by Cherise Saywell, winner of third prize in the 2009 Asham Award

Private Grounds, the sign said. It didn't say Keep Out.

The gate was open and straight away Laura could see this garden was perfect. Although a high stone wall enclosed it there were no signs of any security, and in the centre was a freshly dug bed. She stepped inside and stood on the path for a moment, waiting to see what would happen, but no one appeared.

‘Come on, Connie,’ she said.
As soon as she was inside Connie skipped ahead, flitting along the fence to where a chestnut tree stood. Laura’s heart raced as she disappeared but she didn’t go after her. She’ll come back, she told herself. She’ll be looking for conkers. There were a couple of chestnut trees in the Botanic Gardens and occasionally you saw one arched over the wall of a private garden like this. It was illegal to touch, even if the branches hung right in your path.

Laura knelt before the flower bed, smoothing her hands across the loose soil. It was strange, that sign, because the owners of a garden like this didn’t need to state the obvious. A high fence with a twist of barbed wire and an intercom was what normally did the job. Outside these guarded green spaces there were no longer any verges or parks or drying greens. Everything was leased and fenced. Even cemeteries were gated and secured. You could only visit to inter the ashes of a family member, when they gave you a ticket to sit among the gravestones and the flowers for an hour or so. Apart from that the only garden for ordinary people like Laura was the Botanic Gardens where you paid and then kept to the path. For most it was enough just to look – to see the green of the un-touched lawn, the bright strain of colour in the flower beds.

The last time Laura was at the Botanic Gardens the path was crowded with people: teenagers roaming in packs, workers enjoying a glimpse of brightness on their way home. It was October but still warm and thick as a summer’s day. People had stared as Laura veered off the path and on to the grass, crouching to unpack her bag. Trowel. Fork. Bulbs like charred onions that she’d bought on the black-market. Although the grass was mown close and tight it was easy enough to lift it with the trowel, and Laura pictured the buttery glow of her daffodils there. But she was uncertain of how deep to dig – she hadn’t got this far before. She made several holes of different depths and placed a couple of her bulbs in them to see. It would be important to leave enough room. Connie had stayed close by that day, not saying anything, not even when the environmental warden came up to ask what in the hell Laura was doing. A policeman was called when she kept on digging even after a crowd gathered to watch. Luckily no one saw inside her bag.

That was her second attempt, that day in the Botanic Gardens. Laura tried not to think of it now. They’d been quite lenient so far. They’d taken her home and given her a dispensation but that last time she had to take unpaid leave to make it stick. Now she had to light candles at night to save her power coupons. Each soft flame reminded her. She didn’t tell anyone where she was going today. She certainly couldn’t say she was taking Connie.

Laura reassured herself. She wasn’t thinking straight those other times. Today she would do it properly. She thought of the unlocked gate, the sign, and smiled. It should have read, Private Grounds, but do come in. Or, Private Grounds, please enjoy. Beyond the shrubbery was a large house with tall glass windows and enclosed balconies. The roof sloped steeply and there were drains running off all the visible edges where the rainwater would be harvested and cleaned. There was also a well, sheltered, with a complex filter system arranged around it. The people who owned this garden would be very rich. They would not have to worry about when the rain went away. They could clean and store their water. They could bathe and wash their clothes and grow flowers. The thought of her proximity to all this wealth sent a quick jolt of panic along Laura’s spine, but she reasoned with herself. This place wasn’t manicured like the tightly fenced gardens of the gated communities further along the road. The shrubbery around the walls seemed untouched and Laura was able to identify a large oak tree and an unkempt aspen in the far corner. They lent an air of privacy, of seclusion, to the place. The border of the bed was not well marked but it was clear it had been prepared for planting. And anyone with a garden like this would want flowers.

Laura took a breath. There were four wooden benches dotted about the lawn. They had an abandoned look and Laura felt encouraged. She would work quickly and unobtrusively. She would finish this today. She pushed her trowel into the dirt of the empty flower-bed, turned the earth a few times and began to dig.

Nearly half an hour passed before Laura was disturbed.

‘Are you the gardener?’

Before Laura stood a woman, tall and solid looking, old but not frail.

‘Pardon?’ Laura said.

‘Are you the gardener, then? The agency said they’d send someone today.’

Laura thought quickly. If she were reported now there would definitely be a fine, or worse. There certainly wouldn’t be another chance. She sat back in a kneeling position and checked her clothes. Canvas trousers. Green pullover. She wondered if they would pass for a uniform.

‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Yes, I am.’

The old woman narrowed her eyes, but only slightly. ‘When did you start?’ she asked.

‘Today. Just now.’

‘Funny time to start. Quarter after the hour. Middle of the afternoon. I opened the gate at lunch time.’

‘I went to the wrong place. I’m sorry. I’m a bit late.’

The woman sniffed but she didn’t question Laura any further. ‘Well, it’s not before time, anyway,’ she said. ‘Useless, that last one. Dug up my peonies. Moved them.’Peonies. Peonies

‘They don’t like to be moved, peonies,’ the old woman said. ‘But I expect you knew that.’ She eyed Laura as she rested against her stick. It punctured the soft damp ground. ‘Now they won’t flower for God knows how long.’

‘Oh. Sorry.’

‘What are you sorry for? You didn’t do it.’

Laura pushed at her cuticles. Her nails were dry and caked with dirt.

‘Well, never mind,’ the old woman said. ‘It’s just a matter of waiting.’ She looked at the sky. ‘Always a matter of waiting these days. Nothing happens when it should.’

Laura stooped and put her trowel down beside the bag, then scanned the back wall of the garden. Where was Connie?

The old woman followed her gaze.

‘What’re you looking at? There’s nothing along there to worry about.’ She huffed impatiently. ‘I don’t want anything done down there. Didn’t the agency tell you? It’s only these beds here I want planted. I don’t care what with, whatever they sent along with you.’

‘It’s okay,’ Laura said. ‘They told me all that.’

‘There were dahlias in there last year, chrysanthemums and asters. There were primulas around the edge too. It was a bit much really. A bit tasteless if you ask me. But if you can get them you’ve got to put them in, haven’t you? So dry, it was. There was nothing off the roof for months. I had to keep the well water for the house. Those flowers didn’t have a hope.’

Laura clicked her tongue, trying to sound sympathetic. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘It was very dry. Much too long to go without water.’ She paused and then, unable to contain her irritation, said, ‘We had to use the community well. I had to boil it for my daughter to drink and she still got sick.’

The woman was staring at the well. Now she looked at Laura.

‘Yes. Hmmm,’ she muttered. ‘Anyway, there’s no shortage now. I’ve had them in to clear the filters three times already. Never mind. So long as you get something in that’ll stay alive I don’t care.’

Laura put her hand on the bulbs. Despite her annoyance she was pleased with herself. She couldn’t believe her luck, couldn’t believe the clever story that had knitted itself around her. And so far no other gardener had turned up. Now if only the woman would go and let her get on with it. She hunched over the flowerbed, concentrating. Go away, go away. If she thought it hard enough, perhaps it would happen.

But it didn’t. The old woman waited a minute or so, then struck out for a nearby bench.

‘I’ll have a sit down,’ she called back. ‘I’ll have a look at what you’re doing.’ She poked at the dirt on her shoes with her stick. ‘That last one …’ Tutting, she leaned her head in the direction of the wronged peonies. ‘That’s not going to happen again. I can tell you that now.’

The flower-bed was oval shaped and slowly Laura worked her way around its perimeter. It would have made more sense to start in the middle, but she wanted to be alone when she did that. Briefly, the sun shone overhead before it began to weave in and out of the encroaching clouds. Laura planted the whole border before the old woman called out.

‘You’d have been better starting there,’ she said. She was using her stick to point to the centre of the patch and even though she had been expecting a comment, Laura was cross.

‘It’s alright,’ she said, testily. ‘I’m leaving a little avenue.’ She indicated the narrow path of unsown soil leading out from the centre to the edge of the bed. ‘I’m going to plant that bit when I’m finished. It’s just that I want to do something special in the middle.’ She checked the back wall again, where the chestnut tree was. There was still no sign of Connie. ‘Does that wall go right around?’ Laura asked.

‘Yes. Didn’t you see a picture at the agency?’

Laura could have swallowed her tongue. ‘Oh, yes,’ she said, ‘but I didn’t look properly.’ She thought quickly. ‘They said I’d only have to do this bit so I didn’t go over the plans.’ The old woman was checking her over now, checking the trowel, the bulbs. Making sure. ‘Then, when I got here,’ Laura continued, ‘I didn’t want to intrude. I thought I should just get on with it.’ She paused and then decided to throw in a little honesty for good measure. ‘To be perfectly truthful, I was surprised the gate was open. I expected to be buzzed in.’

The old woman sighed. ‘I’d rather spend my money on the garden.’ She jabbed her stick at the ground. ‘Anyway, I generally find it’s enough to keep the gate closed.’ Laura felt the heat rise in her neck. She bent forward again, and began digging an inside circle, placing the bulbs as closely as she could.

‘Is it crocuses?’ the old woman called. ‘You’re crowding them a bit, aren’t you?’

‘It’s daffodils.’

‘Still a bit close.’

‘Well, you’ve paid so I don’t want to waste them.’ Laura looked carefully away. She knew how she wanted the garden to look. She’d counted out the bulbs left over from the time in the Botanic Gardens and distributed them in her head, imagining the petals thickening to a smooth brilliant centre, like a flame. She hunched her shoulders and bent her body over the soil as if to ward off any further questions. But the old woman huffed and Laura sighed and looked up again.

‘There’s quite a few daffodils in this garden, you know,’ the old woman persisted. She pointed. ‘Over there, near the aspen, and in the shrubbery by the front path. Most of them dried out last year but I managed to hold onto a few. It might be nice to have to have a bit of variety in that bed.’

‘Well I’m sorry but no one has anything else,’ Laura snapped. It made her angry, this woman who could pick and choose, even while she said she didn’t care. But she softened her tone then, remembering herself. ‘This was all they could give me.’

That much was true. There was so little to be had. Apart from the black-market, you could only get plants from the agencies, and while some were advertising seeds gathered after the temperate summer they’d have sold privately, even before the ads were up. There would only be bulbs now, where ever you went. Daffodils. Crocuses. An occasional luxurious tulip.

‘Better than nothing, I suppose.’ The old woman raised an eyebrow and sat back again.

Laura’s black-market bulbs had come from an agency gardener. He’d have been skimming them for weeks to accumulate what he had. Laura bought his entire batch. It cost her everything she had saved from before Connie and then what they gave her after. What they gave all the women who had it done. You got your one chance and then you did as you were told. You couldn’t afford not to. It was enough keep your child fed and at school until twelve years of age. They promised.

Laura was pleased it was daffodils that the black-marketeer had. It was exactly what she wanted. There were other yellow flowers but daffodils, Laura could plant and leave. She wouldn’t have to weed and trim, to pinch out new shoots, or prune. If she couldn’t get back in, it didn’t matter.

Connie would love it. How she adored yellow. Daffodils. Dandelions. Buttercups. You couldn’t pick them even if they were growing right there in the cracks in the pavement and Laura had always scooped Connie into her arms to prevent them getting a fine. Look at the yellow there

In the early spring, Laura would walk by this garden and she might hear her say it.Look at all that yellow

. See it? Like lights.

When Laura had planted all but the middle section of the flowerbed the old woman was still there, sitting on the bench. Laura craned her neck. She wanted to see Connie now. She’d never been in a place like this, where she could go off the path. She’d be exploring behind the trees and along the wall. She might have accumulated a pile of conkers, or pushed stones into the dirt, pretending they were seeds.

‘You keep looking over at that wall.’ The old woman sounded annoyed. ‘Perhaps I ought to get you to do some planting there after all. You’ve got quite a lot in that bed, you know. There’s not much room for anything else.’

Laura swallowed. Her saliva tasted sour and angry. ‘It’s nothing,’ she said. ‘I was only looking.’ She was tired now and the strain of her lie and this thing she had to do made her anxious and irritable. More than anything she wanted the old woman with her private garden and her filtered water to go away. ‘As a matter of fact,’ Laura heard herself say, ‘I thought I saw something.’ She pointed at a vine that crawled about the wall. ‘Over there.’

The woman sat upright, peering over.

‘But I’m sure it’s okay,’ Laura said, immediately regretting her impulse. ‘I mean, I haven’t seen anyone come in.’

The woman got up and walked over to where the wall went behind the house. Despite the stick, she walked quickly and steadily. She stood there a while and then returned to the bench. ‘You know, there used to be birds nesting in that wall,’ she said. She seated herself and sighed. ‘I saw the chicks jump out of the nest once, one after the other but perhaps their wings weren’t quite ready. I could hear them calling all day but at night they went quiet and I couldn’t hear them any more.’

Laura stopped what she was doing. She wanted to tell Connie. She wanted to show her the place. ‘Where was it? Where did they nest?’ Laura whispered because she didn’t want the woman to stop talking. She was old and perhaps she had forgotten where she was, the things she should not say.

‘There was a hole in between the bricks. It must have opened out inside the wall. They landed in amongst the leaves, right there.’ She pointed and smiled. ‘I never rake out the leaves, old fool that I am.’ For a while neither of them said anything at all. Eventually the old woman must have realized the silence. It was as if she’d been sleep-walking and then woken suddenly, in the middle of a hallway, or leaning out a window. ‘But you can’t see the place now,’ she said. ‘It’s all been re-pointed. And it was such a long time ago. I was only a girl.’ She met Laura’s eye. ‘I wonder sometimes if it was a dream,’ she added.

Laura smoothed the soil with her trowel. She didn’t want to frighten the woman. You weren’t allowed to talk as she had because it had always been like this. It had never been any different.

Laura began to turn the soil in the middle of the bed, digging the holes.

‘You mentioned a daughter,’ the old woman said. ‘Where is she now? Who looks after her when you’re gardening?’ She sat back in her seat and pushed her stick down hard alongside her leg. Laura checked her stance, her expression. Perhaps she knows, she thought. Perhaps she’s guessed. She wishes she hadn’t mentioned those birds and now she wants something in return to keep her safe.

Laura was close enough now to take a risk. She was almost finished. She put the trowel down in front of her. ‘As a matter of fact, my daughter’s here. I brought her with me. I had no choice. You can tell the agency if you like. I’ll give you the number when I’m finished.’ She looked down at her hands.

There was a pale blank silence. When Laura looked up again the old woman sat in the same position looking, not quite frightened, but something rather like it. ‘Oh no,’ she said. Laura felt her picking her words. ‘I was up there watching when you came in. I’d have seen if you had someone with you.’ She dropped her stick. Laura brushed her hands together, leaned over and picked it up for her.

The woman gave her a worried half-smile and Laura felt her palms grow sweaty. She rubbed at one with her thumb and the loose dirt there grew slippery. She put her hand on her bag. ‘She was over there, near the wall. Playing near your chestnut tree. I thought she was collecting conkers. But she wouldn’t have taken them. She’d never do that.’ There were twelve bulbs left. Laura gathered them together and picked up the trowel. ‘Don’t worry, she’ll come now.’ She opened the bag and called, ‘Connie, Connie,’ trying not to sound too desperate. It had to be now. There simply wouldn’t be another chance. ‘Come over here, Connie. I’m nearly done.’ Sometimes it worked. Calling out to her, as though nothing was different. Sometimes she appeared.

‘Are you sure she was with you when you came in?’ The old woman hesitated, then got to her feet. ‘I was at my window and I never saw a girl with you.’ Her voice fell away as she peered into Laura’s bag. It was too late now to hide it. The ceramic pot with its clumsily glazed picture. Laura had chosen one with a tree because there were none with yellow flowers.

‘Oh,’ the old woman said, stepping back. ‘Oh dear.’

Right then, someone appeared at the gate. A man, young, and dressed in an agency uniform. Perennial Bloom, his shirt said. He saw them but made a show of searching around the gate for a buzzer.

Laura tried to look at the old woman but it was hard to focus. Her head hurt. She dropped her face into her hands for a moment, inhaling the smell of the soil on her palms. ‘Listen,’ she said, without looking up, ‘I’m just going to put these last twelve in and then I’ll leave. I’m not going to do any harm, and this’ll take just five minutes to finish.’

The old woman said nothing. Her eyes were moving between the young man at the gate and Laura.

Laura drew her bag in close. It was heavy and dragged at the dirt. She rubbed the fabric of the canvas between her fingers frantically. She could up-end it, and run. What could they do? The gardener would be obliged to complete the planting. The old woman had paid. There would still be a daffodil garden. Briefly, Laura closed her eyes again, but all she could see behind them were flecks of grey, fragments of ash snagging and pilling on concrete and paving stones. She felt her hands reaching out, palms turned down. The words fell away from her.

‘Please,’ she begged. ‘Please let me do this. It’s the yellow. I just need to … there’s nowhere any more. You remember, don’t you? I can’t find anywhere else.’

She tried to look up at the old woman but found that she couldn’t meet her eye. It was a foolish thing she was doing and there were no words to explain it to a stranger.

Laura dropped to her knees and began to gather her tools.

But the old woman was speaking.

‘You need to dig a little deeper.’ She pointed at Laura’s bag. ‘Mix it with the soil, then plant those last bulbs in and they’ll flower for you.’

She heaved herself up and made her way across the lawn to the gate. From beneath the veil of her hair Laura watched her talking to the young man and when she looked up again he was gone and the old woman was halfway across the lawn. She stopped to caress what must be the peonies before she vanished into the building.

Connie didn’t come over but Laura felt certain she was watching. The sun was gone by the time she finished and clouds had gathered. She sat on the bench for a while, looking at the soil, and imagining it aglow with daffodils. When the rain began it was soft and grey and she pulled on a waterproof and listened as the filters on the well started up. Then she packed her bag and left, closing the gate behind her.