Liz watched through the gap in the curtains as the small Nissan pulled up in the road outside her house. She had guessed, as she was drawn to the window by the sound of the removal van arriving, that it contained the new occupants of the flat next door. As she watched she thought about her old neighbour.
The house next door had been empty for nearly two years, ever since Eve had gone to live with her daughter in a small village outside Exeter. She had been such a good friend. They had promised to keep in touch and visit often but it was difficult. Eve was not in the best of health and was therefore unable to travel by herself. Now she lived in her daughter’s house, she felt awkward about inviting anyone to come and stay.
It was nine o’clock in the morning when the van arrived, banging the cab doors and rattling the shutter at the back. A short, fat, black woman struggled to manoeuvre herself out of the driver’s seat of the Nissan. Her only passenger, a young girl that Liz guessed must be her daughter and looked to be around nine or ten, sat motionless in the passenger seat until the woman insisted angrily that she join her.
The girl flashed a look of defiance before sulkily slouching out of the car and slamming the door. The woman glared briefly at the child who pulled the bag she was carrying closer to her chest, but remained stony faced and rooted next to the car. She didn’t look at all happy to be there.
The woman said a few words to one of the removal men before rummaging in her bag for keys. She found them quickly and went ahead to open the front door as the men started to unload the furniture. They placed a brown leather sofa on the pavement while they adjusted their grip and decided on the best way to get it into the flat. The woman stood by the side of the open front door and shouted at the girl.
‘Tamika, don’t just stand there, come inside.’ The girl stayed silent as she moved slowly and deliberately behind the removal men, waiting while they squeezed through the door with the sofa before following them in.
The removal men were an odd looking pair. The one who appeared to be taking charge was very tall and very, very large. He had an enormous stomach which his jumper and jacket struggled to conceal. Bare flesh bulged between the hem of his jumper and the waist of his jogging bottoms as he bent and stretched to pick up bits of furniture.
‘He must be freezing,’ thought Liz, as he rubbed his hands together before cupping them in front of his mouth and blowing to warm them up. His small features were almost lost in the excess of flesh that made up his round face which was made to look even rounder by the woolly hat stretched across his head.
His companion, by contrast, was small and wiry with a face full of features, big, watery eyes and a bulbous nose underlined with a neat moustache. Both wore fingerless gloves and despite the difference in their heights Liz marvelled at how deftly they manoeuvred the furniture out of the van and in through the front door.
It had always been a quiet street, where people took pride in their houses. Liz had known all her neighbours. Eve had lived next door for forty odd years before she moved out. Their children played together outside as mums and dads chatted over garden fences. Of course it had all changed now. She hardly knew any of her neighbours. They all had foreign sounding names and the children very rarely played out in the street.
Her only son, Adam, had moved to Bury St Edmunds. He had lived nearby in Arkley when he first married Georgina. Liz saw him often when the children were small, although in hindsight it was probably because she was a convenient babysitter. He had done very well for himself as the Head of Corporate something or other at a German bank. He was now living in a very large detached house with five bedrooms and three reception rooms.
She would stress the size of the house when she was talking about him to anyone who would listen, like the man in the post office or the doctor’s receptionist. She left out the fact that she only heard from him once in a while and from her grandchildren even less other than to acknowledge receipt of the money she sent them for birthdays and Christmas.
She sighed as she watched a while longer as beds and wardrobes emerged, followed by endless tea-chests, and a huge flat screen TV, finally all of the contents of the van had disappeared into the house and the street was silent again. She sank back from the window and went to the kitchen to put the kettle on. But wasn’t there long when she heard the woman shouting the girl’s name and the back door slam. She assumed the girl had gone to explore outside. Not that there was much to explore.
Eve’s house had been bought by a builder who had converted it into two flats, making space for parking at the front and dividing the rear garden into two. Eve hated gardening and had most of the back paved over.
‘Great for ball games, I expect,’ Liz thought to herself, and it seemed that the girl agreed as seconds later she heard the thump, thump, thump of a ball against the fence.
Liz’s garden was the opposite of Eve’s, or at least it had been. Not that she was interested in gardening since Jim had died. Five years had passed since his death and yet the pain was still almost physical. He had loved the garden and it was now just a sad reminder of happier times. She couldn’t even bear to cut the grass. Weeds had grown up in between the flowers and in some cases had swamped the plants altogether. Brambles and stinging nettles had gathered at the back of the garden and ivy, left unchecked, had grown up around the shed, almost covering it.
On her darkest days she wished the ivy would overwhelm and cover her too. She imagined herself laying down in the garden in the sunshine and falling asleep, with the ivy creeping silently over her until she was gone, subsumed by the garden and nearer to her beloved Jim.
On bright, sunny days she liked the ivy. Summer or winter it looked the same. It was resilient and even made the dilapidated garden shed look pretty.
She thought of the garden when Jim was alive. In the summer months it was a blaze of colour. Jim had been particularly fond of his lawn and could often be found leaning on his shovel and proudly surveying the grass which he regularly compared to a bowling green. She was surprised that he hadn’t used a spirit level to make sure that it was absolutely flat.
In the summer they would sit in the garden together and have breakfast. After breakfast Liz would go back into the house to tidy up and Jim would either potter in the garden or go down to his shed. The shed was Jim’s domain and the answer to every DIY problem was contained therein. Broken things went in and were occasionally even mended but more often than not Liz never, ever saw them again, the item having been dismantled and the composite bits and bobs added to his stock of useful parts.
Jim was equally meticulous about the garden. He knew the names of every plant including the Latin names. He even kept a journal of what was planted when and where. He had started it shortly after they moved into the house. He had laid the lawn and organised the flowerbeds around the existing trees. A large Bramley apple tree had dominated one side of the garden and there were several pear trees in a line opposite.
Adam, in particular, loved the apple tree. Jim built a wooden platform across the larger of the branches and hung a rope swing from it which at various times had tyres or seats attached. Occasionally Jim would moan about the mud patch that developed beneath the swing because it ruined the look of the lawn and Adam would be banned from using it until the grass had recovered.
At the beginning of the journal Jim had drawn a grid with numbered sections. He carefully measured the garden to ensure the grid was accurate. Whenever he planted something new he would get out the journal and write the name, grid reference and date of planting. The last entry was made the week before he died, 29th March 2009, 9B and 9D Lavandula Augustifolia (Lavender).
Liz could barely look at the book now but equally couldn’t bear to part with it so it stayed underneath the armchair in the living room. She didn’t want to be reminded of how beautiful the garden had been.
She sat back on her kitchen chair and tried to picture Jim sitting in the garden writing his journal but the picture wouldn’t form in her mind. Instead, tiny tears grew in the corners of her eyes as she drank her tea and chided herself for being a silly old woman.
She was startled by the phone ringing but glad of the distraction. It was Adam, making his fortnightly call.
‘How are you love, how’s Georgina and the children?’ Liz asked.
‘We’re all fine, mum.’
‘Great.’ She tried to keep her voice even. ‘I do miss you. I haven’t seen you in ages. When are you going to pop in?’ It was hard not to sound desperate.
‘Aaah… It’s a bit tricky, mum, over the next few months,’ was the usual reply. ‘Can we make arrangements in a few weeks’ time when I know where I’ll be?’
‘Of course’ said Liz knowing full well she had been fobbed off again. It was always the same. Liz would make excuses to other people, usually that he worked too hard and his job was very important but in her heart she knew that she was quite irrelevant to his life. He probably considered her a nuisance. He certainly made her feel like a nuisance.
Liz set about doing the housework. She was very organised. She had one of those caddies that came from the Kleeneze catalogue where all the polish, sprays and cleaning cloths are held in a container with a central handle so you can take everything with you. The housework kept her sane, especially now she had nothing much else to do.
The bathroom and cloakroom were always first to get her attention. Then she would move on to the living room where she would polish the sideboard and side tables, dust the fireplace and vacuum the carpet. She did the same in the bedroom before changing the bed linen and then finally tackling the kitchen.
There was never much washing up, or washing for that matter. One person does not make very much mess and one house-proud person makes hardly any mess at all. She would save up the washing and ironing, just to give her a bit more to do at the weekends.
Weekends always dragged terribly and winter weekends were the worst of all. Short days and long nights full of sadness.
It was hard to find things to fill the time. She hated watching TV. Soaps and reality shows held no appeal. Life was depressing enough without seeing it played out over and over again in different locations. Instead she would read voraciously and occasionally she would paint, although she had hardly picked up a brush in the last few years.
Jim had cleared a space for her at one end of the garage. He had installed a window in the sloping roof and made her a bench with shelves above it.
He had not told her what it was for but on her birthday he had surprised her with a full sized easel and canvasses, unveiling what he called her ‘Studio’.
She was absolutely thrilled. It wasn’t ideal. It was too cold out there in the winter without a heater and the light wasn’t perfect but it was fantastic to have a dedicated space to paint in. She had never been to an art class. Still, whatever she lacked in technique she made up for in talent. A half painted picture of a jug and bowl leant against the wall by the bench and remained a fixture.
The easel was back in its box. She would get round to it someday.
Occasionally she would watch a DVD but only after she had scanned the blurb on the back to make sure it didn’t include anything sad. Even watching something funny was not the pleasure it used to be. Laughing out loud by yourself seemed odd. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d laughed.
She had tried a local club. Although she had retired she didn’t feel anywhere near old enough to sit and play bingo in the day centre which was the only activity on offer on the day she popped in. The other ‘service users’ as they were called seemed to be a lot older and they sat about in winged armchairs. It reminded her of old people’s homes and death. She didn’t want to be reminded of death. She had almost run out of the place screaming.
It was a cold, dry day so she decided to clean the downstairs windows. When Jim was alive they had always done them together, with her doing the inside and Jim the outside. He would always joke with her by miming through the glass that she had missed a spot or two and point to different panes of glass. She would take him seriously for the first one or two marks but as he pointed out more bits she thought were done he would start to laugh. He would play the same trick every time they cleaned the windows.
As she started on the front windows her attention was drawn to the house next door. Tamika was sitting on the front step with a sad expression on her face, clutching her shoulders for warmth. It was early January and very cold, too cold to be outside without a coat.
Liz watched for a while until eventually her mother opened the door and shouted at her to come back in. She had no idea if the girl was sulking or being punished. ‘Either way, it’s none of my business,’ she thought to herself and carried on with the windows.
A few days passed before she saw the girl again. Liz noticed her sitting on the wall outside her house and assumed she was waiting for her mum to come home. She speculated on why the girl didn’t have a key but didn’t dwell on it for too long as the next time she looked out of the window she was gone.
A few days later, she was sitting on the wall again, eating a bag of crisps and drinking from a can. Most of the houses in the road had fences but Jim had built a wall around his castle, just high enough to sit on. Liz watched as the young girl ate the contents of the packet and then threw it into her front garden, closely followed by the empty can. Liz tapped on the window and gestured to the girl to pick them up. Tamika ignored the request and after giving Liz a filthy look calmly turned her back. Liz was incensed and went straight to the front door.
As soon as Tamika heard the door opening she jumped off the wall.
‘Don’t throw your rubbish in my garden,’ Liz said firmly. ‘Pick it up, please.’
‘Get lost, you old witch,’ was Tamika’s defiant response. ‘Pick it up yourself.’
Liz went to argue but instead turned on her heels and went inside. Tamika resumed her position on the wall assuming that she had seen the last of Liz. She was wrong. Liz was back within minutes.
Tamika again jumped up as the front door opened but this time Liz was ready with the garden hose. She had trailed it through the house and was now armed. Without saying a word she pulled the trigger and cold water shot out straight towards Tamika, who just about managed to duck behind the wall and avoid a soaking.
Liz shouted at her angrily, ‘Put your rubbish in the bin, not in my garden, and don’t be so bloody rude.’
She slammed the front door, leaving the child speechless. She half expected a knock on the door that night from the girl’s mother but it didn’t come.
Tamika was often outside after school, waiting for her mother to get home from work. Liz would sometimes see her there for half an hour or more. She didn’t like seeing her cold and miserable despite her rudeness. It took a few days before she sat on Liz’s wall again. There was nowhere else to sit. However, it didn’t go unnoticed that she no longer threw her rubbish in the garden. Liz kept an eye on her anyway, concerned for her safety.
One particularly cold day she noticed that Tamika had been outside for over half an hour. There were dark clouds in the sky, making the early evening darker than usual, and before long icy rain was hitting the window. Liz went to the front door. As soon as Tamika heard the door she leapt off the wall.
‘Don’t worry,’ said Liz, ‘you can sit there if you want to. I just wondered if you would like to come inside to wait for your mother? We can put a note on your door to say where you are.’
Tamika eyed the old woman suspiciously, but shook her head to indicate that she didn’t need help.
‘Suit yourself,’ said Liz, and shut the door.
More time passed with Tamika still outside and the rain beating down harder than ever. Liz looked out of the window every few minutes to make sure she was okay. Finally, she went to the door again.
‘Tamika, please come inside. It’s freezing out here. I don’t bite’.
Tamika peered out from under the hood of her sopping wet coat with her huge brown eyes. She looked really cold and miserable and her stomach was rumbling, reminding her that she hadn’t eaten since lunch time. She didn’t want to go in but she was too cold, wet and hungry to sit outside any longer. Without saying a word she stood up and followed Liz.
Once inside Liz asked her to take off her wet coat, which she did readily. Liz placed it on the radiator in the hall before ushering her into the living room to sit by the fire.
‘Warm yourself up,’ she added, before popping to the kitchen.
Tamika looked around the room as she waited. Lots of photographs were on the wall. Family pictures of a mum, dad and two children. There was a younger version of the man with his mortar board and degree in his hand, wedding photographs and pictures of children, a young boy in his school uniform and a girl around the same age as Tamika, sitting on a pony.
However, it was the one on the wall next to the fireplace which caught her eye. It was a picture of the old lady, younger than she was now. She was holding hands with a man who had smiling eyes and a shock of white hair. They were in a garden, the sun was shining and they looked really happy.
Liz came back with a cup of tea and juice for Tamika plus a few biscuits on a china plate.
‘Now then,’ said Liz, ‘I’ll write a note for your mum to let her know where you are.’
She took some writing paper and a pen out of the top drawer of the sideboard and sat down to write.
‘She’s not my mum,’ said Tamika. ‘She’s my aunt, my mother’s sister.’
‘Oh,’ said Liz, ‘well she will wonder where you are.’ Liz wanted to ask questions but sensed that now would not be a good time.
She wrote on the paper, ‘Tamika is with me at number seventy three.’ She signed the note ‘Elizabeth Bailey’. Tamika watched over her shoulder as she wrote.
‘What’s your name?’ she asked, unable to read Liz’s handwriting.
‘Elizabeth,’ was the reply, ‘but everyone calls me Liz. You can call me Liz if you like.’
‘How do you know my name?’ asked Tamika suspiciously.
‘I heard your mum, I mean your aunt, call you on the day you moved in.’ Liz replied.
‘My mum called me Tammy. You can call me Tammy if you like.’
Liz smiled to herself. It was the first time that she had actually been up close to the girl. Tammy was tall but very slightly built with a round shiny face and big brown sad eyes. The rain had soaked through her coat to the shoulders of her pale grey school uniform cardigan and resembled epaulets. Her wet face was framed by a mass of frizzy curls as the scrunchie had given up its efforts to tame it into a pony tail and now clung on limply to an inch or so of hair at the bottom.
Liz left Tammy sitting by the fire as she popped to seventy one and pinned the note on the front door. When she came back Tammy was standing up looking at the photographs more closely. She asked Liz who they were.
‘This is my son, Adam, and his wife Georgina,’ said Liz, pointing to the wedding photograph, ‘and these are my grandchildren.’
‘Don’t they ever come and visit?’ Tammy asked directly. She had never seen them.
‘They are very busy people,’ Liz excused, ‘and they live a long way away.’
‘In another country?’ Tammy asked.
‘No,’ said Liz, adding, ‘Bury St Edmunds,’ although it may as well be, but she didn’t say this out loud.
It was another half an hour before the aunt came to the door.
She introduced herself as Monica. She had a huge smile with dazzlingly white teeth and she was wearing a shoulder length auburn wig. She made a lot of excuses as to why she was late, something urgent at work and traffic was bad and she hadn’t got round to having more keys cut. She didn’t seem at all embarrassed about the fact that as far as she had known Tammy was waiting outside in the rain.
Liz replied that it was no trouble at all. It did occur to her that this may be a job for social services but Tammy was clean and well dressed and apart from having to wait for her aunt to get home there were no signs of neglect. She didn’t want to cause any trouble, at least not until she knew that there was actually something to report.
The next day Tammy was again sitting on the wall looking cold and miserable. Liz was torn. She didn’t want to make a habit of it but she hated seeing her on her own.
This time Tammy readily agreed when Liz asked if she would like to come in. She took her coat off, put if over the radiator and went straight to the living room, perching herself in Liz’s fireside chair without waiting to be invited.
‘Would you like a hot drink and a biscuit?’ Liz enquired.
‘Yes,’ said Tammy.
‘Yes please,’ said Liz.
‘Yes please,’ repeated Tammy, eyeing Liz from underneath her fringe.
When Liz came back into the room with the tray Tammy was standing up looking at the photograph on the wall.
‘Is that your husband?’ she asked, pointing to the photograph of Jim.
‘Yes,’ Liz replied.
‘Where is he?’
‘He died a few years ago,’ said Liz sadly.
‘Did he have cancer?’ asked Tammy.
‘No,’ said Liz, ‘he had a heart attack.’ She winced at the memory.
‘My mother died of cancer,’ Tammy said without emotion, and Liz was struck by the matter of fact delivery of the information.
’I’m sorry.’ said Liz, and a look of understanding passed between them.
They were both silent for what seemed like ages but could only have been for a few seconds when the doorbell rang to indicate that Monica was home from work. Liz invited her in. Monica declined as she had to prepare dinner but thanked her profusely for her kindness. Liz watched as Tammy slowly put on her coat and followed her aunt outside into the rain.