Current Issue + contents + contributors + thanks News Next Issue Submit Links About Contact Archive       Dramatic things did not often happen to Meredith Locke, so when she woke up at 3.00 am to pounding on the front door, she assumed it must a mistake. She removed her yellow ear plugs one at a time, and carefully set them on the bedside table. She had a feeling the banging had been going on for some time. It was her neighbour, Mrs Carson, or Carlyle—something like that—telling her that her fence was on fire. That woke her up. Mrs Carson’s husband was already out the front with a hose and it was not long before the sirens wailed down her street. ‘You’re the fourth call-out we’ve had tonight,’ said one of the fire fighters. ‘Some little bastard with a can of kero and a box of matches is on the loose.’ Meredith pulled the lapels of her dressing gown up over her mouth to keep out the sharp taste of smoke. Her brush fence was badly damaged and the bougainvillea that grew along the boundary line had gone up like kindling. Meredith watched the scorched, papery leaves flutter up toward the street light like black butterflies. * The arson affected Meredith’s life in ways she had not expected, beginning with her morning drink. Before the fire, she liked to sit on the front porch sipping hot spiced blackberry juice from a large misshapen mug. No one could see her for the porch had been completely sheltered by bougainvillea, growing high and wild above the fence line, which surrounded a small oval of lawn. A perfect suburban retreat. After the fire, Meredith found herself to be something of a curiosity. As she sipped her morning drink, people walking past peered into her garden. Some even stopped to inspect the damage, tut-tutting, giving her sympathetic smiles, prodding the remaining part of the fence. Then, about a week after the fire, she came out through the French doors, and found a man standing in her garden. He had stepped right over the boundary line and into her yard. He was bending over so Meredith couldn’t see his face; only that he was wearing sneakers, light grey track pants and a faded red t-shirt which had been through the wash many times. Can I help you?’ she asked, holding onto her mug with both hands. ‘She’ll need to be pulled out,’ said the man, not turning around. ‘I’m sorry?’ ‘She’ll need to be pulled out,’ he said, straightening up and turning to face her. ‘Now if you had natives, say your Correa reflexa or your Eremophila alterniflora cerise, the fire would’ve been good for them. They would’ve come back stronger than ever.’ The thought flashed through Meredith’s mind that he might be the arsonist. Didn’t they usually return to the scene of the crime? She was sure she’d heard that somewhere. ‘Right, well, thank you,’ she said. ‘I’ll be getting in my gardener and a man to fix the fence some time soon.’She hoped her tone would convey she had everything in hand and it was time for him to go. Instead, he moved to another part of the garden and thrust his hand into the soil. ‘Alkaline,’ he said, dabbing a finger to his tongue. ‘Needs a good mulch, this does.’ ‘My gardener will see to it,’ said Meredith, though in truth, she had no gardener, as this man would no doubt have figured out by the state of her roses. For years, she had been meaning to get one, but the thought of having to interview all those strangers—of bringing them into her home—meant she kept putting it off. The man brushed the soil off his hands and scanned the rest of the garden. He was about fifty, with a full head of ginger hair, and quite short. For a man so small, he certainly filled a space, what with his expansive gestures and too-loud voice. ‘Well,’ said Meredith, ‘thank you for you advice. Have a good morning,’ and she turned to go inside. ‘Banksia marginata,’ said the man. ‘I’m sorry?’ ‘A Banksia marginata would go perfectly just about here,’ and he stepped into her flower bed and stamped his foot in the ash. ‘Or an Acacia argyrophylla. That might do the trick.’ ‘Right,’ said Meredith. ‘I could get you some if you like. Wouldn’t cost you a thing.’ ‘That’s very kind but—’ ‘I’m a gardener by trade so I get lots of freebies. I’ll bring some round tomorrow afternoon.’ ‘There’s no need,’ said Meredith. ‘Really, I can manage.’ The man smiled, looking her full in the face. ‘It’s no trouble,’ he said. ‘No trouble at all.’ * Meredith had not always lived alone. She had had her fair share of boarders when finances required:visiting Asian students; that girl from the Eyre Peninsula; a friend who left her husband. Fortunately, the house was set up almost as two separate flats; two bedrooms, two living areas, two bathrooms. There was no need to share personal items such as soap or towels, or even to share conversation, so long as meals were carefully timed. Not that she was anti-social. Various men had played a part in her life at one time or another. She had always been good-looking, after all; dark features with a good bone structure. She enjoyed having dinner with friends too, and she was an involved aunt—at least she had been, when her niece and nephew were small. She just preferred to see people elsewhere. Home was her sanctuary. Home, she liked to save for herself. When Laurie Keyes returned the next day, he not only brought soil, but mulch, tools and a trailer. Meredith stood by helplessly as he tore at the blackened remains. ‘Be careful of thorns,’ she said. She had resigned herself to this one act of charity. ‘You’ll get torn to pieces.’ When he had finished with the fence and the bougainvillea, he set about turning over her pale, dry soil and adding in a mixture of dark mulch. For reasons she couldn’t quite understand, Meredith resented the vigorous way he mixed his soil in with hers. It was as if her garden were being somehow overpowered, or perhaps diluted. It was early evening by the time Laurie finished. As he bent over the tap to wash his hands, Meredith went and fetched her purse. ‘How much do I owe you?’ she said. ‘No charge,’ said Laurie, smiling over his shoulder. ‘Oh, no. I couldn’t not pay you. No, no, no. I can’t leave you out of pocket.’ ‘I got all the plants and mulch for free,’ he said. ‘I’m not out of pocket.’ ‘But your labour,’ said Meredith. ‘You’ve spent hours.’ Laurie wiped his hands on the back of his overalls and shook his head. Meredith rifled through her purse and took out one hundred dollars anyway. ‘I insist,’ she said, reaching out and pushing it into his damp hand. ‘I really do.’ It wasn’t until the next day that Meredith discovered an unmarked envelope in her letterbox. Inside were two fifty dollar notes. * ‘It’s almost like assault,’ she said to her niece over the phone. ‘Every few days, he turns up unannounced with all these plants I’ve never even heard of. Then he rattles off their Latin names with this atrocious accent, and sets to work planting them. And he won’t take a cent. Plus, he’s obsessed with the idea of educating me about gardening; sharing every obscure fact that pops into his head. By the time he leaves, I feel like I’ve been mugged.’ ‘You did say you wanted a gardener,’ said Felicity. ‘Couldn’t you just see the bright side of the situation?’ ‘Yes, well, I suppose, but I’d much rather choose what goes in my garden. And when. At least I stopped him mending my fence. I got a contractor in ASAP before he could go off and—I don’t know—do a brush fencing course or something, just so he could fix it for me.’ ‘Aren’t you being a little ungrateful? He’s probably just got a crush on you.’ ‘God forbid. And anyway, I’m at least fifteen years older than him, and not on the market.’ ‘Let him help you, Aunty M. There’s no real harm, is there? And you’ll get a beautiful garden to boot.’ ‘I suppose so,’ sighed Meredith. It would be nice to have a beautiful garden. * As the weeks progressed, Meredith spent less and less time in her garden and more and more time indoors. She never knew when Laurie would show up, and anyway, it didn’t feel like her garden anymore. The kitchen was the only place she felt she could breathe. On one of her rare ventures out the front, she found Laurie emptying out a plastic bag full of bulbs. ‘I’d like to reimburse you, Laurie,’ she said. ‘How much for the bulbs?’ Laurie waved his arm noncommittally. ‘Another freebie from a mate o’ mine,’ he said. ‘Plicatas, they are. Type of bearded iris. They’ll come up a beauty in a couple months’ time.’ Another mate with a freebie? thought Meredith. Surely no one had that many mates. When Laurie left, she picked up the plastic bag in which the bulbs had come. Inside, she found a receipt. Plicatas bulbs, it said. ‘Laurie, I really must speak with you,’ said Meredith. It was three days since she had discovered the receipt. ‘Please, take a seat.’ She gestured to one of the chairs she had placed outside especially for this purpose. Laurie sat down slowly. ‘Now, Meredee,’ he said, taking off his terry towelling gardening hat and laying it on the table. ‘I know what you’re going to say.’ ‘Please,’ said Meredith. ‘Just hear me out. It’s very generous of you to give me all these plants and help me with my garden, but you really must let me pay you. I don’t care what you do with the money once I’ve given it to you. Donate it to your favourite charity, burn it, use it as scrap paper. I don’t care. So long as you take it.’ ‘Now, Meredee—’ ‘No, Laurie. I’ve made up my mind. And I’m afraid, I’m afraid I can’t accept your help any more unless you agree to some kind of fee. That’s my bottom line.’ ‘Well that’s too bad, because I’m not taking a cent. Now, if that’s all, I’ll be getting back to work.’ He reached for his hat. ‘Laurie!’ said Meredith. The sheer weight of his personality pressed up against her and she was glad of the table between them. ‘You can’t do good to someone against their will! You can’t… inflict your charity on them! You just can’t!’ Laurie let go of his hat and sat back in his chair. A deep red crept up his neck like an ink stain. ‘Look,’ she said, more quietly. ‘I appreciate everything you’ve done for me, but I never asked you to do it. I never invited you to—’ ‘It’s okay, Meredee,’ said Laurie. ‘You don’t need to say anymore. I get it.’ For the first time since she’d met him, Meredith felt she was seeing the real Laurie. Deflated, yes, but honest. There was no maddening enthusiasm. His pushiness was gone. ‘I’m sorry, Laurie,’ she said. But she didn’t take it back. * For the next few days, Meredith hovered by the French doors, wondering if she would see Laurie or not. To her infinite relief, she didn’t. Her self began to fill her home once more and within three weeks, she had almost forgotten about him. One Thursday morning, before many of the neighbours were up, Meredith sat on the porch, rugged up in her favourite cable knit jumper. The spicy scent of cinnamon and cloves wafted upward from her mug. It won’t be very long before the irises are out, she thought. Lovely. It was the first time in a long while she had been able to consider her garden without irritation. She took another sip and heard a car pull up out the front, followed by the crunch of gravel in the drive. No, thought Meredith. Please, no. The side gate burst open and Laurie appeared, a cardboard box wedged under his arm. ‘I’ve thought about what you said, Meredee,’ he said, holding up his free hand to stop her from speaking. ‘I’ve thought about it, and I’ve decided it’s a load of bunkum. Now, just sit back and let me do what I’m good at,’ and he dumped the box on the edge of the lawn and set to work planting. ‘These are Tulipa Fosteriana, otherwise known as Orange Emperor tulips. You’ll love ‘em.’ Meredith seized her mug and marched into the house. The panes in the french doors rattled in their frames. I should have called the police, thought Meredith as she lay in bed that night. I should have had him thrown off my property for trespass! Meredith yanked her quilt up under her chin. There were so many things that annoyed her about him. In many ways, the money was the least of it. There was the way he pronounced those Latin plant names so lovingly, as if he were reading romantic poetry; the way he’d taken to calling her Meredee without even asking her if it was okay (it wasn’t); the way he tried to interest her in the science of gardening when she’d told him over and over that just because she enjoyed being in a garden, didn’t mean she wanted to know about gardening; the way he assumed he was welcome; the way he assumed he could meddle in her life; the way he assumed he knew better. Yes, that was it: it was the way he just assumed. She got herself into such a state that by 2.45 am, she kicked off the bedcovers and charged out of bed, stopping only to put on some old boots she kept by the front door. Then she marched out into the garden and dropped to her knees. The lawn was damp and cold; freezing, almost. Meredith didn’t care. She reached into the soil and felt around until she found what she was looking for: a tulip bulb. She tossed it into the centre of the lawn and searched for another, and another. Each time she found one, she lobbed it over her shoulder, feeling a strange—almost manic—sense of achievement. By a quarter to four, she had quite a pile, and not just tulip bulbs. There were irises too, and the saplings, and the Acacia argo-whatsisname, and that bloody Banksia something-something. When she’d cleared as much as she could, she went around the side of the house and down to the garden shed. She hauled out her father’s old wheelbarrow and pushed it round to the front. Meredith was aware she must look a sight; a woman in a long nighty and heavy boots, pushing a wheelbarrow full of bulbs down the road at four in the morning. She didn’t care. She just wanted to shed herself of Laurie and all his additions to her life. His house was only two blocks away. What she didn’t expect was to find Laurie’s brush fence on fire and, worse than that, the gum tree that grew beside it on fire as well. Meredith watched the crackling cellophane flames race up the branches. One branch in particular stretched out and over Laurie’s house, the fire consuming its leaves with petrol speed. Meredith dropped the handles of the wheelbarrow. ‘Laurie!’ she screamed. ‘Laurie!’ She ran up the front path and pounded on a front door. ‘Fire! There’s a fire! You’ve got to get out!’ When there was no response, she cut across the flowerbeds and down the driveway where she banged on a window. ‘Laurie! Get out of there!’ There was a loud extended crack as a tree limb wrenched itself from the trunk, followed immediately by the sound of splintering tiles and glass shattering. * Laurie stood beside Meredith on the footpath across the road from his house, huddled in a Fire Service blanket. Fire fighters walked through the wreckage, dousing the last of the sparks. ‘Laurie,’ said Meredith. ‘I’m so so sorry.’ The sun had just started to come up and the air above his house glowed a strange orange colour, all at once beautiful and awful. ‘I need to get some things from inside,’ he said. ‘No can do,’ said a nearby fire fighter. ‘It’s too dangerous. You’re going to have to find somewhere to stay until this mess is cleaned up.’ Meredith listened to the creaking of fractured timbers; watched steam rise off the house like a hot spring. This could have happened to me, she thought. As Laurie stepped off the curb, Meredith reached out and touched his back. ‘You can come home with me,’ she said. ‘Come on. I’ve got plenty of room.’ Laurie turned around to look at her. ‘Come on,’ she said. ‘Come.’ The two of them walked back down the road towards her home, the wheelbarrow parked at an angle in the gutter, forgotten. 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