‘Mackintosh, with his usual reticence, has never chosen to reveal the identity of the original Joe,’ continued the article, ‘though sources suggest that this man may have been the inspiration for the nation’s favourite gardener. Joseph Cox, born in Sheffield in 1912, worked first as head gardener at a stately home, then for thirty years at Nether Edge Coalworks in Kirby Monckton before ill-health forced him to retire. A well-known local eccentric, Mr Cox lived for many years in Pog Hill Lane, but was not available for interview at his residence, now the Meadowbank Retirement Home. Miss Julie Moynihan, a day nurse at the home, described him to our reporter. “He’s really a lovely old gentleman, with such a wonderful store of anecdotes. I’m thrilled to think he might have been the original Joe.” ’
Jay barely looked at the rest of the article. Conflicting emotions raked through him. Amazement that he should have come so close to him and not known, not sensed his presence somehow. Most of all, an overwhelming sense of relief, of joy. The past could be redeemed after all. Joe was still living at Pog Hill. Everything could be remade.
He forced himself to read the rest of the article. There was nothing especially new. A summary of
Of course. Kerry. That made sense. She knew about Pog Hill Lane, and about Joe. And, of course, she knew a great deal about Jay. She had access to photographs, diaries, papers. Five years of listening to his ramblings and reminiscences. He knew a fleeting moment of anxiety. What exactly had he told her? What had he given away? He didn’t suppose that after the way he’d walked out he had a right to expect any loyalty or discretion from her. He could only hope that she would stay professional and keep his private life private. He realized that he really didn’t know Kerry well enough to know what she’d do.
But none of that seemed important then. What mattered was Joe. He could be on a plane to London within a few hours, he told himself giddily, then catch the express north. He could be there by that evening. He could see him again. He could even bring him back with him, if that’s what the old man wanted. He could show him Chateau Foudouin. A strip of newsprint, barely the size of a book of stamps, fluttered free of the rest and came to land on the floor. Jay picked it up and turned it over. It was too small to be an article. He must have missed it among the other cuttings.
A note in biro at the top of the paper read, ‘Kirby Monckton Post’.
Obituaries – ctd.
Joseph Edwin COX, on 15 September 1999, quietly, after a long illness.
‘The kiss of the sun for pardon,
The song of the birds for mirth,
One is nearer God’s Heart in a garden
Than anywhere else on earth.’
Jay looked at it for a long time. The paper slipped from between his fingers, but he could still see it, brightly illuminated in his mind’s eye, in spite of the dullness of the day. His mind refused to process the information. Blanked. Refused. Jay stared at nothing, thought nothing.
59
THE NEXT FEW DAYS WERE A KIND OF VACUUM. HE SLEPT, ATE AND drank in a daze. The Joe-shaped hole in things had become something monstrous, blotting out the light. The book lay abandoned, close to completion, gathering dust in a box under his bed. Even though the rain had stopped he could not bear to look at the garden. The Specials grew leggy, unattended in their pots, awaiting transferral. What fruit had survived the weather fell unregarded to the ground. The weeds, which had grown hungrily throughout the wet weather, were beginning to take over. In a month there would be no sign of any of his work.
The worst of it was not knowing. To have been within reach of the mystery and to have lost it again, stupidly, without explanation. It all seemed so pointless. He imagined Joe watching from the wings, waiting to jump out.
And yet I could still hear them. As if some part of their essence had evaporated into the air, become a part of this place, ingrained, like the scent of cigarettes and burning sugar, in the woodwork and plaster. Everything was buzzing with that vanished presence, buzzing and singing and laughing louder than ever before, stone and tile and polished wood, all whispering with agitation and excitement; never still, never silent. Only Jay did not hear it. He had gone beyond nostalgia, into a bleakness from which he felt nothing could drag him. He remembered all the times he hated Joe. All the times he raged against the old man’s desertion; the things he said to himself, to others. The dreadful things. He thought of the years when he could have traced Joe but made no real effort to do so. He could have hired a detective. He could have paid someone to find him if he couldn’t do it himself. Instead, he sat and waited for Joe to find him. All those wasted years, sacrificed to pride. And now it was too late.
There was a quote he could not quite remember, something about the past being an island surrounded by time. He had missed the last boat to the island, he told himself bitterly. Pog Hill was now relegated to the list of places irretrievably lost to him, worse than lost. With Joe gone, it was as if Pog Hill had never existed.
But what he had done was beyond that. Joe was there, he told himself. Joe was alive at Pog Hill throughout that summer.
It was good for him that Rosa was still here. Marise’s visits, too, lifted him temporarily. At least this way he had to stay sober during the daytime. Routines needed to be observed, even if they had become meaningless.
Marise half noticed a change in him, but there was already too much to think about at the farm for her to give him more than passing attention. The drainage work was almost completed, the vineyard free of standing water, the Tannes shrinking back to normality at last. She had to give up a proportion of her savings to pay for the work and the new supplies, but she felt heartened. If the harvest could be salvaged there was still hope for next year. If only she could raise enough money to buy the land – poor enough land for building, most of it too marshy to plant. She knew Pierre-Emile was uninterested in leasing the property: there was too little profit in such an arrangement. He had a family in Toulouse. No. He would sell. She knew he would. There was a good chance that the price would be low, she told herself. After all, this was not Le Pinot. Even now there was a good chance she would be able to raise the money. Twenty per cent was all she needed. She only hoped Mireille would not interfere. After all, the old woman had no interest in seeing her leave. Quite the opposite. But Marise needed to be in charge of the property. She would not be at the mercy of a lease arrangement. Mireille understood why. They needed each other, however much the old woman loathed the thought. Balanced on a bridge, each one holding one end of the rope. If one fell, they both fell.
Marise had no qualms about lying. She had, after all, done Mireille a favour. The lie protected them, like a weapon too terrible to be used in war. But time was running out for both of them. For herself, the lease’s end. For Mireille, age and illness. The old woman wanted her off the farm because it made her vulnerable. Marise only wondered whether the old threat would hold fast. Perhaps it meant nothing to her now. The thought of losing Rosa had once kept them both silent. But now… She wondered what Rosa still meant to Mireille.
She wondered what each of them still had to lose.
60
