Melford Road 3

1996

I’m at the bottom of the garden, crouching down, watching. Between the house and me, are three hundred feet of impenetrable nettles and brambles, chest high. It’s a probate sale and it took forever to sort out, so no one’s been here all year. I’m the first; the estate agent wouldn’t come with me. Didn’t want to spoil his suit. It hadn't put me off; I'd pulled my sleeves down over my hands, lifted my arms above me and plunged in. I’d been stung to pieces but it'd been worth it.

Looking back; the garden’s very narrow but long. It climbs up towards the house, which looks so far away from here. It’s like not being at home at all. You could hide down here and no one would know. At the bottom is – nothing – it’s the bank of a little stream. The grass is short here for some reason; I’m not sure why - maybe it’s to do with the shade from the trees.

Rubbing my arms to lessen the stinging, I look around, it’s so beautiful! It feels as if I’m in a secret place. On my left is a huge weeping willow, its lower branches trailing lazily in the water, as if it couldn’t be bothered to lift them up, or maybe it’s just cooler that way. Reeds grow in the water, but it’s not choked up. To my left, two gardens along, someone’s upended a little rowing boat, brightly painted, but rotting gently. It doesn’t look as if it’s used much.

I know I should be up there, with the others, going through the house, looking at room sizes, power points, all that sort of thing, but I’m stuck here, transfixed by this beautiful secret place. Two swans glide silently past, so white against the green and brown. They’re followed by two cygnets, not all that small, although they still have the dirty grey baby plumage. Then a little coot, it’s head jerking back and forth as it moves, and then – it’s so quick I hardly see it, a flash of electric blue – the brightest I’ve ever seen – a kingfisher.

I have to tear myself away in the end. As I walk back up, nearer to the house it’s clear that the top part has been properly landscaped at some point. It stops abruptly about a third of the way down. Maybe that was when the owner became ill. Nearest the house it’s terraced, with flagstones and edged by high trellis covered in ugly Russian vine. I pull it away – it’s going to have to go, it’s hideous. Underneath I can see pale roses, and little weak tendrils of honeysuckle trying to get to the light. My leg brushes past a rosemary bush and it releases its delicious scent.

As I walk up the steps to the white-painted stable door, I turn and gaze back down for a minute. Beyond the stream are the river meadows, stretching out as far as the eye can see. Just that, and the big, big sky. It’s beautiful.

2000

I am packing up, alone. Sitting on the floor in the middle of a huge pile of stuff – newspapers, tea chests, tape, and marker pens. I hate all this. I’m not sure if I’m doing the right thing.

It took me thirteen years to really, completely give up. I thought I could make it work. I tried so hard. Shut my eyes, put my head down, gritted my teeth – all the platitudes. But now I’ve given up. Taken a deep breath, I’m starting a new leaf, pulling my socks up. More platitudes, just different ones. I am tired and not looking forward to it, because we still have the divorce to do and I know enough already to understand how horrible it’s going to be. I am frightened and trying not to be.

I wrap another plate in newspaper, put in on the pile, another sheet of newspaper, another plate. Then lighter things. You can’t fill a tea chest with only heavy stuff or it’ll break. Cheese graters, cutlery, and then little things from the kitchen, things you accumulate, stuff you stick on a fridge door. Children’s paintings, reminders of triumphant homecomings, proudly waving still wet paper, collages with lentils falling off, intricate sculptures – yoghurt pots and loo rolls glued together. Letters home about headlice “there has been another outbreak and we would like all parents to co-operate”

He is angry all the time. I mean all the time. I am a disappointment because I haven’t turned out to be the capable assertive woman he thought I was. I don’t know where he got that idea from. Maybe because he had four sisters and they all were, he thought all women would be. Not flaky and all over the place like me. I am not a capable cheerful roll your sleeves up Yorkshire Irish woman who makes cups of tea for everybody. I’m just not. I’m never going to be. I would have thought that was fairly obvious from the start. I’m not feeling sorry for myself; I’m just trying to be honest.

Then I have to pretend it isn’t happening, because it’s the only way I am going to get all this shit packed up.

I go to the shelf in the sitting room where we keep the important things, take a huge pile of stuff, and put it on the floor next to the boxes. Out of habit, I look around for my dog – I almost see her out of the corner of my eye, and then I remember she’s been dead a week. I miss her, but I ‘m glad she died before we moved. It would have been hard for her - all the upset, the strangeness. She was old and confused and I wasn’t looking forward to making her life more confusing. So much is ending right now. I’m not going to cry again. I have stuff to do.

The big buff envelope – you just know it’s from a solicitor without opening it. Stuffed full. I sit cross-legged and pull the papers out - a great huge sheaf of them. I’ll have to give these to Danny. I hope he’ll look after them. It’s his first home and he is so excited. I hope he likes it as much as he thinks he will. This writing, this flamboyant scrolling Victorian script – it’s beautiful. It must have taken so long to do. The names, with their archaic abbreviations; Thos. Chas…..and the old Suffolk surnames, repeated over and over. You can still see them in the local papers.

As the years go by, the handwriting becomes less beautiful, and then it turns to typeface. I shuffle the pile. For such an old house there haven’t been all that many owners. And there she is, that poor girl in the coroner’s report. I’ve given up on packing now. She is the same age as me, or would have been. She never got past twenty-three. The page is so thin it’s like tracing paper, and it’s slightly yellow now, The writing’s faded; it makes me feel old. 1983. Boy George, pink hair, leather jackets, big diamante earrings. I used to come up to Suffolk for weekends then, from London.

I know where she killed herself quite well. How must it have been for her that last journey? She was so so young. How could she have given up like that? I wonder what she thought of as she locked this front door for the last time. Did she shut out what she was going to do as she walked up to the station? Did she have to say hello to a dozen people in the short walk, as I do every time I go anywhere? It must have been difficult. Or maybe she didn’t, maybe she put her head down and pretended not to hear. November. Cold. They even have the time on here, on the coroner’s report – ten am. Maybe she waited until he left for work before going.

It takes a while to get to the big station – half an hour on the little train. All that time to think. What did she do? Did she look out of the window. Say goodbye to the world as she went past it. And then – at the big station – did she wait long? It would have been full at the time, full of people taking advantage of cheap day returns, late commuters trying to save money, freshly shaved, dark suits and overcoats, rustling their newspapers. I wonder if anyone looked up as she walked past, or if she was just another anonymous person. Sometimes if I’m on that platform, I watch the others and I try to work out who they are, what their lives are.

I hate it when those expresses go past. Hate the noise, the wind … it feels as if you’ll be sucked under sometimes. I shiver. It’s May outside but I am in November with that girl. Twenty-three and she gave up. I am no better than her. I am crying now, feeling sorry for myself as well as her. I’m not proud of what I did. I seem to have fucked everything up too. I was clutching at straws. That’s why we make bad choices, because we panic and we’re scared.

I thought I could make it work. The familiar – when you’ve been with someone forever. Is it courage or stupidity, when you know it’s broken, to walk away? I stayed – for years and years, knowing it was dead. But I thought I had made my bed and was okay about lying on it. Ten years of gritting my teeth, putting my head down, hiding away, trying to cram myself into this round hole, trying to be a responsible person, not making a very good job of it.

There’s a knock at the door and I am puzzled for a minute because my dog hasn’t barked. I was so far away. Then I remember and get up slowly, my legs feel stiff; I’ve no idea how long I’ve been sitting there

“Hi”

It’s Danny. He’s beaming so much it’s infectious and I find myself smiling back

“Hey – are you getting ready to move? I’m in the middle of packing, see?”

I open the door wider, so he can see all the boxes. He looks hesitant – then,

“Can I ask you something? I know you must be very busy…”

I nod, trying to look encouraging

“Can I …. Would you mind if I… would it be okay if I came and cut the grass? Before we complete I mean? I’ve been dying to have my own garden for so long…..”

He looks at me, waiting for my reply. He’s right about me being busy. I look at his face again. He smiles and it makes him look about twelve

“Of course you can. Look – I’ve been sorting stuff out… here - have a look. It’s the deeds. You might be interested”