Here is a story I wrote some years ago, I feel confident enough to post it as it once won third prize in a competition - I hope you enjoy it.
Exodus from Eden
Eden drive, third left off
Mistletoe Avenue, middle of August, middle of the afternoon, middle class,
middle income, middle aged.
Number 12a,
semi with off road parking to the front, no distinguishing features.
Until you enter the back garden.
The Eden of Eden Drive.
A rectangular patch transformed into a jungle
of foliage and flower, boundaries blurred.
Boisterous planting.
An all too
perceptible narrowing of the grassy path – meant to alter perspective.
On the patio, sweltering on a lurid sun
lounger, in shorts, socks and sandals, Eddie slumbered sweatily.
At the furthest end of the garden,
hidden from view by the meandering sweeps of the path and borders, up against
the old churchyard wall, was the shade border.
Secret, shadowy and cool.
Leah
was on her knees, rump in the air, torso and arms stretched far into the
greenery, weeding.
A myriad of shade
loving plants vied for space.
A climbing
hydrangea overwhelmed most of the ancient wall.
A shapely Cercis, ‘Forest Pansy’ ensured dappled shade until the early
morning sun had passed over.
The soil
here was dark and fertile, moist, well mulched.
The other borders, in full sun, were gaudy and overblown – a riot of
colour to horrify the horticultural snob.
Summer evenings, as Eddie slouched
in front of the TV, Leah began what for her was the next best thing to
weeding.
The hose lay coiled and ready
for this ritual, and on days when rain made watering unnecessary, Leah felt
robbed.
Weekend watering included a
foliar feed.
Leah had treated herself to
a Hozelock Spray System.
She carefully
mixed the plant food, not too little, not too much.
As she stirred, the water turned pale blue,
twenty or so pumps on the handle to get the pressure up and she was off, her yellow plastic tank on
wheels trundling behind.
To drench the
leaves of all the plants took four fills of the tank.
The garden began life as a
rectangular lawn with regiments of spring daffodils in narrow edging
borders.
Eddie’s pride and joy.
The lawn had been weed free, in bowling green
condition.
Then the children
arrived.
Prams, swings, tents, paddling
pools and the family dog Sukie’s attentions left it in disrepair.
Daisies, moss and creeping buttercup took
over – Eddie gave up.
As the children
grew, they commandeered the garden less and less.
A refugee from the noise and demands in the
house, Leah took over the garden.
She
avidly watched Geoff Hamilton, Mr Smith, Titchmarsh and all, absorbing
information, scribbling down plant names.
Over the years her personal paradise had emerged.
New beds opened each year, digging up almost
all of what remained of the lawn, following a ‘conceal and reveal’ theme (Titchmarsh
– Gardener’s World).
The path narrowing
idea came courtesy of Monty Don.
On the lounger, Eddie stirred.
“Leah………………
Leah…………..
Tea love.”
While the kettle boiled, Leah
emptied the dishwasher.
Saturdays had been hectic, human
full times – when the children were still at home.
Now they were scattered across the planet, Leah’s
own personal Diaspora.
Bizzy in Rome,
Becky on a cruise ship somewhere in the Caribbean, and Mark.
“Mark’s in aviation.”
That is how Eddie described it, before
quickly changing the subject.
His only
son a pilot?
Air traffic
controller?
Is it true what they say
about
cabin crew?
Eddie knew how the conversation would go –
and avoided it.
Mark had told Leah when he was
fifteen, after one of who knows how many rows with his father.
From the garden Leah heard the raised male
voices.
The girls had retreated to their
bedroom, radio full volume.
Refugee to
referee Leah moved towards the house.
The front door slammed as Eddie stormed out – barely able to control his
rage.
Leah heard his car roar away, he
would be back later, when he had calmed down.
A tearful, shaking Mark stumbled out of the back door just as Leah
reached for the handle.
They sat
together in the garden.
Leah held him to
her heart.
Mark left home first.
Becky was next, the eldest, now a nursery nurse
coordinating a team of nursery nurses and the crèche on ‘Spirit of the
Caribbean’.
Bizzy followed her sister,
and was nannying for an American diplomat’s family in Rome.
They kept in touch – with Leah.
Leah knew how cruel families could
be.
True to their word, not one of them,
not even her mother, had ever contacted her again.
“Marry out and you stay out forever”.
Probably the last words her father ever spoke
to her, she was not sure.
It had been a
time of such noise and wailing, bolts of lightning, crashes of thunder, pillars
of salt and a Red Sea of tears.
Leah stared out of the kitchen
window at her beautiful garden.
The
Buddleia was truly magnificent this year, alive with Peacock butterflies,
hoverflies and bees.
In one bed huge
dusky pink Opium Poppies, seed pods already forming, towered above Sedums just
hinting at the thousands of individual carmine flowers forming each head.
In another, a standard Fuchsia with blooms
like crinolines had butter yellow African Marigolds shrieking around its
feet.
Roses rambled up fences.
Rudbeckia, Petunias and Nasturtiums
everything arguing as to who is the fairest of them all.
Eddie’s doughy body spoiled the
view.
He had been a good husband, either
faithful or very discreet, a good provider.
A good father when the children were little, he had even been known to
push the pram on occasions, a rare thing back then.
The problem was that he was trapped in a time
bubble, somewhere back in the 1950’s.
The sexual revolution, women’s liberation and the swinging sixties had
passed him by.
His son should have a man’s job -
and be normal.
His daughters should be
married and raising their own children.
The Chandler line looked like it would end with him – Edward George
Chandler – unless Mark pulled himself together, (a hope to which Eddie clutched
like a shipwrecked mariner to a piece of flotsam).
Given the way his daughters were carrying on
they were very likely to produce little Chandlers, but they would not count.
Leah took the tea out to the
patio.
Eddie had fallen asleep
again.
She set the tea tray on the
table, poured a cup for herself, and sat down under the parasol.
Was this all there was to look forward too,
life with this balding, perspiring, overweight anachronism.
Having sacrificed her birth family Leah had
poured herself heart and soul into their children.
Why?
Just to see them once a year?
Just for the odd ‘phone call?
Just because they could not bear to spend time with their father.
He was overdue for a heart attack, up for
early retirement; soon he would be at home all day, every day, until
death.
Death she could cope with.
The shade edged round to cover
Eddie.
He groaned and hoisted himself
into a sitting position.
His breasts lay
on his belly, his belly lapped his thighs.
“Garden looks nice love.
Oh, tea’s cold.”
Waiting by the kettle, looking out
over her garden, Leah decided.
That week she drove to the garden
centre as usual.
She ‘phoned Bizzy in
Rome.
Left a message for Mark and
Johnny.
Booked her flight, arranged for
travellers’ cheques and Euros.
Friday
morning she waved Eddie off to work, hoovered, dusted, emptied the dishwasher,
ordered a taxi for 3:15 – then, just one last job in the garden.
By two thirty it was done.
Every leaf of every plant glistened with
droplets in the sun, every blade of grass in the path sparkled.
Everything was saturated.
She left a note for Eddie saying she had gone
to see Bizzy, needed time for herself, women’s problems, menopause.
In the shed she left two sacks of fine lawn
seed.
Eddie had been totally amazed on
reading the letter.
Nothing had changed;
everything was as it had always been.
Leah had not complained, what was there to complain about?
She had not mentioned the ‘Change’- he had
not noticed anything.
Confused and irritated he picked up
the ‘phone, slamming it down when he realized he did not know the number to
dial for any of his children.
Where did
she keep the ‘phone book?
He looked around helplessly.
Eventually he found it, in the draw of the
telephone table.
He dialled Bizzy’s
number but could not think of a message to leave in reply to the American drawl
of the answer phone.
He tried Mark,
Johnny answered, Eddie put the ‘phone down.
How do I ‘phone a bloody ship?” he
shouted.
“Selfish, selfish little bloody
…..What am I supposed to eat?
Oh, Leah.”
He slumped in a chair, too angry to
cry.
He would have stormed out, slammed
the door, roared off in his car – but who would have noticed?
He ordered an Indian takeaway to be delivered
which he ate in front of the television.
He decided to do nothing, ‘phone no one; after all, she was the one who
had gone swanning off with no thought for him.
Half way through the first week,
with no word from Leah, he got his secretary to arrange for a daily.
Mrs Marjorie Smith. Marge, knew it was
temporary.
“Until my wife gets back from
visiting our daughter.”
She came in the
morning, dusted, hoovered, filled and turned on the dishwasher and prepared a
meal left in the oven on the timer to be ready when Eddie got back from the
office.
On Fridays she would take the
laundry home with her and bring it back washed and ironed on Monday morning.
That weekend Eddie noticed the
plants beginning to droop.
“Water, I’d better water them or
Leah will be upset when she gets back.”
Eddie muttered to himself.
Over
the following week, still no word from Leah, and the plants looked worse despite Eddie’s
efforts with the hose.
He looked in the
shed for the first time in years, found the Hozelock and went to the cupboard
for the fertilizer.
He took out a plastic bottle with a little
liquid left in it.
He could have sworn
the fertilizer was granular, blue granules.
This must be something new.
Peering through his bifocals he first noticed the hazardous substance
sign – below that ‘Contains Glyphosate’ – below that ‘Herbicide’.
He smelt the contents of the bottle, then the
residue in the sprayer.
“Bloody Hell, Bloody Bastard
Buggering Hell.
She’s Killed the Bloody
Lot.”
Eddie sat down on a sack, one of
two sacks leaning against the shed wall – he looked down.
‘Marchant’s Finest Lawn Seed – For the
Perfect Lawn.”
Eventually Mrs Marjorie Smith moved
in as housekeeper.
She had been a widow
for many years and enjoyed having a man to look after again.
There was some gossip in Eden Drive, but that
soon died.
Eddie put the garden down to
lawn.
In retirement, this luxurious turf
was his pride and joy.
Never to be
walked on during frost or when the soil was saturated.
Aerated, scarified, fed and never, ever cut
shorter than one inch, unblemished by speedwell or daisy, beautifully
striped.
The only reminder of Leah that
remained was the Cercis; its dappled shade stole light from the grass, making
it less lush beneath its canopy.
Eddie
dug the turf away in a circle and planted daffodils.
Mark wrote.
His mother was fine, she had a job in Italy,
just outside Rome, housekeeping for a wealthy family only in residence for part
of the year.
She was learning Italian from a group of
local women who made lace; she was learning to make lace too.
Eddie and Marge puffed and panted
their way up the narrow street from the square where the coaches parked.
Marge had never been abroad – her George had
not approved of abroad.
She was beguiled
by Italy, the heat of the sun on her skin, the unfamiliar sounds and
smells.
At the top of the hill a group
of local women sat making lace.
Gypsy
dark they sat in the shade clicking their bobbins and chattering.
Their eyes met with a flash of
recognition.
A brief nod before the tour
guide shepherded her flock into the Basilica.
When they came out Eddie looked -
Leah and the other lace makers had moved on. Marge squeezed Eddie’s hand.
She had never been so happy.
They shuffled off down the steep hill to the
coach park.
Leah had gone to the local
market.
She bought onions, peppers and
wonderful local tomatoes.
Her employers
were away in London. Tomorrow, Mark and Johnny, Becky, and Leah’s new
grandaughter, Ebony Angelique, were coming to stay for a week – Bizzy planned
to join them on Sunday.
To celebrate
their all being together Leah had needed one or two more ingredients for a
special pudding she had invented – a sort of Italianated custard tart
containing ground almonds, eggs, milk and honey.
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