Free The Insistent Garden by Rosie Chard Page B

into pathological shapes and the sheets were peeling, their remnants clinging to the wall on ancient glue. Yet this was a place I could relax. A place of gentle steaming and quiet. Breathing in deeply, I closed my eyes, stretched out my spine, uncurled my fingers and felt myself growing.
    Something made me open my eyes — a small sound maybe — and to my horror I saw a spider in the bath with me; it floated towards me on a wave of suds, rolling back and forth inside the current from my body. I jerked my knees up to my chest, scooped up the bedraggled creature and pressed it against the side of the bath before accidentally submerging it again in a second wave as I sank back down. I picked up a flannel, pinched its crumpled body into the folds then pressed it onto the rim of the bath where it lay glued to the enamel like a piece of black cotton.
    I didn’t like spiders. They cleaned the house, they ate flies, yet they had eight eyes in their heads. I could hardly bear to think of it, eight eyes, eight lenses, eight pictures of everything projected into their minds. But I managed to relax down beneath the water line and set about studying the tiny corpse. It was then that I noticed the hole. Just a black triangle, it marked the spot where two wall tiles had failed to line up; I’d never noticed it before. I tried to remember the last time my father and I had done any work on the bathroom but as I examined the hole more closely I was convinced I saw a tube of darkness piercing the communal wall that joined my neighbour’s bathroom to mine.
    A heavy hand thumped on the door.
    â€œHurry up in there!” said my father’s voice. “You need to get the spare room ready.”
    The water chopped into waves. “I’m coming.”
    â€œI need to use the toilet, so hurry.”
    â€œI’ll be out in a second.”
    With a towel tightened across my chest, I walked over to the window and pressed my nose against the frosted glass. I could just make out the outline of the oak tree in the back garden, swaying back and forth like a cloud on a string. Not for the first time, I fingered the edge of the pane and picked at the putty lining the glass, but it was impossible to open the window and draw a breeze into the room as it was welded to its frame with years of layered paint. I turned round to look at the spider. The spider was gone.

13
    MAY IRRITATE EYES AND SKIN
DO NOT BREATHE FUMES OR GET IN EYES
KEEP OUT OF REACH OF CHILDREN
    Tuesday came round more often than other days of the week. I felt convinced of this as I heaved a suitcase up the stairs with one hand and clutched a warm pair of slingbacks in the other. Vivian had arrived earlier than normal and I was standing on the doormat, listening to her list of chores, when I spotted a dab of green on the other side of the road. It could have been anything; a school cardigan flung contemptuously over a shoulder, or the olive jacket of the window cleaner doing his round of the street. Or it could have been a woman’s suit. Vivian’s checklist had reached a peak, rolling her tongue round the ‘ r ’ in ‘ironing’ like an over-zealous chemistry teacher, so I reminded her of the tea cooling on the kitchen table and stepped outside.
    The view of the street was better from the porch, empty yet busy. A paper bag bashed against the gate and the breeze sent a shiver through the leaves of the cherry tree on the opposite pavement. Then I saw her. Dotty Hands had emerged from behind a van parked opposite and now she strode down the hill, looking neither left nor right. She attempted a jaunty stride but the spare tyre that circled her waist hindered a purposeful arm swing and she marched along like an out-of-condition soldier. Still she did not turn her head and before I knew what I was doing I raised my hand to wave.
    â€œTuh, who does she think she’s going as?” said Vivian, back by my side, reeking of half-chewed