The Fern

I found it difficult to write last week, so I'm revisiting the fern story. It's about neighbours, cancer and impulsive tattoos.

I’m revisiting this story because on Friday, my neighbour passed away. I’ve found it difficult to write. I want to say something about last week, but I can’t seem to find the correct words, the truth of it. It will come.

My neighbour has always kept her garden neat. The lawn is mowed. She weeds by hand without gloves. She uses a large kitchen knife to hack at the grass, moving it back from the plants in the border gardens that line her yard. When she moved in there were no plants in these gardens. The landlord had stripped everything out. I suppose he wanted to make it ‘tidy’.

T collected cuttings and planted them. As they grew, she cut from them and planted more. Red cordylines, succulents with tiny red flowers. A rose under her bedroom window. Gardenias. Ferns. Taro leaves. A mismatch of plants, used because that was what she had. The garden was not designed.

One day I heard someone trying to start a lawn mower in T’s backyard. I could hear the voices of people who didn’t live there. I climbed onto a stool and looked over the fence.

The grass was long. I had never really spoken to T, but I knew she wouldn’t be comfortable with the grass looking like it did.

A young woman was wrenching at the cord of a mower, trying to get it to turn over. It made a sickly sound each time she pulled the cord out. The other woman watched. That thing was not going to start.

I asked them if they were trying to mow the lawn, which was obvious, but I thought I had better start the conversation somewhere.

Yes, they said. She, one of them motioned towards the house, is getting cranky because the lawn isn’t mowed.

Don’t worry, I said. I will mow it. Just leave it for now and I’ll go and do it later.

I didn’t want to mow the lawn. It was long and would take some time to tame. The mower would cut out when I tried to push it through the thick grass. I don’t know why I offered. It just seemed like the obvious thing to do.

When I went next door to mow the lawn, I found out T was sick. She had cancer. She had been too unwell to look after her garden. Watching it grow was causing her stress.

What if the landlord sees it, she said. What if he kicks me out?

I found someone, a local man named Frank, to mow the lawn. I tried to do it twice but soon realised that I would prefer to pay someone else. Frank texts me and asks if the lawn needs mowing. He lets himself in to do it and I pay cash into his bank account. It works for everyone. Twice I have mistakenly sent Frank somewhat inappropriate text messages intended for my wife. He keeps coming back and has never really mentioned it.

I started to get groceries for T. Milk, watermelon, meat pies, toilet cleaner, cordial. She would give me money and I would come back with what I thought she might like. I always bought more than the money covered, but I could afford it.

One day she told me she didn’t like me buying expensive brands. I was covering the cost so I thought it didn’t make any difference, but she said the food wouldn’t last as long because it was so expensive. She could make it go further if I bought cheaper brands and thus could buy more. I went to Aldi and bought a lot of things in bulk. A bag of chicken legs. Sausages. Sweet potatoes.  

I realised I was put out by her admonishment.

She told me that when she was better, she was going to ‘fix’ my front garden. Since we had the house renovation done and the builders wrecked the front yard, I had neglected it. I kept the grass neat, but the border gardens had nothing in them. I’d cut out the plants that had been there, scything them with a whippersnipper. One day I would design it, maybe put in some natives appropriate to the area.

I told her she didn’t need to fix my garden.

But I need to REPAY you, she said.

She didn’t need to repay me, but I heard my mother’s voice in my head: sometimes you need to allow people to help you.

T dragged a large, straw mat out into her front yard, then tossed it over the fence. She had collected cuttings from her plants and had them ready. She asked me to bring them to our yard, while she wheeled herself down the front path on her walker. She sat on the mat and worked her away around our yard, stabbing at the ground with the knife with strength. I could hear it smacking into the earth when I was inside, alongside the church service she was listening to on her phone.

I took her some water and asked her how she had been feeling. She was scheduled to go back into hospital. To have a tablet, she said. She was refusing chemotherapy – her husband had died during his own chemo – and they were trying something else. I couldn’t understand exactly what the treatment was, but I understood that she would be in hospital for ten days, isolated from everyone, due to COVID.

And if they don’t fix it, she said, then you find me in the cemetery!

She laughed, her body shaking, her legs on the grass in front of her. I smiled but I wasn’t sure if I should.

T planted cordylines, geraniums and gardenias – for the smell, she said, you can smell it when you open your bedroom window - and a mixed bag of small cuttings from plants, including a small fern. I liked this fern. I liked the shape of its leaves, square, smooth edged and large, when compared to the more delicate and intricate Silver Lady, Boston or Fishbone ferns. The sori are large, arranged in single rows. It grows on a narrow stem.

Our garden then looked exactly like hers. Visitors remarked on the strange mix of plants. Some laughed. I told them the neighbour worked on our garden. It was a gift. I would have planted different species, but I was not about to change it or complain.

In July last year, my wife and I went to Hawaii. Our fourth visit.

(We were married there in 2015. It was sudden decision, made a week before we left, when we heard that the United States Supreme Court had handed down the Obergefell decision which required the states to issue marriage licenses to same-sex couples. We could suddenly, legally marry in the US, but not in Australia. So we did).

I saw the fern everywhere. It was growing prolifically in street gardens in Honolulu. It became a totem for me, I looked at it and felt warmth. I felt peace.

I also noticed that the gardens hosted red cordylines. Some had gardenias. The gardens looked appropriate to the climate. They looked natural. They looked like T’s garden. I realised T, who is from Tonga, was creating a tropical garden. An island garden. Her home garden.

The Laua’e fern is endemic in Hawaii, on all the islands. It is, however, native to Australia, where it is called the Monarch fern. Its proper name is Microsorum scolopendria. In Hawaiian, the name means ‘beloved’. I don’t know where T got the Laua’e ferns. I’ve tried to find them in nurseries but have had no luck.

When we got back from Hawaii my wife had to have a medical test. She had some concerning symptoms. Things that could indicate cancer. The test was in a clinic in Five Dock. I dropped her off and was going to come back to get her several hours later. I would have to drive as she was having a general anaesthetic.

Before I left to go back, I did a COVID test. I had to show evidence of a negative test to enter the clinic. The test was positive. I did another one. It was positive. I considered not telling her and just picking her up. I wanted to be there. I couldn’t let her down.

Honesty won, but I still picked her up, after warning her. When she came out of the clinic her face was not right. She got into the back of the car. She started talking and while she didn’t say cancer, it was clear that it was cancer. She was crying and apologising. I was raising my voice, stop saying sorry, I said. Why are you sorry? Don’t be sorry.

My mask was wet with tears and snot. I drove home as we both howled.

I was locked in the spare room for the next week. I couldn’t see my wife. We couldn’t risk her getting COVID. Our son climbed onto the cupboard in our bedroom and taped up the air vents to the spare room. They weren’t taking any chances. I spent the week in a cocoon, aware of what was happening in the rest of the house, but unable to do anything about it.

I looked at my screens. Went down internet rabbit holes. Bowel cancer symptoms. Treatment. Statistics. Chances of survival. I flicked my finger from the bottom of my phone screen to the top, scrolling Instagram. Image after image. Anything to stop my brain working.

A tattooist, a woman from Korea whose work I had admired on Instagram was visiting Australia later in the year. I emailed her. Book me in, I said, I want a big f**k-off tattoo on my arm.

In October I laid on a table in a tattoo parlour. The tattooist held up a drawing of a fern and asked if it was correct. It wasn’t exactly, but even though this image was going to be permanently needled into my arm, I didn’t say no.

Yes, that’s right, I said.

Addendum: The gardenias began to flower a couple of weeks ago. They are fragrant, as she promised. Every time I pass by I think of her, I think of Hawaii, I think of love, and I am thankful.

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