The Garden Wall

Bancross Grove was on my paper round route as a child, and I think that even then, before I had any notion of moving from my family home, it was a location to aspire to. The houses were large period villas with enormous, imposing front gardens, and the land they held at the rear was even more impressive. I’m not entirely sure how and when I made buying a house on that tiny little cul-de-sac a priority, but I did, and I strived for two decades to get there. I can still remember that feeling of being handed that bunch of keys to 4 Bancross Grove and being left in the doorway to unlock my new home and plan the next part of my life there.

It was a big place — far too big for a young single man. It echoed for quite some time after I moved in; I just didn’t have enough belongings to fill it, and those I had felt entirely wrong for it. Downstairs had two huge rooms, a kitchen, and a smaller room that was perfect for an office. Upstairs had five bedrooms and a bathroom. There was so much space — though, curiously, not enough to contain all the opinions of how I should use it. I didn’t have my own at first. If I’m honest, I planned to let the house tell me what to do. I knew I only needed a few rooms, so I prioritised them, leaving the rest to consider their own future.

Downstairs was easy enough to manage. I got the large living room and kitchen ready first. They weren’t that bad — just needed a clean and a bit of updating. Along with a bedroom and the bathroom, I made the house liveable within the first couple of months. It then drifted a bit for the next few months, but as the winter coldness began to fade and spring eased its way into my life, I realised I might want to use my garden in the summer months.

The garden was very simple. It was slightly wider than my house and stretched out nearly three times as far from the back door. It was mostly lawned but had narrow flower beds on either side and, at the bottom, a set of large old apple trees that obscured everything beyond. What made the garden particularly special was the high red-brick wall that surrounded it. The whole garden was a wonderfully secluded haven that I could not wait to enjoy.

I will admit that it was nearly five months before I ventured down to the bottom end of the garden and into the little orchard. The mess of twisted branches that created something of a roof over the darkened end of the lawn was beginning to bud with new life when I finally made it down. I could only imagine how beautiful it would look when the blossom really began to come out, and part of me wondered what I could do with the apples I was going to harvest the following autumn.

I stood looking back up at the house when I noticed a voice. Initially, I jumped, thinking it was a whisper in my ear, but gradually it dawned on me that it was not a whisper — it was coming from much further back. In fact, it was coming from behind the end wall. I stood there for a while trying to make out what was being said, but it was just too quiet.

It was the first time I had been able to properly look at the wall; it had been obscured from the house by the trees. It was old and weathered. In places, it had greened a little, and in others, the mortar had worn back. There were varying degrees of ivy coverage — to the point that from about three-quarters of the way across to the end of the wall, the brickwork was completely obscured by the green tangles that climbed up and over it.

I stood for a while trying to hear what was coming from the other side of my garden wall, but it had stopped, and I was beginning to get cold, so I made my way back through the trees and into the house.

The following weeks were spent focusing on the upstairs. My bedroom and bathroom needed attention. A few long evenings after work and a really positive run at the weekend, and they both went from habitable to homely. However, despite this progress, it was very clear to me how much effort I had put in to get to a position where I had merely tweaked the nose of a Goliathan project, and I began planning which room I would take on next.

The planning would probably be called procrastinating by many, and they would probably be correct. However, it did lead me to spend additional time in the bedroom at the back of the house overlooking the garden. From there, I had expected to be able to see the house directly behind, but I hadn’t reckoned for the apple trees in the other garden, which were almost identical to my own but clearly more mature and far bigger. Through the still largely empty branches, I could see some obvious movement in the garden beyond. There was clearly at least one neighbour — who I assumed was the individual I had heard the last time I was in the garden.

It was another couple of weeks before I ventured back out. The weather had improved, and on my last trip outside, I had noticed a hook on the back of the house which had obviously been put there for a washing line. On my way home from work that week, I stopped at the local hardware store and picked up a new line with the intention of setting it up. I had hoped there was something at the far end of the garden already in place, but if not, I was happy with the idea of tying it to a tree.

The wall in the corner was somewhat overgrown with ivy, but given the position of the other hook, I was sure it could only have been there. I began my search through the thick curtain of green leaves when my hand hit not brick but wood. I quickly removed a small section of ivy to reveal what was clearly a door. From that point, my interest in the washing line disappeared and was replaced by fascination with this mysterious door.

Having never owned a garden, I lacked the necessary tools to complete the job effectively, but with a lot of brute force I managed to pull away most of the ivy, leaving a weathered old wooden door with a rusted lock. By the time it was done, I had nearly forgotten about the washing line, but I had a task to achieve and I stuck to it. I was almost finished tying the line around one of the trees when I heard the voice again. This time it was far clearer, and I could make out a few of the words here and there. I’m not sure why, but I went straight over to the door and put my ear against it.

“This was all your fault. That’s why I’ve ended up here. You’ve wasted my whole life.”

The voice was tired, old, and very familiar. I pressed my ear as hard as I could, but the sound stopped, and I couldn’t make out if they were still there on the other side of the door. By the time I realised the rusted keyhole was big enough to see through, whoever it was had gone.

What I did see through the small hole was an almost identical garden leading up to an almost identical house. When I say it was almost identical — the main difference was that it looked older. Well maintained, but older.

As spring moved towards summer, I gradually made my way through the rooms upstairs. Each time I went into the room that overlooked the garden, I hoped that I might see something of the person behind the wall. The temptation to look through the keyhole again was great, and each time I hung out my washing — and each time I collected it again — I made my way over to the door in the hope I might see or hear something that would satiate my curiosity about my unhappy neighbour.

It took a few weeks and more than a few loads of washing before I heard him again.

“If I could just remember what you did to ruin my life and leave me here, I would not be in this mess. What did I do?”

He cursed. Realising this was an opportunity too good to be missed, I swiftly placed my eye against the cold metal keyhole. He was there, walking back towards the house. It was clear he was an older gentleman. His thinning grey hair was being ruffled by the breeze blowing across the garden. He had been hanging out his washing on a line that, like my own, was attached to a hook on the wall and tied around a tree. I waited until he had returned to his house before looking away. Just before I did, though, I noticed on his washing line a university sweatshirt not dissimilar to my own — the same colour, even the same year. The one on his line was far more faded than mine, but it was clearly owned by one of my contemporaries. I was excited by the coincidence. Perhaps it was one of the man’s children, who I may have known back in my student days.

However excited I was by the knowledge of my neighbour, I was equally disappointed when I did not hear or see him for many more weeks. My curiosity did not diminish, and my attempts to see him continued without great success. It was around the end of July when I finally saw him again. I had taken to wandering in the garden every night — I told myself it was to enjoy the warm, light evenings, but in reality, it was just in case I might get a glimpse of the man who lived behind that door.

I don’t quite know how I felt about what I saw on that occasion. Again, I was alerted to his presence by his grumbles. He seemed even more frustrated and angry at his situation, cursing whoever it was that had led him to where he was.

“I was here. Standing just here. Why was I stood here? You idiot! Remember! Maybe you can fix this if you just remember.”

He began pacing, grumbling “Forty years stuck in this place.” His face turned away from me just enough that I could not make out his features.

And then, at the moment I was certain he would turn towards me, he spun on his heel and headed back to the house. I was slightly annoyed that, yet again, I had not seen his face. I had thought about calling out and introducing myself, but it didn’t feel right. However, what I did notice was his left wrist. On it was a watch. It was a distance away, but I was certain it was the same as my own. Now, watches can be confused — but this watch was a family heirloom, and my father had given it to me on my 21st birthday, as his father had done before. It was so similar as to almost be the same watch. Something about this revelation unnerved me but, at the same time, fuelled my curiosity further. I retreated to my own house, filled with unworkable thoughts.

I was out in the garden every day from that point on, trying to look like I was busy doing something in case anyone saw — though, given I was in the dark bottom of the garden, that was unlikely. When I arrived home from work, I would spend a few minutes standing by the door before going back inside to eat and then crack on decorating another room. I made good progress and only heard from the noisy neighbour twice — more grumbling, but no sight of his face. If I had told anyone about what I was doing, they might have suggested I was not only obsessing but stalking the poor unsuspecting chap who happened to live behind me.

The long warm days of summer were coming to an end as I finished off the decorating, and I used my time to potter around the garden, tinkering at being a horticulturalist. Given how often I was there, it’s a surprise how long it was before I saw him once more. It was the last week of August, and I had just finished pretending to weed when I heard that telltale grumble. I dropped my trowel and darted straight for the door.

There he was — as close to me as I had seen him — but this time he wasn’t looking away. He was facing me. Head on. I could see his face: every wrinkle, every grey hair, every white whisker on the tired, poorly shaven chin. It was me — a tired, worn, older version of me. I staggered back, my eyes unable to comprehend what I had seen. As I leaned back against a tree, trying hard to catch my breath, the grumbles over the wall began in earnest.

“I wish I could remember what happened — how you lumbered me with this nothing life. I just want out.”

I composed myself and made my way back to the keyhole. I put my eye to it and looked. He had gone, but my eyes caught the curtains at the windows upstairs — they were the ones I had chosen and put in my windows, every single one. That house on the other side of the wall was my house. That man through the door was me.

My mind was out of control. I had so many questions, but I knew I had to get through the door and talk to him.

With no more rooms to decorate, I decided it was time to venture into the huge loft. The previous owners had left dozens of boxes up there, and I had not taken the time to go through them. I used the dark autumnal evenings to make my way through the boxes, hoping to find treasure — but there was little of any value. Perhaps I could make a few pounds at a car boot sale, but nothing excited me. I had made it through most of them when, at the bottom of one, among the books and old china, was a large iron key. I knew straight away what it opened, and I had only one thought in mind. The key went in my pocket, and I made the decision: the next day I was going to open that door.

When I got there, I could hear him. He was there. But this time he wasn’t shouting or grumbling. On the other side of the wall, I could hear soft, resigned sobs. I stood there with the key in hand. What was I doing? What would I say when I turned up in someone else’s garden, intruding on their sorrow? How could I explain this away? But my curiosity was winning. I needed to know who he was and what had happened to him. I put the key in the lock, and it turned with a click.

I put my shoulder to the door, and it shuddered open. Taking a deep breath, I stepped through.

“Hello?”

The man was gone.

Behind me, the door slammed shut again.

What was I doing? Where was I? I knew I had just done something, but I couldn’t remember what — and now I was standing in my garden with a strange sense of foreboding, that whatever had happened had completely changed my life. That I had done something incredibly foolish, but I just could not remember what, or why.

And behind me was a wall. Just a wall, without a door.