The Aunt’s Garden Story姨妈的花园

尼古拉斯·周思

The front verandah3 was wrapped in wooden shutters that made a cool antechamber4 to the cave of rooms where Miss J had lived for eighty years. The shutters protected her from the busy street. The first of their kind in the colony， they were a distant precursor5 of the now ubiquitous ‘plantation shutters’ and had earned a place on the heritage list. They were like a curtain across a stage and made Miss J into an actress when she stood out front expostulating6 to passers-by in a knitted cardigan7 and cap and stretchy leggings under a long full skirt—regardless of the season. Being hard of hearing， she spoke too loud， and people stopped to listen. Then she would go inside， disappearing from public knowledge. She was mostly private， always lived alone， never married， worked professionally until retiring age.

She would go through her old stone cottage to the garden at the back that was her haven. The trees had grown their fill： walnut， fig， peach， olive， lemon， some of them planted by her own hands. Flowering shrubs and ground covers and clusters of pots： iris and agapanthus， salvia and geranium. Lawn curved around the beds8 under the trees. A garden shared with cats and birds， lizards， possums， snakes， butterflies. All those years she had tended it， digging， watering， clipping. Sometimes it had the look of a damp climate garden. Other times it acknowledged aridity9 with aloe and cactus.

She weeded， bent double like a penknife10， even in her eighties， to yank at the roots， as stringy11 and fibrous12 herself. With her elbows on her knees， she could rest her palms on the ground leaving no gap between upper body and firmly planted legs. Her garden was a place of mystery， concealed like a temple courtyard. Meanwhile the cars and buses passed out the front， and when she was in the mood she would socialise， mornings with the postman， afternoons with office workers striding back and forth. She gave her opinions forthrightly， excoriating， lamenting， cursing change. She boasted of the history she had seen， insisting any listeners pay heed13.

Then a new townhouse was built next door， its high concrete wall casting an overbearing14 slab of shade over her garden. She had lost the fight against it as we discovered after we moved in. Without knowing it， I had come into her world as a spy， a watcher from above who could freely admire the well-tended greenery of a neighbour’s garden. She hated being observed. Sometimes， remembering the invasion， she would look up and scowl. The perfectly established garden was her life’s work.

I had taken possession of15 it with my gaze.

I found out she had been secretary to the general manager of a large company. She was no pushover16. Then one afternoon in September a storm came with a ferocious wind that blew down the cypress pine at the front of her house， crushing the heritage verandah. Miss J lived frugally， according to her needs and habits. When the council told her that the verandah must be repaired in keeping with the original， largely at her cost， she would not play along17. Instead the old arabesque18 iron roof was tied down with rope and the place made to look derelict.

“It should just be demolished，” one morning walker declared.

In that battering19 of pride， Miss J’s body and spirit must have suffered. She was dead a year later. Through the next summer her nephew and niece kept watch over the place from a distance. They lived interstate and the problem of their aunt’s house was theirs now. People came in to water the garden and keep the grass green. Then the property went on the market. The condition of sale was that any buyer must restore the fallen verandah and heritage shutters. The façade must stay intact. But heritage did not extend to the larger envelop of the house. No value was given to the garden， nor to the memory of the person who had created and maintained it， inseparable from the house in her understanding. And no regard to the benefit a neighbor gets for free from a vision of delight.

The new owners were quick to adapt the site to their own conception. The second summer after Miss J’s demise and the first summer after the sale of the property， the garden was removed. It was hot， hard work， neatly done in a matter of20 weeks. Loyal to Miss J’s memory， the postman intruded at one point to photograph the old peach tree as it lay scattered across the ground in chainsaw chunks. A hundred growth rings ran under my fingers as I felt the cross-sectioned slabs of that rough warm wood. Then everything was taken away and the site was cleared. Let in for the first time in nearly a century， the harsh summer sun lit up the wall behind for all to see.

The earth is level now. The magpies are having a good time finding worms in the rich red soil. As the space is prepared for the next stage of construction， no trace of Miss J’s rare old garden remains. It wasn’t documented in any particular way before she died. Although I have the best view of it， I never took the time to record its details through the changing seasons. Perhaps I idly imagined that my love of it would bring about a stay21 of execution. I suppose I thought that the value I found in what Miss J had done in her long life-time would be recognised and save the garden. Now as the digging starts for the new foundations， it feels as if her grave is being turned. Her legacy floats on the air. If she could see， she would stand out in the street， in front of those heritage shutters， clench her fists and howl for all to hear.

前廊被木质百叶窗封了起来，形成一个凉爽的前厅，通往洞穴般的内室——由多个房间组成，J小姐已在这里住了80年。百叶窗将她与熙熙攘攘的街道隔离开来。这种木质百叶窗是这块殖民地上最早的发明，是现在那种随处可见的“透气百叶窗”的远祖，并因此在文化遗产名单上赢得了一席之地。它们就像横跨舞台的幕布，每当J小姐探出身子告诫路人时，都把她衬托得像演员一样——无论春夏秋冬，她总是戴一顶针织圆帽，穿一件针织开衫，宽下摆长裙下穿着紧身长袜。因为耳背，她讲话的声音很大，人们也会停下来聆听。说完，她就会走进屋子，从众人视线中消失。她比较孤僻，总是独自一人生活，从未结过婚，一直工作到退休。

她会穿过她那幢老旧的石头房子，来到屋后的花园，那儿是她的避风港。花园里的树都已成材，有核桃树、无花果树、桃树、橄榄树和柠檬树，有些还是她亲手种下的。还有各种开花的灌木、地被植物和一簇簇盆花：鸢尾、百子莲、鼠尾草和天竺葵。草坪曲折蜿蜒地环绕着树下的花坛。园子里还栖息着猫、鸟、蜥蜴、负鼠、蛇和蝴蝶。多年来，她一直精心料理这座花园，松土、浇水、修剪。有时，它就像一座气候潮湿地区的花园; 另一些时候，芦荟及仙人掌又显示了它干旱的一面。

尽管已经年逾80，她还能弯腰除草，身子弯成一把小折刀。她揪住野草的根部使劲拉扯，那草根就如同她一样坚韧。她用胳膊肘抵住膝盖，手掌及地，上半身与钉在地上的双腿之间没有丝毫空隙。她的花园是个神秘去处，如庙宇的院落一般隐蔽。屋子前面的小汽车和公共汽车川流不息，心情好的时候，她会与人闲聊，上午是和邮递员，下午是和大步来回的办公室职员们。她直截了当地表达自己的意见，指责、哀叹和诅咒时代变迁。她会自豪地讲述亲眼见证的历史，并一定要听众留心听。

后来，隔壁新建起了一座联排别墅，高高的混凝土墙不可一世地在她的花园上投下了一片阴影。我们搬进来后，发现她已经在与这座别墅的维权斗争中败下阵来。不知不觉中，我像一个间谍潜入了她的世界，作为一个居高临下的观察者，自由地观赏邻居花园精心呵护的绿色植物。她讨厌被监视。有时，记起自己的隐私被侵犯了，她会抬起头，怒目而视。这座完美的花园凝结了她毕生的心血。

我凝视着这座花园，就仿佛占有了它。

后来，我发现，她从前是一家大公司的总经理秘书，不是个容易说服的人。9月的一个下午，一场暴风雨不期而至，一阵狂风刮倒了她屋前的一棵柏树，柏树倒下时把那个文物前廊给压塌了。J小姐生活简朴，除生活必需和习惯所需，没有半点铺张。当地方议会告诉她，前廊必须原样修复，并且大部分费用由她承担时，她不会乖乖合作的。结果，这个古老的阿拉伯式铁屋顶被她用绳子拴了起来，整座房子显得破败不堪。

“这个地方就该被夷为平地。”一个晨间散步的人如此宣稱。

自尊严重受损，J小姐的身心必然遭受了极大痛苦，一年后，她便去世了。直到第二年夏天，她的侄子侄女都是远程照看这个地方。他们住在别的州，姨妈房子的问题现在成了他们的问题。有人来给花园浇水，让草坪常绿。后来，这个房产开始上市出售。出售条件是，买家必须修复坍塌的前廊和被列为文物的百叶窗，其临街的正面必须保留原样。但文物的光环没有延伸至房子周边的事物。花园没有任何价值，那个创建并维护它的人也不值得纪念，在她看来，花园跟房子是密不可分的。至于有个邻居从赏心悦目的美景中免费获得好处，就更无人关心了。

新业主们迅速根据自己的构想对屋子进行了改造。J小姐去世后的第二个夏天，也是房产出售后的次年夏天，花园被推平了。这是一项紧迫而艰辛的工作，短短几周之内完成得干净利落。出于对J小姐的深切怀念，邮递员一度闯进来，拍下那棵被锯成一段段的老桃树七零八落躺在地上的画面。我触摸那粗糙、温暖的老树的横截面，指尖划过那百岁年轮。后来，所有东西都被清走，整个地方给收拾得干干净净。在近一个世纪的时光里，炫目的夏季阳光首次倾泻进来，照亮屋后那片墙壁，使之暴露在众人眼前。

如今，这里已是一块平整地界。喜鹊在这块富饶的红色土壤里欢快地找虫吃。由于这块地方即将开始下一阶段的建设，J小姐的珍宝老花园也难觅踪迹。她死前没有以任何一种特殊方式将其记载下来。我虽见过它最美好的时光，却也从未花时间记载下它随季节变迁的点滴印迹。也许我是在徒劳地幻想，以为我对它的挚爱或许能拖延施工进度。我一厢情愿地认为，我在J小姐漫长一生的劳作中发现的价值将会得到认可，从而拯救花园。可现在新地基的挖掘工作已经开始，仿佛她的坟墓被掘了个底朝天。她的遗产飘在空中。如果她能看见这一幕，肯定会站在大街上，站在那些文物百叶窗前，攥紧拳头，咆哮怒吼，叫所有人都听见。