Page 19 of Weekends with the Sunshine Gardening Society
Charlie seemed delighted to have them there. Shirl gave him jobs, and he was so agreeable about doing them that Elizabeth wondered why she’d never thought of it.
Now they’re back for their second Saturday in Jon’s garden, and Shirley is standing in front of her looking fairly smug. Today she’s wearing a T-shirt with Jimi Hendrix on it. Elizabeth is barely aware of who that is. Or was. She’s more inclined to Ralph Vaughan Williams with a side of Gustav Holst.
‘Got a new helper,’ Shirley says.
‘Oh?’ Elizabeth glances around the garden and sees only Barbara.
‘Name’s Cynthia.’ Shirley holds out a pair of gloves. ‘Brought these for you. Noticed you didn’t have any last time.’
Elizabeth blushes. She does have gloves – Jon’s gloves. But last time she didn’t feel she could put them on. It would be presumptuous in a way she can’t explain to anyone else.
‘Thank you,’ she says, accepting the gift.
The side gate opens and a blonde-haired woman steps through it, looking hesitant, although her face relaxes when she sees Charlie with his fingers in a pile of dirt.
‘Cynthia?’ Shirley says, moving towards her.
‘Yes.’ Cynthia’s smile drops a little, almost as if she’s nervous. Elizabeth understands.
‘You found the place okay?’
‘Yes, thank you, Shirley.’ A glance towards Elizabeth, then Barbara, then back to Shirley.
‘Like I said on the phone, call me Shirl.’ Shirley looks pointedly at Elizabeth. ‘Everyone does.’
‘And I’m Barbara. Although I like to be called Barb.’
An extended hand, a kind smile. Elizabeth has decided that kindness must be Barbara’s way of life.
‘This is Elizabeth,’ Shirley says, closing the gap between them and nodding as if to encourage Cynthia to come closer.
‘Hello, Elizabeth.’
There’s a flicker of something in Cynthia’s eyes and Elizabeth wonders how much Shirley has told her. She would prefer that Cynthia isn’t here out of pity; that would be an extra responsibility. So often these days Elizabeth feels as if she has to live up to the ideal of a grieving woman. It brings its own special exhaustion.
‘Hello.’ She smiles as warmly as she’s able to.
Cynthia gestures towards Shirley’s gift. ‘Nice gloves.’
‘They’re new,’ Elizabeth says.
‘Did you bring some?’ Shirley asks Cynthia, who holds up a fairly battered-looking pair.
‘They were my mother’s,’ Cynthia says. Her face changes expression for a second, then she’s composed once more.
‘Oh yeah.’ Shirley squints. ‘I remember her.’ She glances towards Barbara. ‘Remember Diane, Barb?’
Barbara turns around from the plant she’s been examining, her eyes wide. ‘You’re Diane’s daughter?’
Cynthia nods, her lips pressed together.
‘I was sorry to hear that she died,’ Barbara says.
‘Me too,’ Cynthia replies.
Elizabeth doesn’t know how to interpret that. Cynthia is here holding her mother’s gloves yet it sounds like she wasn’t with her when she died. What kind of relationship must they have had? Not one she’ll be asking about today, obviously. If ever. She’ll keep wondering, though. People interest her, even if she rarely lets on that this is the case.
‘Right,’ Shirley says with authority. ‘New gloves, old gloves, all gloved. That’s important. Don’t want us getting cut on anything unexpected. So, Cyn – can I call you that?’
