The Man Who Watered Other Gardens

Nora Bell had lived at number fourteen for eleven days when she first saw the man in her garden.

It was ten minutes past five in the morning.

She was awake because she was always awake at that hour now.

In the city she had slept through sirens and shouting and the sound of the last train, but here, in a town where nothing happened, sleep would not come to her.

The silence was too loud.

She lay in a strange bed in a strange room and listened to the house cooling, and at ten minutes past five she gave up, went to the window, and opened the curtain.

A man was standing in her garden with a watering can.

He was old, perhaps seventy, and he was dressed as though he were going to church.

Grey trousers, a clean shirt, a dark jacket buttoned in the middle.

His white hair had been combed.

He held the can with both hands and poured slowly, carefully, onto the roots of the small rose bush by the wall.

Nora did not move.

If she had knocked on the glass, he would have looked up, and then she would have had to decide what to say, and she had no idea what a person should say to a stranger who was watering her roses before dawn.

So she stood behind the curtain and watched.

He did not hurry.

He poured until the can was empty, then turned it over and shook the last drops out, and then he stood for a moment looking at the bush as though he were waiting for it to say something.

He took a small notebook from his jacket pocket, and a pencil, and wrote something down.

Two lines.

He read what he had written.

He put the notebook away.

Then he walked out through her gate, closed it behind him, and disappeared up the lane.

Nora stayed at the window long after he had gone.

The sky turned from black to a soft grey.

Somewhere a bird began, stopped, and began again.

Her rose bush stood in a dark wet circle of earth.

She had bought the house because it was cheap and because she had nothing left to stay in the city for.

She had told her sister that she wanted quiet.

What she had not said was that she wanted to disappear for a while, and that a town of nine hundred people had seemed like a good place to do it.

She had not planned to be curious about anything.

But at breakfast she found that she was thinking about the notebook.

What had he written?

Nobody wrote two lines about roses.

She turned her cup in her hands and looked out at the wet circle of earth, and she decided that if he came back the next morning, she would watch again.

He came back the next morning.

And the morning after that.

On the fourth morning Nora counted.

He arrived at eight minutes past five.

He was gone by twelve minutes past.

Four minutes, one can of water, two lines in the notebook.

On the fifth morning she went to the shop.

The shop at the corner of Cobb Lane sold bread, milk, newspapers, fishing hooks, and everything else.

It was owned by a woman called Dilys Frame, who had a way of looking at a customer's face as though a receipt had been printed on it.

"You're the one at fourteen," Dilys said.

"Nora Bell."

"You look tired."

"I don't sleep much."

"Nobody sleeps in that house. It faces east." Dilys said this as though the matter were settled, and pushed the bread across the counter.

Nora paid.

Then she said, "There's a man who waters my garden."

The shop went quiet in the way that a shop can.

"Elias Warren," Dilys said.

"Do you know him?"

"Everybody knows him. He's watered mine for years." She rang the till.

"Three gardens on this lane, six on Chapel Street, one behind the school. Every morning. Rain or no rain, though if it has rained hard he skips a day. He isn't a fool."

"But why?"

Dilys looked at her for a moment.

"You'd have to ask him."

"Has nobody asked him?"

"Oh, people have asked him." She closed the till.

"He says the gardens are thirsty."

Outside, Nora asked two more people.

The answers did not agree with each other.

Mr Dunn, who lived at number nine and washed his car on Sundays, said that Elias Warren was a nuisance and probably a thief.

"Where does the water come from? That's what I want to know. It isn't carried from his own tap, is it? He'd need twenty journeys. He's taking it from the pipe behind the chapel, and that water is paid for by all of us."

Mrs Padgett, who was ninety-one and sat by her front window in a chair that had been placed there for the purpose, said something quite different.

"Let him," she said.

"He's earned it."

"Earned what?"

"The right to walk about at five in the morning." The old woman's hands were folded on a blanket.

"You're new."

"Eleven days."

"Then you don't know about the summer."

"Which summer?"

But Mrs Padgett's eyes had already moved to the window, and she said, "That's the Kelly boy's dog again," and the conversation was over.

Nora walked home along Cobb Lane.

At the very end of it, past the last streetlamp, there was a small stone house with a green door, and in front of the green door there was a garden.

She stopped.

It was bare.

Not wild, not overgrown.

Bare.

The soil had been turned and raked and left clean and empty, the way a page is left empty.

There was not one plant in it.

Not even a weed had been allowed to stand.

And yet somebody had clearly worked that soil, and worked it recently, because the marks of the rake were still fresh.

On Saturday, Nora set an alarm for half past four, which was a strange thing to do when she could not sleep anyway.

At five o'clock she was standing at the top of Cobb Lane in a coat that was too thin, and at three minutes past five the green door opened.

Elias Warren came out pulling a small wooden cart.

On the cart there were six watering cans, filled to the top, standing in a row, and a folded cloth had been pushed between them so that they would not ring against each other.

He did not look up the lane.

He turned right and walked to Mrs Padgett's gate.

Nora followed at a distance, feeling foolish, keeping to the shadow of the wall like a thief.

He went to Mrs Padgett's first.

Then to the Kellys at seventeen.

Then he crossed to Chapel Street, and there he did something that Nora did not understand: he walked past two gardens without stopping and went straight to the third.

At each garden the same thing happened.

He put down the can.

He pushed two fingers into the soil, as deep as they would go, and waited.

Sometimes he took his hand out and poured.

Sometimes he took his hand out, wiped his fingers on a cloth, and moved on without pouring anything at all.

Then, always, the notebook.

Behind the school there was a strip of earth where the children had planted beans in yoghurt pots.

He gave that strip two cans.

He was on his knees for that one, and getting up again took him a while.

When he stood, he turned round and looked directly at her.

"You've been behind me since Cobb Lane, Miss Bell," he said.

"How do you know my name?"

"It's a small town, and you bought the only house that was for sale." He lifted the empty cans back onto the cart.

"You'll get cold in that coat."

"I'm sorry. I shouldn't have followed you."

"You should have asked. Then you could have carried something." He said it without any anger, as a simple correction, the way a teacher moves a hand on a page.

Nora said, "May I carry something?"

He considered this for longer than she expected.

Then he took the lightest can from the cart and held it out.

"Two hands," he said.

"Low to the ground. If you hold it high, the water hits the soil hard and runs off, and then you have watered the path and not the plant."

By the end of the month it had become a habit.

She did not ask again whether she could come.

She simply stood at the top of Cobb Lane at five o'clock, and he simply handed her a can, and they walked.

She learned his rules one at a time, because he never explained them; they had to be noticed.

The first rule was that water went to the roots and never to the leaves.

"If you water the leaves and then the sun comes, they'll be burned," he said.

"You'd be giving the plant a wound and calling it a kindness."

The second rule was the fingers.

"Dry on top means nothing," he told her.

"Everything is dry on top. You have to go down to where it matters."

The third rule was the amount.

Some gardens were given a full can.

Some were given half.

Number eleven on Chapel Street, where a small azalea stood in a pot by the door, was given a quarter and never more.

When she asked why, he said that the pot had no hole in the bottom, and that the woman who owned it would not allow one to be made, and that too much water in a closed pot would kill the plant faster than no water at all.

The fourth rule was the notebook, and the notebook was written in after every garden without exception, in rain, in wind, even when his hand was shaking with cold.

She saw the pages properly for the first time in October.

He had set the notebook on a wall while he moved the cart, and it had fallen open, and Nora picked it up before she had decided whether she ought to.

Four columns.

A date.

A house number.

A single letter: F, or H, or Q, or a dash.

And then a word or two at the end, in handwriting so small that it looked more like a pattern than like writing.

She turned back a page.

Then ten pages.

Then she looked at the inside of the front cover, and in the corner somebody had written the number 31.

"Thirty-one," she said, when he came back.

"You shouldn't read other people's writing."

"I know. I'm sorry." She held it out to him.

"Thirty-one books?"

He took it and put it in his pocket.

"Some were thinner than others."

"How long is that? How long have you been doing this?"

He looked up the lane, where the streetlamps were going out as they always did at that hour, one after another, all the way down to the sea.

"Since the summer," he said.

And Nora, who had lived in the town for two months by then, understood that she still had not been told what the summer was.

That night she slept.

She only noticed it in the morning, the way you notice that a noise has stopped.

She went to see Mrs Padgett in November with a tin of biscuits, because she had been told that this was the correct way to ask an old woman for something.

The chair by the window had a blanket, a radio, and a view of the whole lane.

Nothing on Cobb Lane had happened for sixty years without being seen from that chair.

"The summer," Nora said.

"Ah." Mrs Padgett took a biscuit and held it without eating it.

"Forty-seven years ago. You'd not have been born."

"No."

"It didn't rain from the end of April until the middle of September. Not one useful day of rain in five months. The reservoir up at Tolley Bank went down and down until the old bridge came out of the water, and there were children walking on a bridge that hadn't been seen since before the war." She turned the biscuit over.

"They rationed it. Do you understand what that means? Not a hosepipe ban. Rationed. The supply was turned off street by street, and standpipes were put up in the road, and everybody carried buckets from the pipe like their grandmothers had done."

"Who turned it off?"

"That's the question, isn't it." The old woman looked out of the window.

"Somebody had to. Somebody had to walk down this lane with a key and a list and shut off the houses one at a time. And the men at the waterworks who had lived here all their lives would not do it, because they'd have had to knock on the door of a man they drank with. So it was given to the youngest one they had. Twenty-two years old. Two years in the job."

Nora said nothing.

"Every garden on this lane died," Mrs Padgett said.

"Mine had roses in it that had been planted by my husband's mother. Forty years old, those roses. They were dead by August. The flower show was cancelled for the first time in a hundred years, and it has never been quite the same show since, and none of that was his doing, and all of it was blamed on him."

"What did people do?"

"What people do. A dead plant was left on his step. His window was broken twice. He was shouted at in this lane by women who had known him since he was a baby, and I was one of them." She said this without any attempt to soften it.

"And the worst of it, the thing nobody would let go of, was that we all decided he had kept his own water on. We were certain. We could see he had a garden, hadn't we?"

"Had he kept it on?"

"He turned his own off first. Before mine. Before anybody's. He told us so and nobody believed him." Mrs Padgett finally ate the biscuit.

"When the rain came back in September, the whole town planted again. Everybody. Every garden on this lane was full by the next summer. He never planted his. Not one thing, not in forty-seven years."

"And he started walking."

"He started walking." The old woman nodded slowly.

"The first garden he ever watered was mine. Do you know why? Because my roses had been the oldest, and because I had shouted at him the loudest."

December came in hard and grey, and the cans had to be filled with warm water so that they would not freeze on the cart.

Nora waited until they were behind the school, where nobody could hear them, and then she said, "Mrs Padgett told me about the summer."

Elias put his fingers into the frozen soil, took them out, and wiped them.

"She'd remember it better than I do," he said.

"She was in it. I was only carrying the list."

"She said you were brave."

"I wasn't brave. I was twenty-two, and I was the newest, and when a job like that is offered to the newest man he doesn't understand that he is allowed to refuse." He straightened up.

"If I had been forty, I'd have said no, and it would have been given to somebody else, and you would be hearing his name instead of mine."

"Do you think you owe the town water?"

He did not answer for a long time.

Two streetlamps went out.

"No," he said at last.

"I think I know what a garden is worth. That isn't the same thing as owing."

They walked to Chapel Street.

She held the gate open for the cart.

"You could plant your own," she said.

"You have better soil than anybody. You've been turning it over for half a century."

"I could."

"Why don't you?"

He thought about it for so long that she was sorry she had asked, and had begun to arrange an apology in her head.

"If I planted it," he said, "I would have to water it. And then, on a morning when I was tired, or when there wasn't enough, I would have to choose."

The letter arrived in February.

It came from the district water office, and it was addressed to the occupier of number three, Cobb Lane.

A meter had been fitted at the boundary in November, as part of a programme, and the usage recorded at number three was not consistent with domestic use by one person.

It had also been reported that water from the property was being carried and used at other addresses.

Under the terms of supply this was not permitted.

If the practice continued, the supply would be assessed at a commercial rate, and a charge would be applied for the period since the meter had been fitted.

Nora read it twice, standing in his front room, and then she said a word she did not usually say.

"Who reported it?"

"It doesn't matter."

"It's Dunn. It's obviously Dunn."

"It doesn't matter," Elias said again.

He took the letter back from her, folded it along the fold it already had, and put it on the shelf behind the clock.

His hands were perfectly steady.

"It's the rules. I've been on the other side of that letter. I know what it costs the man who writes it."

"You could explain. You could write and tell them what it's for."

"I could write and tell them that I take water from my own tap and give it away. That's what it is. There's no explaining that makes it something else." He looked at the shelf.

"Six cans, every morning, for forty-seven years. If you added it all up, it would come to a great deal of water."

"Elias."

"I'll stop for a while," he said.

"Until it's sorted out."

For three weeks, nothing was watered.

March was dry that year, dry and bright and cold, the kind of spring that looks generous and is not.

Nora did what she could.

She had one can and no cart, and she found out very quickly how much she had not learned.

She poured too fast and watered the path.

She misjudged Dilys's seed trays and lost half of them.

She forgot number eleven altogether for four days and then, in a panic, gave the azalea a full can, and the azalea began to turn yellow from the bottom up.

The children's bean strip behind the school went first, because it was the shallowest, and because nobody else knew that it existed.

People noticed.

That was the strange thing.

Nobody had ever thanked him, and everybody noticed.

Mrs Padgett noticed from her chair, because at five o'clock nothing came down the lane.

Dilys noticed because her tomatoes were sitting in dust.

The Kelly boy noticed because he had put a marker on his sunflower and the sunflower stopped moving up it.

On the last Sunday in March, Nora knocked on the green door.

He had put the cart away.

That was what she saw first, through the open shed: the cart against the wall with the cans upside down on it, dry, and the cloth folded on top.

Elias was sitting in a chair by the window with the notebook closed on his knee, and his hands resting on the notebook, and he was looking at the bare garden.

"Book thirty-one is finished," he said.

"There are four pages left, but it's finished."

"It isn't."

"Miss Bell." He said it kindly.

"I am sixty-nine. If it hadn't been the letter, it would have been my shoulder, or the ice, or something else. It was always going to be a letter of some kind."

Nora sat down on the arm of the other chair, which was not a thing she would normally have done in another person's house.

"Let me borrow the books," she said.

"No."

"Three of them. I'll bring them back tonight."

"Why?"

"Because nobody in this town knows what's in them," she said.

"Including you. You've been writing it down for forty-seven years and you've never once read it back."

She took three books to the shop and put them on the counter, and Dilys Frame wiped her hands and opened the middle one, and did not speak for four minutes.

Then she said, "That's my mother."

"Where?"

Dilys turned the book round.

A line near the bottom of a page, dated a year Nora had to count backwards to understand: 12 - F - first tomatoes, M. Frame pleased.

"She died in the spring after that," Dilys said.

"She sat out there and watched them come up." She turned another page.

"He wrote it down. He wrote her name down."

By the middle of the week the three books had been to eleven houses, and the books were beginning to come back with things pressed inside them: a photograph, a seed packet, a list of names in somebody else's handwriting.

Mrs Padgett found the entry from the autumn after the drought, the very first one: 1 - F - roses in again. She has let me.

Nora left number nine until last, because she was afraid of it.

Mr Dunn stood in his doorway with his arms folded and said he had nothing to discuss.

"I'm not here to discuss anything," Nora said.

"I'm here to show you a page."

She had marked it.

Book twelve, a summer nine years earlier, six weeks of entries all the same: 9 - F - nobody home.

9 - F - nobody home.

9 - F - nobody home.

Mr Dunn read it.

He read it for a long time, and his arms came down.

"My mother was in hospital that summer," he said.

"Six weeks. I was up there every day. I never came near this house." He touched the page as though he might smudge it.

"Her garden was the only thing she asked about. Every day. Is the garden all right. And I said yes, Mum, the garden's fine, and I hadn't been near it, and it was fine." He looked up.

"I always thought there'd been rain."

"There wasn't rain."

"No." Mr Dunn breathed out.

"I didn't know it was him."

"You did know."

He was quiet.

Then he said, "Yes. I knew." He gave the book back with both hands.

"Leave it with me. I'll write to them. I've a folder of their letters upstairs going back thirty years and I know exactly how they like to be spoken to."

Thirty-four households signed it.

Dilys put a jar on the counter without being asked, and by Friday there was enough in it to cover the charge twice over, and the money was refused, and it stayed in the jar.

The letter from the district office took five weeks to answer, and when it came the answer was mostly about pipes, but at the end of it a sentence had been added by a person rather than by an office: the arrangement described had been noted, no charge would be applied, and the office had no further interest in the matter.

On the last morning of April, Nora stood at the top of Cobb Lane at five o'clock out of habit, because she had not been told to.

The green door did not open.

But something else did.

She heard it before she saw it: a sound like small bells, badly rung, coming up the lane from three directions at once.

Watering cans knocking against each other.

Mr Dunn came first with a can in each hand and a face like a man going to a funeral.

Dilys came with the shop's bucket and a jug.

The Kelly boy came with a tray of bean seedlings from the school in yoghurt pots, carried against his chest, and his sunflower marker under one arm.

Two men from Chapel Street came carrying Mrs Padgett in her chair, blanket and all, and she had a can on her lap that she would not let either of them hold.

They came down to the end of the lane, past the last streetlamp, and stopped at the green door, and Dilys knocked.

Elias Warren opened it at four minutes past five, dressed as though he were going to church.

He looked at them.

Nobody said anything for a moment; it turned out that nobody had thought about that part.

"We've come to do the gardens," Dilys said at last.

"There are nine of them," Elias said.

"Ten," said Nora.

And then they simply walked round him, all of them, and into his garden, and stood on the bare raked soil that nothing had been permitted to grow in for forty-seven years, and waited, because none of them would begin it.

The Kelly boy put his tray down.

Mrs Padgett held out a cutting wrapped in wet newspaper, from a rose that had itself been cut from the rose that died.

Elias did not move for a long time.

He stood in his own doorway with one hand on the frame.

"You'll have to water it," he said.

His voice was not steady.

"Every morning. If it's planted and then left, it would have been kinder never to plant it."

"There are thirty-four of us," Dilys said.

"It won't be your job."

They put a chair out for him and he sat in it, which surprised everybody, because he had never in living memory sat down out of doors.

The beans went in along the wall.

The rose went in the middle, where it would be seen from the lane.

Somebody had brought lavender.

Somebody had brought a bag of good soil and did not say where it had come from.

Mr Dunn dug, badly, and was corrected by three people at once, and did not argue.

The notebook was put into Nora's hands.

She turned to the first clean page, and dated it, and wrote 3, and then she wrote F, because it had a full can and more, and then she stopped, because the last column had always been in handwriting too small to read.

She wrote it large enough for anybody to read.

Warren. First.

The sun came up behind the roofs and the streetlamps went out one after another, all the way down the lane to the sea.

Thirty-four people stood in one small garden, not saying very much, passing cans along a line towards the rose in the middle.

Nora looked up from the notebook and realised that she had not thought about the city in a long time, and that she could not remember when she had stopped.

In the chair by the wall, with the light coming over him and his hands empty for the first time in forty-seven years, Elias Warren had fallen asleep.