<\/p>\n
Some people find reading hard. They can\u2019t finish a book in one month, one year, if at all. Some people, and Jonathan knew these people and he liked them, didn\u2019t read any books at all, wearing it like a badge of honour. It wasn\u2019t a problem he had. So, when he saw the collection in the hotel library he was glad. He picked out two and put one in his suitcase.
\n He was first in the garden apart from the gardener. Empty spaces were rare these days\u2014there was always some person who wanted a piece of your time or your day, to bother you somehow. You were never alone. That\u2019s why he came here. It was quiet here and he couldn\u2019t hear engines. In London, you could always hear engines.
\n Cleaners were cleaning in the hotel. He could see them through bay windows. They carried buckets, mops and linen towels and were scrubbing and whispering in Portuguese. Their manager told them to be quiet because of the guests but he could still hear them.
\n He sat on a bench, reading pages slowly. He read for three hours and didn\u2019t look up.
\n At noon, the gardener cut some weeds. Then, a woman, white streak in her hair, limping, sat down next to him.
\n \u2018Have you been here long?\u2019
\n \u2018No\u2019, he said. \u2018Five minutes\u2019.
\n She had a friendly, wrinkly face. Perhaps fifty.
\n \u2018I\u2019m Catherine\u2019, she said.
\n He folded his page and told her his name. She smiled.
\n \u2018What brings you here, Jonathan?\u2019
\n She pulled a cigarette from her handbag and lit it with one hand. She\u2019d done this before. Red lipstick circled orange tip.
\n \u2018I come for peace and quiet. And the garden. The garden here is famous. Lots of people come for the garden\u2019.
\n She motioned to the man in the corner. He was out of earshot. \u2018He certainly does a wonderous job\u2019, she said. \u2018I agree with you. I keep delphiniums in my room. They make the place smell nice.\u2019
\n This piqued his interest. \u2018You live here?\u2019
\n \u2018For now. I like the hotel. No-one can find you because no-one stays long enough to remember\u2019. She dragged her cigarette. \u2018Do you want one?\u2019
\n \u2018No. I don\u2019t smoke. It\u2019s not good for my lung cancer\u2019.
\n She laughed. \u2018We all have lung cancer, darling\u2019. She paused for a second. \u2018It can\u2019t do much harm now, can it?\u2019
\n \u2018No, I guess not. I don\u2019t want it. I don\u2019t like the taste\u2019.
\n This answer seemed to satisfy her, more than the stuff about lung cancer. She stood up, wishing him \u2018good day\u2019 and walked inside, no trace of a limp.
\n The twilight was grey and then charcoal and then black. He couldn\u2019t read anymore so he went inside and closed his bedroom curtains, waiting for sleep, if it ever came. <\/p>\n
*<\/p>\n
One family \u2013 an aristocratic family \u2013 had owned the hotel since the seventeenth century, since the days of William of Orange and Queen Mary. This was normal in the country. Every first son hung from the walls in the lobby, each face changing from those before it, as time and culture and medicine separated generation from generation. *<\/p>\n Jonathan didn\u2019t get hangovers. It was an oddity of the ageing process \u2013 tired bones, hairless heads and atrophied muscles \u2013 that the advantages of early youth return and reassert themselves. He rose at seven and drank some orange juice from the mini bar. He went downstairs. He\u2019d agreed to meet Catherine in for breakfast. *<\/p>\n There was a starling in the garden. For once, his book couldn\u2019t keep his attention. He found Dostoevsky\u2019s subject matter \u2013 his stories \u2013 gripping, but his language was distant, vacant, lost in the modifications of his translator. It was like listening to a song in a foreign language without knowing the words. Flowers Are Prettier When They Grow Wild Some people find reading hard. They can\u2019t finish a book in one month, one year, if at all. Some people, and Jonathan knew these people and he liked them, didn\u2019t read any books at all, wearing it like a badge of honour. It wasn\u2019t a problem he […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":314,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"jetpack_post_was_ever_published":false,"jetpack_publicize_message":"","jetpack_is_tweetstorm":false,"jetpack_publicize_feature_enabled":true,"jetpack_social_post_already_shared":true,"jetpack_social_options":[]},"categories":[381,379],"tags":[388],"jetpack_publicize_connections":[],"yoast_head":"\n
\n In Jonathan\u2019s suite, there was an old sword on the mantlepiece, rusting in its scabbard, with explanatory laminated paper. The sword killed a Dutch cavalry general in the Battle of Reading, who was now buried in the churchyard of St Giles\u2019 Church.
\n Since meeting Catherine on the bench, every morning before going out into the garden, he would masturbate whilst staring at the sword. He wasn\u2019t really sure why he did this. He\u2019d lost any virile, irrepressible sexual attraction. These things happen with age. He hadn\u2019t yearned for anyone since his wife\u2019s death, twenty years ago. He was too fragile for onerous physical activity and his lungs emptied quickly. His bones were weak, too.
\n Yet, onanism was habitual. Like brushing teeth. He\u2019d done it every day, for his whole life. He performed the ritual mechanically and cleaned up with premium hotel tissue paper, unpicking the sticky between his wrinkly skin. When he was done, he showered and emptied the shampoo bottles and shower gel bottles, scrubbing every part of his hairless skin. His body was bald and his head was bald, as if everything had given up on warmth. He was so old now he didn\u2019t need warmth.
\n Every two or three days, she would sit down on the bench next to him. They would talk about flowers and the hotel and the countryside. He found out about her life and people she loved and people she liked.
\n \u2018I was a banker\u2019, she said, fiddling with her brooch. \u2018I was the most successful saleswoman in the City and everyone knew my name\u2019.
\n \u2018Why did you leave?\u2019
\n \u2018I loved my manager and I hated my husband. My husband was a prick. He\u2019s dead now. I cried when he died. I slept with my manager and he wanted me gone. He saw me as a threat, to his family, to his job, to his prestige. This restaurant \u2013 it\u2019s in Liverpool Street \u2013 threw me out because I was drunk. I\u2019d taken clients out for networking. The restaurant-owner threw me out after I drank three bottles of wine and sniffed in the toilets. The next day, my manager called me into his office and fired me. He said my behaviour was unacceptable and I agreed. I packed my things and left\u2019.
\n \u2018Do you miss banking?\u2019
\n \u2018Yes and no. The City is draining. It takes your whole life. By the end, I felt like I couldn\u2019t breathe\u2019.
\n \u2018What do you do now?\u2019
\n \u2018I have a business. A life-drawing business. Twice or three times a week, at the town hall, nine or ten people draw models in their natural form. We have young and old people. You would be good at it. But \u2013 I can tell \u2013 it\u2019s not your thing\u2019.
\n \u2018No, not really\u2019. He crossed his legs. \u2018It sounds good though. Sounds like it\u2019s working\u2019.
\n His timidity didn\u2019t fade entirely \u2013 he refused to entertain the idea of being a model \u2013 but he agreed, three weeks later, to attend Catherine\u2019s life drawing class. It was held in a disused barn, with a naked forty-year old plumber perched upon a haystack. His body was not too dissimilar to Jonathan\u2019s thirty years ago. The plumber\u2019s skin sagged slightly, though his forearms and biceps were toned from decades of manual labour, and his eyelids crinkled at the edges. They were happy crinkles \u2013 probably from laughing with other plumbers \u2013 and his mouth set, naturally, at a smile.
\n Jonathan\u2019s drawing looked something between a smudge and a blob. Catherine said, \u2018that\u2019s terrible, dear, really terrible\u2019, and demonstrated the art of shading, applying pressure and disapplying it, so that shadows fell on the plumber\u2019s thighs and knees. He erased bits here and there but it didn\u2019t help. Teaching arthritic hands how to draw is like teaching a legless man how to play football. It doesn\u2019t much help.
\n The sessions became a weekly event, something he looked forward to. They would break up the monotony of reading and counting birds in the hotel garden. Drawing soothed him and Catherine\u2019s instruction acted as a kind of therapy. He entered a trance, an uninterrupted flow, where he was totally focused on the task at hand. It was something he missed from his professional life, when he wrote judgments before presenting at court. He would sit in his chambers for hours, playing with one word or another, analysing the arguments of queen\u2019s counsel and his fellow justices, and reading aloud, listening to the pace and tenor of his words, building to the crux of his decision, until he was happy and everything made sense. He\u2019d send the manuscript to his clerk for immediate transcription. And there it was: his words<\/em>, forever imprinted into law.
\n She asked him to dinner after one of her classes. He said yes and afterwards thought he should have said no. But secretly he was glad he said yes. He considered cancelling but didn\u2019t cancel.
\n He wore a white flannel shirt and some chinos. They went to a fish restaurant.
\n \u2018Thank you for agreeing to come\u2019, she said. \u2018I know this must be hard for you\u2019.
\n \u2018I\u2019m comfortable now. It\u2019s been a long time. She would be seventy-five today, actually\u2019.
\n Catherine raised her glass. They toasted his dead wife.
\n \u2018You haven\u2019t told me. How did it happen?\u2019
\n \u2018Throat cancer. Much nastier than mine. It was slow and by the end she couldn\u2019t speak\u2019.
\n The waiter, as they often do, disturbed their silence. Jonathan was grateful this time because he didn\u2019t like speaking about his wife. The waiter served slow-cooked tilapia with sun-dried tomatoes, tarragon and spicy crushed potatoes. They drank red wine from Italy. They finished a bottle and then ordered another.
\n \u2018You know so much about me\u2019, she said. \u2018Tell me something about you. What did you do? For a job?\u2019
\n \u2018I was a lawyer by trade\u2019.
\n \u2018Oh really? Solicitor or barrister?\u2019
\n \u2018Neither. Well \u2013 word of a lie \u2013 I was a barrister, some time ago. But, for most of my career, I was a judge\u2019.
\n Her glass touched her lips. She put it down.
\n \u2018You were a judge? I\u2019ve known you all these weeks and you were a judge the whole time? Why didn\u2019t you mention it?\u2019
\n \u2018I didn\u2019t think it worth mentioning\u2019.
\n \u2018It\u2019s always worth mentioning, Jonathan. You were a judge? Amazing. I believe you. Which division were you in?\u2019
\n \u2018I did lots of things. But mainly criminal. Old Bailey cases. Crown Court cases. All sorts of things\u2019.
\n \u2018I can\u2019t believe I\u2019m having dinner with a judge\u2019. She hadn\u2019t touched her tilapia. He drank some more wine. \u2018When did you retire? Don\u2019t they make you retire?\u2019
\n \u2018They make you retire at seventy. But I didn\u2019t retire. I left when I was fifty-seven\u2019.
\n \u2018Why did you leave?\u2019
\n \u2018Something went wrong. I made a mistake. I never told anyone but I knew I made a mistake and so I left\u2019.
\n \u2018What was it? What was the mistake?\u2019
\n \u2018I don\u2019t want to say. You will think ill of me\u2019.
\n \u2018I won\u2019t. Nothing could do that. You can tell me\u2019.
\n \u2018I haven\u2019t told anyone before. Not my son nor my daughter. I didn\u2019t even tell my wife\u2019.
\n \u2018You can tell me Jonathan\u2019. She leaned forward. \u2018We met at a hotel. I don\u2019t know anyone you know. This is safe\u2019.
\n \u2018I don\u2019t know if I can tell you. You will think ill of me\u2019.
\n \u2018I won\u2019t. I promise I won\u2019t\u2019.
\n So, he told her and when they finished talking the restaurant was empty and the waiter implored them for the bill because he wanted to go home. Jonathan told her about the man named Daniel Parker sentenced to twenty six years in Belmarsh Prison \u2013 Daniel Parker who the state declared innocent last month by way of Court of Appeal, after losing a quarter of his life \u2013 Daniel Parker, who received compensation \u2013 scanty, inadequate compensation \u2013 scarcely the waiter\u2019s annual salary \u2013 on account of endemic failures within the justice system and the judiciary \u2013 endemic failures in the judge, who must have had other things on his mind, such was the inadequacy of his instruction, egging the jury this way and that \u2013 the judge who had personal circumstances and failed in his duty as a public servant \u2013 the judge who left this poor man to rot for nigh-on three decades and didn\u2019t say anything because it was too embarrassing and it would take effort and commitment and heart.
\n \u2018That\u2019s why I\u2019m here\u2019, he told Catherine. \u2018I\u2019m waiting for this man. I must speak to him. I must explain. I must apologise\u2019.
\n They finished the bottle of wine. Kitchen staff, impatient for freedom, cleared the plates and cups and glasses, clattering and joking in the kitchen in a language Jonathan couldn\u2019t understand. It wasn\u2019t Portuguese. She paid and gave a big tip, praising the waiter and stroking the young man\u2019s hand.
\n When he got back to his room and kissed Catherine goodbye, his head swam from all the alcohol. He drank two litres of water from a jug and wrapped fresh sheets about his legs, cocooned between soft linen and safe from the horrors of the past. <\/p>\n
\n The lobby was busy. Cleaners, some of whom he recognised, washed the floor. A red throb blotched the carpet. He spoke to the manager and asked what all the fuss was about.
\n \u2018Someone cut their knee. A woman\u2019.
\n \u2018Really?\u2019 he said. \u2018Is she ok?\u2019
\n \u2018Oh yes, she\u2019s fine. There was a lot of blood and there\u2019s a nasty stain in the carpet. The sons won\u2019t be happy\u2019. The manager motioned to the portraits. \u2018But she\u2019s healthy, which is the main thing\u2019.
\n \u2018Where is she?\u2019
\n \u2018She left. Checked out. She had an early flight for Baltimore. Something about a life-drawing class \u2013 she\u2019s got funding at a school over there. She was anxious because she thought she\u2019d miss her flight. But she got away in time. Thank God\u2019.
\n \u2018What did she look like?\u2019
\n \u2018She had brown hair. Shoulder length. Streak of white\u2019.
\n \u2018Thank God she\u2019s ok\u2019, he said, walking to the buffet and piling scrambled eggs on toast and scraping one of his slices with strawberry jam.<\/p>\n
\n The starling had an orange belly and purple-blue coverts descending into a black tail. It perched on a branch and bounced up and down, trilling and squawking. It looked like a lost prisoner \u2013 conditioned by extended incarceration \u2013 who\u2019d somehow escaped and forgotten how to use the roads and pathways.
\n \u2018It\u2019s a beautiful bird, don\u2019t you think?\u2019, said the gardener.
\n \u2018Oh yes. Tremendous belly. I\u2019ve never seen a starling with such an orange belly\u2019.
\n\u2018He likes this garden. He never leaves. He could fly away if he wanted but he doesn\u2019t because he likes it here\u2019.
\n Jonathan asked the gardener how long he\u2019d been a gardener.
\n \u2018About two years. It\u2019s a good job, really. They give me a lot of freedom. I don\u2019t use weed killer or fertiliser. Flowers are prettier when they grow wild, you see\u2019.
\n \u2018Yes, I can imagine\u2019.
\n He passed him cowslips and purple crocuses. He asked Jonathan his name and Jonathan told him.
\n The gardener smiled. \u2018I\u2019m Daniel. Nice to meet you Jonathan\u2019.
\n A small brown smudge flew across the sky and Daniel ran after it. His arms flailed when he ran like elastic bands flapping in the wind.
\n \u2018It\u2019s a hummingbird hawkmoth\u2019, he said, opening his palms to delicate, vibrating wings. \u2018They\u2019re really rare. A real treat\u2019.
\n Jonathan passed admiration but thought it looked like any other moth.
\n \u2018Which book are you reading?\u2019 Daniel said.
\n \u2018It\u2019s called Crime and Punishment<\/em>. It\u2019s Russian. Way too long\u2019.
\n Daniel\u2019s face, upturned and gleeful, reminded Jonathan of a popular theory amongst his fellow judges. They claimed defendants couldn\u2019t recognise judges without their court attire. Unrecognisable without robes, casting-hoods and horsehair wigs. It wasn\u2019t surprising: this was, after all \u2013 Jonathan reminded them \u2013 the point<\/em>. Wigs were designed to hide syphilis. You didn\u2019t want everyone knowing you were a sexual deviant. It would undermine faith in the law and we didn\u2019t need any more of that.
\n \u2018I\u2019ve seen you reading. You read a lot, don\u2019t you?\u2019
\n \u2018A fair bit. It keeps me sane\u2019.
\n Daniel asked him if he\u2019d seen the garden. Jonathan said he\u2019d like to. There were half-a-dozen bamboo shoots, fifteen feet long, and Daniel explained they were from China and specifically requested by the owner.
\n \u2018There was a woman with you? She had white in her hair. Dyed I think?\u2019
\n \u2018Yes, Catherine\u2019.
\n \u2018She was nice. We chatted and I gave her flowers\u2019.
\n \u2018Yes, she liked those\u2019.
\n He grabbed bamboo. \u2018Where is she now?\u2019
\n \u2018She\u2019s gone to Baltimore. There\u2019s an art school there. She runs her own art company and they\u2019ve offered her some finance\u2019.
\n \u2018That\u2019s good\u2019, he said. \u2018People should do what they want to do\u2019.
\n Daniel pulled a trowel from his cargo trousers and turned over the soil, feeding seeds into the earth and pressing with his thick, tough hands. Jonathan waited patiently \u2013 thinking the least he could do was wait \u2013 but the gardener didn\u2019t look up again, eventually standing up and brushing down his knees. Daniel twisted and tore delphiniums from the soil next to the bamboo and sighed, walking inside the glasshouse where there were black-and-white drawings and hand-made plant pots bathing under spring sunshine.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"