Grey lichen hangs from the magnolia like a rooster’s wattles, sucked of life. I stroke them gently, attempting hypnosis.
It’s been six weeks since we buried Liz. It was a ridiculously clear February day, much like this one. I’ve been plodding about the garden most afternoons this autumn, gobbling rays of golden light, seeking some kind of connection. Solace. A sense that she hasn’t gone for good. So far I’ve got nothing other than a five o’clock April chill. I unroll my flannie sleeves, button the cuffs. Then back to stroking.
The handkerchief of backyard, 20 perches in the old scale, was Liz’s absolute pride and joy. Everyday, after a breakfast of free range poachies on rye, she’d put on her old bird’s nest hat, a pair of scuffed leather gloves and uncomfortable looking purple clogs she spotted at a gardening show. Most of the day she’d potter about, stopping for lunch and a kip at 12, then a cuppa at three.
The garden was full of plants with gobbledygook names I couldn’t pronounce and a flouncy design that reminded me of something from a Cotswold village. “It’s English neo-cottage, Barry,” she’d assure me, sounding twee. “Seriously? English neo-cottage, in Parra-bloody-matta?” I once quizzed. She stopped hosing around the base of a gangly rose bush, aimed the nozzle in my direction, and fired.
The magnolia was her favourite. At the nursery, her face shimmered when she read the label. “It’s called Elizabeth! Yellow flowers,” she proclaimed lifting the massive pot onto a trolley. The tree is now a decade old, twenty feet tall. The leaves look like they’re sick to bits of summer, and the lemony blooms - long gone. All I have left are memories. I press a hand against the trunk. “Miss you mate,” I say.