Page 67 of Sisters Making Mischief
‘Sylveste, he’s the artistic one,’ Isabel said, ‘although his girlfriend Margot is an art teacher, she does a nice sideline painting empty wine bottles to sell in the craft market, she might be the one to ask.’
‘Even better,’ I said, feeling very pleased.
‘Well, the greenhouse is repaired, all the new putty has set, and we have cleaned the shelves in there. All I need now is my plants back,’ Isabel said with a meaningful look.
‘You mean you want me to go and get them?’ I said.
‘Exactly.’
I rolled my eyes at her in mock exasperation, but secretly, I rather liked the prospect.
Driving over to Luc’s house the following day, I felt a silly buzz of anticipation, I was looking forward to seeing him again. I was wearing some new jeans because I still hadn’t managed to get the concrete smudges out of the old ones, and a rather cute, checked shirt, in a nod to being a capable, workman type. I had scraped my hair back into a high ponytail and had bought a new, red sweater from the market, which said it was genuineblended5 per cent cashmere. I didn’t think it would pass the Vanessatest, and it was made in a country I’d never heard of, but it was a terrific bargain. I tied it around my neck in a way I thought was French and attractive and I’d even put on some make up and a slick of lipstick. And on top of all that effort, I’d brought a small gift to thank Luc for his help.
Perhaps I was overthinking this? It wasn’t as though I was hoping for this to be a romantic meeting, was I? After all, we hadn’t really spent much time alone in each other’s company, but he did seem to like talking to me. And I liked talking to him. It was pleasant to be able to chat to someone who didn’t already have an opinion of me, or my past or what I was doing now. Perhaps we would chat easily with each other, as we had that day when we had gone out to lunch, and he might say some nice things to me. What sort of nice things, I wasn’t sure. Maybe he would pay me a compliment.
When I thought back, Stephen had seldom paid me any compliments and had always had a firm opinion about everything. Sometimes it felt as though he wanted to share them with me on every subject in order to persuade me that he was right. I think that was a man thing. Mansplaining.
I think a lot of men were like that, I remembered a man in our quiz team telling me the right way to make a Christmas cake, when I had been making them successfully for years. And Stephen, who had probably never cooked a meal in his life, once stood behind me and told me I was chopping the onions wrong. He didn’t exactly tell me not to make such a fuss when I was in labour with Sara and swearing, but he came pretty close to it.
Luc wasn’t like that. He just listened and laughed in the right places, which hadn’t always been my experience. It was really refreshing. Was that really enough to make me like him? Just because he didn’t argue? Was that a negative reason to like someone? Thinking about it, Isabel and Felix argued all the time, and they seemed happy.
As I got to his house, I slowed down, negotiating all the ruts and potholes in the lane, until at last I arrived. But it looked as though he wasn’t there. The space where he usually parked his red truck was empty and I felt ridiculously disappointed. I should have rung him or texted him first, Isabel knew his number, after all.
I knocked on the front door twice, but there was no answer. And then I peered through the window, where everything looked distinctly tidy and unoccupied.
I stood for a moment, enjoying for a moment the tranquillity of the place, the sun warm on my face, the air crisp and clear. I took in a few deep breaths and coughed. I’d always been a city dweller, maybe I wasn’t used to clean air. But perhaps I could begin to understand why he had moved here.
Oh well, down to work. I could move a few trays of plants just as well as the next person. I’d even put the seats down in the back of my car ready to fit everything in.
I went around to the greenhouse and slid back the bolt. It all looked very lush and healthy in there. Even in the last few days the plants had done well. Isabel would be pleased, and I was glad to feel I was helping when she had been so kind to me.
I started with some of the trays of seedlings, balancing one on each hand and took them to the car, where, of course, I had forgotten to open the boot or the car doors. So then I had to put everything down again, and mess about, moving the shopping bags and jump leads out of the way. And the compressor and the bottle of tyre gunk, which I would need if I ever had a flat tyre. I’d only ever investigated it once, and never managed to get all the tubes and cables back into the handy carry case. And whether I had the ability to use such a thing in an emergency was another matter. Perhaps I should watch a YouTube video when I got the chance. And weren’t Isabel and I supposed tobe making a video for social media? Perhaps I should give that some thought too.
The next bit was fairly easy, four more trips with little pots and one hanging basket. All that remained were the bigger plants. I realised that I should have done this in exactly the reverse order, put the big ones in first and fit the smaller trays around them. So, of course, then I had to take everything out yet again.
After the first one I started to think that this had been a bad idea. I’m fairly strong but lifting an earthenware pot filled with compost and a reasonably sized azalea wasn’t easy, so I rolled it and dragged it to the car accompanied by a lot of grunting noises and complaints. How I was going to get it up and into the boot was anyone’s guess. Why were cars designed like that? Why was there a foot high lip into the boot? Wouldn’t it make sense to just have it flat, or even have some mechanism to raise things of this sort like they have on the back of removal vans?
Then I went back for another one that was even bigger. By the time I got it to the car I was regretting what I was doing even more, but I was determined not to give up. Eventually I pulled all five of the pots into position, perhaps if I had a little rest I would regain some upper body strength, enough to haul them up.
I sat down on the ground, with my back against the car wheel, and wiped my sweating face with a tissue. I was probably as red as my sweater with the effort of all this.
After a few minutes, my heart rate and my breathing had gone back to normal, and I decided to try again. What had Isabel said, you never know how strong you are until there was no option? And as there was no sign of any strong-looking person around to help me, there wasn’t an option.
‘Right,’ I said, addressing the azalea, ‘you’re a pot, I’m a strong capable woman.’
I put both arms around the top and heaved the pot up and, spilling damp compost all over myself and the boot of my car, but I got it in. Triumph! Success!
The second one was bigger, and I gave a mighty heave and the sort ofgaaaaahhhhnoise that an Olympic weightlifter might have made. This time it didn’t work. I lost my footing, my knees buckled, and I fell over backwards, tipping the pot, a lot of the compost and the plant, which I think was a rhododendron, all over myself.
I lay there stunned for a moment, pushing my hair out of my eyes, it seemed the ponytail wasn’t working, and then got up, spitting out dirt, brushing myself down, and using words that my children and grandchildren would have been surprised I knew.
I untied the sweater from around my neck where it had morphed into some sort of garotte, then I scooped up the soil and the battered plant and put them back into the pot. Interesting thought, perhaps I should empty the pots first? Put them into the car and then put the plants back in?
No, I was sure that wouldn’t be a very good plan, and then all Isabel’s plants would die, and all this would have been for nothing.
I had another sit down, wishing I had brought something to drink. A bottle of water perhaps. Maybe there was a tap somewhere, he probably had some sort of outside water supply. I wandered around the house again, and yes, there was a neatly coiled yellow hosepipe connected up to a brass tap. Perhaps I could scoop some water up into my hands. But my hands were filthy. Perhaps not. I rinsed my hands off under the water flow, which was spluttering and slow, the water pressure round here was always unpredictable, and then dried them by rubbing them down the legs of my new jeans.
Round the back of the house, I could see through the windows into the kitchen, which again, was tidy and clean. On the worktop there was a kettle, and I looked longingly at it and thought about how close I was to tea bags and a clean mug. There might even be chilled water in the big fridge, or little, glass bottles ofPellegrino Limone, which I loved.
