Petra and the Garden

It was years ago that my grandfather decided to give up alcohol. In a fit
of evangelical zeal he decided to renounce it completely and from
then on brewed a concoction of his own ( dandelion and god knows
what) which seemed to produce the same effect in him as the alcohol
from which he now abstained.

 

The result of this decision was that he sold his father's brewery and
did quite well out of it, sensibly investing the money in property (
he was quick to quote Mark Twain; 'Buy land, they're not making it
any-more!') with the result that we were, and I suppose are,
comfortably off, still able to own quite a few houses in the city and
a few more in the villages of Worcestershire.

 

 

One such house was rented by an old friend, Petra. She kept it in good
order, and as the rent was always on time so my brother and I were
quite content to let her stay.

 

I had been at convent school with Petra, Mother Maria had assigned me to
look after her after her family had fled from Hungary during the
revolution. It always astounded me that Petra's mother spoke perfect
English ( as well as several other languages), but as she got older
she developed a bizarre quasi -east European accent of her own which
would not have been out of place in a bad Carry On film.

 

However, time catches up with us all and now Petra, living on her own again (
a string of partners, male and female , younger and older had come
and gone), was looking for somewhere smaller. A fall from a ladder
whilst painting two years really knocked her confidence and had left
her with a slight limp and reduced mobility.

 

'You know I used to love this place' she said to me when I called round.

 

'Very odd you becoming so attached, I had always thought of you as
something of a nomad'

 

''We all have to attach to something.. anyway I must get somewhere
smaller'

 

'I have spoken to Mike and there is a tiny terraced house we have just
north of here on the Evesham Road '

 

She stood up and I noticed she was gripping her walking stick tighter
than usual.

 

'I will have to have it'

 

'Don't you want to see it first?'

 

'I trust you Theresa, I was told to, remember?' There was a glint in
her eye as we both thought back to the Convent.

 

'And I had to do my bit, dear Mother Maria was so concerned about you..I
think she felt you were her project'

 

We both laughed, my choice of words was not perfect, Petra would never be
anyone's 'project'

 

'You have to have it now?' You are not that bad are you?

 

'Getting there Theresa, and we are not getting younger..I need to leave here'

 

'OK I'll speak to Mike later, it is tiny, one bedroom and not much more
than a hole in the wall upstairs..has a downstairs bathroom though'

 

She was distracted and I wasn't sure that she was really paying attention.
She wanted out and that was that.

 

*

 

Mike had done well for himself, he had a successful solicitor's practice
but he still liked , with me I suppose, the hands on approach of
being completely involved with the properties we had. I really liked
his older wife, Anthea, but sometimes felt that her midday sherry
parties meant that she would have liked our great grandfather not to
have gone through his Damascus road experience and carried on with
the brewery.

 

I telephoned Mike and she answered with a hiccup, it was only just past
six but my guess was that more that 80milligrams of alcohol per 100
milligrams of blood was in her system.

 

'Theresa darling, how are you? We've had a splendid day'

 

Yes quite, I thought, less emphasis on the communal 'we' darling.

 

I had a quick run through of her splendid day but I really wasn't listening ,
eventually Mike came on.

 

'Petra will have the house Mike, she's really getting worse moving about'

 

'OK, no problem, I'll get some cleaners in and I think the toilet cistern may
need replacing but I'll get on to that in the morning, I would hope
within two weeks we should be ready for her'

 

'As soon as that? Maybe I'll give her a hand sorting out her stuff'

 

*

 

Despite having lived at the house for years Petra was not one to keep vast
amounts. Quite a few old records .. to my surprise mostly Russian,
Shostakovich, Stravinsky and her beloved Tchaikovsky, plenty of books
and magazines but not a great deal else.

 

One afternoon I was in the bedroom, most of the furniture that was hers
had gone but we did have an enormous old wardrobe there. Stuck in
the bottom in a faded tin marked First Aid were several envelopes
containing photographs.

 

I started to leaf through and came across a picture of a young man
with an earring and a shaved head, not so common in those days I
thought judging by the age of the picture. Then it came back to me it
was Phil, I adored Phil and thought he would be Petra for ever.

 

I shouted downstairs

'Petra, I 've come across a pic of Phil!' She knew I really liked him, we
all did.

 

She peered around the bottom of the stairs

 

'Get rid of it, it's in the past isn't it?'

 

'I know but don't you..'

 

She cut me off, sharply.

 

'I don't want to be reminded thank you'

 

I wondered then as to whether she really did think like the rest of us
that he was the one.

 

*

 

Phil was really funny, with an infectious laugh. He was several years
younger than us but like a lot about him we never knew his actual age
(except he was past twenty five but under thirty five) or for that
matter where he came from , or went.

 

He was very good in the garden, an expert at growing almost anything, he was
also a skilled plasterer and Mike and I gave him plenty of work (
always in cash though as I remember).

 

'He's really good around the house too' Petra would tell everyone, even
though he was not a great fan of music and struggled to have her
Russian masters on in the background.

 

However, Phil made Petra laugh, he made all of us laugh and that was a bright
dawn in our lives. Or at least I like to look back and think it was.

 

One night, I think it was in January, Christmas had passed in any case,
Petra and he had a furious row. I can't even recall what it was
about, like most arguments that get out of hand I think. They really
were screeching at each other, I had never seen Phil like that
before. It was so bad that Mike, Anthea and I left without anyone
noticing.

 

In a rare moment of concern Anthea felt we should call the police, she was
genuinely afraid that it would escalate to violence.

 

I wanted to call round the following day but Anthea suggested leaving
it for Petra to contact us and apologise. She never did. When I did
eventually see her a week later there was no apology and Phil had
left.

 

I was shocked and Phoned Mike..

 

'He's just gone, up and left, she doesn't seem at all concerned'

 

'So ?' she always picks up waifs and strays, what are you concerned about'

 

The waifs and strays was Anthea talking, it was one of her favourite
phrases.

 

'I know but we all loved him and thought he was a stayer'

 

'Yes we have thought that too about Alex, Freddie who had the enormous
ponytail, Sim and Katie..'

 

'Don't go on Mike' The list was wearing already, and we both knew that
quite a few more could be added.

 

'Anyway I've got to go, guests arriving, oh and I'll need another plasterer
for that little place on Cotswold Way'

 

'Oh yes, the damp course is going to be done next week isn't it?'

 

''Yup, anyway drinks with the firm tonight, bye'

 

Drinks with the firm , why did he say it like it was a special occasion?
For Anthea especially it was a way of life.

 

 

*

 

The day of the move came and went and Petra did like the new house , but the
fall had had quite an effect and she was really never the same.
Barely two years later I found her sitting in a chair in the garden
slurring her words and flopping to one side. Another stroke followed
six months later and when I visited her in Worcestershire Royal
Hospital we both new that this was the end. She was propped up in
bed, she had limited mobility on her left side and her memory was
going, however her speech , which was affected quite badly ( very
badly if I recall) had come back.

 

'Your brother has my will' She said to me abstractedly, she was looking
away from me out of the window and it was a divergent take on our
conversation.

 

'Yes Mike will take care of all that, but don't talk like that yet'

 

'I have to, we both know what's happening don't we?'

 

I couldn't think of a reply and then she said

'The old house on Cotswold Way, the one before this, what have you done
with the old apple tree?'

 

'Well I don't know, I remembered when we last rented it the tree was
perilously near to next door, it hasn't grown apples for ages though'

'Don't cut it down'

 

'I'll speak to Mike and have a look but it may have to go'

'Don't, please don't do anything' She was starting to get agitated.

 

'It was a lovely tree but if it has to go'

 

'No leave it there, it has to stay' She was now sitting up in bed and
staring at me, she reached out for my hand.

 

'I'll speak to Mike' I replied again, trying to remain calm for her, I had not
seen her get so upset about minor details like that before.

 

A week later she died, another stroke completely disabled her and she barely
lasted forty eight hours.

 

The house on Evesham Road we sold, as for the one she had had for years
on Cotswold way we decided that it was time for that to go too, too
much work needed doing in the end.

 

I was there with Anthea on one of the last days and we had got a gardening
firm, a father and son business, in to tidy up the massive space
outside and get rid of the apple tree that had caused Petra so much
concern.

 

The young son approached us and said

 

'We aren't happy about that tree, looks as if a lot of digging around it
over the years, my guess is something is buried underneath'

 

He winked at the last point and we all laughed but it was Anthea who
phoned me later that evening to say the police had been round.

 

A skeleton had been found under the apple tree of a man between twenty
five and thirty five, died from a single blow to the back of the
head.