The Gardener of Hamilton Street

 

 Based on true events

It was another ordinary week in the summer of 1982. Abigail Jones let herself through the side gate of 25 Hamilton Street. Miss Jones had been gardening now for close to a decade and was appointed by several households across Gloucestershire to straighten out their poor displays of backyard groundskeeping. She wore a pair of olive moleskin trousers and a traditional Aran sweater, the sleeves of which were cleaved from handling sharp brambles. Her face was bronze and round, painted with a light smattering of freckles that always announced themselves at this time of year. The sunshine had a remarkable way of bringing out the beauty in her features, setting her hair ablaze like a knuckle of honeycomb. 

     25 Hamilton Street belonged to Dennis and Joyce Walters, along with their eleven children. Between them, this considerable offspring was a result of their previous marriages. Miss Jones had only ever seen four of these children: the two daughters, Zoe and Alice, and the two sons, Steven and Billy. According to Dennis, the others had departed the family nest when they became old enough to think for themselves and settled elsewhere for work. Though she was often a curious woman, Miss Jones kept her nose out of their personal matters. After all, her only concern was making sure their garden remained in a presentable state.

Dennis Walters was tapping his boot down on his new patio as though checking the sturdiness of the paving slabs underfoot. 

     “Good morning, Dennis,” Miss Jones announced. “Beautiful day, isn’t it?” 

     Dennis looked like he had just been rudely awoken by his morning alarm. “Yeah, beautiful…” 

     “I see you have a new patio,” said Miss Jones. 

     “I thought it would make your job a lot easier. Less flowers to fool around with.” 

     Miss Jones smiled. “I hope that doesn’t come with a paycut.”

     “No, no, you have my word. In fact, I need you to sort out these weeds. I tried spraying them with pesticides but it hasn’t done much.” 

     “Of course, leave it to me.” 

     Dennis watched her from the kitchen window, glancing down at the patio from beneath the brim of his flat cap. His eyes were eclipsed by his sharp cheekbones, giving him the hollow look a skeleton. Despite his unsettling appearance, Miss Jones had never found anything to merit the idle gossip of the local townsfolk, who made a habit of casting dreadful aspersions about the history of the Walters family. 

     She spent the morning removing chickweed growing between the concrete paving stones. These tangles of contemptible plants were every gardener’s worst nightmare, especially if given enough time to flower. She ripped them out of the soil by hand and disposed of them in an empty compost bag.

The youngest daughter, Zoe, brought her over a warm mug of coffee. She thanked her for the needed refreshment, without noticing the purple bruises dotted up her arm. 

     “Abigail?” 

     “Yes sweetheart?” 

     Zoe lowered her eyes to her dirty plimsolls. “There are people in the garden,” she hissed quietly. 

     “I don’t see anyone else here but us, sweetheart,” Miss Jones replied. 

     “There are… I’ve seen them.” 

     Joyce appeared from the kitchen. “Zoe! What did I say about disturbing the gardener? Get inside now.”

     The little girl scurried back through the door without objection like a dutiful pet. Joyce flashed a venomous look over her square spectacles and stubbed her cigarette out on the redbrick wall. She wore a pink cashmere jumper and a pair of pleated trousers which she seemed to have outgrown. Of the Walters family, she had always found Joyce the least welcoming figure. In two years of their hospitality, Miss Jones could not remember having ever seen her smile and it certainly told by the downward shape of her lips.

     “Excuse that one,” Joyce inserted. “She has a fertile imagination.” 

     “Children often do nowadays, Mrs Walters.” 

     When Joyce finally disappeared inside the house, Miss Jones took a sip of her coffee. There was a streak of crimson lipstick on the rim of the mug. She pondered over this discovery, ransacking her memory for any proof of female houseguests. In all her time working for the family, she could not remember seeing any visitors stop by their household.

Miss Jones finished picking the weeds and then dumped the compost bag at the foot of the garden. As she reached the end of the gravel pathway, she noticed a peculiar assembly of items behind the bin. For the sake of pleasing her compulsive orderliness, she decided to clear it away while she was there. Besides, she had never been one for half-heartedness when it came to domestic tasks. If so much as a blade of grass looked amiss then she felt obliged to start again.

     She moved the bin aside and picked up an old Daval handbag. The leather binding was tattered and the inside compartments were filled with rainwater. She had never taken Joyce for much of a fashionista. Anyway, what woman throws away an expensive handbag? It wasn’t like the Walters had deep pockets. Dennis worked as a labourer and Joyce was a full-time housewife. 

     Without any thought for the matter, she placed the handbag in the bin and gathered up her tools. It was getting on for two pm and she was already running behind schedule. 

     “All done, I will see you both next week,” she called through the kitchen door. 

     Dennis stepped outside, wiping his buttery fingers on the front of his jeans. “Thanks, darlin’. I better pay your wages before you leave.” 

     “Don’t forget to water those plants while I’m gone,” she said.

     Dennis pulled out his wallet and shuffled through a wad of banknotes. She watched the sunlight dance off the gold of his rings. “See ya next week.”

The gardener walked back to her van parked down the street. She loaded the equipment into the back and shut the rear doors. The street was alive with merry children bouncing on trampolines and topless fathers mowing their front lawns. Miss Jones let her eyes float across the houses until they came to rest on a poster stapled to a telephone pole. The missing girl in the picture wore a pink cashmere jumper and pair of pleated trousers. Years later, she relived that moment of grim recognition and remembered vomiting right there on the pavement. She never went back to Hamilton Street. In fact, she never picked another weed again. Even the mere sight of them reminded her of the six young girls buried under the patio.