Esmé could see the garden from her sitting room. Warm and comfortable in her chair she could watch the seasons unfold. She marvelled as colours changed from muted to vibrant; she observed flowers blooming then fading, fascinated as they shed their seeds in preparation for the coming year. During the long cold winter months she looked at postcards and photos of her old home in Benin. Going through them she recalled the smells of Africa: the spices, the earth, drying fish, animals, rotting waste, all heightened by the unrelenting heat. But over the years she had become used to the different aromas of traffic, fish and chips and the end of day smells of the street markets in her adopted homeland with its cold, damp climate. She would tell her friends at the Warm Hearts social club: ‘I like the winter; it gives me time to think.’
On this particular dreary January day she was thinking about Kadi. Esmé had always promised her daughter that she would take her to meet her family in West Africa, but lack of money and having to do two jobs to make ends meet had meant this hadn’t happened. Then a speeding car with a drunk driver had killed her beloved daughter, leaving Esmé to bring up her grandson. The years had flown by and Olatunde was now testing his freedom living with friends and travelling. He was doing what Esmé hadn’t been able to do and she’d encouraged him. ‘You go. It’s too late for me, but the right time for you.’
In her hand Esmé held a postcard of a market stall piled high with pineapples, bananas, cassava, tomatoes and sacks of rice along the side. It had arrived in November, with a promise to call her at Christmas time. Now it was mid-January and no word from her grandson. She knew he could be easily distracted from calling her when he was visiting relations and making new friends, but Ola was a thoughtful boy and if he said he’d do something then he usually did. She hoped he was alright; listening to the news from West Africa there seemed to be rebel insurgencies, stories of corruption and a widespread drug problem. She’d warned him about all of these dangers but he was young and hot-headed, and as the days went by, and no word came, she felt a sense of foreboding. She wondered what Kadi would have done if she’d been around to see her boy grow up.
She distracted herself by watching the garden. In the centre was a large bush that she particularly admired. In the summer it was quite nondescript, but in the autumn the leaves turned to orange and gold. Winter showed its true beauty when it lost its leaves to display stems of vibrant orange. Stems that glowed in the winter sunshine, shone in the pouring rain and contrasted with the white of frost and snow. She had wondered what it was called, so she asked at Warm Hearts, but no one knew what she was talking about. Any mention of the garden and the men would go on about how much better things grew wherever it was they came from. If these men were to be believed, tomatoes grew bigger and tastier in places as diverse as Addis Ababa, Beirut and Manila than they did in the UK.
‘You are all talkin’ rubbish,’ Esmé would say. She liked English tomatoes and valued being able to get them without hours of back-breaking work. So she gave up asking gardening questions at the club.
On Thursdays Esmé went shopping. She went to the supermarket for some things, but she preferred the street market. Afterwards she would treat herself to a cup of tea and a toasted teacake in Mary’s Café. This time instead of the café she went into the library. When Ola was little she used to bring him here regularly and he used it for his homework after school. That boy had been studious since primary school; she’d always believed he’d be successful at whatever he chose to do. But she hadn’t been in the library for years and was amazed at the transformation. There were books as she expected, but also lots of computers and tablets with headsets.
‘Are you OK? Can I help you at all?’ Esmé turned to see a young man with dreadlocks looking at her over the top of a pile of books. She could see his name badge; it said ‘Hercules – Here to help YOU’.
‘Good day,’ Esmé was always formal when she was unsure of anything, ‘actually you can. I need to know the name of a plant.’
She hurried home with her shopping and an app on her phone, determined to get to the garden before dark. Her hand trembled as she got out her phone and opened the app, as Hercules had shown her. He’d demonstrated on a rather weedy plant in a large pot in the library. She’d learnt that the plant was a Monstera deliciosa, or Swiss cheese plant; she was too polite to say it needed looking after properly, but she did wonder whether the app worked on plants that were thriving outdoors.
It did! She was so excited when the app recognised the plant from its glorious stems; she was worried that she would have to wait until the leaves grew again. There it was, in the palm of her hand, a picture of Cornus sanguinea, a dogwood called Midwinter Fire. The sun dipped below the rooftops and the chill of another winter’s evening was setting in. But Esmé stayed, transfixed by the possibilities of her new app. There were so many plants just in this small communal garden; she could find out what they were. But for now she knew Midwinter Fire, and she turned to go indoors.
As she climbed the stairs she thought for the first time in many hours about Ola, and the joy that had lightened her heart and quickened her step faded. She struggled up the last few steps and hurriedly opened her door, longing to be safe inside her flat. She took off her hat before realising that something was wrong. The lights were on and the aromas of cooking wafted around her.
She forced out the words ‘Ola, is that you?’
‘Yes, Grandma, it’s me. Were you expectin’ anyone else?’
‘Where have you been? Why didn’t you call me?’ All of Esmé’s fears came tumbling out.
‘Don’t fuss, Grandma. I’m grown now.’ Ola vigorously chopped vegetables. ‘And where were you when I got here?’
Joyfully she told him about her visit to the library. ‘You come here.’ She almost dragged him across the room. ‘You see that plant? It’s called Midwinter Fire.’ Even as she spoke, the last rays of the setting sun disappeared behind the buildings opposite.
‘Tell me about home! Tell me about Cousin Freddy and his taxi! Tell me ALL about it.’
As they ate, Ola told Esmé about their relations: who had married, who had died, who had moved to Europe and who no one talked about. ‘They want to see you, Grandma. They want you to go there. I said I would try to persuade you’.
It was many years since Esmé had visited her family; she missed them but she really couldn’t afford it. She sighed. ‘Maybe one day I will, but it’s a lot of money. Perhaps you can set me up with one of them FaceTime sessions to be goin’ on with.’
On his phone Ola had photos and videos of people and places that had once been so familiar but now looked almost alien to Esmé. ‘They look so old!’ she said when she saw her cousins. ‘Do I look old?’
‘Not at all’ was his tactful reply before changing the subject and showing her frames of fish drying in the sun along the shoreline. She was sure the aroma of those fish wafted out of the pictures. Perhaps she should go, just once more.
When they had eaten, Ola got up to leave. She brushed aside his offer to do the washing up and asked ‘What are you goin’ to do now?’
‘Options, I got options.’ He clearly wasn’t going into details. Instead he said ‘Grandma, is it OK if I leave somethin’ here? I’ll get it very soon.’
‘Of course you can. Is it somethin’ excitin’?’ She looked at the bulky envelope in his hand. ‘Looks like a whole pile of banknotes in there.’
‘Nothin’ like that, Grandma, just somethin’ I don’t want to lose.’ He put the package on top of the hall cupboard.
‘It’s all dusty up there.’ Esmé couldn’t reach to clean along the top.
‘No worry. I’ll clean it for you one day. I’ll be back soon.’
The flat seemed so quiet without him. Esmé looked out into the winter night, trying to make out the Midwinter Fire in the dark garden. What was Ola hiding from her? Was it something to do with that envelope on top of her cupboard? Perhaps she should find out what was in it, climb on a chair and have a look at it. ‘No, Esme, don’t even think about doin’ that,’ she said out loud to the empty room. She had to trust him, but a chill ran through her in spite of the cosy warmth of her sitting room.
Next time Ola visited he was wearing a smart new suit. ‘Have you got a job? That must’ve cost a whole lot of money!’
‘Sort of.’ He peered at his phone.
‘What ain’t you tellin’ me, Toots?’
‘Mind your own business, Grandma.’
He’s not a child anymore, Esmé reminded herself, and he doesn’t like being called by baby names.
Ola took her hand. ‘Sorry I snapped Grandma. I can’t tell you anythin’ right now, but I will. Promise. And don’t worry, I’m doin’ well. I’ll leave that package for a bit longer if you don’t mind.’ It was a statement, not a request.
A week later Esmé was enjoying her teacake in Mary’s Café when Ola burst through the door. ‘Leave the teacake, Grandma. It’s champagne for you today.’
‘Have you been drinkin’? Or takin’ drugs?’ Esmé’s worst fears seemed to be coming true. She remembered the envelope and all her fears came rushing back.
‘Cool it, Grandma. I’ve signed a contract with a streamin’ service. For my podcasts.’
‘What are you talkin’ about?’
Ola explained that while he was in West Africa he’d shared his adventures on social media. Esmé wasn’t sure what he meant, but as she drank her tea she listened to his excited explanation and how he’d got lots of followers, including some A-list celebs.
‘A pity nobody told me. So what IS in that envelope on top of my cupboard along with all the dust?’
Ola laughed. ‘Just some papers, you got a suspicious mind; I’ll get it soon enough.’ He changed the subject. ‘Guess what my podcast is gonna be called?’ Esmé shook her head, she had no idea.
‘I suggested Midwinter Fire after that orange plant you showed me and TrypTytch, the producer, really likes it.’
Esmé looked at him with pride tempered with concern. She’d always known that with his abilities he could go far, but what path was he taking?
‘Stop worryin’, Grandma.’
And that, thought Esmé, is easier said than done.
Ola arrived to collect Esmé. He’d told her he was going to take her somewhere special, so she’d bought a new dress and hat.
‘Not long now, Grandma!’ He’d booked an Uber to take them to a popular West African restaurant. As dish after dish of succulent food was brought to their table, Ola explained that he’d got a job with a digital media company specialising in the African market. He’d be based in London, but would travel a lot, especially to Africa and North America.
‘So, that’s all wonderful, I’m very pleased for you and relieved you’ve got a proper job. Your Mum would be so proud of you Ola. But you gotta tell me now. What is in that envelope?’
‘Oh yes. This is for you.’ He handed it to her.
‘You got it down all covered in dust!’ She looked at it with a mixture of irritation and concern; still convinced it contained drugs or money.
‘It’s all dirty.’ Esmé flicked away a spider’s web and opened the envelope. For so long she had told herself it contained something illegal. It didn’t. In it she found travel documents: tickets, visas, everything needed for a flight to Benin City via Lagos. At last she really was going home. She looked around the restaurant; the chatter, the laughter, the raised voices reminded her of so much that she missed. She inhaled deeply; ah, the smell of the food, an atavistic memory of her younger days. It was all a lot to take in, but she wasn’t too overcome to say ‘I need to be back by January. I don’t want to miss them bright orange stems.’
