The Smell of Old Peoples Home
Do you know what you smell of? An old peoples home. Camphor and age. I cant do this anymore.
Joanna stands by the window, looking out into the garden where next doors ginger cat tiptoes carefully around a puddle. Her husbands words drift across the kitchen as though through cotton wool, and she doesnt turn straight away. But eventually, she does.
Richard stands in the middle of the kitchen, a fresh blue shirt on*that* blue shirt she bought him from the market in April, after he complained he needed something light, that wouldnt crease. Shed spent ages at the stall, stroking the fabric, asking the woman about the material, while Richard had waited in the car, listening to the radio.
Joanna, did you hear me? he asks.
I heard, Joanna replies, and her voice is even, surprising even herself.
Richard places his sports bag on the chaira big, blue one with some firms logo on it. Joanna knows the bag. Its been in the cupboard, beneath the ski boots that havent been touched in eight years.
Im leaving, he says. We both know its been coming for a while.
Joanna looks at the bag. Then his hands, which are perfectly calmno fidgeting, no avoiding her eye. He decided all this ages ago. Now hes only saying out loud what hes already done.
A while, she echoes.
Yes. He shrugs. Jo, I dont want a row. Were just not the same people anymore. Youre always here, with Mum, the pills, the smell. I cant live in this.
The smell. She thinks about it. For five years now shes woken at six, because Edna Whitea third parent in everything but namewakes then. Because thats how it is, with someone elses poorly body, running by its own timer. Five years of camphor oil, incontinence padsabsorbent mats to be politefive years of coughing behind the wall, nighttime ambulances. Five years with her own work gathering dust in folders on the studio desk, where she hardly enters anymore. No time. No one else left. Her husband had said so himself: Joanna, theres no one else, is there?
There wasnt.
Are you going right now? she asks.
Yes.
All right.
He looks at her, expecting tears, a shout, the classic who is she? She doesnt ask. Not because she doesnt know, but because, now, it seems so far beside the point.
Richard picks up his bag, stands at the door a moment.
Ill leave the keys on the little table.
Fine, she nods.
The lock clicks. Then the front door slams, four flights downthe sound is as familiar to Joanna as her own heartbeat. Now silence descends; not the usual hush, but a new, almost showy quiet. Like the silence after a TV thats been on so long youve forgotten the noise, and only notice the hum once its gone.
Joanna looks at the keys, where the bag stood, now gone.
She returns to the kitchen, tops up the kettle.
Five years ago, Edna had her stroke at their kitchen table, at Richards birthday lunch. Joanna had baked a cherry pie, Edna said, lovely, then dropped her fork and looked at Joanna with such a gaze that the meaning was instantly plain. Joanna called the ambulance, sat in the car, held a hand that no longer squeezed back. Richard had been at a work do, only picked up on the third call.
Later, doctors explained it was partial paralysis down the left side. Long road back. Always somebody needed. Richard said, Youre not working properly at the moment, Jo. Your projects its not like its the main income. Joanna hadnt argued, packed her drawing folders in a box, and left them in the studio.
The kettle boils. Joanna makes tea and stands at the window. The cats gone. The puddle remains.
She barely leaves the house for three daysnot because she cant, but because she doesnt know where shed go. Her routine is all she knows: six oclock rise, half-seven medicine, ten breakfast, one lunch, walk round the garden at four, bedtime at seven. Now, without a timetable, her bodys lost at sea.
She walks room to roomsees the wheelchair by the big window, bags of pads under the bed, the medicine box labelled in her own hand: morning, evening, if blood pressure. Edna passed away three months ago, peacefully, in her sleep; but all her bits and pieces remain, undisturbed because Richard never touched them and Joanna could not bring herself.
On the fourth day, she fetches three large black bin bags, and begins.
She works methodically; pads, bed mats, tubes, gloves, all into the bags. Then the medicines, packet after packet. Dismantling the wheelchair is the hardestshe remembers pushing it through the garden, Edna gazing at trees with the solemn wonder of someone who knows theyre looking for the last time. Joanna takes it apart, bit by bit, and carries it down to the bins in three trips.
Then she stands under the shower, hot water burning.
In the steamed-over mirror, she sees herself, at last. Not a carer, nor a wife, nor a not-quite-daughter; just a fifty-two-year-old woman, wet hair threaded with new grey, forgotten dyes, because who was there to notice?
On the fifth morning, she rings the salon.
The hairdresser is Sally, early thirties, quick and assured. When Joanna explains she wants it shorter, something to do about the colour, Sally just studies her in the mirror the way a good GP mighta serious, appraising look.
Youve a lovely natural shade, she says at last. Ill put a few highlights through, so the grey blends in. Soften things up. And well leave a bit of lengthshow off your neck. Youve got a graceful neck.
Go ahead, says Joanna.
Two hours in the chair, watching another woman emerge in the glass. Not new, but herstripped clean of what had accumulated, become invisible.
When Joanna steps out, a cold October wind ruffles her fresh, short hair. She stands for a moment on the pavement, marvelling at the feel of wind in her hair: how longs it been, since she paused in the street, with nowhere to rush? Always hurrying: chemist, home, surgery.
Now? No hurry at all.
She buys a takeaway coffee from the corner shop and walks for its own sake.
The divorce takes four months.
Richard arrives at the court with a brisk young solicitor in an expensive jacket, talking fast and looking over everyones head. Joanna comes alone. Its not a statement; she simply cant see the point in fighting for anything.
At the second hearing, Richard brings her. She looks thirty-five, maybe lessponytail, check coat, heels. She stands to one side, glued to her phone. Joanna watches her glance upquick, expressionless, as youd glance at a stranger in a queue.
Joanna notes the absence of superiority; just a stranger.
Joanna, Richard says quietly. We should talk about the house.
No, she says.
But
Richard. She looks calm. I want the studio. Just the studio, like before. You can have the house, the car, the lotanything else.
A pause.
Are you sure? he asks.
Im sure.
The solicitor scribbles away. Richard gives her a look Joanna cant quite read, then realises: he expects her to haggle. To clutch at him and count years, to bring up Edna and what she sacrificed.
She doesnt. Not because she cant, but because she refuses the whole performance. No justifying, no sobbing, no mention of burdens that never get paid back.
The studio sits above a flower shop on Garden Street, just two rooms and a high north window. Joanna bought it at thirty-four, the first thing she did after qualifying, with three years hard savings. Now theres her old, battered drawing board; shelves of portfolios; pots of plants, green as ever on the windowsill.
Its here she spends the first night, after the judge signs off the divorce.
She lies on the pull-out sofa and stares at the ceiling, wonderingwhat now?
Theres no answer. But that, strangely, doesnt scare her.
Her first call is to Green Haven Landscaping, where she freelanced years ago. The secretary is pleased to hear her, connects her with David Parker. David is polite but careful: Joanna, after five years off, the worlds moved ontech has, clients have. Were looking for people who can just jump straight in
I understand, she says.
If something changes, well call.
She knows they wont.
The next is to a private studio, where old schoolmate Mandy now works. Mandys happy to hear from hergenuinely sobut after five minutes, she too is talking about different skills needed, young designers with fresh tools, you know, tight competition these days.
The third call Joanna makes without hope, to the councils parks department. Theyre fully staffed.
She leans back and looks at Novembers bare trees and passers-by under turned-up collars. Five years, it turns out, is a lifetimenot just inside her, though it feels that way, but outside too. Someones claimed that chair she left, even if shed done it properly and gently closed the door.
Joanna opens her laptop, scrolls through design programmes, newer than any shes used. Reads till two, sips endless tea, notes things in her book. Some is utterly alien, but much is familiar, just under slicker names.
In December, she finds work. Not what she wants, not yet, but its honestan assistant at a small nursery on the edge of town. The owner, Mrs. Vernon, a brisk, compact woman, judges people and plants solely by their usefulness.
Do you know your way around plants? Mrs. Vernon asks on their first meeting.
I do.
Then youre in. The pays not much, but the works hands-on.
It is, rooted and real: coming in at eight, sorting seedlings, advising customers. Not her dream, but its life: earth under nails, a whiff of leaf mould and peat, straight lines of pots all growing on.
Its at the nursery that she hears about the old glasshouse.
Mrs. Vernon mentions, almost in passing, that the old botanical garden up River Lane still has its derelict glasshouse. Some new managers trying to make a go of it, but no one to help.
Joanna worries at the thought for days. Then, one Sunday, wraps up in her new coat and cycles over.
The glasshouse sits deep in a park behind the oaksthe first thing she sees is all the glass, smeared with rain, half clouded, backing green life just visible within. The frame is rusting, panes patched with ply. Leaves crowd the path to the door.
But inside
Inside is chaos: wild, living chaos. Plants stretching wherever theres sun, some spilled over, creepers grabbing onto any support, climbing to the roof. Orange trees glowing with little fruit; huge palms outgrowing their tubs. Orchids, neglected but stubborn, crowd along the wooden shelves.
Joanna stands in the damp-warm air, something inside her uncoiling.
Did you have an appointment?
She turns. A small, elderly man in an old woolly jumper and spectacles on his head. His hands, even at rest, betray a lifetime with plants.
No, she says. I just saw it and came in. If its not allowed, Ill go.
No reason why not. He introduces himself. Im Colin Simmons. The manager, or what passes for one.
Joanna White. Landscape designer Well, with a five-year gap.
He falls quieta silence of thought rather than judgement.
Come on, Ill show you round, he says.
They walk for nearly two hours. Colin explains what once was, whats left, failed repairs, endless temporary measures. Seven years closed for refurbishment; management changed; left in limbo, neither derelict nor open.
He comes daily by himself: waters, feeds, keeps the place alive. Alone.
I can help, Joanna offers.
No money as yet.
Im not worried.
He studies her a moment.
Then come Thursday.
She comes. And again, and again, until the nursery is forgotten, Mrs. Vernon wishing her wellYour brains meant for more than potting up seedlings, love.
The glasshouse becomes her projecther first, real project in five years.
Methodical as ever, she catalogues every plant, noting type, condition, needs. Three weeks, pages and diagrams, every bit as thorough as old project plans, except nowliving things.
Then she starts designing the space. At four hundred square metres, its an overgrown jumble of pots, no paths, no system, no logic. Joanna sketches by hand, pencil and paper in the studio at nightan instinct from school that helps her think.
Colin looks over her work, nods thoughtfully.
I reckoned we should zone the citrus here, she says. They like it a bit drier, plus the scent
The scent, thats magic, he agrees. Makes all the difference in winter.
High palms at the centre for the height, underplanted with tropical shrubs, a path winding through at waist height.
A paths goodpeople can walk about.
Theyll come. Youll see, says Joanna. She says it with conviction. She knows: people seek out spaces made with real thought, real care.
Winter passes in hard work. Joanna brings plants in, negotiates with suppliers, puts her own divorce settlement towards replacements, fixes the glass where she can, finds handymen. Colin handles the day-to-day: tending, watering, chatting quietly to the plants.
In January, for the first time in years, she calls her friend Ruth.
Ruth is still living in their old college house, and starts with a suspicious silence: You alive?
Im alive.
Thank God. Where have you been?
Its a long story. Are you in?
Scoffing dumplings in the kitchen. Come round.
Joanna does. They drink tea, then something stronger. Joanna tells her everything. Ruth just listens, rare and vital, saying only the occasional yeah, blimey. Its precisely what Joanna needs.
Does Richard know you work at the glasshouse? Ruth asks eventually.
Whats it to him?
Nothing. Just wondered. Ruth pours more tea. So, Joanna, reallyhow are you?
Joanna thinks for a while.
Honestly? First time in ages, Im alright.
Ruth nods; they dont mention it again.
February brings a surprise.
Joannas setting out new plants, a few pots of geraniums, a huge rosemary bush from the nursery, when a man comes in. Late fifties, jacket, clipboard under his arm, broad and quietly attentive.
Sorry, he says, Is Colin around?
Just back by the palms, Joanna gestures.
He lingers. The place is looking good. Saw it half a year backwhole different story.
Different, Joanna agrees.
Thanks to you?
Me and Colin, both.
But the plan is yours. Not a question.
She studies him; hes watching the layout, not her, with the eye of someone who understands form as well as beauty.
And you are?
Alec Turner. Engineer. Roof needed work, you know. Were fixing leaks at sections three and seven.
Ah. Knew they were the trouble spots.
He looks at her, interested. Howd you know?
Im here every day.
He disappears to find Colin. Reappears, on his way out, with more papers. Pauses.
Can I askare these oranges going to flower by spring? He nods to the far tub.
If it stays warm, Joanna says. The buds will swelltiny, dark green. When you see those, wait three weeks for flowers.
He nods. Thanks.
Colin emerges. A good sort, he says, nodding after Alec. Been looking after us two years. Wont give up on a job.
They talk shop before parting. Afterwards, Joanna is left pondering. When, she wonders, did someone last talk to her about her work with such attentionnot oh, pretty plants, but understanding movement, structure?
March brings the first visitors. She and Colin put up a notice on the park gates, another online. The first weekend, seven visitors. By the next, thirty. People stroll the new paths, sniff citrus, take phone snaps of the palms. An older woman lingers by the rosemary and says, My nan had one just like this.
Its working, Colin whispers.
It is, Joanna smiles.
He returns later, excited. Managements signed off a little wage. Not much, but official. Head of Horticulture, if you like.
Fine, Joanna says.
Fine means something different now. Not good enough but truly that: just fine.
In April, Alec invites her to coffee.
Not a date, just, Lets grab one nearby, youve worked straight through all lunch. He tells her about his daughter in Newcastle; divorce long behind him; travelling for work, enjoying the change of scene.
Why only old buildings? Joanna asks.
Theres a history in them, Alec replies. When I walk in, you seecountless hands have left their mark. Someone designed it, someone built, someone restored, someone saved. Not a one-man job. Its a conversation, over decades.
Joanna stares out: What about glasshouses?
Special places. That conversation isnt over. Theyre alive.
She looks at him, and what she sees is only attention. Honest, quiet attention.
They chat another hour. Alec walks her back to the glasshouse, bidding her goodbye at the gate.
Ill come tomorrowtheres a joint in section three needs double-checking.
Okay.
As he walks away, Joanna realises how, with him, breathing is easier. Not because he does anything, simply by being there.
When she mentions Alec to Ruth one May evening, Ruth is instantly nosy. Is this serious, then?
Ruth
What, Im asking!
I dont know. Not yet.
And him?
I havent asked.
Oh, Joanna White! Ruth throws her hands up. Fifty-two and
Fifty-three, Joanna laughs.
Even more reason! Ask him.
Joanna laughs and feels the release of laughter for its own sake.
News of Richard reaches her from mutual friends: phone calls with that careful, sideways tone people use for uncertain news.
First, its Nina from the old block
Jo, just thought you should hear the woman with him, Alice? Shes left. Packed up in May, gone. Dont know if it was about kids, or what exactly.
Alright, says Joanna.
You alright with that?
Im fine, Nina. Thanks for letting me know.
Then a call from Richards old colleague, Tonystill in touch with both, somehow, after the divorce.
Jo, lookRichards left the firm. Not yesterday, a few months back. Sorry, didnt know if youd care.
Why mention it now?
Pause.
He rang me. A lot. Not having a good time, really.
Joanna speaks evenly: Im glad youre his friend, Tony. Thats important. Butits not really my concern, is it?
Probably not. Sorry.
She hangs up, heads to water the glasshouse. Its June; from the old park beyond, lilac is in bloom, inside the new air con hums. The orange trees have finished flowering; the palms stand vast and unamazed.
Does she think about Richard? Sometimes. She remembers good timesof course she does. The first years were happy until something shifted, almost imperceptibly, as these things do. Not a single moment, not a wordbut the cumulative effect of small choices. A little less attention. More irritation. Fewer How are you? from either side. She retreated, disappearing, absorbed by caring, until even her own presence faded.
But thenhis words. The smell of an old peoples home.
She puts the watering can down by the lemon trees, studies their glossy, bright leaves.
That hurt. Those words arent what you say to leavetheyre to ensure the person left feels it was all their fault.
But she picks up the watering can and gets on with it.
Alec starts dropping by more often. Sometimes official, sometimes just in. Conversation rich: work, cities, books (even if different ones). One day he brings figs from the market for the glasshousemaybe theyll take. Colin is delighted; Joanna explains care.
And she realiseshes listening. Not impatient to speak. Actually listening.
In July, they go to the architectural exhibition in town. Alec knows half the faces, tells Joanna stories: who built what, how it went wrong, who rescued whom. Its lively, and grounded.
When did you switch to restoration? she asks.
Forty. Before that, new builds. But the old placesmistakes and allare more interesting.
Why?
Mistakes in old buildings are human, not design. When you find them, its like a conversation over centurieswith the builder, architect, engineer long gone. Odd, but comforting.
She thinks about that for days. Maybe thats how to hold your past: not as a defeat, but as a set of old errors you can understand, not just condemn.
The summer bakes the park. The glasshouse becomes a draw: guided walks, school visits, kids workshopsMrs. Robinson from next door school now brings a group every other Tuesday. Colin beams.
Its you, you know. All you.
Its us, Joanna insists, but Colin shakes his head.
She has her own desk in the corner now, with laptop and files, drawing plans for an expansionadjoining rooms could be educational space, a workshop, somewhere for children. Her research has found two grants that might fit; Colin pores over the terms, glasses perched on his nose as if the fate of science depended on them.
September. Her phone buzzes one evening. The number she hasnt deletedRichard.
She leaves it a few moments, then answers.
Yes?
Joanna. Are you busy?
I am. Is something wrong?
Nonothings wrong. I I need to see you.
What for?
I just need to talk, Jo. Please.
She stands at her studio window. The skys drifting to autumn dusk, streams of people walking home, some with bags, some alone.
Richard. What is there to say?
Plenty. Jo, I Its not easy for me. I just want you to listen.
Im listening now.
No, in person. Please. May I come to you? Where do you work?
She hesitates.
Glasshouse on River Lane. During opening hours.
And hangs up.
He arrives, late October, ordinary Tuesday, half one. Joannas arranging a new display for the orchids. She hears unfamiliar footsteps, looks up.
Richard walks up the path, a bunch of supermarket chrysanthemums in his hand. The cellophane crinkling awkwardly in his griplike flowers are a foreign thing.
She looks at him, realises: fifty-six, a touch heavier, eyes lacking the lightness he wore that first leaving Sunday.
Hello, he says.
Hello.
He glances around. Looks beautiful in here.
I know.
He holds out the flowers.
These are for you.
She takes them, then: Thanks. Come on, theres a table.
They sit in the visitor area, just two wicker chairs, a little rack of gardening magazines. Colin quietly absents himself deeper into the glasshouse.
You look well, Richard says eventually.
Thank you.
No, I mean really well. I havent seen you like this
Like what?
Alive. It seems this startles even him. You were always a bit lost in the caring, the routine. You arent the same.
I am, says Joanna softly.
No. Not the same.
She leaves the silence to settle, gazing at the oranges and green leaves.
Joanna, Richard begins, I know what I did. What I said, too. It was it was wrong.
Yes, she says simply.
I was I panicked. I thought I wanted something elsesomething easier. But it wasnt that. I just
Were scared, she finishes.
He looks up.
Of what?
Of getting older. Of illness round you. Life not being like an advert. Thats human, Richard. I get it.
I didnt know you thought like that.
I didnt, straight away. It grew.
He looks down, sits quietly. Outside, the wind stirs leaves across the path.
Jo I want to come back. I knowhow that sounds. But Im asking. Will you at least think about it?
Joanna knows her answer has been waiting inside for ages, unsaid.
Richard, I dont resent you. Truly. No anger left nowjust understanding. Youre not a villain. You did what you could manage.
So is there a chance?
No.
He takes that in.
Why not?
Because my choice is different.
Whats your choice?
She gestures around. This. The glasshouse, this job, this space. Myself.
He doesnt look hurt, just accepting.
And the engineer? Colin mentioned someone comes by.
Colin says a lot. Its not your question anymore.
He nods, stands. Right. Well you were the best wife I could have had. I just didnt know how lucky I was.
I know. Joanna stands too. I need to get back. If you want, Ill show you round the glasshouseworth seeing.
He looks at her, really looks.
No. Thank you. Best wishes, Jo.
And you.
He leaves.
Joanna stands with the flowers, finds a vase in the corner, fills it, and arranges them. Chrysanthemumssuch long-lasting flowers, given water. Good flowers.
Colin reappears, tactful as ever, as if hes not heard a word (although sound travels well in glasshouses).
Fancy some tea? he asks.
Yes, please.
They drink quietly in the corner while Colin discusses the idea of keeping citrus butterflies in the glasshouse over summerthe children would love it. Joanna listens, thinking it is a good plan.
October fades into November. Joanna hurls herself into her project, submits her grant application, and is elated to discover its preliminarily accepted. Colin is so thrilled he buys a cake, which they eat over the desk, crumbs getting on her sketches, laughing as they brush them off.
Alecs visits increase; sometimes just for her.
One day, he brings mulled wine in a flask, Well, it is November.
How do you know I wont mind? Joanna teases.
Oh, youd say so if you did.
She laughs.
They take their warm glasses to the chairs by the door; outside, bleak sticks fill the park, but within, the scent of cloves and orange floats on the mist.
Tell me about the expansion plan, Alec asks.
She does, full of enthusiasm and diagrams, talking through concepts. He listens, questions, sometimes, Wait, as he checks something on his tabletconstructive, knowledgeable discussion, businesslike and deeply respectful.
You could put in a double-glazed roof here, he says. It would help the condensation. I saw it done at a glasshouse in Cumbria, much the same weather problems.
And the supports, will they take the weight?
Ill check, if youd like.
Id like that a lot.
He looks, not at the drawing, but at her.
I like talking with you, Joanna.
Shes quiet a moment.
I like it too.
Something shifts in the light. She looks out the window.
Snow.
First, hesitant snow, little flakes melting nearly as they fall, yet settling on benches, the parks bones. Even the light becomes white and soft.
Snow, eh? Alec says.
Yes.
They watch.
Joanna cups her hands round her hot drink, warmth seeping through her palms. Outside, winter; inside, orange trees, pine scent stolen from the festive bunches Colin dotted here last week, just for Christmas.
She thinks: this is what shes made this yeara space where, inside, its warm, whatever weather is out.
Are you thinking of something? Alec asks quietly.
I am.
Something good?
Joanna looks again at the drifting snow, the orange trees, the arc of orchids, the reaching palms.
Yes. Something good.
Alec doesnt reply. He pours her more wine, and they sit together, in their warm glasshouse, watching the first snow of winter fall.
