to wear something special.’

‘And you did.’ She reaches out and touches the sleeve of my silky shirt. ‘Are those leopards?’

‘Cheetahs.’

‘What’s the difference?’

‘Cheetahs are slinkier.’

Grace has a wheezing, joyous laugh and, by eliciting it, I feel as though I’ve done something wonderful. From the top pocket of her dungarees, she pulls out an orange inhaler that is shaped like a seashell, blows out, clicks it and breathes in.

‘Are you all right?’ I ask her.

She holds her breath but nods and smiles, placing her hand on the sleeve of my slinky, silky shirt again. And for a moment, I can think of nothing else besides her warm fingers on my arm.

After Grace breathes out and declares herself ‘all better’, she asks me if I would like to walk with her among the gardens.

And there can be no other answer.

As we walk along the winding paths, dipping beneath the trees, in and out of shade, spotting industrious bumblebees paying visits to the flowers, we talk. We talk about everything: living in the city, bookshops and bumblebees, where squirrels go in the winter, getting older, staying young. She tells me

about her ex-husband; I tell her about Marjie and the shop. She asks about my time at the university and I discover she guest lectures in Leicester on photography. I tell her about Pushkin; she tells me her asthma prevents anything other than pet fish, though she does like the name Pushkin. As we make our second loop of the gardens, we reach the pond, with its huge lily pads and its arched wooden bridge. I remark to Grace how the surroundings look almost Jurassic. I can imagine that dinosaurs would drink here to cool off on a hot day.

‘I’ve never been convinced,’ Grace says as we cross the bridge and stop at its apex, to look at the reflections of the trees in the water.

‘Convinced?’ I ask.

‘First, they said dinosaurs were big, scaly beasts, and now they want us to believe they had feathers and were basically giant chickens. They need to make their minds up before they convince me.’

‘So you don’t believe in dinosaurs?’

‘I do not.’

‘And all the bones that they keep finding?’

‘Someone somewhere is having a very big laugh.’

I can’t help laughing myself, and Grace joins in, leaning over on the rail of the bridge and pulling out her seashell inhaler so she can breathe again.

We wander onwards. Watching as the day warms and people enter the gardens, families with children, students with heavy textbooks, older couples, just like us, who make a beeline straight for the tea room. And I wonder as we wander why Grace’s camera has not left the bag that is slung across her with its floral strap.

‘This garden is beautiful,’ she says, ‘but it’s people for me.’

‘People?’

‘I have tried. Often. To photograph trees, flowers, beaches, parks – you name it. I can’t do it. What I photograph has to have a soul.’

‘Trees have souls, in their own way,’ I say, looking up at the whispering branches above us.

‘Do you think?’

‘Egg cups, too, on occasion.’

Grace gives me a look that tells me that she can’t be sure if I am being serious or not.

‘This shirt,’ I tell her. ‘Don’t you think it has a soul?’

‘It does when you wear it,’ she says.

I treat us both to a cup of tea and we sit on a bench at the edge of the terrace overlooking the gardens.

‘Oh, look at them.’

Set up on a bench beside a tree are two students, each with a textbook open on their lap. They are holding hands but keep having to let go whenever one of them needs to turn a page. Grace studies them, eyes squinted, and I wonder if she is sizing them up for how they would look in a photograph. I wonder if she sees everything through a lens, imagining how she might preserve the moment. Portrait or landscape, colour or black and white?

‘And it all begins,’ she says, ‘with just one moment where something tips, from friendship into something else.’

‘You know,’ I tell her, ‘I’ve never known how somebody turns from a friend to a sweetheart.’

‘You haven’t?’ Grace asks.

‘I’ve been trying to work out whether this is a date since you invited me on it.’

‘You have?’ She smiles at me that same smile from the first day we met that seems to communicate how silly I’m being. ‘Eddie,’ she says, touching my knee, ‘I don’t put my lucky flower in my hair for just anybody.’

‘Really?’

‘You surprise me, though, Eddie,’ she says, leaving her hand there on my knee, my heart galloping. ‘You’re a spark,’ she says. ‘I’d have thought you’d have swept a person or two off their feet in your time.’

I shake my head.

‘I’ve never been too lucky with moments,’ I tell her.

‘Well, that’s the thing,’ she says. ‘It does have to be the right

moment.’

I turn to her and realize just how she is looking at me. Her eyes are so twinkly.

My horse heart gallops faster, This is it, Eddie, here we go!

it whinnies.

Grace puts down her tea and places her other hand on my hand, purposeful. Sure. Her hands are soft and warm. And I can hardly breathe.

Here we go, Eddie.

And then—

Between us comes a sound, a round sound, booming and large.

Ding

Ding

Ding

The chimes of the clock tower. Old Joe. He’s half a mile

away at the centre of the university campus, and yet out he rings. Even here, among the flowers.

And I am no longer in the Winterbourne Gardens but standing beneath Old Joe’s arches with Bridie, wearing a borrowed coat and looking into her eyes, the two of us standing far too close to one another. And the longing to be back there, to see her again, is physical. Right on the borderline between joy and pain.

I must have lingered too long. Because Grace’s smile, almost imperceptibly, changes. And the grip of her hand on mine loosens.

I would give anything to be back there with Bridie. To have my chance again. To sweep her off her feet. I want to claw at the face of time, just to be back there with her.

‘Are you okay, Eddie?’ Grace asks.

I swallow. Just at this moment, I can’t speak.

Grace takes her hand from my knee and picks up her tea. She is studying me.

‘Old Joe,’ she says as she sups. ‘Is he a friend of yours?’

‘Something like that,’ I tell her, and I find that I might very well be on the verge of tears.

The moment has passed. I don’t know where it went, that moment of possibility, who it will find, who will fall into a kiss because of it, but off it went, passing between us and out into the blue sky. Grace smiles. She felt the moment pass too, I’m sure of it.

‘Thank you,’ I tell her. ‘For a lovely day.’

‘You’re very welcome, Eddie,’ she replies.

And I know we will not meet again.