The rockgarden
It was a few weeks before my 13th birthday that I first developed an interest in the control of oxalis.
It was my first year of boarding school. I had no notion of what to expect there beyond the images I had concocted of lazy days whiled away on a sunbaked hillside, puffing on a Senior Service “Navy Cut”. The origins of these pre-teen fantasies could be traced back to my reading of Kipling‘s "Stalky and Co.”
In fact the hostel was a dingy Victorian pile, once the grand home of a long dead headmaster , (who, nevertheless retained a presence in the form of a lifesize bronze bust in the entrance hall with the eyes hollowed out like seagulls do to baby lambs that they find undefended), The house had been clumsily repurposed to hold sixty boarders, all trying to navigate through puberty without maps or effective adult support.
As the most junior, we, the third-formers, or “turds,” were crammed into a narrow, dormitory containing six double bunks giving us about 1 m2 each of living space to pack away and attempt to regulate our pheromonal surges and to get used to the newly evolving, altered versions of ourselves.
This whole tense, often unkind tribe was supervised by a gaunt, satanic, Brylcream-slick housemaster with large protruding ears that were curiously chewed along the edges. There was no accepted theory as to what had chewed them but they served him well as he glided round the building silent as a snake. He would appear without warning and glare at captive boarders , sniffing their essence with an invisible forked tongue.
The new intake of turds were a disparate group not notable for their academic achievement, the criteria for selection mostly relating to the attention paid by the family to the Old Boys Association A few of us had scholarships, supposedly awarded on merit but my dorm-mates seemed to be united only by their hard rural background and our shared struggle with hormonal surges. In most cases this was expressed as a relentless need to compete and dominate that frequently threatened to explode into violence.
Even Saturday cricket, (which I had gathered Stalky enjoyed,) proved to be deceptively difficult and my day-dreams of exceptional, even match-saving, acts of heroism had been replaced by the reality of howls of criticism from my peers and the stunning pain of that rock-hard ball. Once experienced, a reflexive reluctance to interfere with the flight of the ball seemed like common sense but it spelt the end of my interest in playing cricket.
The only legitimate release from this weekend purgatory was, I decided, to get a Saturday job. My plan was to offer myself as a kind of “Bob-a-Job, “scout ,( non-affiliated.) I began to selectively canvass the less scary -looking houses down the many cul-de-sacs in our area.
My hesitant approaches were mostly greeted by impatient looks that suggested that my potential employers would rather add me to their compost bin than employ me to work and my enthusiasm was rapidly waning, but the desire to avoid the pain of cricket drove me on and eventually, through tall, dark trees, I glimpsed an imposing two- storey house. It was chocolate brown with small almond windows, but the roof was studded with yellow -orange lichen, and the derelict flower beds surrounding the entrance were frosted with moss, giving it a distinctly gothic ambience.
I advanced on the doorbell, which was buried in dense cobwebs, on the paint-blistered door frame.
The chimes in the hallway were followed by a high-pitched bark and the staccato clatter of a dog running towards the door. Through the heavily rippled glass I could see the fragmented image of someone coming down the hall. Muffled sounds, a woman’s voice, grew louder as the fragmented images in the glass panes danced, split and reconnected amoeba-like as she approached.
The door opened slowly and a woman about my mother’s age gazed at me enquiringly, her dark hair, curled unguided over her forehead and shoulders . She swept greying strands behind her ears self -consciously.
“I….was wondering if…I am available…..for gardening, mowing lawns, if you…..ahh ……need help.” I trailed off.
It suddenly occurred to me that she was wearing a dressing gown, flowing brocade with wide shimmery blue lapels. I thought it looked expensive and elegant.
The dog pushed in front of her, panting, scanned my feet and ankles with a wet nose and looked at me with rheumy eyes. The lower lids had drooped and were rimmed with crescents of red.
The dog’s face was framed with white hair hanging down around its jowls in an untidy beard. I held out my hand to greet her. Her tail began to thrash with pleasure and I scratched briefly behind her ears.
The woman’s eyes flicked briefly over me and her face flushed suddenly into a smile.
“How lovely”, Her voice was resonant and warm. “Someone to help with the oxalis.’’ “ She reached down and gently tugged at the dog’s collar. “Come along, Rosie, good old girl. Shall we show this young man the rock garden?”.
She hitched up her dressing gown and led me firmly by the elbow down to a path of what my mother would have called crazy paving, although the gaps between the slabs were choked with dead leaves and weeds that were sending long stalks upwards in search of sunlight.
At the end of the path there was what had once been a raised circular garden ,walled with rocks. It was carpeted thickly with luxurious dewy oxalis, and after a brief demonstration, she left, followed by the old dog, leaving me alone to work. I was elated. It was my first paying job even if I had not quite got to discussing my fee.
I had cleared almost half of the bed in cold, wet handfuls, when she clicked down the path behind me. She had changed into a faded red dress with an elaborate collar bunched high at the back and a neckline that dipped alarmingly around the shadowy gap between her breasts. Her pale calves swished inside the narrow skirt and she tottered in mud-encrusted black leather-bowed pumps. An unfamiliar excitement grabbed me in the chest, and I looked away. She smiled briefly and gestured towards her dress with the trowel she had in her hand.
“Since my husband died I don’t go out. I decided I might as well get some use out of these in the garden” Her face creased into a frown and she looked suddenly distant. My heart swelled with sympathy. She seemed so fragile.
I glimpsed a future helping this lonely, rich lady with her garden…..looking after her.
She bent forward and grabbed a handful of weeds and her breasts, unencumbered by underwear jostled forwards towards freedom. Her skin was smooth and milk-white apart from one crease which encircled her neck like a string of pearl beads. The gap between her breasts looked warm and soft and comfortable. She worked in silence apparently oblivious to my furtive looks as I foraged opposite her. I was captivated, enslaved. As we plucked the last few strands of oxalis she straightened and wiped the sweat-damp hair off her face with a sweep of her arm and sighed with satisfaction.
"You must come back next week. We can start on the Wandering Jew.” She giggled briefly.
“Or pull the Old Man’s Beard” I suggested. For a moment I thought she wasn’t going to get it. She looked at me intently, and. a smile flicked across her face.
I sauntered back to the hostel, warm with pleasure. The two half crowns she’d given me jiggled in my pocket, and I could still feel the softness of her touch as she had placed them gentle as bird’s eggs into my palm.
Life was transformed for me that week. I barely noticed the demeaning remarks which had confused and hurt me before, and the tedious hours of evening preparation were passed imagining the pleasures of the weekend to come. I could picture us working together…..we’d probably stop for a cold drink and sit on the terrace for a chat.
I wondered what her name was, and the image of her breasts pendulous and hypnotic played before my eyes persistently.
When I phoned my mother, she commented with obvious relief in her voice, that I seemed to be settling in at last. I didn’t tell her about my job.
I woke early on Saturday and anxiously checked the sky. It was cloudy, but didn’t look like it would rain. It would have to do.
I picked lavender and jasmine from a stone wall at the top of the street and trotted up to the decrepit front door, feeling tight chested with anticipation. There was a car in the drive, a red Sunbeam Alpine, small and sporty. I heard the muffled echo of the door chimes and after an anxious pause, her shuffling footsteps. She looked startled and stared blankly at my proffered bouquet. Her hair was tousled and unkempt. She was holding Rosie’s collar up to her face.
.Suddenly she leant towards me and started talking rapidly in a low whisper. She glanced down the hall behind her then turned back and put a hand on my shoulder and pulled me closer. She was pleading with me , her face pushed close so I could feel her breath on my face. There was drying foam at the corners of her mouth.
“Rosie is missing. Someone has stolen her. You can help me find her. We must call the police” She stopped abruptly and turned towards the noise as a young man appeared in the hallway.
“Who’s this, mother?
“ He’s going to help with searching for Rosie..” she said.
The young man looked irritated.. He sighed, “Mum, I’ve told you..what the vet said about Rosie..How she’s not going to recover. You agreed for her to be put to sleep..
“You’re lying.. Don’t say that..!” Her voice became shrill and she yelled out in pain.. a kind of strangled, formless moan. She pushed past her son and stamped away..” You’re lying.. you’ve always beeen against her.
“Mum, I’ve poured you a little sherry to have with your pills”. His voice was thin and tired
He turned back shrugging his shoulders.”Sorry. My mother is not well. “He hesitated and looked momentarily undecided..probably wondering why he was discussing his mother’s health issues with a school boy he’d never met.
I mumbled something and hurriedly backed down the steps. Before I had reached the gate I heard the front door bang. I threw the bouquet in the rock garden as I left. When I looked back from the footpath, feeling confused and embarrassed, I see her face through a gap in the lace curtains. She was holding the dog collar against her chest which was jerking up and down as she sobbed.