The Year I Met You (18 page)

‘This is not a sign, Granddad,’ I tell him in a baby voice that I am putting on, because I don’t want to hurt his feelings by reminding him that I am an adult now. It might make him realise that he has been dead for so long, and that could make him sad. ‘This does not tell me which direction to take,’ I say, but he has his back to me as he continues working.

‘Is that so?’ he says, talking as if I’m babbling and not making any sense.

‘Yes, Granddad. The jasmine is pruned back, but it is ready now, ready to grow, and that is not a sign, that is a symbol.’

He turns around then, and even though I know I am in a dream, I’m sure it’s him, that it’s really really him. He smiles, his face crinkles, his eyes almost close as his apple cheeks lift in that hearty smile.

‘That’s my Jasmine,’ he says.

I wake up with a tear rolling down my cheek.

15

It’s Saturday and as soon as I open my eyes to the golden light in my bedroom I want to leap out of bed, throw a tracksuit on and race outside to the garden, like the boy in
The Snowman
who can barely contain himself, he’s so eager to see his new friend. Of course in my case it’s not a snowman but a pile of rocks that I need to place on my sloping garden.

While I’m outside looking at the stones, Amy arrives with the children. They get out of the car and slowly, unhappily trudge away from her. You open the front door, and before you can get down the driveway to greet her she takes off. You are left watching her drive away. Not a good sign. The children hug you – not Fionn, he just carries on dragging his feet all the way up the driveway and into the house.

Finally there’s silence, and I like that, only it doesn’t last long. Mr Malone is back in his garden and I can hear him brushing his paving stones.

‘You shouldn’t power-hose,’ he says, noticing me watching him. He’s on his knees, scrubbing the stones by hand. ‘It ruins the look of the stone. I’ve got to have the place looking tidy for Elsa. She’ll be home tomorrow.’

‘That’s great to hear, Jimmy.’

‘Not the same,’ he says, clambering to his feet and walking to meet me in the middle where his shrubbery and grass ends and where my car and paving begin.

‘Without her?’

‘With her, without her. She’s not the same. The stroke, it …’ He nods to himself, as if finishing the sentence in his own head and then agreeing with it. ‘She’s not the same. Still, Marjorie will be happy to see her. I’ll tidy around in there as well, but I don’t know if she’ll notice a great deal.’

My spell of duty feeding Marjorie ended as soon as Dr Jameson returned from his holiday, but I’d noticed that Jimmy hadn’t been coping too well without his wife around. The kitchen sink was piled with dirty dishes and a foul odour emanated from the fridge. It wasn’t much and it wasn’t invasive, but I’d cleaned the dishes and thrown out the mouldy vegetables and the milk that had gone off in the otherwise empty fridge. He was so used to being looked after domestically that he hadn’t noticed, or at least he hadn’t commented. Still, once Dr Jameson returned to his hands-on neighbourly role, I doubted his duties would include dishwashing. Though his duties with you last night, if that’s what they were, had extended to 3.30 a.m. What you both talked about till then – you blind-drunk, singing and shouting, and Dr Jameson in his North Face jacket and his suntan – is a mystery to me.

I leave a respectful silence, though I know he hadn’t expected an answer. Then I ask, ‘Jimmy, when is the best time to plant a tree?’

He snaps out of his maudlin mood, perking up instantly at the question. ‘Best time to plant a tree, eh?’

I nod, and immediately regret asking. I’m probably in for a long-winded answer.

‘Yesterday,’ he says, then chuckles, the sadness still in his eyes. ‘Like everything else. Failing that,
now
.’ Then he goes back to cleaning his stones.

Your door opens and Fionn steps out, dressed all in black, hoodie covering most of his face, but the teenage spots and freckles belie his eerie choice of clothing. He comes straight to me.

‘Dad told me to help you,’ he says.

‘Oh.’ I’m not sure how to respond. ‘I’m, erm, I don’t need help. I’m okay, really. But thanks.’ I like the peace of working alone. I don’t want to have to make small talk or explain what it is I want done. I’d rather just get on with it by myself.

He’s staring at the rocks longingly.

‘They look heavy.’

They do indeed look heavy. I remind myself I don’t need help, I never ask for help. I’d rather do things myself.

‘I don’t want to go back in there,’ he says, so quietly that when I look at him staring at the rocks it’s as if he hasn’t spoken and I question whether I really heard it. How can I tell him no after that? And I wonder whose idea it was to come out here and help me. I doubt it was yours.

‘Let’s start with this one,’ I say. ‘I want to put it over here.’

Having Fionn there makes me move more quickly, make decisions faster than I otherwise would have. At first I struggle to come up with things to say to him – cool things, witty things, young things – but as time wears on and his monosyllabic answers continue, I realise he no more wants to chat than I do. And so we labour on in silence, starting from the bottom of the slope and working our way up, the only communication a word here or there about moving a stone to the right, to the left – that kind of thing. As the hours pass, he starts offering suggestions as to where to place things.

Eventually we stand back, sweating and panting, and examine the rocks. Happy with their position, we set about thoroughly embedding each rock so it’s securely in place, at least half of the rock buried below the ground. We mix planting compost and sharp sand to make sure the rocks stay in place. On the next level we move the smaller rocks, leaving plenty of pockets for plants. At each stage we stand back and take a good look from different viewpoints.

Fionn is quiet.

‘It will look better with the plants and flowers in,’ I say self-consciously, protective over my patch.

‘Yeah,’ he says in a tone I can’t read. His voice is a monotone, expressionless, seeming to care and not care at the same time.

‘I’m thinking of putting a water fountain in,’ I say. I have looked into this and am excited to have found a video demonstrating how to build a water fountain in eight hours. I’m further excited to see that I can use my Indian sandstone for the actual fountain.

We’re both silent as we survey the garden for a place.

‘You could put it there,’ he says.

‘I was thinking more over here.’

He’s quiet for a moment, then: ‘Where’s the nearest electrical socket?’

I shrug.

‘You’ll need that for the pump. Look – you have lights.’ He goes on a wander around the garden, seeking out the source of electricity for my garden lights. ‘Here. It would be better to put it near here.’

‘Yeah,’ I say, my voice as even as his – not meaning to, but it’s addictive. It’s so much easier not to make an effort, I can understand why he does it. ‘I’m going to put a pipe up through the middle of the stones like this, see.’ I layer the sandstones on top of one another to show him. ‘The water will come up through the middle.’

‘Like, explode?’

‘No, like … gurgle.’

He nods once, unimpressed. ‘Are you going to do that now?’

‘Tomorrow.’

He looks disappointed, though it’s hard to be certain, given the general drift between nonchalance and misery. I don’t invite him back tomorrow. I haven’t minded his company, but I prefer to do this alone, particularly as I don’t know what I’m doing. I want to find my way by myself, not have to discuss and explain it. Not that there would be much discussion with Fionn.

‘Are you going to use them all?’

‘Half of them.’

‘Can I have the other half?’

‘For what?’

He shrugs, but it’s clear he has something in mind.

I look at him, waiting for more.

‘To smash them.’

‘Oh.’

‘Can I borrow this?’ He indicates my rubber mallet.

It’s the most hopeful I’ve ever seen him look.

‘Okay,’ I say uncertainly.

He places the paving stones in the wheelbarrow and wheels it across the road to your table. Then he comes back for more. It’s as he is doing this that you come outside to see what he’s doing. You actually ask him what he’s doing, but he ignores you and returns to my garden for more stones. You watch him for a moment then follow him.

‘Hi,’ you say, walking up the path to me, hands deep in your pockets. You survey the rockery. ‘Looks good.’

‘Thanks. Dammit,’ I say suddenly, seeing my cousin Kevin turn the corner into the street, casually strolling, looking left and right as he searches for my house. ‘I’m not here,’ I say, dropping everything and darting towards the house.

‘What?’

‘I’m not here,’ I repeat, pointing at Kevin, then pulling the front door to. I leave it open a crack, I want to hear what he has to say.

Kevin strolls up the driveway. ‘Hello,’ he says to you and Fionn, who is placing paving stones in the wheelbarrow very carefully, despite his apparent intention to smash them.

‘Hi there,’ you say. You sound more DJ-like when I can’t see you, as if you have a ‘phone voice’ reserved for strangers. I side step to the window and peek up over the windowsill to watch. Kevin looks priestly, poker-straight back, brown cords, a raincoat. Everything is precise, neat, earthy tones. I can picture him in sandals in the summertime.

‘Jasmine’s not in,’ you say.

‘Oh.’ Kevin looks up at the house and I duck. ‘That’s a shame. Are you sure? It looks like … well, the door is open.’

For a moment I’m afraid that he’s going to come looking for me, like when we were kids and I absolutely did not want Kevin to come find me. That game when whoever finds you has to join you and hide with you, and you both wait for the rest of them to find you. Kevin always had a knack of finding me first, pushing his body up against mine, cramming into the tight space with me so that I could feel his breath on my neck, and feel his heart beating on my skin. Even as a child he made me uncomfortable.

You are quiet. I’m surprised you can’t come up with a lie – not that I have any proof of you being a liar, but I think so little of you at times that this is something I’d assumed you’d be a natural at. It is Fionn who comes to my rescue.

‘She left it open for us. We’re her gardeners,’ he says, and the lack of emotion, the lack of caring, makes him entirely believable. You look at him with what seems to be admiration.

‘Oh dear. Okay, I’ll try her mobile again then,’ Kevin says, starting to back away. ‘In case I don’t get her, will you tell her Kevin called by? Kevin,’ he repeats.

‘Kevin, right,’ you say, clearly uncomfortable to be in this position.

‘Sure, Kieran,’ Fionn says, taking off down the path with the wheelbarrow.

‘It’s Kevin,’ he says good-naturedly but a little concerned.

‘Got it,’ you say, and Kevin slowly wanders back wherever he came from, continuously looking over his shoulder at the house to make sure I don’t jump out. Even when he has disappeared from sight, I don’t feel safe.

‘He’s gone,’ you say, and you knock on the door.

I open the door slowly, and slip in beside you, hoping you will screen me from view in case he returns.

‘Thanks.’

‘Boyfriend?’

‘God, no. Wants to be.’

‘And you don’t.’

‘No.’

‘Seems like a nice guy.’

I need to hit this little candid chat on the head straight away. I do not want to talk about my lovelife or lack thereof with you.

‘He’s my cousin,’ I blurt out, hoping to end the conversation about Kevin.

Your eyes widen. ‘Jesus.’

‘He was adopted.’

‘Oh.’

‘Still,’ I say in my defence. It is and always will be disgusting to me.

Silence.

‘I’ve a cousin: Eileen,’ you say suddenly. ‘Had the biggest pair of tits, even as kids. All I remember when I think of her are …’ You hold your spread hands out over your pecs and clasp great big jugs of air. ‘I always had a crush on her. Crumb Tits, we always called her, because everything used to fall right there, you know. Like a shelf?’

We are both looking at Fionn as you talk, not at each other. Our backs are to the wall of my house, facing out.

‘She’s had a few kids now. They’re more down here these days …’ You drop your hands so those imaginary boobs fall around your waistline. ‘But if she told me she was adopted tomorrow … I would, you know?’

‘Matt,’ I sigh.

I look at you and see you have that mischievous look on your face. I shake my head. Whether your story is true or not, you are deliberately winding me up. I don’t bite.

‘Your sister, she—’

‘Has Down syndrome,’ I pre-empt you, crossing my arms, ready for the fight. Always ready:
What did you say about my sister?
The cause of most of my adolescent fights. Some things never change.

You seem taken aback by me and I loosen my posture a little.

‘I was going to say, your sister is a big fan of music.’

I narrow my eyes at you suspiciously and conclude that you seem genuine. ‘Oh.’ Pause. ‘Yes. She is.’

‘She probably knows more than me.’

‘That’s a no-brainer.’

You smile. ‘I’ve organised something for her next week. A tour of the station. Do you think she’d be interested? I thought she might be – I’ve done it for people before, but never anyone like her who I think would really appreciate it, get the full benefit. What do you reckon?’

I stare at you in shock, manage a quick nod.

‘Good. I hope it’s okay to ask, but I just want to know what’s the correct way to go about it? Do I drive her there, or do you want to drive her? Or will she make her own way?’

I continue to stare at you in surprise. I don’t recognise you. That you’ve organised a tour for her and that you are thoughtful enough to worry about the logistics is beyond my comprehension. ‘You’ve organised a tour for her?’

You look confused. ‘I said I would. Is that okay? Should I cancel?’

‘No, no,’ I say quickly. ‘She’ll be so happy.’ I struggle to find the next words. ‘She gets the bus by herself,’ I say, defensive again. ‘She’s perfectly capable of that, you know.’