Buried Treasure
Can the power of nostalgia bridge the gulf that now stretches between me and my child?
Ihover outside her bedroom door, almost too scared to knock. I bite my lip, tell myself to stop being silly, and make a firm rat-a-tat-tat on the wood. Nothing.
I try again, with the same result. Hesitantly, after a few deep breaths, I turn the handle and push my way in, saying “Eve! It’s me!” in as cheery a tone as I can manage. I hate going into her room – I live in fear of Home Alone style booby traps.
It’s midday, but the curtains are closed. Last night’s dinner plate is crusting on the floor, dirty clothes heaped in the corner. Eve herself is curled into a ball beneath her sheets. I have no idea if she is alive, dead or asleep. Kids these days don’t even listen to loud music to annoy their parents – they just put their ear-buds in.
I give her a gentle shake, and say, “It’s a beautiful day. Will you come and help me in the garden?”
She groans, the deep angry rumble of the disturbed teen, and her pale face emerges from the covers. She reluctantly pulls out one ear-bud, which means she must be at least half listening, surely? “What?” she snaps, glaring.
“Would you like to help in the garden?” “No. Leave me alone.”
She turns over, puts the ear-bud back into her ear, and just like that – I don’t exist any more.
I go, feeling the familiar sting of tears in the back of my eyes as I make my way outside. I go through the usual internal monologue: she is fifteen. She is full of hormones, full of angst. Her dad has moved out, and although she never says it, she misses him desperately. She is struggling in all kinds of ways, and I am just the convenient target. I should not take it personally.
As I gather my knee pad – getting older sucks in so many small ways – my gloves, my trowel and the rest of my kit, I wonder whether this is a conversation mums all over the land have with themselves about teenaged daughters: don’ t take it personally.
I remember being that age, feel ashamed at how casually cruel I could be to my mother – especially now I know how it feels to be on the receiving end.
The garden used to be our special place, mine and Eve’s. It’s not huge, just a patch of lawn, some trees and shrubs at the back, flower-filled borders, a small patio with tubs and planters.
The lawn is too perfect now. It used to be scuffed from Eve and her dad playing football. The Fairy Garden Corner that we made together has been long untouched by her hands, the tiny dolls and their shiny wings forlorn among the hollyhocks. The table and chairs are now used only by me, instead of fun-filled family barbecue nights.
It is the end of July, and too glorious a day to let myself sink into melancholy. The good old days weren’t perfect, either – if they were, then I don’t suppose my marriage would have wilted like an unloved lupin.
I gather in some strawberries from our planter, and tell the blueberry bush that he’s doing very well. I tell the fig tree to keep on trucking, and I tell myself to stop talking to plants.
I head to the spot beneath the willow tree, and its dappled shade. I have some autumn crocus bulbs that I think might do well there, and cheer up the place in a few months’ time when all the glitz and glamour of the summer has faded. I’ve not tried them before, but heck – I’m a crazy risk-taker!
Eve used to love planting bulbs, even up until a couple of years ago. I’ve kept her different-sized gardening gloves, ranging from chubby toddler hands to almost-woman-sized.
I wish she was here with me now, doing this – even if she didn’t speak to me. I love her so much, and I hate that she is suffering.
I realise that I am crying into my crocuses, which just won’t do. I smear the tears away, and concentrate on digging. My trowel soon hits something hard, making a little metallic clink.
Idig down, rummage until I find it: buried treasure. It is a metal biscuit tin, and when I scrape off the clinging dirt, I see it is covered in pictures of Scotty dogs in Santa hats.
We buried it, I remember now. We’d had the tin, full of shortbread, for Christmas. Then we’d filled it up with treasures and hidden it under the tree at midnight on New Year’s Eve, as 2015 gave way to 2016. Eve had turned ten a few weeks earlier, and was taking her double-digit maturity seriously.
“I want to plant it, Mum,” she’d said. “So I can dig it up again when I’m a grown-up, in a few years, and see what life was like when I was little.”
I’d bitten back a laugh at that – the way that small children perceive being “grown up” – and we’d discussed what cherished items were deserving of their place in posterity. It had been freezing that night – she was exhausted, having forced herself to stay awake until midnight to do the countdown, and watch the fireworks in London on TV. There’d been plenty going off locally as well, and I remember all three of us standing out here, wrapped up warm, gazing up at the explosions of colour in the dark night sky.
We’d sealed the sides of the tin with now-brittle Sellotape, and the lid dislodges after a few pokes with the edge of the trowel.
I open it up, and find wonders. A curled photo of us all, taken on holiday in Greece, shiny suncream faces and smiles. A much-loved Minion that she’d got as a freebie with a Happy Meal. Twilight Sparkle, the My Little Pony
She is struggling in all kinds of ways, and I am just the convenient target. I should not take it personally
figure with long purple hair that she’d spent hours styling with a miniature comb the size of her fingernail.
There is a small sealed sandwich bag, crinkled but whole, that opens to reveal a selection of ticket stubs and leaflets – that year, we’d been to the cinema to see the Spongebob movie, Shaun The Sheep and Cinderella. We’d been to London to see The Lion King. We’d been to Alton Towers, and to see a ballet at the local theatre, and to the Harry Potter Studio Tour. Wow. We’d done a lot of things.
There is a medal – plastic – which she won for coming third in the egg and spoon race on Sports Day, and a small purse that contains a folded-up fact file.
I learn that in 2015, Eve wanted to be a vet when she was older, her favourite colour was purple, her best friend was Olivia, and her most-liked food was pepperoni pizza.
There’s a picture of a rainbow she’d drawn and coloured in when she was a few years younger, which had been laminated and pinned on our noticeboard. To the best Mummy in theworld, it says, in her spidery sevenyear-old scrawl.
A bit of soil has seeped in, and I’m glad it was laminated, this precious keepsake. I take the items out, lay them on the ground one by one. I trail my fingertips across them, and wish I could go back. Back to those days when things seemed simpler. Back to the days when Eve and I were close.
I pull my phone from my pocket and snap pics of each of them individually. I send them to Eve, and sit back on my heels, wondering if she will respond.
After a few minutes pass, there is nothing. No happy ping to say a message has landed, not even a cursory smiley face emoji. I glance up at her window, see the curtain still shut.
Ohwell, Ithink, puttingthe treasures back into theirtin. Thingswillturnaround eventually,I’msure.Forbothofus.
I stand, wipe dirt off my hands, and carry on with my jobs. The garden is blissful, even if my mood isn’t. The borders are a riot of colour, pale pink sweet peas and purple delphiniums and deep red dahlias and long, tall sunflowers swaying in the gentle breeze.
The air is alive with the hum of insects, the shimmer of warmth, a sense of growth and hope and change. I need to concentrate on that, rather than the sense of failure I feel inside myself.
I am on my knees, digging, when her shadow falls across me. I look up, hold a hand in front of my eyes to shield them from the sun, and smile.
She is dressed in her pyjama shorts and a Nirvana T-shirt, her dark hair tugged into a messy ponytail. Her eyes look sore, as though she has been crying, and she does not return my smile. These days it’s as though her face has set into a permanent semi-scowl.
I see her eyes flicker towards the tin, and I say, “You got the pictures, then?” “Yeah. I did. What are you planting?” “Some bulbs for autumn. Do you want to help? I bought you some new gardening gloves…”
She just shrugs, in that what’s it to me? way that teens do, and so I climb to my feet and head to my shed. I find the new gloves – never used – and pass them to her. They are black, and patterned with skulls intertwined with roses. Gardening for goths.
She examines them, and there is the tiniest upward quirk of her lips.
“Cool,” she says, simply.
We both settle down into the shady spot beneath the willow tree. Even though it’s been a few years, we soon find a familiar rhythm – I dig, while she plants and covers. We do not talk as we once did – there is no casual chatter about our days, or her friends, or what we might have for tea. We are silent, but we are together – and for now, that is enough. I follow her lead and remain quiet, not wanting to break the spell.
When we’re finished, we sit together and look through the items we buried all those years ago.
“Weird,” she says, shaking her head in disbelief as she puts them all back into the tin. “I was so lame. Can I have a sunflower for my room?”
I try not to look too eager. I try not to let my joy overflow. I try to conceal the almost heart-bursting quantity of love I feel for this awkward, grumpy child.
I try to look calm, as I desperately hope that this seed of reconnection is one that will grow and thrive.
“Of course,” I reply. “As many sunflowers as you like.”
“Great. You’re the best mummy in the world,” she answers with irony.
I stare at her, and she stares back, and then we both start to laugh. Together.