Free Mr Darwin's Gardener by Kristina Carlson

stuck between the rollers of the mangle, I asked for release. Forgive me if I am disturbing You. I am tired today. As a child, I saw You in a dream. You had a broad, bearded face and were wearing pyjamas with blue and white stripes. Thank you, God, for being in heaven. Thank you for listening to me. Amen.
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    Alice prays at the dressing table.
    Her reflection ripples in the mirror.
    Dear God, I am acting out my life, to myself and to Mother and Father.
    I step into a room. The hem of my dress swings against my legs. Curls tickle my cheeks. I sit down, position my toes prettily, but my soul is not with me. I do not know where it is. As a little girl, I made cardboard dolls dance in a puppet theatre. I was the director and the audience, the only spectator. As I grew, Eileen and Henry watched me amiably out of the corners of their eyes. They were almost surprised I was there. A pale, curly-haired girl in ballet shoes with hard toes pirouetted on the parquet to Mademoiselle Dufy’s instructions. She was a fairy and a princess. I was applauded politely, hollowly. Pretty, yes, but not particularly skilled or original.
    Eileen showed me a copy of a drawing in pastels: dancers tying up the laces of their ballet shoes. Then it was time for something else: an unfinished letter, an étude by Chopin, the arrival of visitors. Eileen turned away. Although shewants to bring me up to be an educated, intelligent, independent woman, she forgot, went away again.
    I found You, God, so that You would look at me and listen to me. For You are the Eyes and You are the Ears, and at the same time, You are myself.
    You see me, and I am in You, and I try to cope with my life.
    Things could be better. You decide, if not Mother.

V
    The village lights twinkle in the dark, small, dim dots, as Thomas Davies draws the curtains. The children are asleep. Cathy sleeps wrapped in a quilt, exuding warm breath. John lies on his back, head sunk into the pillow. I bend to look at his eyes.
    The physician should also observe the appearance of the eyes from below the eyelids in sleep,
Hippocrates wrote,
for when a portion of the white appears owing to the eyelids not being closed together… it is reckoned an unfavourable and very deadly symptom.
    Ancient teachings.
    The house expands when people, going to sleep, absent the space, leaving it for the one who is awake to occupy.
    Can you do anything but love?
    I write in order to remember, quite as if memory did not function by itself.
    A warm coat for Cathy and those new shoes for John.
    When I stood alone on the hill, and the rain beat my face, I cursed the heaven that cares nothing for me or my children.
    A wolf prays by howling.
    The minister said to Mother, on bad days think of the good ones. Father had died in a mining accident. His feet and the middle of his body were crushed. When will therebe a good day? Father’s head rested on a pillow, and the beard on his chin went on growing, even after death. At the funeral, I thought of worms, wriggling their way into his nose and ears. Mother was cheered by new black shoes and my little sisters by an iced chocolate cake. I got to go to school at the mining company’s expense.
    The window reflects the lamplight. Anxiety squeezes my lungs. I intended… I did not want what I intended. Other people’s talk made my intention true, a deed. My reputation runs ahead of me like a riotous shadow.
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    After Gwyn’s death, the vicar said that the congregation helps its members to bear grief. What does that mean?
    Rain nails holes on the water’s surface, the circles extend and vanish, and I am not able to show my grief to anybody.
    The vicar said that being clever about matters of faith amounts to sickness of the soul, and there is no place for irony where God is concerned. I replied that nature – animals, plants, stones – does not know irony either. Only man is capable of it, because he is able to think of two opposed things at the