The Memory Garden

An elderly man recounts his life to a young woman as they explore the gardens of his care home together.

It was Martin’s 92nd birthday and as a special treat he was being accompanied around the gardens of the Albany Manor care home. The young woman walking beside him held his arm carefully, her soft pink nail varnish contrasting with the green, heavy old waxed jacket that he’d had for over a decade. It hung limply off his small frame and looked like a child wearing his father’s clothes. He felt a breeze and pulled the front of the jacket closer to him, like a baby in swaddling.

            As the pair of them walked over the sun-coated lawns to the ornamental gardens that skirted the west wall he wondered what this young woman must think of him. He’d never seen her before or at least he couldn’t remember seeing her. There seemed to be a new member of staff every five minutes here and although he disliked the lack of consistency it was nice to meet new people at his ripe age.

            “So what’s your name then young lady and what did you do wrong to have to spend today with me?” as he spoke his voice grated and cracked, a radio that was slightly out of tune; he realised he’d not spoken to anyone in hours.

            The young woman besides him didn’t look at him as she replied, which he thought rude, but at least she feigned a smile. “I drew the short straw today.”

            He appreciated her cheek. So many of his visitors seemed to lack a sense of humour now he was old. He missed his friends telling him dirty jokes and sending rude birthday cards. His birthday card from his daughter today had a picture of a kitten on it. To Martin, that said it all. He didn’t even bother reading inside.

            Although Martin resented that neither of his two children had paid him a visit today, he was placated by the fact that he’d been permitted to walk out and around the gardens. Most residents at the home were allowed to walk through them, but after his fall last year his requests were usually denied. He imagined the manageress had taken pity on him today.

            They crunched onto the gravel pathway that meandered through the gardens and Martin began to survey his surroundings and note what was in bloom.

            The last of the daffodils were littered throughout the beds and Martin stooped to brush one with his finger. He spoke absently to the young woman in a way that suggested he didn't truly mind whether she listened or not.

            “Whenever I see a daffodil I can't help but think of Easter and the fun and games my daughter used to get up to.” He smiled and stood back up, his back aching, his finger dusted in yellow.

            “What’s your daughter like Martin?” He’d almost forgotten the young nurse was there and was startled by her question.

            “Sophie? Oh she’s a good girl. She always used to visit me every week. That was when I still lived at home of course. I don’t see her these days.”

            They resumed their walk.

“Not that I mind of course!” He was quick to add once they’d started moving again. “She’s got her own family now, a husband and two lovely boys. My only grandchildren you know!” He took out his wallet with no money in and showed a faded photograph of two young boys playing in a rock pool to the young woman. She looked at the photo and smiled knowingly. She must see so many pictures like this he thought.

            “Yes, every Easter she’d ask if we could do an Easter egg hunt and me being me, I could never say no. Agnes, that was my wife you know, she always said I spoiled her rotten. But I never minded. She deserved to be spoiled.”

            The young woman next to him squeezed his arm tighter, he was grateful, as there was no sun here in the shadow of the sycamores.

            “I remember one year she found all of the eggs herself, I’d hidden about thirty! I asked her if she thought her brother might be upset if he didn’t have any and without me having to tell her she gave him half her eggs. Such a good girl. I do miss her.”

            He glanced over at the daffodils again. “Aye, whenever I see a daff’ I think of Sophie.”

They continued their walk in a clockwise direction around the gardens. For such a small care home they were surprisingly large. Occasionally they would pass another resident; either alone or accompanied with someone a fraction of their age, just like him.

            “Ah,” he said at an apparently arbitrary spot and stopped walking, “that, young lady, is a Peony. I used to have those in my own garden once. Lovely things.”

            They walked over to the other side of the path and he sat on a bench that had views of the flowerbeds all around.

            “Now when I think of Peonies I always remember my honeymoon. Agnes and I went to Jersey for our honeymoon, she’d never flown before that and was absolutely terrified. I remember she drank three G&Ts at the clubhouse just to calm her nerves. Bless her.”

He appeared to pause and take in the memories that were rising to the surface.

“Anyway, we stayed in a grand old hotel for our honeymoon. It had a lovely garden at the back, even bigger than this. That garden was full of Peonies, purple ones so dark you’d think they were black. I thought they were rather morbid looking flowers but Agnes loved ‘em. When she had her back turned I picked one for her. She told me off for that mind you! Said I ought not to pick something that didn’t belong to me. But she still kept it in her journal. Probably still there now, nearly as old and dry as me I expect.”

            The young woman seemed more captivated with his story now and even asked him questions. “So what was Jersey like back then?”

            “Jersey? Oh it was splendid. This was just after the war of course, so they were trying to encourage people to return. We’d ride our bikes all day and have picnics in the fields we’d pass. I remember one evening we went to a dance hall. Not a big one mind, it was only a small place. But they had a band that covered all the good stuff, Miller, Goodman, Baker. All the music my wife loved. I wasn’t musical but I loved that Agnes was.”

            “Did you ever go back there?” The girl did seem genuinely interested.

            “No, no we didn’t. It’s one of my biggest regrets. Agnes always asked me if we could go back one year. I always said ‘yes of course’, but never did anything about it. They say you only regret the things you don’t do. Well, I’m not sure if that’s entirely true, but I understand it.”

He smiled at the young woman. “You make sure you grasp every opportunity my dear! Otherwise you’ll be stuck in a place like this with regrets like me one day.”

            “I will Martin.” She smiled, “Shall we keep going?”

            She helped him to his feet and they resumed their slow walk. The sun shining through the tall trees painted a pattern onto the pathway that made it seem as though they were walking on water.

            “I lived on Sycamore Road once.” He spoke as they walked, he didn’t seem to want to stop.

            “I beg your pardon Martin?”

            He pointed at the trees above. “They’re sycamores. The ones with the little helicopters. During the war I lived on Sycamore Road, in Wimbledon I think it was. Pokey little house it was, but it was nice enough.”

            “What did you do during the war Martin?”

            He supposed she asked all the older residents that question at some point or another, but for him it was a bit of a touchy subject, but he didn’t feel the need to blame her for that.

            “Well my dear, it’s actually a bit embarrassing. You see I didn’t fight, not like those other brave boys. I tried to mind you!

During the war I worked for the government as a junior in the Ministry of Agriculture. I actually helped make a book called ‘The Garden Front’. Daft it was; full of recipes for things you can make with stuff you could grow in the garden. People wanted meat, not nettle stew, so it never took off.” He laughed at the memory.

“You said you tried to fight in the war though?”

“Oh yes, I asked my boss if I could be allowed to sign up and join the RAF, that was in ‘40 so we all wanted to do our bit. But he said that the work I was helping him do was too valuable and that my efforts were saving ‘thousands of lives’. He was talking bollocks of course.”

“Martin! Language!” She smiled as she spoke which signalled to Martin he hadn’t really offended her.

“Oh it was though my dear, you see he was a chum of my dad. My father worked for the government too and had made sure that my boss knew how angry he’d be if I was put anyway near harm’s way.”

He sat on a bench they were passing to catch his breath.

“I love my dear old dad for that. You see I didn’t really want to fight; I was terrified of dying or being burned alive in a Hurricane. You just felt you had to join up and fight back then. The looks you’d get from the girls when you said you weren’t in the forces. They were nice enough, but you could guess what they really thought.”      The girl nodded as Martin spoke and then when he paused she asked, “Did he tell you that himself then? Or did your boss let slip?”

“Well that’s a good question, because actually at the time it caused my dad and me to have a right old barney. I told him he shouldn’t interfere in my life and let me get on with it, his response, which of course I now agree with, was he was just looking out for me. If one of my two children was in that situation, I’d have done the same as him, bless him. But no, he told me himself. He was an honourable man.”

He got to his feet and seemed to have regained his breath. They walked a bit slower now to make sure they could reach the next bench without having to stop.

“Little helicopters,” Martin smiled and sighed, “that’s what my son used to call them. David is a good boy; he was always shy and quiet. But bloody clever, even when he was little.”

The young woman gave Martin a side-long glance, “Where is David now Martin?”

Martin frowned and his face told of a pain that words could describe only a fraction of. “The truth is I forget things sometimes, it’s my age. Well, you work here so I’m sure you know better than I do. When I woke up this morning I was annoyed at David for not sending a card. But I know really, when I think carefully, that he died in a car accident when he was at university.”

The young woman who still held his arm tightly smiled warmly at Martin, “I know it can be difficult to be reminded of such things Martin, but I’m happy you remember what happened for David’s sake.”

He nodded his head and rubbed a tear away from his eye. “Oh you’re right my dear, good God, I’d hate to forget how short and beautiful my David’s life was. He deserves my memory at least.”

He smiled. “Little helicopters.”

The pair ambled along a long straight stretch of pathway that was flanked by sycamores and oaks.

As the pair cleared the shadow of the trees Martin felt his skin begin to warm up and he loosened the zip on the front of his jacket. He was proud that he managed to do this whilst still shuffling forward. He spied some Dahlias growing at the back of a nearby flowerbed and the unfinished puzzle that was his memory seemed to have another piece fit into place.

“Dahlias are beautiful flowers, but they remind me of my wife.”

The young woman laughed, “Surely that’s a good thing Martin?” He realised what he’d said and laughed himself.

“Oh you misunderstand me! They remind me of my wife as she is now. You see she’s buried back home in the village I used to live in with her. The churchyard there is beautiful, full of wild flowers and butterflies. But the strangest thing is Agnes’ grave. There’s about two or three Dahlias growing on it, bright yellow ones. I thought nothing of it but the reverend mentioned in passing he thought it was strange as they were the only dahlias growing in the whole church yard. Before Agnes’ funeral there hadn’t been any.”

The young woman nodded and agreed, “Yeah that is a bit spooky. Are they all bright yellow?”

Martin thought and then spoke once he was sure, “Yes, they’re all yellow, and that’s odd too. Yellow was her favourite colour.”

The girl beside Martin seemed to think on this problem and try and solve it for him, “Martin, might someone have planted them there? It just seems like a bit of a coincidence. She might have really liked Dahlias and someone thought it would be a nice gesture?”

He shook his head slowly, “I can’t remember my dear. If they did they never told me. Anyway, it was a long time ago and it’s been years since I’ve seen her grave. They might not even be there now.”

“Would you like to see her grave Martin? I can take you there if you would like, I am sure it can be arranged?” The woman, Martin thought, seemed to have become increasingly interested in the details of his life. Not that he minded, if anything he found it flattering.

“My dear, why do you care what an old bugger like me does in his spare time? Not that I have any time these days that isn’t spare. Shouldn’t you be spending time with your own family?”

She looked down and faced away from Martin; if she were crying he couldn’t have known. “I have two children Martin, but my parents are no longer with me.”

“Oh I’m sorry dear, I should just keep my big mouth shut.” He was annoyed at himself for upsetting the only person who had taken an interest in his life for such a long time.

“Look my dear, a chrysanthemum. Now they remind me of when I first met Agnes.” His stories and memories remained a constant flood and the young woman never lost interest for a moment. They continued their walk around the garden and when he saw a plant or flower that ignited a spark of a memory it would cascade into a detailed story of an event that might have happened thirty years ago. It seemed he had no control over what he remembered; just that he enjoyed the sensation of remembering.

The entire time the young woman at his side listened intently, asked questions regarding specific details in his story and generally proved to be a far more grateful audience than he had initially presumed she would be.

Eventually they had completed their loop of the gardens and were back at the French windows that led into the home’s vast conservatory. He imagined he’d spend the rest of the day here listening to the radio and reading the new large-print book one of the nurses had brought him.

He sat down in his chair and looked up at his new friend. “My dear that was the best birthday I have had in years. I can’t remember the last time someone listened to me harp on about rubbish so patiently.”

She smiled, “Nonsense Martin, it was my pleasure. I enjoyed listening to you and I’m glad I managed to give you a birthday to remember. I was hoping I would do some good today.” She bent over and kissed him on the forehead.

“I even get a birthday kiss! This really has been a day to remember! You get going my dear, I’m tired now and want to make a start on this book before I nod off.”

She wished him a happy birthday one final time, said her goodbyes then walked away. As she did so the tears that had welled up behind her eyes began to spring forth, flowing down her cheek and leaving a salty taste in her mouth.

The manager of the home saw her and approached just as she was passing the reception desk. “Well, how did your day with the birthday boy go then?”

The young woman smiled, “I learned a lot today actually, a lot about Martin and a lot about myself.”

The manager nodded and seemed to understand, “The more we talk to Martin and the more we listen, the more he remembers and the happier he is.”

The young woman wiped her eyes, “I’m heading off now. Please can you make sure he enjoys his new book? I’ll see you again next week at the usual time.”

“Of course, take care Sophie.”

Sophie stepped out into the May sunshine and wondered if one day her father would see the flower that would let him talk to the daughter that would never stop loving him.

 

Author's Note

Thank you for taking the time to read my short story - Tom Pollard.

Reviews

[TL Boehm]

Oh my. Delmar sent this my way. I contribute to the poetic infestation here but I also write short stories and novels and love to read both here at the cafe. The really good stories are a bit rare. I could write a lot about this one - but I will simply say that after the last sentence - I sat here, a grown woman and I openly cried. This one is so well crafted - I forgot for a moment it was a story and just lost myself in it. and I ached at the ending. Well done.

[Tom Pollard]

Thank you ever so much for your kind words! I must admit that this was my first foray into writing short-stories and I really enjoyed it. I do love to write but don't have many outlets for it; so your feedback is received gratefully and will encourage me to continue my efforts!

TP

[TL Boehm]

well, if you write it, I'll read it. I'll extend a friend request - up to you if you'd like to accept it, and I do accept read reequests. Takes me a bit sometimes to get to all them, but I do enjoy reading and reviewing.

[Tom Pollard]

That's wonderful, thanks! Accepted!

[C. Rose]

An enjoyable plotline and well written.
I might suggest making it less immediately known (delaying hints) that the woman is his daughter.

Thank you for sharing :)

[Delmar Cooper]

I was charmed by your story;it is well organized and thought out. I will admit to tipping to your ending early on and anticipating it a bit, but that did not diminish my enjoyment. There are possibly changes you could make to prolong the advent of reader discovery, not that I'd bother if I was the writer. Thanks for sharing this story. Writers Cafe is infested with poets, but good storytellers are rare.