Me Before You

I got through the tougher days because of my garden. As the children grew it had become a bit of an obsession of mine. I could give you the Latin name of almost any plant you cared to point at. The funny thing was, I didn’t even do Latin at school – mine was a rather minor public school for girls where the focus was on cooking and embroidery, things that would help us become good wives – but the thing about those plant names is that they do stick in your head. I only ever needed to hear one once to remember it forever: Helleborus niger,Eremurus stenophyllus,Athyrium niponicum. I can repeat those with a fluency I never had at school.

They say you only really appreciate a garden once you reach a certain age, and I suppose there is a truth in that. It’s probably something to do with the great circle of life. There seems to be something miraculous about seeing the relentless optimism of new growth after the bleakness of winter, a kind of joy in the difference every year, the way nature chooses to show off different parts of the garden to its full advantage. There have been times – the times when my marriage proved to be somewhat more populated than I had anticipated – when it has been a refuge, times when it has been a joy.

There have even been times when it was, frankly, a pain. There is nothing more disappointing than creating a new border only to see it fail to flourish, or to watch a row of beautiful alliums destroyed overnight by some slimy culprit. But even when I complained about the time, the effort involved in caring for it, the way my joints protested at an afternoon spent weeding, or my fingernails never looked quite clean, I loved it. I loved the sensual pleasures of being outside, the smell of it, the feel of the earth under my fingers, the satisfaction of seeing things living, glowing, captivated by their own temporary beauty.

After Will’s accident I didn’t garden for a year. It wasn’t just the time, although the endless hours spent at hospital, the time spent toing and froing in the car, the meetings – oh God, the meetings – took up so much of it. I took six months’ compassionate leave from work and there was still not enough of it.

It was that I could suddenly see no point. I paid a gardener to come and keep the garden tidy, and I don’t think I gave it anything but the most cursory of looks for the best part of a year.

It was only when we brought Will back home, once the annexe was adapted and ready, that I could see a point in making it beautiful again. I needed to give my son something to look at. I needed to tell him, silently, that things might change, grow or fail, but that life did go on. That we were all part of some great cycle, some pattern that it was only God’s purpose to understand. I couldn’t say that to him, of course – Will and I have never been able to say much to each other – but I wanted to show him. A silent promise, if you like, that there was a bigger picture, a brighter future.

Steven was poking at the log fire. He manoeuvred the remaining half-burnt logs expertly with a poker, sending glowing sparks up the chimney, then dropped a new log on to the middle. He stood back, as he always did, watching with quiet satisfaction as the flames took hold, and dusted his hands on his corduroy trousers. He turned as I entered the room. I held out a glass.

‘Thank you. Is George coming down?’

‘Apparently not.’

‘What’s she doing?

‘Watching television upstairs. She doesn’t want company. I did ask.’

‘She’ll come round. She’s probably jet-lagged.’

‘I hope so, Steven. She’s not very happy with us at the moment.’

We stood in silence, watching the fire. Around us the room was dark and still, the windowpanes rattling gently as they were buffeted by the wind and rain.

‘Filthy night.’

‘Yes.’

The dog padded into the room and, with a sigh, flopped down in front of the fire, gazing up adoringly at us both from her prone position.

‘So what do you think?’ he said. ‘This haircut business.’

‘I don’t know. I’d like to think it’s a good sign.’

‘This Louisa’s a bit of a character, isn’t she?’

I saw the way my husband smiled to himself. Not her too, I found myself thinking, and then squashed the thought.

‘Yes. Yes, I suppose she is.’

‘Do you think she’s the right one?’

I took a sip of my drink before answering. Two fingers of gin, a slice of lemon and a lot of tonic. ‘Who knows?’ I said. ‘I don’t think I have the faintest idea what is right and wrong any more.’

‘He likes her. I’m sure he likes her. We were talking while watching the news the other night, and he mentioned her twice. He hasn’t done that before.’

‘Yes. Well. I wouldn’t get your hopes up.’

‘Do you have to?’