Olive branches also symbolise peace. For millennia they’ve provided succour with their fruit. Peace and nurture: perfect for a Gratitude Garden. Warren ordered several well-developed olive trees to go along the front and side fences to (ultimately) provide privacy.
Rosemary is underrated. Not only is it hardy, it provides perfume for a garden, food for bees and flavouring for roast lamb. Also, according to Shakespeare, rosemary symbolises remembrance. Mum had always kept a vase of rosemary sprigs on her table in homage to those she’d lost. As years went by and more of her friends and relations passed away, the vessel became so crowded she needed a bigger vase. In honour of Mum and many other angels, we planted a rosemary hedge alongside Warren’s new path.
Deep red roses went in under the living room window from which Jonah liked to survey his realm. Their perfume would spread sensuously through summer evenings.
Katharine put in a request for lavender, which passed both the perfume and hardiness tests. When Warren planted a couple of large bushes in front of the roses, the bees could hardly wait.
In homage to New Zealand, I bought some bronze flaxes which went in a row along one of the side fences. Sadly, they craved the damp climate of our homeland and didn’t thrive as vigorously as the native grasses behind the front fence – or even the gardenia bushes Warren had planted under the semicircular seat. I’d taken Mum a gardenia flower when she was dying and she’d drunk in its perfume as though it was life itself.
The effect was enhanced with pots of spectacular succulents either side of the front door. Exploding in outrageous shapes of mauves, greens and coppers, they contrasted against Shirley’s red bricks.
Only one task remained. The focal point of the new garden had yet to spring to life. Lydia and I watched from my study window as Warren filled the bowl with a hose and connected the pump. We held our breath. Nothing happened. Unperturbed, Warren strode around the side of the house to tweak the electrics.
There was a hum, followed by a gurgle, then water splashed joyfully over the orb.
Our next task was to go to the pet shop and buy some goldfish. Anyone who says goldfish have a short memory hasn’t observed them. Every morning, three orange streaks waited in exactly the same spot to be fed. They grew long and plump in their new home – and adept at avoiding dive-bombing pigeons in need of a bath.
Our Gratitude Garden complete, I’d often look up from my computer screen to see Lydia sitting on the circular seat. Sometimes I’d join her and we’d gaze on the sprouting leaves with the satisfaction of those who’ve shared an act of creation.
Sitting together in the garden, our conversations weren’t as jagged as they used to be but my daughter still seemed to withhold her deepest thoughts.
Obsession
Beware the dejected cat. He will seek revenge
With his designer cat run, a retinue of human groupies and a house bursting with fishing rods, ribbons and scratching posts, Jonah was the feline who had everything. When a smart red portacot with stainless steel legs and mesh sides appeared in the living room one afternoon, he naturally assumed it was yet another item for his enjoyment. Raising his tail in a question mark, he put his head to one side, sniffed its new smell and purred.
‘It’s not for you, Jonah,’ I said, watching him circle the portacot at increasing speed.
Deaf to my words, he sprang into the bed’s squishy depths and pranced over the mattress.
‘Come out!’ I cried, trying to catch him. But he slithered from my grasp and bounced on to the floor. Just as I was about to praise him for an uncharacteristic display of obedience, he sailed past my nose back into the cot. Into the cot, out of the cot, into the cot . . . Another new game that, as far as Jonah was concerned, could go on for the rest of the year.
‘It’s the baby’s cot!’ I said, lifting him again and again from his mesh-walled pleasure palace.
The idea that something new and fun could arrive in the house and not be specifically meant for his enjoyment was new to Jonah. Taken aback, he changed his approach. Instead of being designed for jumping in and out of, he decided maybe it was just a bed. He seized every opportunity to jump in and curl up on the mattress. Hauling him out, I remembered how horrified Mum had been when Cleo climbed into Lydia’s cot before she was born. Cats, she’d said, could smother babies.
I was pleased to discover the cot had a detachable mesh roof that could be zipped into place – presumably to keep out insects. Even that didn’t work. Jonah was almost as happy to sleep on top of the cot as to play in it. The cot, as far as he was concerned, was his.
I started hiding the cot in various rooms, but he always found out where it was and scratched and yowled to be let in.
Jonah sensed a power shift in the household – one that wasn’t in his favour. The tension revolved around the red portacot.
Then one day it happened. Jonah woke from his afternoon nap on Katharine’s bed and ambled downstairs into his worst nightmare. The portable cot – his playpen – was inhabited by a strange alien form. The intruder was virtually hairless, a plump blob resembling a pink jellybean. Jonah shuddered in revulsion. Not only had the jellybean taken over his playpen and fallen fast asleep in it, every human in the household, as well as Rob and Chantelle – who’d brought baby Annie over for a visit – were ‘oooooing’ and ‘aaaahhhing’ over the jellybean in tones he hadn’t heard since he was a kitten.
Watching Jonah shrink back into his fur, I could tell he was assessing the situation. He could hardly believe his ears when he heard people saying, ‘Isn’t she beautiful ?’ and ‘Oh, she’s so cute!’
Beautiful and cute were his words. Through disbelieving slits, he examined his humans. They’d gone berserk. Had they forgotten he was the only one who deserved to be ooooed and aaaahed over?
For the first time in his life, Jonah had a rival. The solution was obvious. One swift assault and the jellybean would be dethroned. Quivering on his haunches, he prepared for attack. With parental instincts on high alert, Rob and Chantelle tensed, ready to lunge forward to protect their baby.
‘No, Jonah!’ I cried, grabbing him and putting him away in the laundry.
We carried on admiring the new baby, counting her fingers and stroking her head, when the air was split by a terrible sound. Slow and mournful, it was like an air raid siren. Jonah was crying.
‘He’s got to get used to Annie,’ Rob said, unable to bear the sound anymore. ‘Let’s see how he goes.’
Releasing Jonah from prison, I placed him on the platform on top of his scratching post, where he always felt safe and in control. To keep him amused, I passed him a couple of florist ribbons. But he wasn’t interested. Instead, adopting his usual lordly position, he crouched down, eyes superglued on the baby.
Conversation reverted to booties and baby food while Jonah gave himself a full body spa. Paws, pads, wedges between the pads of his paws. Front of the ears, back of the ears, the crevice behind the back of the ears. Not a centimetre was overlooked. Hind leg on high, the cat was giving a good impression of pretending not to care – but his brain was working overtime.
Lydia was passing biscuits around when a shadow flew past her, knocking the plate out of her hand. A bird? A plane. No, it was super-Jonah with orange florist ribbon snared between his teeth and trailing behind him like a banner.
‘Man!’ Lydia cried as the biscuits toppled on to the carpet. That was the closest she got to swearing these days. The rest of us watched open-mouthed as Jonah landed clumsily on top of the biscuits, half a metre or so from the portable cot.