I’m engaged, Nora tells her, her hands still clasped tight in her mother’s.
Freya stares at her.
Robin asked me to marry him yesterday, Nora says. And I said yes.
There is a moment where neither of them moves, her words landing like the rain tapping, now, on the glass roof. Then Freya lets go of Nora’s hands, steps back and yanks on a chain so that a bulb douses them in light. She turns, then, picks up some small secateurs and starts snipping at leaves; the ones with the deadly disease, Nora assumes.
So what d’you think, Nora says, watching her mother’s elbows, hearing the snap of stems as she works.
Clearly, Freya says, it doesn’t matter what I think.
Don’t do this, Nora says.
Do what? Respond when you’ve asked me a question?
I know how you feel about marriage, Nora says, but I –
Are seeminglyquitehappy to squeeze yourself into the outdated box of wifedom, yes! Wear virginal white, vow to obey him, be bound to him forevermore because that’s what capitalism – nay, our white malegovernments– demand of us all?
I love him, Freya. He loves me.
And isn’t that enough? Why marry him at all? I thought you didn’twantto get married.
Youdidn’t want me to get married, Nora muses, but does not say. Thinking back to the fairy tales she was never read, as a child. How she was lectured on women’s rights when most girls were watchingCinderellaorSnow White, which wasnot fair, she’d shout, stamping up the stairs. What’s not fair, Freya would shout after her, is that unavoidable something called the patriarchy!
But there are other memories too, Nora knows, from this greenhouse, and their cottage, behind it. The paintings she’d made, with her mother’s encouragement. Not allowing her a phone, in case she got brain cancer, which meant she spent her adolescence outside or making things, instead of scrolling on a screen. The women-only meditation groups and book clubs that had, in turn, inspired her own events programme at the art café she set up with Shay, and something softens inside of her, at the thought. At the stubborn movements of her mother’s hands, not even two decades older than hers; after Freya fell pregnant at sixteen, and left home; left her Catholic parents, and everything she’d known, just so she could keep her. Give Nora a life.
I guess I just … changed my mind, Nora says, gently. There is another long silence, and her mother lets out a humph.
Did you justhumph, Nora says. A pause, more snipping. But then her mother breathes through her nose; half laughter, half snort, but before she can respond, more light floods forward from next door; Josie’s back door opening, the gate connecting their gardens swinging backwards.
Freya! Josie calls out, her voice carrying across the night air. Freya, how’re the tomato plants?
Fine, Jose, Freya says. Just fine, with a bit of pruning, like I told you.
I’ve been reading up about it, Josie says, who is a soft shadow now through the mottled walls, the glass thick with algae. Apparently the best thing to do is remove all of the infected plants.Allof them, not just the leaves.
I do know this, Josephine.
Well I saw your greenhouse light on and thought I best come and tell you. I’ve got the web page up on my phone; I could read it out to you, if you like. There’s a wholeGardeners’ Worldpage on it. It’s ever so good. Ever so informative.
Freya doesn’t respond; carries on snipping.
Hi, Josie, Nora pipes up, and there is a startled pause.
Nora? Sweetheart!
We were having a greenhouse moment, Freya says, and there is a beat of silent panic before Josie asks why, what’s wrong?
Nothing’swrong, says Nora.
I beg to differ, Freya says.
Robin’s asked me to marry him, Nora says, to another startled beat, but then Josie lets out a coo, like a collared dove.
Oh,Nora! That’s wonderful!
Andthat’sa normal reaction, Nora says to Freya, as her mother’s friend hurries round to the greenhouse door. Nora slides it back to see her smiling face, her slender frame draped in a shawl. Mist of rain above her.
