Green Thumb

Green Thumb

By Bryonia Alba

There is a picture of Neville at the age of eleven months in Gran's photo album. In it, he toddles on unsteady baby legs towards his mother, a bunch of pansies in one grubby fist. Alice is laughing at her son, who is covered head to toe in dirt.

It's one of Neville's favorite photographs, and he looks at it often. He wishes he could remember what his mother's laughter sounded like. It has been five years since the photo was taken. The chubby, happy baby is now a chubby, melancholy child of six. At least, Gran assures him, he will be six when his birthday comes around in a few weeks' time.

Neville is a child with a secret. He closes the photo album and carefully puts it away. His Gran is rather strict about such things, and it's a lesson he learned very early. Quietly, he slips outside and goes to where his secret resides.

It's a simple flower garden. That is not the secret. Neville wheedled and cajoled and finally begged for a garden of his own this past winter, until finally Gran gave in to his wishes. It's a large victory for a small, shy boy whose grandmother is determined not to spoil him with overindulgence.

His Great-uncle Algie and Great-aunt Enid helped him to turn the soil once the weather warmed enough. They helped him select the seeds and plant them in the ground; they made sure he didn't over-feed or over-water his charges. He checked his garden every day, searching for the first fragile shoots, and crowed with joy when they finally appeared. Once the shoots grew stronger and sturdier, he weeded his little plot every other day, making sure that the plants he plucked from the ground were different from the plants in the pictures in the gardening books Great-aunt Enid gave him. He doesn't want to give a bouquet of weeds to his mother when he visits next.

This is the real secret; the true reason why he wants the garden. Last Christmas Gran decided Neville was finally old enough to accompany her to St Mungo's. He finally got to see the mother and father he hadn't seen since he was a year old and they were taken from him, for reasons he still doesn't fully understand.

Alice no longer laughs. Frank no longer smiles and chucks Neville under his chin. They are silent, waxen figures now, staring blankly at antiseptic, pale green walls. During their visit, Gran had sat in an uncomfortable chair and spoken to them, while Neville tried and failed to elicit a single glance, a single word from either of them.

Neville hates their silence. He also hates the blank walls, the sheer emptiness of the room they're in. If he had to stay in such a place forever and ever, he thinks, he would live inside his head all the time like they do, and never come out.

He got the idea from the photo album. He saw the photograph of his baby self bringing flowers to his laughing mother, and thought that perhaps if he could make her laugh with flowers once before, he could do it again. Maybe it would help her get better.

Carefully, diligently, he tends to his garden, watering when the soil is too dry, weeding every other day so his beauties can thrive. He has pansies and daisies and lilies growing there. He wanted roses too, but Gran said no. Perhaps when you're older and know a bit more, she'd said. It was an argument he had no hope of winning, so he subsided.

Neville smiles as he looks over his garden. The daisies and pansies will be in peak bloom soon, just in time for his birthday. He bends over and pulls out a stray weed, then turns and goes back to the house he shares with his Gran.

The days pass. There is a calendar in Neville's bedroom with which he marks the end of each day with an untidily scrawled black X. There is another X, this one bright red, printed at the end of the month. The red X marks his birthday; and only one more space separates the black marks from the red.

Outside the bedroom window Neville's garden is a riotous profusion of blooms in hues of white, yellow, red, pink and purple. Great-uncle Algie has commented on the vibrancy of the plants, saying that it looked as though there was another green thumb in the family. He had laughed as he said it; but later that day Neville had examined both thumbs carefully, searching for the slightest tint of green. He had been relieved to discover that they were perfectly thumb-colored, with not a hint of green at all.

Neville wakes early on the morning of his sixth birthday. He is so excited that he can barely eat the breakfast Great-aunt Enid has made for him. As soon as possible, he takes Great-uncle Algie's hand in his own and leads him to his garden. There, Neville directs him in creating the most beautiful bouquet in the world for his mother, carefully pointing out each individual flower for the older man to cut for him. His great-uncle gathers the cut blooms tenderly, wrapping them in tendrils of English ivy before offering the bouquet for Neville's inspection.

It's perfect: the glossy dark green leaves of the ivy are an ideal contrast to the white and yellow daisies, the red and pink lilies, and the deep purple pansies with their comical little faces. Neville takes the bouquet into his hands with exquisite care, so as not to crush a single leaf or bruise a single petal.

He will allow no one else to carry it during the journey to St Mungo's. Gran bites her lip when she hears what purpose the flowers are for, but says nothing. Today is his birthday, and on this one day of the year he can do as he likes. Neville doesn't understand why she should be so worried. The flowers are pretty, and the room where his mum and dad spend their days is ugly. They should have something pretty in their room.

Once inside the hospital he follows Gran, who visits weekly and is much more familiar with the surroundings than Neville is. They make their way to the Janus Thickey ward on the fourth floor. The witch at the desk greets Gran by name before noticing Neville and what he carries. Sadness enters her gentle blue eyes when he tells her that he grew the flowers himself, and that his mother likes pansies especially. She ruffles his hair before she unlocks the door leading into the ward.

Neville follows his grandmother and the witch with the gentle blue eyes down to the end of the ward, where his mum and dad live. The witch pulls some curtains to give them privacy and departs.

Frank is asleep. Alice is not. She sits in bed, staring at the wall opposite her, crooning wordlessly. Undeterred, Gran sits down and greets her daughter by marriage. She spends several minutes in one-sided small talk, then says, "Today is Neville's birthday. He's six now. He's the one bringing a gift, though. He's always been a thoughtful boy. You would be proud of him, dear." Without turning her head she says, "Neville, give Alice the posies now."

He steps forward shyly and holds out the bouquet. Several moments pass before Alice takes it. She turns the bouquet over and over in her hands, as if unsure of what to do with the bundle of blooms. A daisy petal floats gently to the coverlet, and Alice watches its progress with wide eyes. Hesitantly, she plucks another petal from the bouquet and lets it drop, then another.

Neville watches in horrified silence, the tears standing in his eyes, as she strips the bouquet bare. When she finishes she is holding little more than a bundle of green twigs in her hand, and the bed is littered with drifts of multi-colored petals like so much confetti.

Alice drops the naked stems onto the floor before burying her hands in the petals, letting them sift between her fingers. She tosses a handful into the air, watching them rain down on the bed before gathering another handful and tossing it also. Her expression is one of wonder and growing delight. She crushes the petals in her hands, rubs their velvety softness against her cheek, sniffs the lingering scent on her fingers.

And she laughs. The sound is strange, rusty; something she has long forgotten, her face reflecting her surprise at the sound coming from her throat. The ward echoes with peals of laughter.

"Oh, dear, we've made quite a mess, haven't we?" the mediwitch says, coming over to investigate the unaccustomed noise. She pulls out her wand and gives it a wave; and suddenly the bouquet is whole again. "Let's get these into some water, shall we?" She hurries off, flowers in hand. Alice watches her go. Her lower lip trembles loosely; but Neville takes her hand in his own, his small fingers curling around her unresponsive ones, and her cloudy gaze turns to him, as he wants her to do. He smiles and gives her fingers a squeeze. He is still saddened by the destruction of the bouquet; but seeing the petals fall like a shower of rainbows onto her upturned face, seeing her smile and laugh, he knows that somehow he still has done something right and good.

Gran clears her throat and says that she and Neville must be going now; she has a busy day planned for the birthday boy. Neville releases his mother's hand reluctantly and draws back to stand next to his grandmother. He makes his farewells and starts to turn away.

He is stopped by a hand brushing against his shoulder. He looks back, hopeful, holding his breath as Alice takes his hand in hers and presses something into it. He looks at his mother, with her unfocused eyes and vague smile, then down at his hand. She has given him a wrapper from a Peppermint Humbug. He smoothes the crinkly paper out carefully as the mediwitch returns with the repaired bouquet.

"Here we are! My, aren't they so bright and cheerful!" She sets the flowers and an Unbreakable-charmed vase on a nearby table. "Leaving already, Mrs. Longbottom?"

Gran repeats that she and Neville still have much to accomplish today before noticing the wrapper in Neville's hand. She asks him where he got it, and he tells her.

"I see she gave you a birthday present after all," Gran says. "What do you tell her?"

Neville slips the wrapper into his pocket. He will keep it for always, he thinks, and looks up at his mother, who is staring once more at Neville's flowers with rapt concentration.

"Thanks Mum."