“I have a bitter taste in my mouth right now, Mr. Guthrey. Perhaps a good stiff brandy will remove it. And you’re buying.”
Nursery Crime: III
by Kathleen Hershey
© 1981 by Kathleen Hershey
How Does Your Garden Grow?
by Anthony Bloomfield
© 1981 by Anthony Bloomfield
“So he had to live with the rosebushes forever... until he died, when it would no longer matter”...
Three years now, and still each time he leaves or enters the house he must look first down the back garden, to the end by the alley, by the wall, where the rosebushes are planted And while he is in the house he will from time to time stop whatever he is doing to go to one of the rear windows; last thing before bed also; and most urgently of all, as soon as it becomes light in the morning.
In three years, from the time he planted the roses, they’ve never been disturbed in any way. Once he’d had the back gate removed and walled up, and the dividing fence with his neighbor reinforced, it was almost impossible for a dog to get in. Of course there is no way you can keep out the cats. Even the birds pecking frightened him a little, but now he can accept the birds, at least in his mind, although he still shoos them off. But he does that furtively, in case his neighbors consider it peculiar.
Up to a point he is prepared to acknowledge that he’s a prisoner of his imagination, while remaining, however, prisoner in a more literal sense. The house, or the back garden, is his cell. That’s why he twice had to turn down offers of good promotion, which would have entailed moving. That’s why he had taken no holiday, not even a weekend away, until, with it growing easier, this summer he’d booked to Jersey for a fortnight. And even then he’d found it necessary to return before the end of the first week.
And the house, the back garden, the rosebushes are why he hasn’t married; why, he believes, he can never marry. Not to mention, at a lower level of deprivation, the impossibility of having a cleaning woman in any more, so that he has to look after the house, the garden, look after himself, all by himself. At his age, with his position, he realizes this lifestyle makes him appear a little eccentric, and that too is dangerous, but it’s a risk he sees no way of avoiding.
Additionally, there was little or nothing he could do to avert the consequences of any natural disasters that might take place. The floods had been a bad time, when the river had crested its banks, and a lot of land and private gardens had been washed away; but luckily the floods had receded before reaching his property. Early on, even heavy rains had alarmed him so much he had to get up every hour of the night. Unfortunately, he was unable to discover where the various pipes ran, and still couldn’t stop himself from picturing the possible outcome if a waterpipe burst or there was a gas explosion.
In his mind he had foreseen, and in his imagination suffered over and over every possible eventuality.
But he is growing a little more confident all the time. Along with the rosebushes, the other irreducible obsession had been the doorbell. He invariably looked out before answering, but you couldn’t always see who was there. Then sometimes, although recognizing the futility of evasion, he had been simply physically incapable of opening the door. And if there were two men standing at the door, as two men would appear in his nightmares or in his daytime imaginings, large and raincoated, he ran and locked himself in the bathroom. But six months ago — at the local elections, it was — two men had called, and he’d forced himself to go down and open, so that afterward, although it was true even at first glance they weren’t the type, he felt the triumph that comes from having surmounted a hitherto impossible hurdle.
He’d also discovered strength to give up his obsessive specialized reading. He’d begun by getting the books from the public library, but considered it might look odd, then he bought them in another town nearby, burning them as soon as he had digested the relevant material. Anyway, from none of them, neither the works in Natural History, nor the biographies, autobiographies, and books of memoirs, had he been able to derive any substantial reassurance. What’s more, you had to remember science was developing all the time. And some items were non-organic.
During even the worst time, at the beginning, when he had often believed he would not be able to last out, vestiges of self-control had saved him from seeking the support of sleeping pills or tranquilizers or alcohol. Now, while taking the occasional drink again, he remains careful not to get into a condition where the guards posted on his tongue and all his movements might even momentarily relax their watchfulness. Besides, he couldn’t forget the alcohol factors three years ago.
On his one holiday the girl he had taken, the first girl for three years, had mocked him for his sobriety. She’d laughed at him too for asking her whether he ever talked in his sleep. He couldn’t say it had been a success, especially after his insistence on returning early; and they hadn’t met since. But just to have done it was a mark of progress of sorts, as well as having removed a doubt about himself arising from what had happened then. Laid a ghost, as he put it, with regained capacity for a kind of simple humor.
So all in all he thinks he may at last be getting over it; not only that he may stay safe forever, but also that within himself he will come to admit his security, and, accepting necessary limitations, survive.
One fear that at the beginning had been as demanding as the roses and the doorbell had vanished altogether. After three years it stood to reason — and even the dark unreasoning depths of his mind acknowledged this — that no one would be coming forward now to say they saw him in the pub, or they saw her getting into his car, or they heard and saw them laughing and kissing as they entered the house.
So now it was really just down to the rosebushes, and what lay underneath. Of course, not a day, scarcely an hour, went by without the bitterness of self-reproach twisting his intestines. The madness of it. When he could have put her, it, in the trunk compartment of his car and dumped it miles away.
The drink he’d consumed had a lot to do with it, the drink that may have weakened him, and made her laugh. The drink that loosened his control, fueled his humiliated rage. That stopped him realizing how long, how hard he pressed. And then, although shock too was no doubt involved, stopped him thinking straight.
The memory of it now brought out a cold sweat in him every time. In the darkness, in the rain, digging. He’d not even known until afterward that his neighbors were away for the weekend. But still, anyone — a patrolling policeman, late rain-careless lovers in the alley... And throwing everything in — clothes, handbag, her jewelry, all that was indissoluble; that would lie identifiable under the rosebushes forever. Until he died, when it would no longer matter to him.
The rosebushes, of course, were only planted the next day, or the day after — he was unable to remember. Because he couldn’t dig it up again. He couldn’t even bring himself to bury it deeper, safer.
Not just then. Several times since he’d even gone so far as taking out a spade. There would be a risk — the neighbors, anyone, might see him; or someone might see him wherever he dumped the remains. Anyway, traces would be left. But although to dig deeper would be a lesser risk, he couldn’t for whatever reason make himself disturb it.