Diana opens the door and steps into the hallway, passing the two porcelain beagles which sit either side of it. The waft of early spring is in the air, sweeping over her shoulders and squeezing through between her legs. She knows the smell – she's smelt mulch and bloom for many a year. The pansies, geraniums, and snowdrops, lining the low wall that girds the garden, are stirring from winter-weariness, showing the first pangs of yellow, red, brilliant purple, and white; some of the geraniums are splotched with white; the daffodils are beginning to peel open, giving themselves piece by piece to spring's every gesture; the roses lay under a pall of slumber, the red curls as yet hidden under folds of green, and the lavender of her garden is anchored steadfast – a biennial soldier struggling eternally through warmth and waste; all these flowers gently perfume her, still primed for the full explosive potential of their colour and scent.
She wipes her shoes, enters the warmth of her house, and sees the picture of Charlie and Gerry, Charlie staring up with his tongue hanging out, Gerry sniffing the grass, ears drooping, wet nose; she can still recall vividly the oak and honey of their fur.
Then the thought goes like a small shape slipping under a hedge; the feel of it losing texture with each year. She misses walks in the park. Winter walks were the best – so quiet, so peaceful, so much tension. But that’s in the past; she has her garden to look forward to, after all.
'Darling, are you there?' She drops the bags on the laminate wood floor of the kitchen, takes out a brown paper bag from a white, plastic one. She finds Bill in the living room in front of the television.
‘Hello, dear.’ He doesn’t turn. ‘Have fun at the market?’ he asks.
'Oh, yes! I've got something to show you! I think it’s utterly delightful!'
He watches the screen, flicking from the races on BBC1 to a western on BBC2. John Wayne’s face fills the screen. What a ridiculous man, he thinks. What a pussy! Yes, that word was still in his vernacular.
'What is it?' He turns to her, his eyebrows arched in a lazy expression, worn in an attempt at interest.
Smiling, she sneaks the thing gently from the bag.
'Ta-da!'
'Oh... what’s that?'
'Duh!' she says. How obtuse he can be!
'He pauses. 'Oh, a garden gnome. A rude gnome, isn't it?'
'Yes! Guess how much it cost.'
'Well....'
'Guess!'
'Okay, five pounds.'
'Three pounds fifty!' she says.
‘May I ask why you bought it?’ It’s a bit vulgar, he thinks; it might raise some eyebrows amongst the neighbours, especially the Davidsons....
Diana curls her lips up in contemplation. ‘Well, I thought it would give the garden a bit of cheer – you know, add a bit of character to it.’
'Hmm... and you want to put this out in the front garden?' He turns back to the television and reaches for the table in front of him to nibble on an oatmeal biscuit.
'Well, yes!' she says.
'It's a bit outrageous, isn't it?' he says, casually.
'Well, no,’ she says, ‘I don't think so.' She tuts, turns to go into the kitchen, and then faces her husband again. He’s never open to new ideas, she thinks, but he’ll come around – he always does. 'Listen, it's only a bit of fun.'
All the while, she's holding the gnome, fondling it distractedly like a small living thing without her full attention. It's painted denim-blue, with a red hat, rosy cheeks, and wild grin; only it's squatting on a loo with its trousers pulled down, its green wellies planted askew but firmly on the green porcelain base, one hand cocked to its jaw.
She stands before Bill and fingers the wisps of her hair; dusky blonde but fading to grey - caught somewhere between the brilliance of yellow candlelight and the emerging silver of twilight, a blonde lock falling slowly into a pool of chrome. She stands before him, almost pouting, with her hands on her hips; she makes the market she's come from appear more like Camden or the kitsch market of a cosmopolitan city rather than the small Sunday market that only the locals of this quiet county-corner frequent. She wears the soppy expression and seems to stare searchingly into him.
She looks cute, he thinks. I know she's trying to stir my memory. 'Okay, honey, but don't let it face the street – it's just too outrageous is all. I'll tell you what, put it against the birch tree and have it face the window. That'll be just as fun!'
She isn’t convinced. 'Okay,' she concedes. She leans over the back of the armchair and kisses him on his right cheek. She feels his coarse black hair, playing with his bald spot. He playfully knocks her hand away.
She goes outside and puts the gnome against the tree their living room window looks out upon.
Now its business will be only for us, she thinks. She steps back frowning, arms crossed. But she sees its little rosy expression, teeth bared in jovial grin, eyes big and full of joy, and she smiles anyway.
Maybe one day the rest of the neighbourhood will see it pissing, she thinks. Then the wider world!
A breeze falls down the street. She hugs herself and feels a brief chill. Suddenly, winter doesn't seem that far behind; it can tease at any moment with its chill breath and stir the memory of those living seemingly temperate lives.
The sky is a picture of blue, white and grey uncertainty; it drifts like a hollow, empty wind high above the houses. The sun has not much left for this day.
She stands alone outside. She feels somewhere in the pit of herself – her stomach? – the encroaching wilderness; she’s not sure what it is. The days are growing longer, and possibility hovers somewhere. (But where?) She lingers desperately, trying to hold onto the whiteness of the sky; whether in vain or not, she tries.
I’ll pop the dinner on, she thinks. I could cook a roast, if there’s time; or maybe I’ll heat up that lasagne from last night and make a salad. Yes, that’s better. Then we can watch Antiques Road Show: that’ll be nice. She goes back inside and closes the door behind herself.
‘Lasagne all right?’ she shouts out.
‘Oh, yeah, honey. That’ll be lovely,’ he says, and wriggles in his chair.
He looks at the urn beneath the fireplace. ‘Gerry, 1990-2003.’ A small image is framed on the oak base. Beside this sits the oak and maple impression of Charlie. He looks peaceful - dead in time.
A smile slips across one side of his face and folds; he gives out a small sigh, reaches up; hams for the remote resting on the arm of the chair.
The fridge door shuts. The microwave buzzes into life. The sound of metal on wood thuds, soft and regular, as Diana slices into the tomatoes. The day is winding down.
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