It seemed there was no shade, even beneath the leaves of the lilac I’d grown all along the back fence. Its patches of purple froth were mostly over, and the tiny flowers were beginning to brown in the sun.
My garden was a glory in that June sunshine. We’d had nothing but good weather since May, and it was taking me an hour to water back and front every evening. I’d taken to watering in the early morning, too, before work. Six o’clock and I’d be out of bed, leaving Kathryn to sleep on for an hour. It was the most delicious freedom to me, padding out into the garden in my slippers, feeling the cool air edging through the gap in my dressing gown. As I worked my way around the garden with the can, the grass soaking my slippers, I saw the soil lighten and the petals begin to loosen as they warmed in the sun.
By then I was growing chrysanthemums and dahlias for show. I loved their pompom shape, the tight perfection of the petals. I loved the way earwigs hid inside the flowers, clinging on in their dark caves, even when you shook the stems. Kathryn said the chrysanthemums looked like soldiers wearing bright fur hats, they were so straight and striking when they bloomed. I had a whole bed, growing nicely up their canes. ‘Golden Gem’, ‘Cecilia’ and butter-yellow ‘Hansel’.
Robert was nine. Whenever he went into the garden, even if Kathryn was there, I watched him. I heard my own voice become repetitive and scolding, but I couldn’t stop the words coming. Mind those seedlings. I’ve planted a shrub there, don’t tread on it. Don’t pick the leaves off my box.
Kathryn had suggested I teach him respect for the garden by showing him how to love it. ‘Teach him how to grow things,’ she said.
So he’d chosen a packet of sunflowers, ‘Teddy Bear’ variety, which I expected to give us double blooms and good height, and I’d brought them on in the greenhouse.
Now it was Saturday morning, and, as Kathryn had started work again at the library, we were on our own until lunchtime. The seedlings were ready to plant out, and I wondered where I could find a place for Robert in the garden. It had to be away from the dahlia bed. In the end, I decided on a patch by the shed, where it wouldn’t really matter what happened. Using the imprint of my boots in the mud, I measured out the plot. One, two, three, four. Turn, and the same again.
Then I marked four rows using wooden sticks and string. As I let the rough fibre run through my fingers, I remembered Mum finding me, aged eight, with a length of garden twine wound too tightly round my hand. I was sitting in our shed, staring at my cold fingers; they were pure white, like the dead skin you strip off your feet in the bath. I expected a scolding, but she unwound me without a word, and held my hand in hers until it was warm again.
When I’d marked out the plot, I told Robert to put some old clothes on.
‘These are old.’ He plucked at the leg of his shorts as if it wasn’t worth touching.
‘They don’t look old to me.’
I heard him tut.
‘Do you want to plant these or not?’
When he came back out, he hadn’t changed his shorts or his sandals, but he was wearing an old T-shirt. It was far too small for him; his arms looked restricted by the tight little sleeves, and he kept hooking his hand beneath the front and pulling it down over his stomach, the outline of his knuckles bulging through the printed face of Mickey Mouse. I bought him that not long after the Minnie Mouse bell, as a sort of apology.
Music thumped over the fence and into our garden. The lad next door, Graeme, was playing his radio again. He always listened to the same radio station, just that little bit too loud, but not so loud that I could go round there and tell him to turn it down. And sometimes he sang along, in an out-of-tune voice, wailing when he didn’t know the words.
I put a hand on Robert’s shoulder and walked him round the plot, ignoring the beat that swelled around us. ‘First of all, you dig a shallow trench. Water lightly. Then plant each seedling at even intervals. Bring the soil up around them. Water generously.’
He was gazing towards the fence.
‘Shall we try it?’
Without looking up, he nodded.
When I came back with the trowel, Robert had left our spot next to the shed and was standing on tiptoe by the fence, trying to see over. I stood behind him and saw what he was looking at. Graeme was lying on a red towel on his concrete terrace. To one side of him was an oil spot from his motorbike, and to the other was another lad, also lying on a towel. Small swimming trunks and large sunglasses were all they wore. A bottle of suntan oil, its label stained dark from the grease, was upturned between them. A transistor radio blared by Graeme’s friend’s head. Neither of them moved a muscle as they lay there together, grilling in the sun.
‘I like the music,’ said Robert.
‘Let’s get this trench dug, shall we?’
I stood over him as he flipped the trowel in the earth. ‘Can’t you help me?’ he asked.
‘It’s your patch,’ I said. ‘You dig. I’ll help with the planting.’
I meant to go in and make a cup of tea, let him have a minute to get into it on his own, but I found myself standing by the fence again. The two lads’ thighs were almost touching; Graeme had let his leg roll out to the side, showing the hairless place behind his knee. Their noses shone with sweat. Graeme tapped his stomach in time with the song on the radio, and the other lad moved his lips to the words of the song.
‘Excuse me, lads.’
I’d spoken to Graeme only once before, when he’d looked over the fence and asked what year the MG was. Kathryn always said hello if we saw him in the street, even if he was wearing his motorbike helmet. ‘He can’t hear you,’ I told her. ‘He can see my lips,’ she replied.
Graeme lifted his head and pushed his sunglasses down his nose to look at me.
‘I just wondered if you wouldn’t mind turning it down a bit.’
I thought that maybe he couldn’t see me properly because of the sun, but then he reached out and placed a hand on his friend’s shoulder. It wasn’t a shove or a shake, it was a touch. ‘Turn it down,’ he said to him, and the other lad twisted the knob round. ‘Sorry, Howard,’ said Graeme, pushing his glasses back up his nose.
‘Sorry, Howard,’ repeated his friend.
They lay down and smiled at the sun.
The music was still low when I went back outside after fetching Robert an orange squash from the kitchen. Stooping over the patch, he was engrossed in his work, and didn’t hear me approach. His coarse hair was almost like a hat on his head, and I thought that he must be hot under it. His jaw had dropped in concentration, and he was up to his elbows in dirt.
‘You’ve planted them all.’
He looked up and nodded. The seed trays were empty, and there were two rows of plants in the soil. Not very straight, not evenly spaced, some of the leaves a little bashed, but they were in there. I crouched down beside him and put my arm round his shoulders. ‘You’ve done a very good job.’
Then the music’s volume increased. Only this time, one of the lads was singing along.
‘Shall we water them in?’
The singing next door became louder and laughter bubbled up into the air. I ignored it. My son had planted rows of sunflowers, and he had done it on his own.
‘Give them a good soaking,’ I said, handing Robert my stainless steel watering can.
‘Dad, I can’t – ’
Afterwards I knew that his fingers had opened with the weight of the water. I’d filled it too full, not thinking that his arms were a nine-year-old’s, a little boy’s arms. He dropped the can in the dirt, flooding the plants and engulfing his sandals in mud. There was a moment then, as we both stood there looking at the swampy mess, when I thought, if I can recover quickly enough, it will be like it never happened.
‘It’s all right – ’ I began, but his face crumpled.
‘That was your fault!’ he announced, stamping his foot in the muddy ground.
The lads next door continued to sing.
‘I’m sorry, Robert,’ I said. ‘I’m really sorry.’
Just then, Kathryn came through the gate.
‘We were doing so well,’ I said, watching my wife’s frown deepen as she approached.
She put an arm around Robert and bent to look in his face. ‘What’s happened?’
‘Nothing to worry about. A little accident.’ I reached into the mud and dragged out one of the sodden seedlings.
‘He’s covered in mud, Howard.’
‘I think we can salvage these.’ Just a bit of drying off, that was all that was needed. ‘I really think they’ll be all right, son.’
Kathryn straightened up. ‘What’s that row?’
‘It’s the men next door,’ Robert said. ‘Dad told them to turn it down.’
Kathryn glanced at me. ‘Did you?’
‘Dad told them,’ said Robert. ‘And they turned it down.’
‘Really?’
‘There’s no need to sound so damn surprised,’ I said, picking up the muddy watering can.
Kathryn blinked back something like astonishment. ‘No. No, of course not,’ she said, letting go of Robert and touching my sleeve. ‘Sorry.’
‘Shall we plant these again, Robert?’ I held out the seedlings.
He took one of them in his hand and gazed down at the soggy root.
‘We can still plant them, can’t we?’
He took another seedling from me and spent a moment examining it.
‘No harm done. Let’s give it another go.’
Then he lifted his head. ‘All right,’ he said.
Kathryn watched us as I led him back to our patch to start again. When I looked back at her, she was smiling. ‘You’ll make a gardener of him yet,’ she called.