Roots

(Published in Staple, December 2001)

I love the roots of a fuchsia, digging into the earth at night, my lips suckling its sweet magic. It restores me and always has.
Mr Carver came up Willetts Lane to our cottage for the first time in November 1961, the night after my last restoration, by chance. It was just me and Izzie, my younger sister, since mum was taken in 1951, week before the Festival of Britain.
Mr Carver's good sports jacket hung off his bones. 'I've heard, Mr Cranham, you may be looking for a little extra gardening.' 'You heard right, sir.'
We shook hands and came to an understanding. I liked him straight off, a quiet gentleman, bit withered considering his young wife and boy. Didn't seem he could cope with her, have to say that. Izzie stood on the porch, drizzle trickling down her nose and hair. She looked more like mum than ever, her body all good health.
I cycled down the Carver's that Sunday morning. Old Victorian place, double-gabled, gravel drive, acre and an half at back. Took a couple of geraniums from my greenhouse, and a few cuttings from a Fuchsia Mantilla, one of my favourite varieties.
'Oh, thank you Bill, you are too kind,' she said all la-di-da. She looked a lady, and good legs too. I know she'd been on the stage, I know Mr Hitchcock was partial to her in his films, but like I say she was a bit too friendly first off.
The garden was in a right old state! Been landscaped in the Twenties, I remember my dad talking, but it hadn't come to much. Mr Carver walked me round, and Simon, the boy, was introduced: 'How do you do, Mr Cranham,' he said, and shook my hand. Only seven, fine little fellow.
Those first months were just clearing out. Some lads from the village gave a hand. By February of '62 we'd made progress. Izzie cooked lovely casseroles that winter, hares, pheasant, scrag-end of neck, rabbit, vegetables, plenty of root crops. Some said she was a bit simple. But she was a good girl, lovely smile. We were snug as bugs. I never looked serious for a wife. Mum used to say they was all trollops round here! Not that I'm the other way.
In March we could think of planting out for the spring. Mr Carver came round the garden. 'That's a good idea, Bill,' he said. Simon darted in and out the shrubbery, playing cowboys. I wrote down a few plants. Me and Mr Carver were much of a mind. Then he looked a bit dark, 'Must consult my wife, of course'. He stroked his white hair, parted in the middle.
I gave up the gardener's job at Holloway Sanatorium about this time, where I'd been since after the war, always wanted to be my own man.
Izzie and me had a couple of big greenhouses near our cottage and I had plans for a bit of market gardening: cabbages, lettuces, carrots and I'm very subtle with tomatoes. Supply one of the local shops, I thought. Yesterday Izzie stood in the old north greenhouse, amongst the weeds and puddles and broken glass, pulling out the rotten wood. 'We'll make a go of this, Izzie'. I put my arm round her.
Mr Carver drove down our cottage in April that year, Simon beside him, happy as sandboys. We had tea with thick slices of Izzie's fruitcake and talked about plants. 'Your brother's a very lucky man, Izzie,' Mr Carver said. We all sat very comfortable at the oak refectory table in the kitchen.
Izzie and I ate on the porch that evening, had a bottle of parsnip wine. The easterly weather had broken and the sky was red in the east. Izzie had found a box of herbs and concoctions under mother's bed, and some old papers with instructions on them. We remembered those times mother would be out here very late, making strange patterns with the herbs, sometimes lighting them and chanting things. Sounds mumbo-jumbo these days! But our family never had no troubles from nobody.
Izzie was getting chilled and went in to change. She came down wearing one of mum's old dresses. It looked so natural to me, seeing her like that. I gave her a squeeze, her arms flayed open, and she kicked up her heel like a young girl coming into bloom.
By the May of '63 there was some order in the Carver's garden. We'd got bedding plants and hebes, weeping figs and azalias from Richmond Nurseries in Windlesham. Mrs Carver, used to wander down the garden to seek me out, and there was a rustle as her shoes caressed the grass, like a pretty serpent softly hissing.
One time she caught me planting a row of white alyssum. 'Mug of coffee, Bill?' She bent over, put it beside me with the biscuits. Couldn't help notice her perfume, and a cleavage like ripe pears. 'Bill,' she says. I knows what's coming. 'Would those red ones be better in that flowerbed over there - So I moves them. 'I wonder if they do look quite right there, Bill?'
So it went on most years. I'd start planting and Mrs Carver was for rearranging. We got by. By the summer of '65 the garden was a picture.
Poor Mr Carver came on more hunched and wobbled when he walked.
During '66 and '67 some of the old houses in the village passed from families who had owned them for over a hundred years. We lost the Hanbury's, the Reynoldses and the Marchent's. Newcomers had no roots here, all new money. That winter Izzie was feeling squashed in the back bedroom, and she took over mum and dad's room. It felt natural seeing her in there. She had nightmares sometimes and I comforted her. When I held her I smelt the history of our family, of our neck of the woods. It was mum's smell too, when I was a nipper before the war, and no one knew then the changes coming.
I made Izzie a special mixture of herbs from an old book of mum's. That worked very satisfactory and her bad dreams fled. Some nights she still got scared. 'Don't leave me just yet, Bill' she used to whisper in my ear.
'You'd make someone a lovely wife, Izzie!'
She was right off the tablets from the doctor.
A few nights later we made a real celebration dinner, steaming up home-made steak and kidney pudding, new potatoes, greens, carrots, peas, a special gravy I make with beer - we put back a few bottles of pale ale too!
Then Izzie turned in. I took her up a cocoa and opened the window. She was wearing one of mum's linen nightgowns. I'd put in a good tot of Lamb's Navy rum - we called this our "Magic Cocoa" - and was part of the "treatment" for the good nights she was now having. 'That's good Bill,' she said, and touched my arm. She looked beautiful in the soft light. 'Good night, Mum,' I laughed.
'Good night, Dad. ' She gave a gasp and hugged me.
'Good night, my sweet.' I kissed her and turned out the light.
One morning in December '67 I turned up early at the Carvers. Frost was hard on the gate, the hinges creaked.
'I won't be bossed by your father, Simon!'
A plate crashed in the kitchen. The French windows in the drawing-room flew open. She darted like a jay into the garden, wearing her powder-blue silk dressing-gown, her diamond ring glinting.
'Izzie, its bad what's going on at the Carvers.'
It was only ten days before Christmas and the old decorations in our cottage made me more sad for young Simon and Mr Carver. 'You and me must stay close, my dear girl.'
By the Christmas of 67, celebrations in the village were just tinsel, wishing "Happy Christmas" to those you didn't know from Adam. That Christmas Eve the church bells played their special rounds and they sounded flat and dimmed. Isaiah's words to Satan came into my mind: 'How art thou fallen from heaven, O Lucifer, son of the morning.' God has no power to sort out selfish women like Mrs Carver. Old Nick takes care of troubles in this world, may the good Lord forgive me. Perhaps it was time I had a look in mum's books.
'That mistletoe's gorgeous, Bill.' I held the chair as Izzie tied big bunches in the parlour and front-room. I turned red holly sticks in my fingers and placed a little garland in Izzie's hair.
We had the first slices of our home-cured Christmas ham, pease-pudding and roast potatoes. I put fresh hazel logs on the fire and after supper we sat close on the sofa and sang an old folk song of dad's.
Foxes, hares and beasts of all kinds tried to kindle warmth for the winter solstice. Newcomers knew nothing of the magic of winter, with their central heating and double-glazing. 'Shall we have a little dance, Izzie?' I put some music on the gramophone. Who was going to have Mrs Carver this Christmas, I wondered, with her silk stockings and black suspenders?
I took Izzie up her "magic cocoa". The embroidered bolster pane had slipped down. She made two little rabbit's ears with the sheet and wiggled her hand to make a mouth. 'You'll catch your death, Izzie.' I pulled the sheet and the blankets right round her. The wind was coming off the Hogs Back. 'You must keep warm, my girl.' I put my arm round her and took the weight off my feet. The wind hummed in the chimney and told me stories of the old Surrey, long dead.. 'We don't have no secrets, do we Izzie?'
'Hold me tight, Bill.'
A few days later Mr Carver was chatting to me by the potting shed, smoking one of his Sullivan Powell Turkish cigarettes, his long, bony hand shaking ash over his jacket. Mrs C. wandered up the path at the far side of the garden, skin like porcelain, and a body whispering for love, though she dressed like a rich whore.
That evening I took sustenance from the root of a special fuchsia I'd planted secret. I learnt by chance years ago that the voodoo leaders in Haiti, where the fuchsia was first seen by a white man in the sixteenth century, used the plant in many magic ways. Funny, the affinity of the old ways.
I opened mum's old books that evening. There was an ancient one by John Dee and many diagrams in my grandmother's hand. She was a Tizzard, straight out of Dorset and into service at Lord Stannard's in Ripley. There were detailed descriptions of different herbs and their effects, and how to bring a spell about. There was a copy of Culpepers Herbal, with bits of paper stuck in various places. It made sense to me.
I dusted down the pack of Aleister Crowley's Tarot cards and set them in a circle over the floor. Sitting in the middle of them was like entering a mansion I'd known all my life. Perhaps I could help Mr Carver.
During that summer of '68 Izzie took on more independent, 'Be back later, Bill.' She was wearing a new flowery frock.
'Izzie, don't you go giving away the family secrets to that old gossip!'
Izzie was visiting Nancy Weston, a fair, big-limbed Scandinavian-looking woman, who owned the tobacconist shop. She'd never married. Her and Izzie often went shopping together these days. By the winter they were close as thieves. She gave Izzie a bunch of carnations one time. I cut the heads off in the night. No one said nothing.
In January '69 I worked on building a rockery in the far end of the Carver's garden. I came back late one night.
'It's lovely having a friend like you, Nancy.'
Izzie and Nancy were drinking white wine and chewing long, sticky doughnuts.
'You can tell me anything, Izzie, you know that,' Nancy said and gave me her cold grey-eyed look as I took off my boots. 'Izzie could do with a good woman friend, don't you think, Bill?' The hairs on Nancy's strong right arm stood up as she stroked Izzie's shoulder. Izzie went quiet after Nancy left.
'No, I can manage, Bill,' Izzie said as I offered to help with our supper.
I stood on the porch and sipped a beer. I saw deep cracks in the ground and felt a rumble from the earth like we was all going down and nothing would remain above and the Lord would cleanse the world. 'Bill,' Izzie said after supper, 'I may go down to see Nancy, she's got some clothes she wants me to try on.' She was wearing lipstick, make-up and new nylons.
February of '69 was damp, like the ghosts of the little river were breathing over us. I didn't go to the pub much these days. One evening I took Izzie up her magic cocoa, and pulled the covers nicely over her.
'That's all right, Bill, I can manage. I'm tired, thank you.'
'Izzie, there's no secrets.'
'I'm very tired, Bill, goodnight.' She went red.
'But you've been so well these years on this regime.'
'Nancy says I've always been well.'
'Nancy's an interfering busybody!'
The next day Izzie returned to the back bedroom. The doctor had to give her tablets again for the bad dreams.
In March I was finishing off the rockery. Mrs Carver swanned down the poppy path. 'Mr Carver suggested you had coffee with him in the kitchen.'
'Oh, thank you, I'd like that.'
'I'm sorry to hear that Izzie is unwell at the moment.'
'She's not "unwell," Mrs Carver, just her nerves a bit funny. But it's good of you to inquire.'
I cracked a willow twig in my hand.
Mr Carver was laying back on the dark blue velvet sofa, glancing at the dog etchings by Cecil Aldin he loved so much. He showed me plant books and he turned the pages very urgent; he made me write down many plants to order; 'There' he said at the end and sighed as if was happy he'd made plans for so long into the future.
Mr Carver was taken by the good Lord on April 11th, 1969.
In the January of 1970, the county council changed the signposts all over our district. They took away the black and white cast-iron posts, with "Surrey" engraved in the hooped top. I know those posts had been there since 1918, my great-uncle Wilf had put some up himself. Now we've got big black and blue neon ones and you may as well be in Toytown. I suppose the newcomers can find their way home better.
There's a couple of little hillocks beyond our cottage and that winter I took to studying my books there. The fissures in the earth made me afraid of sitting on the grass lest I might tumble into the darkness. But at night, if I rested my ear against the cool dew, nature's rumours entered my ears.
In January '71 Simon came into the potting shed, on holiday from his school. He was a tall handsome boy but there was something fearful burning in his eyes. She came down with a coffee for me.
'Don't disturb Bill, will you darling?'
She stroked the mug round the rim with her finger, put the cup down, watching it all the time, willing me to drink, too eager for me to drain the strange liquid.
Simon followed his mother back to the house. His shoulders were hunched. There was a strain of his mother in that boy and he needed my help. The spirit of poor Mr Carver tipped some coffee from the mug and I knew I should not drink. I threw the mug against the door. Mrs Carver should answer for her ways.
One evening of hard frost in the late January of '71 I came back to the cottage and saw Nancy in the parlour, wearing black, mannish trousers, standing beside Izzie's chair.
'Nancy's asked me to move in with her, Bill.'
Nancy put her big hand on Izzie's shoulder.
'Are you well enough, Izzie? You've been on your tablets again lately?'
'Oh, make her mad, Bill, control her for ever, won't you!' Nancy combed Izzie's hair.
'You're speaking out of place, Nancy. I take care of Izzie.'
'I know what you take care of, Bill Cranham!'
I went outside and collected herbs. Mother's spirit was with me. When I got back Nancy was packing Izzie's clothes.
'But I'll be better when I go, Bill, Nancy says.'
'But the doctor put you back on your tablets, my girl, first time for years.'
'Nancy says I must take control. Oh Bill, she'll care for me lovely.' In the spring of '71 I bought some rare fuchsias to plant in memory of Mr Carver who loved them so and was most knowledgeable. In the evenings I studied hard and made two or three herb concoctions. I sat in my favourite field near our cottage. The cracks in the earth were wide now like great lungs. I wound up yarrow stalks and other plants into five rings and put them in the various mixtures. It was a moonlit night and the earth breathed with me. I felt the power of the ancient Surrey and I prayed deep to the old Gods for guidance. Later that week I chanted a special form of words over the yarrow rings as I took them out of the concoctions I'd made up. Then I tied a yarrow ring to each root of a fuchsia, one for Mr Carver, one for Izzie, one for Simon, and something special for Mrs C. and Nancy Weston. I'd moved into mum and dad's room and was pleased that night as I finally turned into bed. I pulled the covers over me. On the Wednesday morning a Miss Roberts from Social Services in Guildford paid me a visit. 'Perhaps your sister would benefit from a complete absence of contact with you for a while, Mr Cranham?' Nancy Weston must have been making trouble again. The social worker's little round glasses clicked as she set them securely on her nose. I offered her tea but couldn't find a clean cup. 'Do you think your house is quite hygienic, Mr Cranham?' She brushed her tweed skirt with her hand as she left. I took the fuchsias down to the Carvers and planted them out carefully. As each plant grew the spell would evolve. White Magic for Mr Carver, Simon and Izzie, and something much darker for Mrs Carver and Nancy. Mum said only last night how they were both trollops, and she was right. April '71 was cold. I'd lost interest in developing our market garden. A lot of the glass in the greenhouses had been broken by vandals. But the cracks in the ground had opened so much of late, I dared not stray too far from the cottage lest I should not return, the cracks was that awful. I put my favourite fuchsia in a pot in the bedroom and my lips suckled the soft and yielding roots in the dark, and I drew the curtains against the full moon. Oak ribbons hung over the bedroom door to keep out malevolent spirits. I painted a Hierophant on the wall above the bed. One night Mother offered to help and the colours we used were that wonderful, pools of red forming like salvation down the walls.

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