Free Griefwork by James Hamilton-Paterson Page B

even the muffler at the throat marked a visitor from an exterior world. The man’s eyes sliced Leon’s face in passing, then he spoke to her in a mellifluous babble.
    ‘He’s worried I should return unescorted in the dark,’ she told Leon. ‘He points out quite correctly that this is still adangerous city full of poor and desperate people who might take advantage of an obvious foreigner like myself, especially a woman. Well, I’ll go now, but with more than customary thanks for a fascinating and enlightening afternoon. Your magic place is a partial cure for homesickness, Mr Gardener.’
    ‘Leon.’
    ‘Mr Leon. I have a feeling your life is going to change soon.’
    The effect of these words was immediate. ‘Oh, don’t say that,’ he cried.
    ‘I didn’t mean for the worse,’ she said reassuringly. ‘Quite the contrary.’
    ‘But I don’t want change. No, no change. I’m content, as I said. Thoroughly content.’ As if in placation he added, ‘I have something for you, princess,’ in a formal tone. The equerry’s face had dimmed to a dark blur but still housed the glitter of eyes. Leon went over to the roasting pans and picked out a perfect lotus in its pot, dripping, while supporting its leaves with the other hand. ‘We’ll wrap this in sacking and you shall take it home. Keep it in the warm, in water up to the edge here. Near a window so it can see the sun. Only please don’t tell anyone because the Society wouldn’t be at all happy that its curator is giving plants away. Though in fact these are mine, acquired at my own expense.’
    ‘Oh,’ she said in delight. ‘Look,’ she showed her companion, ‘basimbun.’ She laid a moth-light hand on Leon’s arm. Not for the first time he noticed the erotic pleasure involved in giving, as if the gift and its acceptance were earnests of greater intimacy. When they left the equerry carried a shapeless ball of hessian in front of him like a tyro-anarchist a bomb. The outer door closed behind her, severing a tentacle of ‘Cuir’ which curled upon itself on the threshold.
    ‘A delicious person, don’t you think?’ he asked himself as he lit a candle or two in the empty Palm House. Todaywas a Thursday; the gardens closed at four and there were no night visitors. As he locked the entrance he noticed it was starting to snow again. He hoped the water wouldn’t freeze as it had in 1942, nearly leading to disaster. A raid had uncovered, but miraculously left undamaged, the mains supply in the boulevard half a mile away. After a day or two’s exposure to the intense cold the pipe froze and no water came through to feed the heating system. By sheer good fortune he happened to glance at the thermometer on the boiler and had damped the furnaces down in time. Such reflections scurried through his head as he moved restlessly about. ‘What does she mean?’ he asked a carob whose curious bean had been a vague substitute for confectionery in the war. Not that sweets were once again available, but now the emergency was over one seemed to miss certain things less, others more. Likewise a thick stand of sugar cane nearly dominated one of the areas off the rotunda beneath the dome. It had gone unrecognised by all the occupying forces throughout the war and Leon had used a washing mangle to squeeze out the juice, boiling the smashed fibres to extract what remained. By careful rendering down he had produced a clear syrup which had been a great luxury during the sugarless years.
    The afternoon had left him in a state of undefined excitement with a dark current running beneath. ‘What does she mean?’ he asked again. ‘Ssiiih.’ He lit a candle and then blew it out. ‘Change? No, no. We remain true to what we know, don’t we? For ever. What else? Travel. Unravel. Strange winds. And for what? What sought? What found? After all these years? Drop it all? Abandon …? But how beautiful she is. Fit to plant.’ For this was the image which came to him, an instinct that