Boundary Lines
by Karen Jones
Genre: Drama
Swearwords: None.
Description: A brief moment of connection is all some people every really need or want.
_____________________________________________________________________
Archie sees Stella from his window and stamps his foot, having a tiny tantrum no one else can see. He wanted to work in his garden today, but she’s in her garden, weeding, and he hates working side by side with Stella.
She’s wearing a long, floaty, floral dress that disguises her bulk, high-heeled shoes, a hat and white gloves – not gardening gloves, not a sun hat – the kind of gloves and hat women used to wear to go to church. Her red lipstick-smeared mouth and jet black hair curled forward onto her moon face give her the appearance of a child’s nightmarish doll. She gives him the creeps.
And she ignores him. He tried being friendly once – no, not friendly, neighbourly – he smiled and nodded, an acknowledgement of her existence. She tipped the brim of her hat forward and turned the other way.
But he can’t help staring at her, wondering why she dresses this way for manual labour. She must have dozens of pairs of those gloves, each pair ruined after a day separating weed from soil. The heeled shoes mean she has to unstick herself from the wet earth when she moves to a new patch of garden. She has to hitch up her fancy dress when she kneels down, when she saves her back from bending and her dress from grass streaks.
He’s seen her leave for work before and she wears ordinary clothes. He’s seen her leave to go shopping wearing jeans and jumpers that emphasise rather than conceal her size. But when she gardens she dresses as if for a wedding.
Annoyance huffs out of his mouth. Spring is here and there’s so much to prepare for the abundance of the summer months. It’s a beautiful day, temperature perfect for working, and the soil is soft thanks to the preceding week of rain. When will he get a better chance? To hell with Stella. He’ll work as far away from her as possible. He’ll take his radio out with him, turn it up loud enough to drown out her silence.
He lets the flimsy, dusty curtain fall from his fingers and goes upstairs to change into his gardening clothes.
*****
Stella can feel him watching her. She hopes he isn’t going to come out. He’s so brutal with his plants and lawn, everything trimmed back to almost death. His garden is for vegetables and herbs, for practical use only. He can’t tell a wild flower from a weed and murders nature petal by petal as she winces and wishes she could tell him to stop.
She smoothes down her dress with her mud-smeared gloves, tiny grains of dirt mixing with the floral pattern, making the dress look like a living, breathing garden. It makes her feel alive, vibrant. The only thing that does these days. With a little effort she unsticks her heels from the grass and moves closer to the side of the house where it’s more difficult for him to spy on her.
When he’s outside he makes everything seem so functional. He drains the beauty from the world with his filthy dungarees, his boiled-egg belly pushing at the fabric, straining the straps around his hunched shoulders. His big boots trample the earth and leave gouges in the planting areas. He wears the same clothes, unwashed, every time. They must be very heavy now.
He smiled at her one day, his mouth displaying so many missing teeth he looked like a defaced poster on a bus shelter. Any gentle wind blows the straw-like tendrils of his sweep-over into his eyes, down the back of his head, over one ear – anywhere but over the polished dome he wants to conceal. She didn’t return his smile that day. She didn’t meant to be rude, she just prefers to avoid people. If she doesn’t make connections, she can’t be hurt again. She hears his door open, sighs and turns her back to his house.
****
Archie glares at Stella’s back. She needn’t turn away; he’s learned his lesson and won’t speak to her again. He should fix the fence. It’s been broken since as far back as he can remember, their gardens separated only by the remnants of the old, rotted posts, but he can’t fix it, replace it, without talking to her, and she won’t talk. He’d love to make it six-feet high, block her out, but he’ll be as stubborn as she is and the lines between them will remain officially undrawn.
He sets his radio on top of the recycling bin and tunes it to an easy listening station. As the music starts he sees her straighten up, hears her tut and sigh. It’s the closest he’s ever come to hearing her speak. He enjoys her discomfort but he’s here to work, and the music is there to drown out her disdain. He turns up the volume and picks up his spade.
He works until his back hurts, his hands feel raw, his breath comes in shallow, rasping gasps. He digs the spade far enough into the earth to wedge it upright and turns towards his kitchen. He sees Stella kneeling at a flower bed, dainty gloves plucking troublesome weeds. He shakes his head. If she was anyone else he’d offer her a drink, they’d trade gardening woes and tips. If Ada was still alive, would she and Stella be friends? Somehow he doubts even his Ada – and everyone loved Ada - could have got through to Stella.
****
The radio annoys her, disturbs her peace. She doesn’t listen to music anymore, just as she doesn’t socialise anymore. Entertainment is pointless, its effect ephemeral, and people let you down, abandon you – she needs something she can see, touch, tend. Her control of her flowers may not be complete, but it’s close enough. She dresses for her garden, to reflect its beauty, be part of its perfection. Since her husband left, she has no one and nothing else to dress for, so why not?
Archie is a noisy gardener – all huffs and puffs and groans and moans and creaking knees and sharp edged spade. She prefers silence, her trowel teasing, her gloved hands manoeuvring, her touch gentle. She’s rarely out of breath because she takes her time. Where’s the hurry? This is the only true lifetime commitment.
She hears Archie come out of his kitchen, boots stomping, mouth slurping at beer. She shudders.
****
The beer is cold and he slugs it down in half a dozen grateful gulps, drops trickling down his mouth and chin, making uneven tracks in his mud-smeared face.
Back to toil. He turns the radio up a few notches and doesn’t bother to check if she has reacted. He’s in work mode and nothing else matters.
He’s almost ready for planting vegetables when the song starts. A waltz. It’s been years since he danced, years since he had the courage to ask anyone since Ada went. He feels his feet twitch, seeking out the familiar patterns of the moves. Something catches his eye. Stella. Stella standing up, swaying slightly, secateurs clutched to her breast, dress flowing, eyes closed, but facing him for once.
Without thinking he moves towards her, tentatively places one hand on her waist. She jerks in surprise, but doesn’t open her eyes. Instead, she reaches for his other hand and nods. He looks around, self-conscious, but no one else can see them. They move together. He waits for her eyes to open, but they never do. They fit so perfectly, it’s like they’re one body, treading softly, dancing lightly, floating around her patio. When he feels the end of the song approach he doesn’t want it to stop, wants to dash back and find another waltz. Does she feel the same?
The DJ’s voice breaks the spell with a bad joke and a cut to traffic news. She drops his hand and turns away. He walks back to his garden, head bowed.
****
Stella holds her breath until he moves away. She doesn’t know why she let him, why she cooperated, why that song had to play just then. Now all she can feel is the ghost of his beery breath on her neck, his muddy hands on her dress, his sweat leaving stains and stench.
She goes into her house and finds her favourite notepaper, the pretty pages with the floral edges. She’s been meaning to get the fence repaired, or, better still, a higher one erected. She can’t do it without his permission. She’ll send him a note, drop it through his letter box when he’s asleep, no more personal contact need ever be made, then everything will go back to being perfect. Stella doesn't like distractions. Good manners, a garden, a new fence and to be left alone is all she needs.
Swearwords: None.
Description: A brief moment of connection is all some people every really need or want.
_____________________________________________________________________
Archie sees Stella from his window and stamps his foot, having a tiny tantrum no one else can see. He wanted to work in his garden today, but she’s in her garden, weeding, and he hates working side by side with Stella.
She’s wearing a long, floaty, floral dress that disguises her bulk, high-heeled shoes, a hat and white gloves – not gardening gloves, not a sun hat – the kind of gloves and hat women used to wear to go to church. Her red lipstick-smeared mouth and jet black hair curled forward onto her moon face give her the appearance of a child’s nightmarish doll. She gives him the creeps.
And she ignores him. He tried being friendly once – no, not friendly, neighbourly – he smiled and nodded, an acknowledgement of her existence. She tipped the brim of her hat forward and turned the other way.
But he can’t help staring at her, wondering why she dresses this way for manual labour. She must have dozens of pairs of those gloves, each pair ruined after a day separating weed from soil. The heeled shoes mean she has to unstick herself from the wet earth when she moves to a new patch of garden. She has to hitch up her fancy dress when she kneels down, when she saves her back from bending and her dress from grass streaks.
He’s seen her leave for work before and she wears ordinary clothes. He’s seen her leave to go shopping wearing jeans and jumpers that emphasise rather than conceal her size. But when she gardens she dresses as if for a wedding.
Annoyance huffs out of his mouth. Spring is here and there’s so much to prepare for the abundance of the summer months. It’s a beautiful day, temperature perfect for working, and the soil is soft thanks to the preceding week of rain. When will he get a better chance? To hell with Stella. He’ll work as far away from her as possible. He’ll take his radio out with him, turn it up loud enough to drown out her silence.
He lets the flimsy, dusty curtain fall from his fingers and goes upstairs to change into his gardening clothes.
*****
Stella can feel him watching her. She hopes he isn’t going to come out. He’s so brutal with his plants and lawn, everything trimmed back to almost death. His garden is for vegetables and herbs, for practical use only. He can’t tell a wild flower from a weed and murders nature petal by petal as she winces and wishes she could tell him to stop.
She smoothes down her dress with her mud-smeared gloves, tiny grains of dirt mixing with the floral pattern, making the dress look like a living, breathing garden. It makes her feel alive, vibrant. The only thing that does these days. With a little effort she unsticks her heels from the grass and moves closer to the side of the house where it’s more difficult for him to spy on her.
When he’s outside he makes everything seem so functional. He drains the beauty from the world with his filthy dungarees, his boiled-egg belly pushing at the fabric, straining the straps around his hunched shoulders. His big boots trample the earth and leave gouges in the planting areas. He wears the same clothes, unwashed, every time. They must be very heavy now.
He smiled at her one day, his mouth displaying so many missing teeth he looked like a defaced poster on a bus shelter. Any gentle wind blows the straw-like tendrils of his sweep-over into his eyes, down the back of his head, over one ear – anywhere but over the polished dome he wants to conceal. She didn’t return his smile that day. She didn’t meant to be rude, she just prefers to avoid people. If she doesn’t make connections, she can’t be hurt again. She hears his door open, sighs and turns her back to his house.
****
Archie glares at Stella’s back. She needn’t turn away; he’s learned his lesson and won’t speak to her again. He should fix the fence. It’s been broken since as far back as he can remember, their gardens separated only by the remnants of the old, rotted posts, but he can’t fix it, replace it, without talking to her, and she won’t talk. He’d love to make it six-feet high, block her out, but he’ll be as stubborn as she is and the lines between them will remain officially undrawn.
He sets his radio on top of the recycling bin and tunes it to an easy listening station. As the music starts he sees her straighten up, hears her tut and sigh. It’s the closest he’s ever come to hearing her speak. He enjoys her discomfort but he’s here to work, and the music is there to drown out her disdain. He turns up the volume and picks up his spade.
He works until his back hurts, his hands feel raw, his breath comes in shallow, rasping gasps. He digs the spade far enough into the earth to wedge it upright and turns towards his kitchen. He sees Stella kneeling at a flower bed, dainty gloves plucking troublesome weeds. He shakes his head. If she was anyone else he’d offer her a drink, they’d trade gardening woes and tips. If Ada was still alive, would she and Stella be friends? Somehow he doubts even his Ada – and everyone loved Ada - could have got through to Stella.
****
The radio annoys her, disturbs her peace. She doesn’t listen to music anymore, just as she doesn’t socialise anymore. Entertainment is pointless, its effect ephemeral, and people let you down, abandon you – she needs something she can see, touch, tend. Her control of her flowers may not be complete, but it’s close enough. She dresses for her garden, to reflect its beauty, be part of its perfection. Since her husband left, she has no one and nothing else to dress for, so why not?
Archie is a noisy gardener – all huffs and puffs and groans and moans and creaking knees and sharp edged spade. She prefers silence, her trowel teasing, her gloved hands manoeuvring, her touch gentle. She’s rarely out of breath because she takes her time. Where’s the hurry? This is the only true lifetime commitment.
She hears Archie come out of his kitchen, boots stomping, mouth slurping at beer. She shudders.
****
The beer is cold and he slugs it down in half a dozen grateful gulps, drops trickling down his mouth and chin, making uneven tracks in his mud-smeared face.
Back to toil. He turns the radio up a few notches and doesn’t bother to check if she has reacted. He’s in work mode and nothing else matters.
He’s almost ready for planting vegetables when the song starts. A waltz. It’s been years since he danced, years since he had the courage to ask anyone since Ada went. He feels his feet twitch, seeking out the familiar patterns of the moves. Something catches his eye. Stella. Stella standing up, swaying slightly, secateurs clutched to her breast, dress flowing, eyes closed, but facing him for once.
Without thinking he moves towards her, tentatively places one hand on her waist. She jerks in surprise, but doesn’t open her eyes. Instead, she reaches for his other hand and nods. He looks around, self-conscious, but no one else can see them. They move together. He waits for her eyes to open, but they never do. They fit so perfectly, it’s like they’re one body, treading softly, dancing lightly, floating around her patio. When he feels the end of the song approach he doesn’t want it to stop, wants to dash back and find another waltz. Does she feel the same?
The DJ’s voice breaks the spell with a bad joke and a cut to traffic news. She drops his hand and turns away. He walks back to his garden, head bowed.
****
Stella holds her breath until he moves away. She doesn’t know why she let him, why she cooperated, why that song had to play just then. Now all she can feel is the ghost of his beery breath on her neck, his muddy hands on her dress, his sweat leaving stains and stench.
She goes into her house and finds her favourite notepaper, the pretty pages with the floral edges. She’s been meaning to get the fence repaired, or, better still, a higher one erected. She can’t do it without his permission. She’ll send him a note, drop it through his letter box when he’s asleep, no more personal contact need ever be made, then everything will go back to being perfect. Stella doesn't like distractions. Good manners, a garden, a new fence and to be left alone is all she needs.
About the Author
Karen Jones is from Glasgow. Her stories have appeared in numerous
magazines and anthologies. She is
addicted to short story competitions and has been successful in Mslexia, Flash 500, Spilling Ink, The New Writer, Writers Forum and Words With
Jam. She is also addicted to zumba
and yoga, which are far healthier and stress-free.
Karen’s short story collection, The Upside-Down Jesus and other stories, is available from Amazon: http://www.amazon.co.uk/The-Upside-Down-Jesus-other-stories/dp/1291771557
Karen’s short story collection, The Upside-Down Jesus and other stories, is available from Amazon: http://www.amazon.co.uk/The-Upside-Down-Jesus-other-stories/dp/1291771557