Meanwhile Gardens (5 page)

Rion had been awake since eight o’clock, woken by the chorus of Canada geese on the canal. She had slept surprisingly well. The long day, the fresh, slightly damp air, the darkness of her new lodgings and the warmth of the down sleeping bag had brought about a deep, seemingly dreamless sleep.

“I am in London, I am in London, I am in London,” Rion had repeated to herself since she woke up, smiling more and more every time she said it. The longer she was away from her family the stronger, the more confident, the more ‘herself’ she felt, even though she wasn’t at all sure who ‘herself’ was.

At least not yet.

Jake’s four-note whistle alerted her to his arrival. Rion heard him push his way through the saplings into the little clearing outside Old George’s old home, which might, she thought, be Rion’s new one.

In his hand he carried a package wrapped in metal foil. If it was again Cuban food, if it was again as good as the fish and dumplings he had brought last night, then Rion would be happy.

“Good morning, nice morning!” Jake exclaimed with the exuberance of a barrow boy. He found Rion, motionless, looking intently through the rustic fence at something on the canal.

Rion put a finger to her lips, “Shhhh!”

Hidden from the canal by Old George’s screen of branches and sticks Rion gazed at one of the birds that gave the place its name.

The heron had not been disturbed by Jake’s arrival. It
continued wading on its long thin legs, occasionally spearing the water with its beak, searching for eels, for carp and small pike.

Rion was transfixed. The bird had a tufted crown, a badger stripe running down the back of its head and what looked like a rough necklace of different sized feathers hanging at the top of its chest.

She gestured to the heron’s feather necklace. “It’s like something Hitherto Williams would use isn’t it?”

The awkward silence that followed was broken by a high-pitched woman’s shriek coming from the other side of the cemetery wall. The heron looked up, flapped its enormous wings and flew lazily to the other bank.

Upon hearing the shriek – a cry more of wonder than of fear – Jake cocked his head to one side and smiled, “Senora Padilla.”

Rion didn’t understand. “Excuse me?”

“That’s Senora Padilla,” Jake gave a short, mischievous laugh, “confirming her belief in spirits.”

“Sorry?”

“Near my tree there’s a large, double-fronted family grave in grey marble,” Jake explained, “perhaps you saw it yesterday?”

Rion shook her head.

“It’s the resting place of the Padilla family, although the grandfather, Jose Gabriel, is as yet the only occupant. His grieving widow comes to talk to him and to pray every Wednesday and Sunday.”

The picture was becoming clearer to Rion. “And she always brings food right?”

“Lovingly prepared by her hands – didn’t you think it was good?”

“Well, yes,” Rion had to agree it was.

“If I didn’t take it, the foxes and crows would get it.”

“But – ”

“It’s not like I’m stealing or anything.”

“Yes, but – ”

“And she doesn’t see me, I mean, she’s praying, eyes firmly closed, when I take it.”

“But it’s wrong!”

“Why?”

“Because – ”

“How do you know that she’s not praying for something like that to happen? How do you know she’s not hoping that when she opens her eyes the food will be gone, that the very act of the food vanishing doesn’t somehow reaffirm her faith and comfort her?”

“It’s still wrong.”

Jake opened the envelope of metal foil. The fragrant smell of tomatoes and herbs wafted over to Rion.

“So you won’t be having any then?” Jake asked.

The memory of last night’s Cuban offering, the crumbly fish, the delicate sauce and the soft, almost creamy dumplings, made up Rion’s mind for her.

“I didn’t say that.”

She nipped down the steps, brought out the chipped plate and cutlery and neatly divided Senora Padilla’s graveside offering into two.

“Spoon or fork?” she asked Jake.

“Fork.”

They ate from opposite sides of the plate.

For a few uncomfortable seconds their faces came within whiskers of each other as they lent down to scoop up the delicious food.

Instinctively they both pulled back.

“Sleep ok?”

Rion nodded between mouthfuls.

“The sleep of the just.”

“Or the dead,” Rion replied hesitantly. “I was exhausted.”

Using one finger Jake eased the last dumpling onto his fork. “You know – ”

Rion put up her hand to stop him, “Wait.” She put her head to one side and listened. In the distance was the sound of barking.

And then she heard it.

The muffled sound of someone angrily shouting, “Hum!”

Ollie staggered down the towpath. Beside him were the enormous rusting gasometers, on the other side of the canal the broad expanse of the cemetery. Glancing at his watch for the umpteenth time he saw it had taken him fifteen minutes to get this far.

Fifteen minutes!

Almost the same time as it would have taken to walk.

Ollie’s thighs and lungs burned, his breath came in painful rasps, his eyes blurred, his mouth was parched and his calves ached; Bush pounded on his ipod which, spitefully, seemed to be stuck on full volume and the hound was driving him mad.

Completely mad.

For every step of the way Hum, barking in feverish excitement, had leapt up and down right in front of his feet. With every stagger, every lurch that Ollie took, the dog threatened to trip him up.

Repeated admonitions had achieved nothing.

Ollie resigned himself to shouting the dog’s name in the hope of getting him to behave, shouting the dog’s name louder and louder, louder and louder above the blasting, blasted ipod.

Any second now he would turn back, he promised himself, any second now.

With relief he saw the knoll overlooking Little Wormwood Scrubs. That’s where I’ll turn round, he told himself, and not before. If I can just make it to -

But Hum had other ideas.

The mischievous hound, foaming at the mouth from exhilaration and exertion, came in just too close.

Ollie’s right foot became wrapped in Hum’s front feet. He tripped and stumbled. Flailing at the air, arms windmilling like mad, Ollie tumbled to the ground in what seemed to him like slow motion.

The headphones were ripped from his head. His ears buzzed in the newfound silence.

Above the sound of his curses and groaning Ollie was sure he could hear a girl’s laughter. The strange thing was it seemed to be coming from the cemetery.

But that was impossible.

On the other side of the canal rows of tightly planted saplings lined the high brick cemetery wall. There was hardly enough room for a goose let alone a person.

Then something struck him.

Ollie quickly looked around. He was in front of the knoll, further on from the gasworks – there was no one else in sight.

Could it be Auntie Gem’s spirit? The ghost of the young girl caught between Heaven and Hell?

Could it?

Ollie slowly got to his feet.

“Don’t be stupid Ollie,” he said out loud, “of course it’s not.” He reattached headphones to ipod, gave a last look at the saplings and limped back the way he came.

Hum ran ahead, ignorant of the damage he had caused.

Rion and Jake peered through the rough fence of branches Old George had woven between the saplings closest to the canal. They watched as Ollie shuffled around the corner.

“He won’t have seen us but he might have heard you.”

“Do you know him?”

“No, I’ve seen him around though. I recognise the dog.”

Rion was dying to wash her face. She had been tempted to splash canal water on it then, mindful of what Jake had said Old George did in the canal – even though it was downstream – decided against it.

Who knows how many people upstream were doing what Old George did downstream?

Also she had managed to pee in the bushes but now something more urgent called and she wasn’t doing
that
in the bushes.

“You know what you mentioned about Sainsburys and where I could, you know,” Rion looked at the ground, “have a wash..….”

“You don’t get sea-sick do you?”

Sometimes, Rion thought, Jake said the oddest things.

“Er – no, at least I don’t think so.”

“Good. Get your things then and meet me near the broken rail.”

Jake pushed his way through the saplings and was lost to sight.

Rion grabbed her toothbrush and toothpaste, some cotton wool, a bar of Boots’ gentle cleanser and pushed through after him.

Further on from the broken railing leading to the cemetery she found Jake struggling with something stuck in the reeds.

With a final huff Jake pulled the object free.

Rion’s heart sunk.

It was a two-man canoe in battered, yellow fibreglass, patched with glue and thick silver masking tape in several places.

“It’s quite safe,” said Jake cheerfully. He pulled a paddle out of the canoe before holding it above his head.

Water trickled from the front position.

“I got it from the scouts. They threw it out.”

Now there’s a surprise Rion thought.

He dropped the canoe, which landed with a smack on the water. “I often use it at night, it keeps me out of the guards’ way – I just paddle across and leave it in the bushes under the towpath wall.” Jake turned to Rion, his hand outstretched, “You get in first.”

Rion looked at the canoe wobbling in the shallows, “No, I’ll walk, I’ll – ”

“If you walk you’ll need to go out through the cemetery, onto the Harrow Road and across the bridge. It’ll take you fifteen minutes. In the canoe it’ll take less than two.”

That did it. She couldn’t last fifteen minutes. Sometimes Nature doesn’t call so much as shout, she thought unhappily.

Dispelling her fears Rion took Jake’s hand and stepped into the leaky craft.

I
t was 11.25 by the time Ollie got to Café Feliz. He saw Nicky before she saw him. With the Sunday papers open on her knees the photographer sat in animated conversation with her usual lot outside the small café.

There was Liv who made stripy T-shirts and flip-flops with plastic flowers wound into the toe that ‘le tout’ Notting Hill clamoured for; her friend Isa, a brittle brunette who was something in PR; an American whose name Ollie always forgot who was involved in hair and make-up; the permatanned Ger who seemed to spend all his time in Goa or Thailand and Clive Fairland, a partying heterosexual fashion student with a penchant for drag.

Ollie’s heart raced faster for a few beats upon seeing who sat with Clive. Even though he had cropped his formerly tousled long hair there was no mistake.

It was Will.

Ollie didn’t know his last name but he did remember he was called Will. They had spent the night snogging drunkenly at a dreadful New Year’s party, two – or was it three? – years ago.

There could be no doubt. It was the way the way he held his chin, it was his languid amused smile, and it was his dimples. His dimples!

“Sweetheart!” Nicky got up. She was about to put her arm around him when she saw his grazed knee.

“It’s nothing,” Ollie said before she could ask. “Hum tripped me up and – ”

“Crash?” Nicky finished for him.

Ollie shook his head sorrowfully, “Yup.”

“Want a pastry?”

Ollie looked at the custard tarts flaunting themselves in the window. He salivated, imagining his teeth sinking through the thin layers of pastry into the rich custard.

“No,” Ollie said, “No.” And then again to convince himself, “No thanks.”

Nicky gestured to the people at the table, “You know everyone – ”

Ollie nodded to one and all. He smiled at Will who lowered his eyes, “It’s Will isn’t it?”

Clive laughed, “Ollie you’re terrible with names. This is Andy. Andy, Ollie.”

Shaking hands seemed such a naff thing to do so Ollie just grinned stupidly. Andy? His name can’t be Andy.

“Whatcha been listening to?” Clive asked.

Ollie realised with a shudder that they were all members of the style police. Something as potentially unhip as Bush would not go down well at all. He held the ipod tightly to him.

“Er – ”

“Give us a clue at least,” Liv pressed. “A lyric perhaps –”

“Hum a bar,” Nicky suggested.

“Name that tune!” cackled Isa.

All attention was now on Ollie.

“Well,” he squirmed. “I’m never quite sure if the line is: ‘The cupboard is bare we
really need
food....’ or: ‘The cupboard is bare
my willy
needs food....’”

The group pondered in silence.

“That depends on whether it’s heavy metal or some singer-songwriter. I mean, if it was Green Day – ” Ger offered.

“Well, it’s obviously not Green Day,” Liv argued, “they’re American and they wouldn’t use a word like ‘willy’ would they?”

“Unless it was Vance Pashun, she’s got balls – ”

“And probably a willy too!” said Nicky.

“ – she’d use it wouldn’t she?” Clive looked to the others for confirmation.

All nodded and turned to Ollie.

“Is it Vance then? Is it ‘Pashun’?” Clive asked.

Ollie shook his head, “No.”

“Vance – the original Number 1 Fan,” Andy muttered.

“Could it be Lily Allen?” inquired the American whose name Ollie never could remember.

“For ‘we really’? or ‘my willy’?” Isa giggled.

“Neither. You’ve had two chances and now I have to go I’m afraid,” Ollie looked at Nicky. “Candida’s coming round in half an hour – ”

“Ouch!” Nicky got up to join him. “You’ll need some support then.”

“ – and I want to have a shower before she arrives.”

As Nicky folded her paper and picked up all the supplements from the floor Liv asked, “Who was it then? On your ipod? You can’t leave us not knowing.”

Ollie breathed a quiet sigh of relief. “Next time!” he grinned as he took Nicky’s arm and left to a chorus of disappointed groans.

After a few yards Nicky stopped in her tracks, struck by a sudden realisation.

“Oh I know who it is,” she said turning to face the group.