One of the things I brought with me from London was a box of quick gardening tools. It takes a couple of minutes to dash upstairs to my apartment and collect gloves and secateurs.
And yes, my eyes do wander to next door, but he doesn’t seem to be in his rooms. Who cares? I’m busy anyway. Look how fast I go downstairs, jumping three steps at a time, and back out to the terrace.
The ivy takes a lot of cutting, and what a filthy job it turns out to be. Layers and layers of dead leaves have turned to dust, which flies up when disturbed. Underneath, decades of dust and rain have created a dank, soggy habitat for all kinds of mould, yeast and a million insects that all start crawling out. No one has ever called me squeamish, but this is justugh.
Today was my day for research and prep while waiting for the movers to bring all my stuff from London. Stuff that included all my large heavy-duty gardening tools that don’t fit in my car. Yet here I am, working without any planning. Isn’t that typical of this whole new business? Jump after the ball before thinking, before looking.
The pile of cuttings on the ground behind me is growing to the point where I have to stop and move it out of my way. Where has it all come from? Because the bloody ivy – and bramble and bindweed – on the wall doesn’t seem any thinner.
No one would believe I’ve been cutting away for an hour. Or they might, because I am filthy from my face to my shoes. And what have I achieved? Barely thirty inches of wall cleared. That’s what’s scaring me: the wall is a perfect example of the entire grounds – fascinating but too big; too much for me.
“Do you need help?”
I swivel on my heels to find a boy and a girl – teenagers – standing on the terrace above me.
“Hi.” I stand up.
“I’m Rhian,” the girl says. “And he’s Ricky.” She speaks with that lovely Welsh lilt.
Ricky’s pin-straight hair is so long on top, it hangs down over his eyes to his nose, but the back and sides are shaved. It’s the kind of look that says trouble. Had I met him on a London street at night, I’d have crossed the road to avoid him.
Rhian has slightly outgrown micro braids that she’s gathered in a ponytail. Her green eyes are a striking contrast to her café-au-lait skin. She’s ringed her eyes with lots of kohl.
“Haneen sent us to you. Says you’re bound to need a hand.” The girl nods to the pile of debris. The boy starts rolling his sleeves and grabs an armful of very muddy twigs.
“Don’t do that.” I stop him. Whatever creepy crawlies are hiding among all that will soon crawl all over him.
“Uh, I thought it was all rubbish.” He drops everything back on the heap.
“It is, but I think it’s better if we find something to carry it in. Do they have refuse sacks or some cardboard boxes?” I ask tentatively. This is something I should have considered before starting this task. Normally I would have, but my mind was trying to escape from the mini embarrassment earlier.
“Osian has a wheelbarrow. I can ask him to have a lend.”
“Okay…” I say, uncertain if this is a good idea. “Or a box or a bin from the house. Do you think you could find a spade?”
For some strange reason, they both laugh. “Yes, we have shovels.” Ricky sets off, presumably to locate the tools.
“What’s so funny?” I ask Rhian.
“Didn’t Evan and Haneen tell you about what happened with her ex?” she says with that gleeful expression that says she has a story she can’t wait for me to know. I don’t want to encourage gossip, so I don’t ask, instead I turn back to the ivy. “If you want to help,” I say, “you can pull these branches away from the wall so I can cut them.”
Before long, Ricky comes back with not only a wheelbarrow but also a shovel and a large rake. “Osian had these.”
“And he doesn’t mind us using them?” My eyes flick quickly towards the terrace doors to see if he’s there.
“He said, ‘sure’.”
Of course he did.
We work well, the three of us. With Rhian holding the branches for me, the cutting process goes much faster. Ricky doesn’t need much supervision and fills the wheelbarrow over and over to wheel it away to some dump out front.
“Last year when Evan and Haneen first came, this house was disgusting. Full of so much dirt; nothing like you’ve ever seen. Animal shit like up to your knees. We had to shovel out the pigeon shit and made a big bonfire outside to burn it all.”
She natters on and on. Ioohandaahin all the right places; my verbal autopilot takes charge. But my eyes keep stealing towards the terrace doors in case Osian comes to investigate how we’re using his tools.
Should I have introduced myself properly this morning? Reminded him of our past?
Yes, I should have.
