Meanwhile Gardens Page 3
Below the picture was the caption: Blondin cooks an omelette. Niagara 1860.
“That,” Rion declared, “has got me through some of the roughest times of my life.”
Jake took another look at the picture which, to him, seemed more comical than inspirational. He nodded at Rion to continue.
“It’s just that he makes it look so easy doesn’t he? There he is risking his life hundreds of feet above treacherous, swirling waters when one wrong move, one inch, half-an-inch, even a millimetre of miscalculation would mean a fall to a certain death, battered and bludgeoned by the torrent on the rocks far below.” A shudder went through Rion as she thought of it.
“Whenever I’ve been at the end of my tether – and believe me being the youngest of four girls and with parents like mine – ” she shook her head vehemently. “There’ve been many times when I – ” her voice drifted off. “It’s just that if he could manage to cook and eat an omelette – to cook and eat – whilst doing something so difficult, then I can survive anything.”
“There’s more to it though, isn’t there?”
“More?” Rion asked astounded, sounding for the entire world like the orphanage beadle in a production of Oliver.
Jake nodded. “After Blondin cooked the omelette in the middle of the falls he took a bite then lowered it, by rope, to the Mayor of Niagara who waited with other dignitaries in the rescue boat far below.”
Rion hadn’t heard this part of the story.
“What did they think?”
“They pronounced it among the finest of omelettes they had ever tasted!”
Rion laughed with delight. “No-one in Bridlington understood about Blondin, no-one except my friend Tanya Bishop – she owned the hair salon I ran to whenever I could – she understood.”
As Rion reached for the crumpled picture her sleeve pulled back to expose two painful scabby red circles on the side of her wrist. Jake held Rion’s arm for a closer look, “Those are nasty cuts.”
But they didn’t look like cuts to him.
“Yeah, well – ” Rion hurriedly pulled down her sleeve to cover the unsightly marks. “Are you sure about this place to stay?”
Jake nodded.
“And you’re sure there’ll be no funny business?”
Jake pulled Rion to her feet, “I promise.”
They walked back through the colonnades of the Anglican Chapel and were soon on Terrace Avenue heading for Jake’s home in the trees.
“The cemetery closes at five this time of year – pretty soon. There are a couple of guards so it’s best not to be too visible.”
“Why do they have guards?” Rion asked.
“To stop the ritual slayings and grave robbings,” Jake rolled his eyes and fluttered his hands like some spectral figure until he saw Rion blanche. “Just kidding,” he winked at her and smiled.
Rion held her rucksack tightly to her back and nervously pulled her fleece around her.
“It’s because some of the monuments have been vandalised over the years, their stone wreaths, bronze busts, grieving angels – anything really – stolen. There’s a large market for them as garden ornaments it seems.”
Rion, shaken by the mere mention of ritual slaying – wasn’t that what her Mum said happened to girls that ran away from home? – was having second thoughts.
“Perhaps I should find somewhere else.”
Jake stopped. They were almost under his tree.
“I didn’t mean to frighten you, it was a silly joke – I’m sorry,” his voice was earnest now. “I don’t know what you’re running from, that’s your business right?” Jake stared at Rion who avoided his eyes. “You look like you need a place to stay. I can help.”
Rion peered into the tree.
“Not with – ?”
“No, not with me. On your own. You’ll be safe don’t worry.” Jake saw Rion was still unsure. “You can trust me, don’t you think you can?”
Rion looked Jake level in the eye for the first time. She didn’t answer but in a funny way she felt she could trust him – well, at least more than anyone else she had met in London.
“Wait here. You’ll need some things.” Jake disappeared into his tree where Rion could hear him rummaging around. Within moments he was beside her again. A rolled up sleeping-bag inside an elegant, pink GHOST carrier in one hand, a plastic Sainsburys bag in the other.
Rion followed Jake who headed past the grave of the fragrant Emmeline and down towards the canal. He slipped onto a smaller path, wound his way between a few headstones in this untended part of the necropolis and was soon at the imposing fence that marked the cemetery’s border. Beyond were the tree-covered banks of the Grand Union Canal.
Jake eased himself between a broken railing, squeezed through a row of tightly planted saplings and vanished from sight.
Rion took a deep breath and followed.
She found herself in a narrow space between two rows of willowy saplings. To her back the tall young trees screened the cemetery from sight. All she could see were the tops of the iron railings.
In front of her she could see water through the young trees and beyond them, above and on her left, were two huge gasometers.
Several yards in front Jake beckoned for Rion to join him. The saplings to his back had been replaced by a brick wall some ten feet tall. In front of him was a gap in the trees lining the canal.
“This is the only place where people can see you from the other side.”
Jake gestured across the strip of water to a towpath that followed the line of the canal. Further down the path Rion could see a couple, oblivious to their presence, walking hand in hand towards them. A small figure – an old lady? Rion thought, or an old man? – approached away in the distance.
“So be careful.”
The path between the trees became narrower, forcing Jake to turn and inch through sideways. Rion put down the pink GHOST bag, took off her rucksack and carried it above her head as she pushed sideways after Jake.
Within feet Jake had reached an opening that led through to a tiny clearing. A rustic fence, at least six foot high, of branches and twigs woven through the saplings, created an additional barrier from people on the towpath opposite.
“Here it is,” he announced with a fanfare, “‘Heron Point’.” Jake looked back at Rion to try and gauge her reaction but the girl’s face was blank. “This might not be your style but how long is it for?”
“I – ” How long would it be for? Rion had no idea. “I’m not sure.”
“Well, it’s shelter and it’s sort of clean and dry.”
Rion watched as he descended a few roughly hewn steps into what looked like a cave. She crouched down by the entrance and looked inside.
Jake stood in the dimness of an underground chamber. He took two small white candles from the carrier bag and placed them in an alcove. When he lit the candles their flames flickered shadows over the low ceiling, revealing a room of surprising depth.
In the corner was a simple metal-framed bed with mattress. A small chest of drawers stood next to a rickety table to one side. A shelf of what looked like driftwood lined the wall above the bed.
“It hasn’t been lived in since September when Old George – er – ” How could he put it in a way that wouldn’t frighten the young girl? “when Old George – er, moved on.”
Rion came down the four steps into the chamber. “You mean he died? In here??”
“Yes, I mean no, I mean yes he died, but not in here.”
Rion saw above the bed a picture of Jesus, his arms outstretched, an enormous red heart in the middle of his chest open as if awaiting surgery.
“I’ll help you clean up in the morning,” Jake patted the mattress, which threw up a cloud lightly dusting the religious picture above. He delved into the carrier bag and began removing objects which he placed on the table: a box of candles, a large box of matches and a lighter, a pencil torch, a bottle of water, a tin mug, two apples, a spoon and fork and a chipped plate.
Rion looked at him, confused, “Cuban what?”
“Food – fish and rice and dumplings normally,” Jake sniffed at the foil. “It should be ok, it’s fresh on Wednesdays and Sundays.”
Jake then pulled out a roll of loo paper from the bag.
“Old George used the canal – downstream of course – but there are alternatives.”
Rion looked up hopefully.
“Sainsburys has a loo and a couple of pubs round here have decent toilets.” Jake went up the earthen steps to the banks of the Grand Union Canal. “If you need anything – ” he whistled four notes that sounded like a cross between some tv theme tune and a door chime. “ – whistle. Can you do that?”
Rion whistled the four notes. And again.
“I’ll always announce myself like that. If you hear noises and don’t hear the whistle, lie low ok?”
Rion nodded. There was no way she was going to investigate any strange sounds – especially on land bordering a cemetery.
“I’ll be going out later for a drink – care to join me?” Jake asked.
Rion again averted her gaze.
“No, thanks, I,” she stumbled through her words. “I’m really tired and I have a lot of thinking to do.
“And you’ll be ok?”
“Yeah.” Rion would be ok – she knew it.
“I’ll bring breakfast in the morning. It’ll be Cuban again but it’ll be fresh this time – and we can talk if you want. There are some things – tricks really – you should know.”
Jake paused, feeling suddenly like an old boy on the first day of school showing a new student round, or like a bellhop taking a guest to her room.
“If you need anything or – whatever, something frightens you, not that it will,” he added hurriedly, “just whistle. Got it?”
Rion nodded. She didn’t want to ask what she should do if something frightened her while he was out – that would be like tempting fate wouldn’t it?
“You’re sure you’ll be ok?” he asked again.
From deep within her Rion pulled up what she hoped was a confident smile. “Thanks for – ” Rion gestured around her, “just thanks.”
Jake grinned and left.
Rion heard him push through the saplings and then he was gone. She was grateful for his help but grateful too that he had left her alone. In peace. In silence.
Silence.
Rion listened but all she could hear was some birdsong and the distant flash of a train. She closed her eyes, it was hard to believe she was in the middle of a city
“I’ll be alright, I’ll be alright, I’ll be alright,” Rion chanted softly to herself before opening her eyes wide. “No I won’t!”
Suddenly scared she raced after Jake. Quickly retracing her steps Rion squeezed through the narrow stretch of saplings to the place where the path widened, to the place where a gap opened over the canal. Rion tried to quell her rising panic. She looked around anxiously, unsure of where she was.
And then she saw it. Her welcoming present, her first London prize – the pink bag from the shop whose clothes were coveted by ‘women in the know’ – or that’s what it said in Vogue, Glamourista and the other magazines she devoured in Tanya’s salon.
Rion clutched the bag to her, immediately comforted by its presence. She stared into the sun setting across the canal, not seeing the small figure on the shadowy towpath opposite.
Auntie Gem was transfixed by the ethereal vision before her – a virginal girl with long flaxen hair. Across the young girl’s chest were the words GHOST.
The old lady felt her heart pound. She closed her eyes, feeling distinctly unsteady. When she opened them she gasped in horror. The spirit had vanished into thin air!
Auntie Gem crossed herself three times and made for home, made for the calm of Meanwhile Gardens Mews.
3
CAUGHT BETWEEN HEAVEN
AND HELL
Ollie thought the phone calls should come later on Sundays.
But they didn’t.
The alarm clock again flashed 9.45 as the phone jangled into his sleep.
“Auntie Em – ” Ollie began, “didn’t – ”
But an entirely different voice cut him short.
“Oliver it’s Candida.”
The cold clipped tones of James’ sister felt like ice down his back. Ollie blinked and sat up, suddenly wide awake.
“Oliver?” the voice asked again.
“What can I do for you Candida?” Ollie tried being cordial but relations between him and Candida had never been good.
The fact that James had made him co-executor of his will, a role he shared with Candida, hadn’t helped matters.
“Could I come to see you this morning?”
“Well, I – ” Ollie thought furiously.
“It’s important Oliver.”
“I’ll be out until twelve then – ”
Candida didn’t wait for him to finish his sentence, “I’ll be there at twelve fifteen.”
The phone clicked off.
Seconds later it rang again.
“Who were you on the phone to at such an early hour?”
“Auntie Em, didn’t your mother tell you never before ten or after ten?”
“Plans for the day angel?”
Ollie stretched, “Well, I’m – ”
“Are you going to your TQ lunch?”
Ollie thought for a moment. He hadn’t been to the weekly TQ sessions since before James’ death. The lunches, held amongst the brunching families at the Hungry Hearts Diner on Kensington Park Road, were attended by about a dozen local gay men.
Over copious Bloody Marys each vied, with stories of their tragic lovelives and previous week’s disasters to win the title, ‘Tragedy Queen of the Week’.
The winner went on to enter, ‘Tragedy Queen of the Month’.
The twelve winners went on for the annual top prize: ‘Tragedy Queen of the Year’.
But today Ollie wasn’t up to their relentless bonhomie.
“I don’t think so Auntie Em, I’m – ”
“But you haven’t been in ages.”
“Maybe next week. I’m – I’m going jogging.”
There was a silence at the end of the line before, “Darling, that’s wonderful! Remember start off very easy.”
“Of course.”
“And do some warm-ups. Are you going down the canal?”
“I’d be too self-conscious to go anywhere else Auntie Em. I’m not up to jogging along the Portobello that’s for sure.”
“You do know that Auntie Gem saw a ghost last night don’t you?”
Ollie snorted. “No, I – ” he tried to keep his voice serious. “Where? Is she ok?”
“She’s a bit shaken up and has been praying more than usual. She’s already been to two masses today.”
“Two down, four to go,” Ollie smiled, knowing Auntie Gem’s fondness for the circuit of Sunday masses – six in total – whenever anything even remotely disturbed her. “The ghost wasn’t of a tall, dark, handsome man was it?”
“In your dreams dear boy – ”
That’s about all where he would be, Ollie sighed.
“ – it was a virginal girl with long flowing hair ‘caught between Heaven and Hell’ is how Auntie Gem described her.”
Rion would have agreed what an apt description this was for her current state.
“It was along the canal further on from the gasworks,” Auntie Em continued, “in front of the knoll with the bench overlooking Little Wormwood Scrubs.”
“I’ll be careful,” Ollie said.
Will you be joining us for lunch?”
“Of course.”
After his new style breakfast – a banana and natural yoghurt at home in place of a fry-up at the Golborne Café – Ollie felt well on the way to fitness.
He changed into raggedy tracksuit bottoms and a Keith Haring sweatshirt, suitably low-key d
ress for what, he hoped, would be a suitably low-key jog. Maybe in the future he could invest in some garish trainers and skintight allweather jogging bottoms, but for now it was comfort over performance.
Slowly, slowly, much to Hum’s amusement, Ollie lunged and pulled and stretched. As he threw his arms from side to side the dog barked and jumped up, becoming increasingly excited, so excited in fact that he ignored the repeated knocking on the door.
“Hum!”
But the hound, his eyes glittering with excitement, simply barked at Ollie, nipping his legs as he ran down the stairs to see who it was.
Nicky stood on the doorstep. She cast an admiring eye over Ollie’s running kit, “So you are going jogging. Auntie Em said you were but I didn’t believe her. I guess you must have taken our little heart to heart yesterday more seriously than I thought,” the photographer smirked. “I was going to ask you to Café Feliz but – ”
“It’s mainly because of Café Feliz that I’m going jogging.” The neighbouring Portuguese café, with its custard tarts and full frontal calories, was a favourite refuelling stop. “Give me a second and I’ll walk you round.”
Closely followed by Hum Ollie went back upstairs. He grabbed his ipod, scrolled down to ‘Sixteen Stone’ by Bush and joined Nicky at the door.
They were soon on the bridge. “If I’m not back by – ” Ollie glanced at his watch: it was ten thirty, “by twelve – ”
“By twelve?” Nicky exclaimed. “How far are you planning on going?”
“ – send a search party ok?”
“Of strapping men?”
Ollie nodded.
“In uniform?”
Ollie nodded again, “Yes please. With shiny brass buttons if possible.”
“You got it sweetheart,” Nicky blew him a kiss and headed towards the Portuguese café.
Ollie and Hum went in the opposite direction, under Trellick Tower, into Meanwhile Gardens and onto the towpath of the Grand Union Canal.
Rion had been awake since eight o’clock, woken by the chorus of Canada geese on the canal. She had slept surprisingly well. The long day, the fresh, slightly damp air, the darkness of her new lodgings and the warmth of the down sleeping bag had brought about a deep, seemingly dreamless sleep.