Watering in the Evenings
I remember how she used to haul from the lift those two heavy bags of compost, cradling them close to her chest as though they hid something fragile. Her shoulders ached, her palms slipped over the smooth plastic, and she was already regretting not asking the shopkeeper at the hardware section to divide the soil into smaller sacks. On the landing of the third floor, she set the bags down, caught her breath, and listened for sounds from the flat. Silence. The kind so deep you could hear the front door slam somewhere below.
In the hallway, she slipped off her shoes without turning on the light, walked into the kitchen, and opened the balcony door. It creakedjust as it always didand cold air caught her full in the face. The balcony was narrow and cluttered with old stools and boxes marked sort later. She looked at them and realised, for the first time, that she would never get around to them. She needed space. Not for thingsfor something else.
One by one, she dragged the boxes out to the corridor, wiped down the windowsill with a damp cloth, rooted in the cupboard for two plastic trays shed once bought to store tools, and lined them up neatly along the railing. Then she fetched the bags of compost, scissors, an old spoon, and an empty watering can. The can was the sort handed out for the allotment, though shed never had one. She filled it with tap water and waited for the chill to fade from the metal before beginning.
She tipped the compost, a heavy, damp mass, into the trays, muddying their edges. She levelled the earth with her palm, feeling it stick to her skin and gather under her nails. It wasnt unpleasant. It was understandable. The soil asked nothing in return.
She took out packets of seeds. Dill, basil, marigold, calendula. Not for salads or preserving. Just so that morning and evening, her hands had a task, other than scrolling through the news or looping the same useless conversations in her head.
The telephone rang from the lounge, but she didnt go. Let it ring. She made furrows with the spoon, sprinkled the seeds, covered them with soil and watered them gently, careful not to wash them out. The water darkened the surface, and a warm, living scent rose up from the compost. She stood, gripping the watering can, and realised she was breathing deeperfully, through her chest, not the shallow breaths of recent weeks.
Those last months, her life seemed stitched together from other peoples needs. First the divorce, not dramatic but drawn out and heavy with silence. Then her mother after the operationendless trips to the surgery, prescriptions, forms, waiting rooms. Next came the new boss at work, and everything familiar crumbled like an old wardrobe. She was always answering, explaining, hurrying. But left alone, the quiet unsettled her.
Now the balcony was where the quiet softened.
A week later, she saw the first green threads. Thin as hair, stubborn in their slightness. She leaned close to study them, and a small, calm joy rose in her chestnot exhilaration, just a quiet reassurance.
She brought out a small stool so she could sit. In the evenings, when Mum drifted off and the TV finally fell silent, shed step onto the balcony, take up the watering can, and tend her garden. Not too much, so the soil wouldnt leak below, just enough to darken it. Then shed sit, listening to the noises from the streetsomeone parking, someone complaining by the bins, laughter from teenagers. She didnt join in; she just existed near them.
A neighbour appeared on the adjoining balconya woman in a housecoat, towel wrapped around her head. She eyed the trays.
Whats all this then, a vegetable patch? she asked, without malicecuriosity more than anything.
Not a patch, she replied. Just a bit of greenery. And some flowers.
Whatever for? The neighbour squinted.
She wanted to say, To stay sane. But only shrugged.
I like it.
The neighbour hesitated, then nodded.
My geranium always dies off. Maybe you know what it needs?
She had no idea. But offered to take a look. Next day, the neighbour brought the pot over, and together they repotted the geranium into fresh soil. The neighbour apologised for being a bother, and she caught herself not wanting the woman to leave so quickly.
Water once a week, she said, guessing from something shed read. And dont put it in a draught.
Youve got good hands, her neighbour said unexpectedly. Steady hands.
She smiled, though something pricked inside. Her hands werent steadythey were simply tired.
By May it grew warm. The balcony would heat up so much that by morning, the soil lay dry as sand. She rose earlier to water before the sun got strong. The water was cool in her fingers, droplets running down her skin. Basil flourished, dill grew fluffy, calendula budded its first gold.
Then came the gnats. She noticed them first in the evening, hovering in the lamp glow, settling on the leaves and soil. She clapped at the air, fetched soapy water and a dish of vinegar, followed advice from the gardening column, even bought sticky traps from Boots. The next day, fewer gnatsbut ever present.
She stood over her trays and felt anger flickernot at the insects, but at this, too, demanding struggle, even in her corner of peace.
She sat on the stool and closed her eyes. If she gave up now, nothing tragic would happen. The trays could go, the soil swept out. Yet the thought of surrendering stung more than gnats.
She opened her eyes, took scissors, and trimmed away yellowing leaves. Then she loosened the soil with a fork from the kitchen bits-and-bobs drawer. That fork would need scrubbing, but it didnt matter. Only the doing mattered.
In early June, she returned from shopping with another compost bag and two pots. On the bench by the entrance sat a knot of teenagers, one of them smoking, the cigarette cupped stealthily in his hand. As she reached the entrance, the bag split and compost spilt on the tarmac.
Oh, bother, escaped her.
One of the boys sprang up.
Let me help? he said quickly, as though worried shed refuse.
He scooped up the bag, grabbed the other, and they went up together in the lift. He stood staring at his shoes, holding the bags as if on duty.
What floor? he asked.
Third.
Ill carry them up, he said, no arguing.
He set the bags carefully so as not to tear them further.
Thank you, she said. Whats your name?
Christopher, he replied.
She nodded.
What do you grow? he asked, staring at the balcony.
Basil, dill. Flowers.
Could I he hesitated, could I see sometime? My mum always says I never help at home. But this well, its interesting.
She nodded, a little surprised at not feeling wary.
Pop by when Im in. But no cigarettes on the balcony.
He gave a brief, almost hidden smile.
A couple of days later he really did come. Knocked, hovered in the hallway until she prompted, Come in, shoes off. On the balcony, he looked at the trays as if they were something rare and fragile.
Whats this? he asked, pointing at the marigolds.
Marigolds. Theyll grow for anyone.
Why bother with flowers? he asked, just as the neighbour had.
She sighed.
Theyre beautiful. And they need looking after.
He nodded, as if he understood. Then took the watering can and asked how much to pour. She showed him how to run the water round the edges so as not to wash out the roots. He tried, but water still spilled onto the tiles. He looked embarrassed.
No matter, she said. Tiles will dry.
She wiped the spill with a cloth, thinking there was a rightness to it. Here, mistakes didnt become disasters.
In July, the first row. The downstairs neighboura man with a booming voiceknocked as she held a bag of rubbish.
Youve spilled compost, he barked, not bothering with greetings. My window ledge is filthy. And waters dripping.
She felt the old urge to defend herself, to explain she did try to be careful, that it wasnt meant. But she remembered watering quickly, hurriedly, last night, and yesyes, water could have leaked through.
I understand, she said. Ill check for leaks. And put a tray underneath.
And no more he gestured vaguely, bog.
She closed the door and leant on it. Her heart raced. She wanted to rush out, clear the balcony, throw it all away so no one could complain. Instead, she fetched those plastic trays saved from old pots and tucked them beneath her planters. Then swept the balcony and shovelled lost compost back in. She used less water.
Next day, she saw him again by the lift. He looked at her, paused, and said,
Thank you for sorting it.
She nodded. It wasnt a truce, but enough.
By August, her little garden could be seen from the street. People would glance up at the bright marigolds tumbling over the railing. The neighbour asked for a geranium cutting, then another. Christopher would bring a new bottle of water from the shop if he saw her with heavy bags. Once, a lady from the next blockwhose face she recognised but not her namepaused at her door.
It looks so lovely up there. May I sit a while? Its awfully noisy at mine.
She wanted to refuse. The balcony was her space, her quiet ritual. But the womans expression was a request for more than just a seatalmost for a bit of peace.
Five minutes is fine, she said. But Ill be watering.
The woman sat without speaking, watching the leaves, the soil, the bees flitting to the calendulas. After a while, she whispered,
Thank you.
Then left, leaving behind nothing but a sense that the space had grown slightly larger.
With that, things changed. Requests became more frequent. The neighbour brought a packet of seeds Plant some for me, will you? I never manage it. Christopher asked for a pot to try at home. The lady from next door started dropping in most evenings.
She felt her ritual threaten to become a schedule. That twitch of anxiety: if she refused, shed be seen as stingy; agree, and her garden would become a chore.
One evening, she stepped onto the balcony and spotted someone had left an empty water bottle and a bag of compost on the stool. Likely, Christopher wanting to help, but not asking. Her annoyance took her by surprise. She crushed the bottle in her hand, hearing the crackle of plastic.
She stopped. It was only a bottle. But that wasnt really the point.
She set down the can, sat, and gazed at her trays a long while. The leaves rustled gently in the evening breeze. The earth was moist. Everything was as should be. What she needed was not to close herself off, but to learn to say no.
Next day she called on the neighbour.
I can give you a cutting and show you how to plant it. But I cant keep doing it for you. Its important to me this stays my thing.
The neighbour pursed her lips, wounded.
I wasnt trying to force you, she said.
I know, she replied gently. Just wanted to say right away.
The neighbour sighed, then unexpectedly smiled.
All right. Show me your way. Ill give it a go.
To Christopher she said,
I can give you a pot, but youll need to buy the soil and seeds yourself. Youll have to water it too. I can help if you get stuck.
He nodded, not arguing, almost looking grown.
To the lady next door, she said,
Im glad you find it peaceful here. But I cant always have visitors. Sometimes I need it to myself.
The woman looked at her, then nodded.
I understand. Thank you for telling me.
From then on, things lightened. Her ritual returned. People didnt vanish, but their needs no longer weighed heavily.
In September, she left for a couple of days to sort hospital paperwork for her mum. Before going, she watered her trays, set the drip trays, closed the balcony. She worried the plants would wither in her absencenearly texted her neighbour for help, but stopped herself. She didnt want a request to become a burden.
When she returned, the balcony was still. The soil was damp. On the stool sat her watering can, filled afresh, and beside it a small packet of seeds. Scrawled in biro: For you. If you need, give me a ring. And a phone number.
She turned the packetnasturtiums, plain things. She smiled, a bit of pain inside at how carefully, respectfully it had been done. No intrusion, no demands.
That evening, she stepped onto the balcony. The sun was setting, and the street quietened. She filled the can, checked the drip trays, and began againthe water seeping gently into the soil, leaves shining in the dusk.
She put the packet on the sill, pressed it down with a stone against the breeze. Then she dialled the number.
Its me, from number 3, she said, when they answered. Thank you for the seeds. Ill plant them come spring. And if youd ever like a calendula cutting, I can give you one. But mindyoull have to look after it yourself.
A laugh came from the other endshort and warm.
She turned off the balcony light, closed the door, and lingered a moment, hand on the handle. She was calm inside. Not empty, just at peace. Tomorrow, shed return with her watering can, and if someone knocked, shed be able to choose to answeror notwithout guilt.
