The Wicked Garden–chapter 1
Chapter One – Cotoneaster Franchetti
The smell of coffee permeates my noise. This early morning I haven’t the
patience to wait and throw another piece of wood into the stove hoping a higher
flame will rush the process.
Walking to the window in my kitchen I spy the postman, route wise, I am the
first. I throw on my sweater and go to get the mail. He waves me down and I am
ignored as I desperately need that cup of strong java and not an interruption.
The air is crisp and I smell leaves mingled with the rotting of apples. This is
a pleasant reminder autumn has arrived. My shoes stick slightly in the damp
earth.
The postal worker, Andrew Donovan, whom I’ve known for many years always remarks
with a chuckle at the positioning of my cottage, as the back faces the road. He
assumes this remark tickles me being the jolly old fellow he is. I always act
put out and say I enjoy my back to the world.
Today, a package has arrived wrapped in brown paper. The return address is from
a solicitor who I am not acquainted with. I quickly pile the narrow envelopes
atop the package, to deter the questions I know are about to be asked. To my
surprise his only remark being, lawyers are always causing trouble and receiving
a pay check to do so. He tips his hat and says, Have a good day.
I rub my hands together and commence the ritual of pouring cream first and then
finally adding the coffee. The bitterness stings my tongue, the warmness finds
my stomach, and a comfortable feeling settles in.
The desk, my work place is cluttered as I worked long into the night. I shuffle
papers and read bits of notes to acquire direction of a starting point. Memoirs,
if it is about one’s life it should be easy like a list, each year being a
number. But this is not so. It is more like the shifting of gears and one has to
hear the years to know when to go on to the next year.
I sort the mail, the small package I am still holding in my hands. Staring at it
the shape is that of a book.. I clip the string and a folded letter falls out.
I know this book – I have held it before – its cover is smaller than its pages.
The title – there is none. The contents are carefully drawn renditions of
poisonous plants. Holding the book close to my heart I feel tears begin to well
up – they fall in a steady stream down my cheeks. I reach for the letter.
Dear Miss Porter,
It is with regret and grave sadness I write this letter. Our dear friend Miss
Julia Lovelace … has passed away on August 13th. I was the one person
requested to attend the burial. She died as she lived, alone. As her solicitor
as well as her friend I was asked to pass on to you her journal. She also has
specified there is a trunk and with its contents to do as you wish.
I am available Thursday, October 3rd and will meet with you at her dwelling if
this is convenient time. Please leave word with my office. Again, I am deeply
saddened.
Colin Prichard, Esquire
My hand shakes as I fold the letter and place it on the desk. I open the book –
the watercolors are faded now, still beautiful, a bit crude. I smell the herbs
on some pages more than others. I feel her presence on the very first page.
… to be continued …
*** written 11-01-06
