Cecelia Ahern - The Year I Met You

I’m not quite sure how to reply to that. ‘That’s a shame. But I don’t have bluebells in my garden.’ I look around, just to be sure.

‘It would be a shame, though, wouldn’t it, not to have a beautiful blue haze in the woodlands?’

It’s a beautiful image but why he thinks that in particular would convince me to take the job is beyond me.

‘Monday,’ I say and I hear the seriousness in my voice. ‘There’s something I haven’t told you.’

He stalls for a moment, sensing danger ahead. ‘Yes?’

‘I should have said it to you before, but erm …’ I clear my throat. ‘I’m on gardening leave. For one year. It’s up in November.’

‘November?’ he asks, in a tone that I know is not a happy one. He is too professional to show his anger, though he must be angry. I have wasted his time, I see that now, playing some little game with him while he was trying to do his job.

‘It would have been helpful to know this a few weeks ago, Jasmine.’ The way he says my name makes me cringe. I’m so mortified I can’t say anything. I feel like I’ve been caught with my pants down and the paparazzi are around me, snapping away. The one saving grace is that me and Monday are not face to face.

‘I’m sorry I didn’t tell you, I just …’ I can’t think of an excuse, but he leaves me hanging in silence, waiting for me to explain myself. This tells me he’s annoyed and wants an explanation. ‘I was embarrassed.’

It sounds like he’s stopped walking. ‘Why on earth would you be embarrassed?’ he asks, genuinely surprised, the annoyance gone.

‘Gee, I don’t know. I got fired and I can’t work for a year.’

‘Jasmine, that’s normal. That is nothing to be ashamed of. In fact, it’s a compliment that they don’t want you to work with anyone else.’

‘I hadn’t thought of it like that.’

‘Well, you should. Between you and me, I wouldn’t mind getting paid to not work for a year.’ He laughs and I feel so much better already.

There’s a long silence. I’m not sure where to go with this. If this job is no longer a possibility then we will have no reason to meet again, but I want to meet him again so badly. Do I mention this? Do I ask him out? Is this goodbye? He saves me by speaking.

‘Do you want to go for the job, Jasmine?’

I envision the scenario where I say no. He hangs up, I never hear from him again, I return to my gardening leave, my future uncertain, my present boring and terrifying. I don’t want to go back to how I have felt these past few months.

‘Yes. I want a job,’ I say, then realise my mistake. ‘I mean, this job.’

‘Good,’ he says. ‘I’ll have to go back to them with this and see what they say, okay?’

‘Yes, of course. Sure.’ I straighten up, professional face back on. ‘I am really very sorry.’

I hide my face in my hands and cringe for a good five minutes and then, as a way to hide from the conversation I’ve just had, I return to my garden. Eventually all thoughts disappear from my mind as I focus on hammering my deck together, spaced a few inches apart, to place over the basin of water.

It is as I am stacking the Indian sandstone slabs on top of each other and marking the centre with a pencil in order to drill a hole for the pipe, that I suddenly drop the tools on the grass and hurry inside. I go straight to my wall of photographs beside the kitchen table and scan it, knowing exactly what to look for. When I see it, my hands quickly cover my mouth and I can’t believe how quickly I am overcome with emotion. That the image would mean so much to me and also that Monday would know that.

Beside where Monday had sat a few days ago is a photo of me, Heather, Dad and Mum – the only photo I have of the four of us together – taken on one of our regular trips to the Botanic Gardens. We’re all wearing big smiles for the camera, me with my front tooth missing, as we lie in a field of bluebells.

19

The photograph makes me think, it makes me think for a long time about a whole lot of things. This I do while completing my water fountain, and also while hammering together a trellis and painting it red in honour of Granddad Adalbert Mary and attaching vine eyes and wires to my house wall so that my newly planted winter jasmine can climb. And then, when I think I can’t think any more, and people are after me to make decisions about my life, I decide to lay more grass at the side of my house and sow a flower meadow. Eddie returns to dig and I’m no fool this time, he completes the small patch in one full day, I prepare the soil and the following week I sow a meadow seed mix including poppies, corn chamomile, ox-eye daisies and cornflowers. It is a small area, but I sow them beside the space I am keeping for the soon-to-be-delivered lean-to greenhouse which will stand against the free wall of my semi-detached house. To prevent birds from eating the seeds, one of my Sunday activities with Heather is to set up a series of strings with CDs threaded on them across the sown area. Even this we do with thought, choosing songs that we think will scare the birds away.

I plant, and I plant, and I plant. And as I plant, I think; except I’m not aware that I’m thinking. In fact, sometimes I am sure that I’m not thinking and yet suddenly a thought will come to me. It will arrive so suddenly and unexpectedly that I stand up straight, my aching back stretched, and I look around to see who it was or what it was that gave me that sudden thought and did anyone see me having it. March moves to April and I’m still thinking. I do the weeding. I protect the new growth from the cold snaps and while the days are gradually getting warmer there are still some strong winds and heavy showers. I think about my flowers when I’m out at night with friends, especially if there’s a particularly heavy rainstorm and people walk into the restaurant shaking off umbrellas and discarding sodden coats. The first thing I think about in the morning is my garden. I think about my garden when I’m lying in the arms of a man I met in a bar and listening to the wind howl outside his bedroom window and I want to be home with my garden, where things make sense. I keep on moving. I don’t want my grass to grow too long and then appear yellow when it’s cut. It can’t be neglected. I regularly rake out ‘thatch’, not wanting dead grass and mess to accumulate, hoping for healthier grass, for moss and weeds not to establish in it. And all the time I do it, I think.

The daffodils that once rose proud and tall from the ground, the first of the colour in the grey early spring, are now withered. The flowers are going over and so, with sadness, I snap the heads off behind the swollen parts; leaving the stalk intact. If the spent flowers are left on, the plant’s energy will be diverted into the production of seeds. By removing the dead heads the plant’s energy is instead diverted into the formation of next year’s flower bud within the bulb.

In the garden there is always movement, there is always growth. No matter how stuck in time I feel, I go outside and things are changing all around me. There are suddenly flowers where there was once just the tiniest bud, and the open flower will stare at me, wide open and proud at what it has done while we all slept.

Monday has confirmed that the job is to begin in November and he is currently looking for other candidates to offer them too, so the interview is put off until 9 June. I can’t wait; I long to get back to feeling like the old me again. I long for my year to be up, and though I have wished the year away on countless occasions I wonder what will I do when the time comes? In November it will be cold, dark, grey and stormy again. Of course that comes with its own beauty, but it will be time for me to make decisions about my life, hopefully begin the new job – if I get it. Suddenly I want the time to slow. I look at my transforming garden, the movement in the water fountain, the spring flowers that are raising their heads, and I realise that I can’t stop what is waiting for me. So much of gardening is about preparing for what is about to come next, what season, what elements, and I must now start doing that in my life.