Another Life Altogether: A Novel - By Elaine Beale Page 0,41

“I’m going to put in a lawn, and some nice flowering shrubs,” she said, gesturing with the massive tin of weedkiller my father had purchased for her on his way home from work.

The enormous “Poison” warning on the tin had made me a little nervous, and I’d questioned my father about the wisdom of allowing her access to several gallons of such a lethal substance. He jovially dismissed my concerns, telling me that she had obviously recovered and was now “right as rain.” Unconvinced by his confidence, I eyed the giant tin apprehensively as she swung it back and forth.

“I’m going to put a fishpond and a fountain in the back,” she continued describing her plans. “Maybe I’ll get some of those little garden gnomes to put around it. That’ll look nice, don’t you think?”

“Can we have pansies?” I asked, imagining their bright yellow and purple blooms placed at perfectly spaced intervals all around the garden.

“I suppose so. But, whatever I put in, I’ll have it looking lovely by next summer. We’ll be able to throw one of those posh garden parties.”

I couldn’t imagine who she thought was going to come to this party. The only guests I could envisage were Auntie Mabel, and, if he happened to be out of prison at the time, Uncle Ted. As she continued to talk, however, I realized that my mother seemed to have illusions of making friends with the local landed gentry, going on at length about how “you get a better class of people” in the countryside and how we could “improve our social standing” if only we played our cards right. My mother’s strategy in this regard seemed to be to impress them with her landscape-gardening talents and the Mr. Kipling cream cakes she’d serve with our afternoon tea.

“Sounds great, Mum,” I said.

“Yes, it does, doesn’t it?” she said, beaming as she unscrewed the cap of the weedkiller and strode purposefully toward the back door.

For the next week or so, my mother worked on the garden. Within days, she had reduced the thistles to a wilted, collapsed mass. After this, she talked my father into buying her a scythe. (He was a little more reluctant to purchase this particular item than the weedkiller and was persuaded to do so only after she threatened to march over to the nearest farm to ask if she could borrow one.) Scythe in hand, she began whacking away at the monstrous bramble bushes that bordered all sides of the garden. “Take care with that thing, Evelyn,” my father called to her, cringing as she swung it around her in wide, menacing arcs. I watched her from the kitchen window, her eyes bright, teeth clenched, and I was reminded of those medieval pictures I had seen in my history textbook of Death, the Grim Reaper, sweeping through Europe during the plague.

The day I’d met Tracey, she’d told me that she and her family were leaving for a fortnight’s holiday in Cornwall that weekend. I’d given her my telephone number, and I was thrilled when she rang the day after her return and invited me to meet up with her in the village the following morning. After we’d wandered around for a while and she’d told me about all the drop-dead-gorgeous boys she met while she was away, Tracey suggested that we go to her house and get something to eat.

“We can make some sandwiches and I can show you my David Cassidy posters,” she said, grinning.

“Great,” I said, trying to sound enthusiastic. During our first encounter, aside from talking about all the boys at school she liked, she had told me how, really, if she had a choice, she’d prefer to go out with David Cassidy. She also went on at great length about his looks, his songs, and how much she enjoyed watching episodes of The Partridge Family. I omitted to mention that I hated this particular television program and, though I knew there were boys who were far uglier than David Cassidy, I really hadn’t given him a second thought. But going over to Tracey’s house meant going back to Marigold Court, and I felt a flutter of excitement at the possibility of seeing Amanda again.

I hadn’t mentioned Amanda to Tracey, but I had been hoping to slip her name into the conversation, to inquire whether Tracey knew her and where she happened to live. For some reason, though, it seemed impossible to just mention Amanda casually. I was afraid I’d blush when