Sara Alexi - The Illegal Gardener

Maybe when the baby is born, I could come to Pakistan, stay in an hotel in Sialkot and visit you.

Juliet wipes her eyes on her tissue and looks out of the window. The grass needs cutting. Her thoughts are still with Aaman, and she rises from her desk and wanders through the kitchen and out into the garden. She picks up his gardening gloves and holds them to her face as she walks amongst the trees. Nearing the vegetable plot, she puts the gloves on and bends to pull a weed or two. She is disturbed by an odd noise. She looks up. It is coming from behind the orange tree by the gate. It stops, and she continues. The noise is there again, a hollow wooden sound. She takes the gloves off and straightens. It is a rhythmic tapping sound. She walks around the orange tree. A man stands by the gate. He stops tapping it with the stick he holds. Juliet walks up to him.

“Hello, Madam. My name is Harpreet. I am looking for work.”

Across the water the island looks harmless. From this distance it is a misty blue, undefined, drifting above the horizon. Floating like a mirage in the heat. The water is smooth, its shallow facets glinting in the sun, beckoning with beauty, giving the illusion that she can swim there. The sun shines without a care, lazy, hot. No sounds are heard except the lap of the water and the snuffle of a stray dog.

‘You are coming, lady? Time to go,’ the man says, rope in hand. The brown sleek-coated dog with floppy dugs and ears sniffs around his polished shoes. He flicks the end of the rope at it and the mongrel sidesteps and turns its attention to the woman on the bench.

Marina falters, refocusing her eyes on the young man. The island fades behind him.

‘Sorry?’ She slips her arm through the handle of her old leather cargo bag, anticipating his reply.

‘Let’s go.’ He nods his head at the boat which he has hold of with one hand, one foot on board, one on the shore, the strength of his inner thighs keeping it from drifting. He releases the mooring line from the quay’s solitary rusting iron bollard in readiness to be under way.

Marina plants her feet firmly, shoulder-width apart, and leans her upper body weight forward over her shins, her black skirt taut in the effort as she slowly straightens. Her back isn’t so bad at the moment. Perhaps she needs to lose a kilo or two, but all day long in the shop with sweets, crisps, biscuits, and often there seems little point in cooking for one…

Her black bag, now firmly hooked in the crook of her elbow, slides from the bench as she stands, the weight jerking her slightly to one side. The approaching dog is startled by the movement and retreats a few paces before returning to cautiously sniff at the corners of her holdall as she crosses the small pier to the boat.

She is glad she has not worn her new shoes. The concrete is pitted and crumbling. She struggles to reach across the sea-filled gap for the handrail by the opening into the boat. The patient captain helps by taking her bag, slipping it up his own arm and steadying her descent into the small craft. It lurches with her weight and rocks as it stabilises.

It has been a long time since Marina has been on one of these boats. She blinks back a silent tear. Now they have engines and covers. But it is still a basic wooden fishing boat, just like all those years ago. The red plastic-covered foam cushions on the box seats and the plastic windows in the plywood cabin walls are a thin veneer of modern life; the solidity of the wooden hull a reminder of the years of use, the slow evolution of a fishing boat; layers of paint a testimony to its service.

In the prow of the boat facing the buckled, sea-etched windows and the tiny ship’s wheel is a big leather bucket seat on a thick chrome stanchion. The captain trots down the steps into the vessel. He grabs the back of this perch and eases himself into it, causing the stanchion to demonstrate that not only can it rotate, but that it also has an internal shock absorber and is quite happy to bob up and down against the waves once loaded with the weight of a man. Marina’s mirth escapes as an audible giggle. It is a seat for a serious office, on a pillar of chrome suitable for a late-night bar. She admires the inventiveness.

The man settles into his throne and carefully arranges his coffee mug, cigarettes and lighter around him. Marina, giggles forgotten, realises that she is at the point of no return. She swallows hard and decides that perhaps the journey is not such a good idea. She takes hold of her bag and, planting her feet on the floor, she eases her weight forward. Unaware, the captain flicks a switch and the revving engine rocks Marina back into her seat, the deep throb of diesel drowning out her half-hearted protests. His attention is now on the sea. Edging the throttle forward, he swings his taxi boat away from the pier, leaving Marina to come to terms with the decision she has not quite made. She quells her fears by ignoring them and looks out at the blue.

Even though the sea is flat-calm and silky-smooth, once some speed has been gained the hull begins an irregular bounce against the water, booming in the plywood cabin. The spray from the bow blows in through the open doorways spasmodically, like indecisive rain. The man sits on his pedestal, bouncing to its rhythm, throttle full forward. He leans to his right and flicks another switch on a small home-made plywood box. The craft fills with the sounds of eighties pop music and the captain sings along, the words distorted by the accent of his Greek mother tongue. His brown polished shoes tap out the rhythm on the worn wooden floor. Marina cannot help but think more practical shoes would be better suited to the job. But his open-necked shirt is clean and his jeans have an ironed crease down the centre. It is nice to see a well turned-out young man.

Her attention is drawn back to the island, but as it does not seem to be getting any bigger Marina ignores it and turns to look back towards the mainland and watches the wake of the boat rising and curling upon itself. Plumes of spray create rainbows. Beyond, she can see the mainland disappearing. The dog is still on the pier, sniffing around the bench where she sat. The shore on either side of the pier is rough and pebbly. There are no tourists here; it is just a port, a place of comings and goings. Not much has changed, the farmhouse just as she remembers it from all that time ago. There are more cars parked now than when she was a girl. But there were fewer people everywhere in those days. Everyone knew everyone back then. That was why Aunt Efi had taken her to the island. Marina crosses herself three times and blesses the memory of Aunt Efi.

A new song bubbles from the speakers. Marina looks at the back of the man bobbing in his chair. He is whistling along to the music and his chair bounces in rhythm as his foot pushes the beat into the floor. Some wisps of his hair are blowing in the wind that curls through the two forward doors. He becomes aware of Marina’s stare and raises a hand to slick back the stray strands, but no sooner has he smoothed his mane than the wind regains its wild control. The captain pauses his singing and grooming to light a cigarette. He catches Marina’s eye as he turns from the wind to still the lighter flame and smiles cheerfully, nodding to the island to indicate their advance.

Marina can see the town now. The long streak of an island is broken in the middle by what looks, from this distance, more like a tumble of white rocks. She can make out a vague indentation, indicating the harbour opening. She puts a hand to her stomach and wishes she had eaten more for breakfast, or less. The island had seemed bigger back then, but her nerves felt the same.