Vinny's Wilderness E-Book

Janet Shepperson

• Herausgeber: Liberties Press
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2016

Beschreibung

Vinny's Wilderness opens in South Belfast with divorced teacher Vinny. She returns to her home to discover that her dearly loved and overgrown garden has been bulldozed and unceremoniously dumped in a skip outside her house. Who is responsible? We learn of her friendship with the glamorous Alex Masterton, whose son Denzil she is tutoring for the elevenplus. More interested in the outdoors than in endless practice papers, Denzil struggles against expectations, both at school, and within his rigid family home. The constraints governing Alex's life as Mrs Masterton are similarly exposed, with a psychologically abusive husband scornful of her supposedly inferior education. As Alex and Vinny's relationship develops, both women struggle to come to terms with past hurts and Alex makes a dramatic decision that will affect all their lives. Vinny's Wilderness is a sensitive rendering of childhood friendship, meditating on the importance and strength of female friendships alongside the curveballs of motherhood.

Leseprobe

VINNY’S WILDERNESS

Janet Shepperson

To the children from all the schools I’ve worked in over the years. You are all adults now, but when you were kids, you taught me so much.

Contents

Title PageDedicationMonday 15 JuneMarchAprilMayJuneMonday 15 JuneCopyright

MONDAY 15 JUNE

On the top deck of the bus, Vinny sits with the grey-mauve sky lulling her to sleep. A soft evening, as they say in the country: the promise of more rain.

Then her phone tings. A tiny, unsettling sound, a text or an e-mail. Pay attention to me, it says, I could be an emergency. Your daughter’s home alone isn’t she, for the first time ever? And you spent half the staff meeting worrying about her?

The phone is in her bag, underneath another bag full of stories to mark, all settled on the seat beside her. Why spend her last few minutes of peace and quiet ferreting about for what’ll only turn out to be some stupid e-mail about renewing her house insurance, or the contents of her garden, or some such nonsense? Besides, she’ll be home in five minutes, and Roisin’s nearly eleven; she’d said if there were any problems, she’d go next door.

But even while she’s thinking this, her hands are automatically shifting stuff about, and pulling out the phone. It’s a text. It’s incomprehensible.

No more mess and muddle for Lavinia, whether or not it is ‘creative’.

There’s a number at the top that she doesn’t recognise. Who is this person, and how did he get her number? Because it’s definitely a he, there’s something faintly bossy, unmistakably masculine. And chilling. Is it some kind of threat? Or is it just a crank? Or some colleague from the school, playing some kind of weird joke? But who calls her Lavinia? That in itself seems quite threatening.

Her stomach is tying itself in a knot. The bus lurches to a halt, she struggles to her feet, she’s nearly missed her stop, she gathers her belongings in an awkward heap clutched against her chest, using her free arm to swing herself down the stairs.

Vinny’s heart always lifts when she gets off the bus. Because it all worked out so beautifully, when she was skint and didn’t want to take Rory’s money; everybody said, ‘You can get a really cheap house up in North Belfast, if you’re not too fussy about what sort of area you live in.’ But she was fussy, she held out until she found this place. Leafyland, the outer fringes of South Belfast, a mixed area, a modest but decent little terrace, no sectarian flags, and she and Roisin have the end house with all that lovely garden.

And here at the bus stop is Roisin, hair all ruffled, face as pink as a baby about to start bawling, tears, real tears streaking down.

‘What’s wrong, mo chara?’

‘Mum! Mum! It’s the garden!’

‘What’s in the garden?’

‘It’s gone, they’re taking it, they’re stealing it—’

‘Calm down, pet, tell me what happened, you should have phoned me—’

Roisin stamps her foot in exasperation.

‘I couldn’t! They were out there and I couldn’t find my phone and they were tearing the place to bits and I couldn’t phone you—’

Vinny takes hold of both shoulders and stares at her.

‘Now. Do you remember, I told you not to answer the door?’

Roisin glares at her.

‘It’s not my fault! They never came to the door, by the time I got home they were already out there, in the garden!’

Vinny grabs hold of her hand and they start walking fast, the bags of books bumping against Vinny’s free side.

‘Nobody said it was your fault, pet, now tell me—’

‘When I was coming up the street I could hear this roaring noise, and I went in the house and looked out the back window and there was a digger, actually a digger in the garden – and then I couldn’t find my phone—’

Yes, Vinny thinks. There’s no fence in the front,andit’s all open at the side, so yes, a digger could get round – but why on earth—

As soon as they turn into the street, she sees the skip. It’s enormous. It’s piled high with earth and what looks like rubble, this can’t be from her garden, there isn’t any rubble in her garden. It must be from someone else’s.

There’s vegetation poking out. All clogged up with earth. As they get nearer, she recognises it: sweet amber. Straggly, reddish twigs and little green leaves blushing to red, and red berries already turning black. She can smell its soft, fruity scent. It only gives off that scent if you touch or disturb it. How often has she sat on the raised stone terrace on a summer evening, drinking her coffee, watching Roisin and her friends playing hide-and-seek? And every time they brush against it, it gives off that marvellous scent.

She walks up to the skip, leans in, gathers the straggly twigs in the arms and buries her face in them. This is her sweet amber. She knows it is. Something appalling has happened.

She dumps her bags on the doorstep. She and Roisin go into the kitchen but they can only see half the back garden, because someone has turned the trampoline over on its side, and it is leaning up against the window, blocking the patio doors. So she can’t get out there, she’s trapped inside with the roaring and an indistinct view of figures disappearing and re-appearing on the other side of a large black circle. In the face of her mother’s helplessness, Roisin’s tears are welling up again.

Back out the front they go, ready to charge round the side into the garden, make that awful machine stop. But out here in the street there’s more noise: a lorry drawing up opposite. ‘21ST CENTURY LANDSCAPING’, is written in capitals across the side. Ice-green, Vinny thinks, if there is such a colour.

In the back, plants. These plants are not clogged with earth or squashed by rubble. They stand up proud, complacent and slightly ridiculous. The young trees, with their fragile branches and leaves clinging tentatively, they don’t look too bad, but the pampas grass, huge overblown white tassels that look like 1980s interior decoration gone mad, they look so incongruous … even in the middle of her shock and confusion, their pomposity makes Vinny want to laugh.

Two men jump down from the lorry. One starts unloading a pile of off-white paving stones, tossing them down as casually as if they were polystyrene. The other advances towards her with a folder.

‘Mrs Corcoran?’

‘Yes.’

‘These’re your plans, missis. It’s all in here, a wee map and care and maintenance instructions, and detailed costings. Nothing cheap. He’s ordered you the best of everything.’

‘He?’

‘Your husband.’

‘I don’t have a husband,’ she says weakly.

‘Aye, well, that’s nothing to do with us …’

‘I don’t know anything about this,’ she protests.

‘That’s right, he said he wanted to surprise you.

We gave him the estimate over the phone, he didn’t want to let on till the stuff was actually delivered. Oh, and he asked us to give you this.’

It’s an orchid, off-white, the same colour as the paving stones and the pampas grass, in a shiny pot, wrapped in polythene. Roisin, coming up behind her, says ‘That’s hideous’, and it’s true. This is the ugliest orchid Vinny has ever seen.

‘Roisin, go in and look for your phone again,’ she tells her firmly. ‘I’ll be in in five minutes, we’ll find it, I promise. I’ll just get this sorted out first.’

‘If you could maybe show us exactly where you want the flowering cherry trees …’ the man is saying, and she follows him, wordlessly, round into the back garden.

She cannot believe the extent of the devastation. It’s a wilderness of churned-up earth, churned up, but flat. All the little bumpy bits are gone, and what’s happened to the wee raised stone terrace? Is that what the rubble in the skip is – smashed up fragments of what’s served Roisin and her friends so often as a play house, a pretend school, a pirate ship, an aeroplane, a castle?

The digger has rumbled to a halt, but the man is still talking.

‘Shame really, you had a couple of nice standards, but he said all those apples falling on the lawn made it look messy, he said you wanted the whole thing done over …’

‘Who said?’

He looks baffled.

‘Isn’t there a name on the card?’

Vinny is still clutching the wretched orchid. She peels back the polythene and pulls out a small white card, with the ‘21ST CENTURY LANDSCAPING’ logo in one corner. She can’t believe it. The message is exactly the same as that text; but this time it’s signed.

No more mess or muddle for Lavinia, whether or not it is ‘creative’.

Derek Masterton

Derek. With his eyes grey and sharp as gravel. His cautious, giving-nothing-away expression. His perfectly groomed salt-and-pepper hair, his unobtrusively expensive jackets that always look fresh from the dry cleaners, his thinly striped shirts with cufflinks, actual cufflinks. Derek, who had surely never done a spontaneous thing in his life.

She tries to speak but nothing comes out. Finally the man notices.

‘Em … right. You look a wee bit stunned? Right enough it looks a mess now, but wait’ll you see … there’s lots of good stuff here …’

A light rain is beginning to fall. Vinny shivers.

‘It’s like the surface of the moon’

‘Ach it’ll be fine when it’s all planted up, you’ve lots of lovely heathers and ornamental shrubs, and you’ve white gravel round the flowering trees, it’ll be nice and bright …’

‘White gravel?’

‘And some artificial turf, that’ll never get muddy.’

‘Artificial turf?’

‘If you look at the plans …’

She puts down the wretched orchid, with its waspish little note, on a damp bit of stone that seems to have escaped the attention of the digger. It’s all that’s left of the crooked path that used to cross her wild lawn.

Wordlessly she takes the folder the man is offering her, but she doesn’t look at it. The rain is falling steadily now. Everything round her is turning to mud, gleaming with a sort of evil sheen. Fifty shades of brown. She realises it’s hardly rained for weeks; with all that’s been going on, she’s hardly had time to notice how dry and prickly everything’s been getting. She goes back into the house, where she can’t see the devastation. Closes her eyes, leans against a pillar. There’s a faint smell of lavender which she’d dried and hung up last summer, dusty and a bit cobwebby but still giving off a slight fragrance when you lean against it.

She tries to summon up images of what she’s lost, but here’s Roisin still gurning about her phone. She hands over her own mobile.

‘Ring your number.’

‘What?’

‘Ring it!’

The ringtone fizzing across the kitchen reveals Roisin’s phone underneath her homework notebook, on the kitchen table. Roisin snatches it up triumphantly. But then a text from her friend Zoe plunges her into further misery.

‘Mum, Zoe says can she bring her friend Tasha to my birthday? Mum, what about my birthday? It’s only two and a half weeks away and we were supposed to have a bouncy castle and do the high ropes course in the garden?’

Vinny hugs her. It’s meant to be a bracing hug, but it feels more like a desperate clutch.

‘Go upstairs. Turn on the computer. Look up Indianaland, Laser Quest, all those place your friends have had parties at.’

‘But I thought it was too expensive?’

‘Well, suddenly it isn’t. We can go up to £100. Find out how much they charge per head, write it all down for me, make a list of the different places so we can compare—’

Roisin hasn’t smiled since Vinny got off the bus. Now she gives a big, disbelieving grin and pounds off up the stairs. Vinny hears the musical sigh the computer makes when you switch it on. She closes her eyes again. Hears an embarrassed cough. Opens them. The man is standing in her front doorway, framed by the grey suburban rain, looking at her nervously. He must think she’s loopy, because what can she mean by saying she doesn’t have a husband? She must have a husband, or at least a fairly well-off partner, because otherwise who’s paying for all this?

He says, ‘We’re off now, missis.’

‘You’re leaving?’

‘Can’t do anything more till it stops raining. We’ll be back in the morning, half past eight. Providing the rain’s stopped. You should maybe take a look at those plans? If there’s anything you want done different, we can change it, you know? Maybe you should have a wee word with, er, him?’

‘Of course,’ Vinny says.

The man goes. She sits down at the table. A wee word. Him. The phone with its small black screen in front of her, hiding the baffling text. So smooth. So hostile.

She tries to think clearly, but she’s overwhelmed by a jumble of remembered images. Brambles, buddleia, flowering currant. Silvery branches of the dead rowan tree, poking up from a mass of ivy, its glossy leaves like a forest, a waterfall, a spiky green wave. Places for cats to crouch and wrens to scold them. All that luxuriant growth and decay: anarchy, fecundity, creativity. Her wild garden where she used to sit gazing at the speckled wood butterflies, the bees pottering in and out of the foxgloves, right through from the chilly days of April to the last golden days of October. Gone. All of it. Gone.

She remembers Roisin, a chubby three year old when they first moved in, in full flight from a sour, failed marriage. Roisin, missing her daddy, but consoled by all the new things she could do in this wilderness: stalk the neighbours’ cats, feed her dolls on real blackberries, play hide-and-seek with her mum in the huge, straggly rhododendron. Usually Roisin was quite visible behind its convoluted branches, but Vinny was always good at pretending.

She can send away all that stupid stuff – the ornamental heathers, the ridiculous pampas grass, the white gravel. But she can never get back that ancient rhododendron. The apple tree, all covered in lichen, with its makeshift swing. The dead rowan swamped with ivy, leaves dark green and glossy all year round, wood pigeons pecking importantly at the berries, their ponderous pink-and-grey plumpness somehow reminding her of characters from the Beatrix Potter books she read to Roisin. ‘We don’t have Jemima Puddleduck,’ she used to say, ‘but we do have Jemima Pigeon, she’s nearly as big as a duck …’

She gets up and goes to the sink to fill the kettle and is transfixed all over again by the sight of a waste land of churned-up mud. It’s only June now. How many summer evenings is she going to have to stay indoors, ignoring the desolation? How will she cope in October, her thoughts full of the ghosts of tawny crumpled leaves and bird-pecked windfall apples and cat paths across the dewy autumn grass?

Her phone tings again. If this is another text from Derek, she’s going to hurl the damn thing into the bin. But it’s not. It’s a text from Alex. Her thumbnail photo gleams on Vinny’s phone, just as she always gleams for the camera, as if her life’s one long photo shoot.

No word from her all day yesterday, and now this.

Vinny I’m so, so sorry. I just honestly can’t believe it. Never thought he’d do a thing like that. It’s mental. Just had to get away, I’m up here in Portrush, skype soon, tell you everything. Xxx

Not a word about her wee fella’s tutoring session with Vinny, which is due to start – she checks her watch – in twenty minutes. What the hell is she doing up in Portrush?

And what is ‘everything’? Have she and that weaselly Derek been discussing her, and the wild chaotic garden, and what could be done, and did they cook up some awful plan together, involving ornamental heathers and white gravel?

It’s impossible, she thinks. Alex and Derek were barely speaking. In fact, they weren’t. Anyway, Alex knows I love that garden, mess and all, it’s the one place I have to retreat to when everything else goes wrong, Alex would never … Alex is my friend … Besides, the words ‘Alex’ and ‘Derek’ and ‘together’ don’t really belong in the same sentence. But how did Derek get my phone number?

With the rain lashing down outside and the upturned trampoline blocking most of the light from the windows, the kitchen is as dark as a winter’s day. She stirs her coffee; her mobile phone is a little point of light.

She scrolls back through Alex’s texts. Breathless little scraps of chat, jokes, arrangements, apologies … spelling pretty off the wall … cheerful, insouciant, shiny. She hadn’t realised how much they’d texted each other. Almost every day for the last two months. Reading this stuff, you’d think they were best friends, inseparable. And she’d forgotten how gushing Alex could be. Look at this one: ‘I guess you’re right, you always say such wise things.’ And, even a couple of weeks ago, ‘So glad I found you again.’

‘Oh, you’re glad, are you?’ Vinny snarls.

She realises she’s spoken aloud. Could Roisin hear her from upstairs? She listens. She can hear Roisin’s excited voice, then a pause, then more excited chatter. The words ‘Laser’ and ‘Paintball’. She shudders. Anyway, Roisin’s happy, for the moment, for half an hour at least, maybe even an hour. Roisin can talk to her friends for an interminability, if Vinny doesn’t cut her off by scolding about the expense.

She tips the undrunk coffee down the sink and pours herself a glass of wine from one of the bottles left over from her disastrous attempt at a party. It’s gone sour. Hell, she thinks, it doesn’t matter what it tastes like, I’m going to do an Alex here: I’m going to drink to slow down, to calm down, to make myself stay sitting down …

She goes across to the lounge area. She settles on the sofa, cross-legged, her back to the kitchen window so that she can’t see the hideous, rain-soaked gash in her life. She shivers. Takes the bright green throw off the back of the sofa and wraps it round her shoulders.

Her phone tings again. It has to be Alex, doesn’t it? The message simply says,

Skype now? X

This time she actually does throw the phone. Not into the bin, but into the empty fireplace. It clangs against the metal bars of the grate and comes to rest amongst the fir cones which she’d so carefully arranged the day before the party. Let it ting all it likes, she won’t answer it.

She will not speak to Alex, she wishes she’d never met Alex. This is all her fault. They were happy enough, her and Roisin, till Alex came along. She’s sick of worrying about Alex’s problems. Her and that smooth, tight-arsed weasel of a husband. Oh, she complains about him, and the struggles of her life, but really, hasn’t she got everything she always wanted? And if there’s anything she hasn’t got, he’ll buy it for her. Including tutoring for her gormless wee fella … or maybe, as a last resort, a boarding place at some posh school where the hoods and flag protesters can’t get in. And anything, anything can be bought. Except for Vinny’s wilderness, that was irreplaceable. She can never buy another one.

Her phone tings again. No, she thinks, I will not go on Skype and start screaming and shouting at her. I will not pace about the room and throw my mobile and punch the cushions. I will just sit here, me and my glass of sour wine, and I’ll do my grieving. That indwelling thing people do, when somebody dies. I’ll go over and over the garden in my mind, till the pictures start to fade. Maybe I’ll have a bit of a cry. Then I’ll let it go.

She closes her eyes and waits for an image of the bright, tangled garden to swim up, maybe with some apples tumbled on the lawn, or Roisin on the swing? But her eyes keep popping open. It’s the front garden she sees: the only bit of garden that’s survived. Scrubby grass, primulas along the weed-grown path, this is spring she’s remembering, and Alex coming up to her open front door, stiffly poised, alert, a bit defiant.

She closes her eyes again. Buries her face in a cushion. In the warm, scratchy, sour-wine-smelling darkness, the last four months unroll like a film. She’s astonished at the vividness of her memories. She can almost smell the stew she was cooking when the doorbell rang, almost feel the brisk spring wind tugging at her hair as she stood on the doorstep. She can hear an ice-cream van in the distance, and a dog barking two doors down, and Alex’s silvery voice with its carefully constructed Malone Road accent, gushing nervously.

MARCH

The first thing she said to me was, ‘My husband’s starting to get anxious. He says it’s high time we did something about him. Wee Denzil.’

‘Oh,’ I said. ‘You’re the woman who phoned? Mrs Masterton?’

‘Oh, just call me Alex.’

‘Right. I’m Vinny Corcoran.’

‘I know,’ she said, in a slightly odd voice.

Then there was that whole shaking hands thing which I usually hate, because some parents expect it and some don’t, you can be left clutching limp fingers or a couple of bangles or even a bit of sleeve. But Alex – although she did have bangles, gleaming and expensive-looking, jangling together – gave me a firm, practised handshake. Just a little twist of her mouth, though, as if she’d bitten down on something unexpectedly sour. A bit of lemon, or an olive.