Revenge of the Middle-Aged Woman

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When I had been packing Lakey Street the last thing I had tackled was a box of discarded books in the cupboard under the stairs. Right at the bottom, covered in dust, was the paperback on South American politics that Nathan had been reading on the plane when I met him.

He had told me then that he didn’t rate the author, but when I opened the book, now yellow and brittle, it was covered in ticks as well as notes in his handwriting. I could only conclude that he had lied. Perhaps that tiny white lie had been told to impress me. It had worked: I had been impressed.

I put the book into the shelf in the sitting room where it belonged.

After my belongings had been taken away to Clapham by the removal men, I let myself through the french windows into the garden. The Solanum was in danger of throttling the Iceberg, a delphinium required staking, and the grass needed a good cut.

I walked round the forty-five feet that had, once, required taming and, no doubt, would need it again in the future. Irrevocably the garden would change. Neither Minty nor Nathan would pay it any attention.

I knelt by the little mound under the lilac and pulled out the tendrils of bindweed that had crept over it. ‘Sleep well, Parsley.’

The olive tree had been taken away, and my last task was to clean out the fountain. One or two leaves had fallen into it, so I sifted them out and dumped them on the compost heap. Then I gave the pump an extra thorough clean, refilled the fountain with fresh water and switched it on to test it.

The water splashed out into the pool. Always changing, yet never changing.

I turned it off, and the fountain was silent.

I went indoors, closed the french windows and locked them behind me.

Three days later, I stepped out of a car on to a hillside and into an explosion of light, warmth and fragrance. Blossom foamed over stones, the olive trees danced and shimmered, and there was a waterfall of leaf and plant – jasmine, roses and lilies. Morning glory, bougainvillaea, geranium and lavender. Colours that, in the sunlight, were bright and strong.

I felt myself swimming up towards the light, a fluid sun-filled moment of release and pleasure.

Elizabeth Buchan

Elizabeth Buchan is the author of ten novels, including the bestselling Consider the Lily, The Good Wife and That Certain Age, all of which received rave reviews. She lives in London with her husband and children.

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