Nat from ‘Roses in December’

Nat Brook from ‘Roses in December’ by Fiona Glass

I meet him in a small café in a nearby town. It’s highly irregular, of course, but I understand he’s had problems and is unable to travel long distances. When he walks in, shoulders hunched against the day’s wind and rain, there’s little sign of those problems, except for an ugly limp.

“Mr Brook?” I stand up, hold out my hand. After a brief pause he takes it.

“Yeah, that’s me.”

“Do sit down. Can I get you a coffee?”

“No thanks, I’m fine. Mind if I smoke, though?”

“Not at all.”

We sit, and I see again that he favours his bad leg, stretching it out and grimacing as though it still causes him pain. This wet weather can’t be helping – the rain gets right into your bones. He doesn’t look quite as I expected an old soldier to look. Younger, a little taller, a lot slimmer – although that could easily be down to months of ill health. Certainly hairier, with a long fringe that dangles in his eyes. Those eyes, though. You can see the shadows in them, as if he’s seen too much, too young. I’ve seen that look on old soldiers before.

I clear my throat. “Right, let’s get down to business. My name is Askew. Ian Askew. I work for human resources-” I catch his uncertain look. “That’s Personnel, between you and me. We received your letter of application and head office asked me to come along and have a chat with you. It’s a little er, unusual – we normally hold one-to-one interviews at head office, but in the circumstances….”

He fiddles with a cigarette, lighting it with a match and flicking the match into the table’s ash tray. “Yeah, sorry about that. I don’t travel well. Don’t much like enclosed spaces.”

“I understand. And it gets me out of the office for a day, which makes a pleasant change!” I chuckle, and he smiles, but the smile doesn’t reach his eyes. I shuffle my notes and try again. “So, Mr Brook, you say you’d like to be a gardener at Partington Towers once the Trust takes over. Can you tell me what led you to think of that career?”

He shrugs, and flicks more ash. I hope he opens up soon, otherwise this is going to be the most one-sided job interview I’ve ever carried out, and believe me, I’ve carried out a few.

“Well, for instance, do you have any gardening experience? Have you worked as a gardener before?”

“Not exactly. Been in the army the last, what, twelve years and there’s not much call for gardeners in the Paras.” For the first time there’s a gleam of dark humour in the eyes and I realise Mr Brook has hidden depths.

“No, quite. I take it the leg…?”

“Yeah. Belfast.”

“Ah. I see. Well, I’m very sorry to hear it. Does it cause you much trouble?”

“Not really, not now. Bit of a limp, I expect you saw that when I came in. And it gets sore sometimes if I overdo it. But it doesn’t stop me helping, out in the garden.”

Aha. Got him. “Ah, so you do some gardening then?”

Again there’s that humourous glint. He knows exactly what I’ve done. “Yeah. Been helping Fred – he’s the head gardener – for a few months now. At first I didn’t know one end of a spade from the other but he’s been teaching me. Mostly it’s just good hard work and I’m good at that.”

“You said ‘mostly’?”

“Yeah, well, Fred’s been teaching me some stuff about the plants, too. Didn’t think I’d like that at first, messing about with seeds and stuff, but it’s quite… therapeutic. You know.”

“Actually, yes, I do know. I have a potting shed at home and can lose myself in there for hours.”

“Same here, mate.” He grins suddenly. It lights up his whole face and turns him into a different person. He may be the strong, silent type but I can see that if I get him talking about his beloved garden the interview may not be a complete loss after all.

“You mentioned something about garden design in your letter.”

“I don’t know much about it, but I’m keen to learn. The garden up at the Towers used to be beautiful, years ago. I’d like to bring it back to its former glory.”

“I see. You sound as if you’re speaking from experience, Mr Brook!”

I mean it as a joke, but suddenly the barriers come down. He takes a long drag on his cigarette, holding the smoke in his lungs, and shoots me a glance under that dangling fringe. In the end he says, “You can see bits of the old design where it isn’t so overgrown. And Elsie – one of the cleaning ladies at the Towers – says she’s got some old photographs of the place that show how it used to look.” I get the impression he’s something holding back, but this is a job interview, not an interrogation. If he wants to keep his secrets, he can.

“Why do you want to stay here at Partington?” I ask. “It’s very isolated. I’d have thought it would be lonely for a young chap like you. Do you have family or friends in the area?”

His mouth pulls into a scowl. “Family? Nope. They kicked me out years ago. I’ve made a few friends, though.”

“Someone special, perhaps?”

Once again the reaction isn’t quite what I expect. Is that a blush? “Dunno,” he mumbles, stubbing out his cigarette and lighting another. “I mean, I thought there was. Now I’m not so sure.” His gaze, unexpectedly, goes to the kitchen, where a young man in a chef’s hat is busy chopping carrots for soup. Then he catches me looking, and this time he really does blush.

“If it’s any consolation,” I say, “I’ve been living with another man for the last twenty-one years.”

“Sorry. It’s just… I’m not used to being out of the army yet. Always had to cover it up. Is it that obvious?”

“That you’re gay? Not really. That it makes you uncomfortable? Very much so.”

A car door slams outside the café and he winces. I realise that there’s more to his problems than just a badly broken leg. The reason he can’t travel, presumably?

Again he catches me looking. “Sorry. Bit jumpy this morning. Interview nerves, you know.”

“I’m sorry to have to ask this, Mr Brook, but will that be a problem if you come and work for us?”

“I don’t think so,” he says slowly. “It never bothers me when I’m out in the garden because there’s so much space. And it’s getting better every day. Should have been over it by now, really, only I had a relapse earlier in the year. A… close friend of mine died. It knocked the stuffing out of me for a bit.”

“I’m sorry to hear that. It’s never easy losing a loved one. Well, Mr Brook, thank you for your time. I think I have everything I need for now, but we’ll contact you again in the next few weeks.”

He stands up, takes my hand again, and looks me straight in the eyes. “I’ve blown it, haven’t I? Old war-horse with a gammy leg and the shakes, who chases after men. I can’t see the Trust employing me, can you?”

I smile. “You might be surprised, Mr Brook.”