Grey Eden

Williamina hastened through the underpass as a gruff cough echoed in the shadows. Ignoring the X-rated graffiti on the walls, she tiptoed around the broken glass bottles. Her breathing shallowed and her throat tightened, as the familiar stink of urine and stale beer folded together in the damp vacuumed air. Marching towards the tower, strands of heather reached out from her string bag as the weight of meat, tatties, and veg caused it to swing like a wrecking ball.

Despite today’s stint at the homeless shelter, her blue Salvation Army uniform remained as crisp and clean as the sky above, her bonnet defying the biting Glaswegian winds. Striding past the ‘lift out of order’ sign, Williamina thought of her mission ahead as she began to climb the numerous crumbling steps to the flat. She prayed that the Lord would be understanding.

Williamina’s garden was not of the ordinary variety. It was seven stories up the Gorbals tower on a balcony, where only the hardiest plants could survive. She liked to call it her little Garden of Eden in the clouds. Pruning the heather to even the length of the bunch, she placed them meticulously in the damp soil surrounding her staunch thistles and sighed.

Today, like many other days, she looked up at the sullen sky above, then closed her eyes tightly and imagined the fall. The problem was she knew it would be fine until she hit the ground, but then her uniform would be spoiled, which would not please her one bit: her dearly departed parents, both of them being ‘Salvation Army officers,’ would turn in their graves.

A salty tear blew down her freckled cheek as she opened her eyes wide to the swirling winds, then after snipping confidently at a couple of her newest additions, she carefully slid the cuttings inside the pocket containing her mother’s crucifix and walked back inside the flat.

Her ‘loving’ bus driver husband of ten years to the day would soon be dropping off his final passengers and returning. When they were newlyweds it was exciting. Jack would often arrive home late after a few beers with the lads, give her flowers, and kiss her passionately. She secretly loved the smell of diesel fumes from his clothes and the stale ale and cigarettes on his breath was strangely erotic. But sometimes he would be moody and quiet also and she wasn’t sure why.

They had not been blessed with children, but she had a family in ‘the Army’ and was content with her lot. That all changed however on the first day that he viciously struck her cheek with his fist. It was the day she realized his love for scotch and horses had consumed him. Williamina forgave him the first time, then the second, third… and even the tenth.

‘It’s not his fault’ she would tell herself. ‘It’s the devil's work’.

She was convinced that she could bring him back into the light. There was still a good man inside. The man that she married. Sadly she was wrong.

Williamina forced the knife swiftly through the tatties and veg on the chopping board. Like her thistles, she was quite small in stature but as bristly as they came. As the blade slammed down again on the heavily scarred wood, the front door simultaneously shut with an echoing thud. He was home.

Unconsciously lifting her hand to her cheek, she massaged the fading layers of bruises in a circular motion. As he stumbled into the kitchen, her hand, automatically clenched around her mother’s crucifix in her uniform pocket; she could feel the cuttings slide between her taught fingers like silk.

Coming up behind her, he grabbed clumsily at her breasts, breathing heavily, and surrounding her in malted fumes. She guessed he had won big today as he was wearing a gold watch and was smothered in that potent aftershave with the ship on the bottle. This time, however, rather than her usual apprehension and dread, an overwhelming sense of pain and sorrow engulfed Williamina as she turned to him and forced a smile.

‘I love a hen in uniform,’ he slurred, slapping her backside firmly which jolted her hips roughly into the kitchen unit.

‘So, Whit’s fer dinner then my little Christian soldier,’ he continued.

‘Shin of beef stew Jack,’ she answered. ‘I’ve tried my best fer you tonight my love, please let’s not fight. It’s our anniversary yeh know.’

‘Aye Willy, yer didn’t think I’d forgotten did ye? You can have yer pressie later.’

She clenched her fist even tighter around the crucifix, the metal cutting into her skin.

‘Why don’t yeh get scrubbed up for me, husband? I’ll get the dinner sorted.’

He grunted and released her waist from his grip, then staggered out towards the bathroom. It was now or never, she thought to herself. She still loved him but knew it would only be a matter of time before the badness inside him finished her for good.

Jack inspected his stew and swayed in his chair as though on a ship approaching a storm He missed his glass twice with his hand before he poured some more whiskey from the bottle Wilhelmina had placed on the dining table. His veiny bloodshot eyes caught hers in a devilish grip.

‘What’s all this my sweet little bhaltair?’ he asked.

‘I told yeh Jack, it’s our anniversary,’ Williamina replied ‘Tuck in luv. I’m sure it’s been a tough day on the buses.’

‘Aye, it has luv,’ he looked at his new watch and smirked. ‘Yeh know, maybe yer not such a bad’n after all Willy,’ he growled. ‘After all, yeh married me did’n yeh?’

Suddenly laughing aloud he breathed in some dram which caused a coughing fit, the liquor burning his windpipe. Eventually recovering himself his eyes narrowed towards hers, his face distorting into inebriated chaos.

‘I said did’n yeh? Yeh, righteous bitch!’ he shouted.

The whiskey glass suddenly flew from his white-knuckled hand, smashing violently against the wall and sending spear-like shards across the room. Williamina covered her face with her hands to protect her eyes but remained calm. She was well used to these outbursts but knew he would devour his dinner first and then attempt to have his way with her before the battering began.

‘I’m sorry my luv, I’ll try harder, I promise. Let me fetch yeh some more scotch,’ she replied.

As Jack growled inwardly he began spooning the clumps of beef and tatties into his mouth; a line of thick gravy weaving down through his rough unshaven chin. He was now far too drunk to notice the extra effort she had made for their special anniversary meal. His wife stared as a couple of silken purple strands lay over his bottom lip soaked in gravy. It won’t be long now my luv.

Williamina sat among her Garden of Eden in the sky, her polished uniform buttons glinting brightly as the sun broke through the thick Scottish clouds. She realized she could have left; the life insurance from the bus company had seen to that. But now that he was gone it seemed pointless to move out. If ever there was a place to help others in need it was around the Gorbals.

She looked up as a gull flew by, but no longer wondered what it would feel like to be on that side of the ledge. Her thistles remained hardy and were surrounded by many new companions.

Since her husband’s death she’d discovered a newfound confidence in herself, and with extra time on her hands had started up a ‘Sally Army horticultural unit,’ where they all shared cuttings.

Recently she’d noticed that Elise, one of her ‘flower soldiers,’ kept turning up with unexplained bruises on her arms and face. Taking the pruning shears in her hand, Williamina knelt amongst her flock and began to snip gently at the pink flowers she now called her guardian angels; in horticultural terms, these particular specimens were known as ‘Foxglove.’

Placing some cuttings into a bag, Williamina then wrote Elsie a little note, kissed her crucifix and tied it with some string to the flower stalks. It said: ‘Recipe for Shin Beef Stew.’ She hoped it would help.

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Originally published at - https://medium.com/the-lark/grey-eden-d8dd4e6cdb6d