Edmund stood and slapped the dirt from his hands, the sound of it calling attention to Mr Stokes, who gave his usual nod, this time adding, “Good evening.”
“Rain in the forecast. Need to get the soil turned over.” Edmund knew to start with the weather.
“Yes, of course,” he responded, his pipe in one hand, a clutch of papers in the other.
The azaleas were like a constant sunset at the back of the garden. The blaze of petals kept the backyard alight with colour for most of the day, fighting a war for attention with the bank of rhododendrons along the west wall of the fence. The evening sun cast an amber glow in the garden. It was Edmund’s idyll and escape. He kept a flask of whisky in his garden shed and had taken to keeping notes on his neighbour. At first it was a way of tracking the times when he came out to his garden so Edmund could adjust his own schedule to avoid any chatter. But he’d grown used to having the man out in his garden, and, aside from the initial nod, they seemed to have tacitly agreed that no conversation was necessary. This was both a relief and a curiosity to Edmund.
Edmund worked at deadheading, weeding, rearranging the potted plants, and soon had the odd feeling of being ignored. He worked with one eye to the fence but couldn’t focus on his own garden. He was back and forth to the shed collecting tools, securing a sip of whisky, and he found himself glancing over to Mr Stokes, wondering what he was up to. That garden paled dramatically to Edmund’s, and there was little to do beside tend to the geraniums lined up around the fence and mow the lawn once a week. Mr Stokes liked to smoke his pipe, of course, but he also seemed preoccupied in some vague manner, the papers or drawings held in his hand like a baton or rolled out in front of him like a scroll. Because Edmund had caught a glimpse of the drawings, he was convinced that his neighbour played some important role in the war effort. And this suspicion grew to an obsession so that he would try to catch a look at them when he could.
There was a need to be very careful these days, he told himself. They’d told him that in his training. Be vigilant. Your neighbour could be collecting information for the enemy. For the enemy? They weren’t even at war, just doing a dance around it, keeping everyone hopping, from one week to the next. And really Edmund didn’t want to report him, it was just a curiosity.
There was something else on Edmund’s mind as he worked on putting the annuals in the plant pots. The Anderson shelter. He had talked to Miriam about it last night, as a kind of peace offering.
“Of course we should put one in. You know that.”
He couldn’t bear to think about tearing up his garden to put in an oversized tin can—for that’s what it seemed to him, that they would shelter in a tin can. They had distributed them in London, and Miriam still thought that they should get one. He felt that she was overreacting, listening too much to the pilots out at the airfield. He’d been shocked when she raised her voice at him, telling him to forget his precious garden for once. It was the word “his” that struck him, his not theirs, for although he did most of the work and spent most of his time there, he had always thought of the garden as theirs. His decisions would often have her in mind—I’ll get some honeysuckle because I know it’s Miriam’s favourite; I’ll plant the arum lilies so she can see them from the kitchen window. Now he couldn’t separate the his-their issue from that about whether they ought to get one of the shelters.
“If I may . . .” Edmund took two steps closer to the fence. Mr Stokes looked up, a flash of confusion across his face before allowing it to brighten.
“These Anderson shelters. I’m wondering whether you’re considering it, getting one, I mean.”
Mr Stokes looked off to his own garden, puzzling through a response.
“I hadn’t, no. Too far from London, I think. The Germans, if they come,” his tone deepening, “won’t be interested in a small village like ours.”
“That’s what I thought.” Edmund was quick with his reply, feeling validated in the stance he’d held the night before, and only a little guilty at consulting Mr Stokes without Miriam present. “And anyway, we’ll have early warning if they come from the coast, the Chain Home and all.”
“You seem rather interested in the Chain Home.” Mr Stokes took a few steps back to the fence. “Someone else asked me about them the other day.”
Edmund hadn’t meant to mention the drawings at the air warden meeting last week. He’d only been curious, and he didn’t dare share his suspicions with Miriam. Edmund knew Andrew Miller to be a discreet man, not bothering to make a fuss when he learned of the soldiers breaking curfew at the local pub. But he was in charge of the local Air Raid Precaution unit, so Edmund thought to approach him.
He’d only just mentioned it, and now he wondered if Miller had confronted Mr Stokes. He suddenly felt awkward at being exposed, of having his suspicions overplayed.
“That’s good news for us,” he snapped, turning back to his garden. “Fair warning.”
The evening sun was drifting through the mackerel sky, that harbinger of rain, so they were in and out of light, which seemed to mirror their conversation. Edmund adjusted the secateurs, the back of his hand brushing a thorn as he clipped the rose bush. He kept glancing at his neighbour to see if he would say anything more, whether the conversation was over.
It was going on six, and he still wanted to finish turning the soil in the border and do a light trimming of the herbaceous plants, the lavender and hydrangeas if possible.
“Yes, I suppose if they come from the south there will be fair warning.”
The light was going down and the chill was now upon him, so he began to pack up his garden tools.