CHAPTER TWELVE
Son tranquilla e lieta
ed è mio svago
far gigli e rose.
Mi piaccion quelle cose
che han sì dolce malìa,
che parlano d'amor, di primavere,
di sogni e di chimere,
quelle cose che han nome poesia...
Lei m'intende?
(translation)
I am peaceful and happy
And it is my pastime
To make lilies and roses.
I like these things
That have so sweet a smell,
That speak of love, of spring,
That speak of dreams and of chimera,
These things that have poetic names.
Do you understand me?
— Mi Chiamano Mimi
From the opera "La Boheme" by Giacomo Puccini
Robbie retracted his claws, apologised, and accepted Sportacus' offer of help. On the first day of work, he was in fact grateful for it.
Before they could sow salt upon the ground, there were great masses of plant-life that had to be shorn away. Not only were the trees unpruned and obstructive, but great patches of rogue ornamentals clogged the area. Bamboo, prickly pear and ivy had choked the delicate roses and lilacs that used to flower. In the few patches where lawn still grew, it was tall and unkempt, dotted with nettles and dandelions.
Their difficulties were compounded by the constant drizzle that had settled in over the town. The areas they worked away on soon went from jungle to mud flat, making the ground slippery and swampy.
The elf, of course, though it was all a jolly game. As Robbie knelt upon a tarp, swiping moodily at the weeds, Sportacus flitted about with a pitchfork and secateurs, vigourously felling the sturdier plants. They worked mostly in silence, with Sportacus throwing out the occasional optimistic remark about their progress.
Sometimes the odd townsperson would stop and watch the two, fascinated and reassured by the sight of hero and villain working together to clean out the garden. This made Robbie feel hideously self-concsious—not only for the blow to his increasingly withering notoriety, but because he'd had to forsake his usual beauty regimen for the project. His colourful silks, satins, lycra and cosmetics were left untouched in his lair, replaced by denim and practical work boots. When he complained, Sportacus insisted that he looked just fine. Typical jock reaction, Robbie had thought sulkily.
This surely had to be one of the most severe challenges of his life. Hard physical work, immersion in filth, dignity in tatters. And yet, just like with his other time-consuming projects indoors, something deeper than mere bodily senses drove him on. He could not abandon this labour any more than he could stop the pulse in his veins, or forget the lovely white gleam of the project that still sat unfinished in his lair.
On a day when Robbie was feeling relatively more cheerful, Sportacus impishly tossed a mud pie at his back. He wouldn't admit to himself how much he enjoyed the ensuing mudfight. Nor the delight he took in Stephanie's apalled reaction, when she saw the two men caked head-to-foot in the stuff. Robbie soaked in a bubble bath that night, enjoying a rare feeling of serenity and satisfaction.
Eventually the rain petered off, and sunlight sluiced into the town like gloops of thick treacle. The remaining plants, so used to constant damp and shade, quickly shrivelled in the light and warmth. It took only two days for them to cover every last inch of the grounds with sparkling white gems of sea salt. Nothing, not blossom nor weed, would be growing on this land anymore. Only the trimmed skeletons of spindly maple and larch trees remained standing.
**
During the spell of Spring rain, Stephanie had made good use of her time indoors. She had spent long hours sitting on her bed, poring over her relatives' books, albums, diaries and letters. Sometimes she would share her findings with her uncle, who displayed a benign interest. He would rattle off little anecdotes, the contents of which would spur Stephanie along other, unexplored branches of her family tree. The Meanswells were a highly cultivated lot, and each of her ancestors' achievements left her enthralled. But none quite so much as that of her great-grandmother.
She decided to pay Robbie a visit.
Clutching a bright magenta folder, she hopped up onto the platform behind the old billboard. She was not surprised to find the hatch open, nor to see a small, moss-speckled stone fountain sitting beside it, swaddled in rope. The final chore in the manor garden had been to salvage this object, which had once stood in front of the rotting gazebo out back. It was an object that Robbie quite liked, and Stephanie had been witness to his mild tantrum earlier in the day— neither he nor Sportacus had figured out how to lever it down the hatchway yet.
In the middle of the basin was a Romanesque lion scuplture: stately, ferocious, beautiful. Moss covered its mane, making it look all the hairier. It roared silently at the little girl.
"Robbie?" she called. Slowly she descended the ladder.
"Robbie, it's me. I have something to show you."
The lair seemed empty. Her reluctance grew with each step. The bouncing echo of her squeaking sneakers was the only reply.
Stymied, and a little uneasy, she lowered herself onto the recliner. Should she simply wait for the man to return home? Would he scream and carry on and toss her out if he found her sitting on his throne?
She recognised the flowerpot on his tea table, and she was delighted to be in its presence again. She lightly fingered the clusters of delicate blooms, taking pleasure in their softness. Her ears finally grew accustomed to the silence, and she began to make out a succession of very light scraping noises coming from one of the doorways on the far side of the lair.
"Robbie?" she squeaked.
All the doors were shut but for one. A faint light escaped from behind it, pooling on the grey floor.
Her trembling hand reached out to push it open, heart racing for what may lie behind it, for what dazzling hidden treasure her wily friend might be hoarding in the deep shadows beneath the earth.
It was white, smooth and utterly breathtaking. Caressing it gently with a square of fine sandpaper, Robbie pressed his lips to the object with all the dreamy affection of a bride in Springtime.
His eyes floated open, and he found Stephanie gaping from the doorway.
Neither moved for a long time. Any fiery rage which was trying to fight its way out of Robbie was pushed valiantly back down. His voice was of wispy sulfuric steam.
"You are not to tell anyone."
"I promise Robbie, I swear, it will stay between us," she pledged, her voice filled with as much contriteness and understanding as she could hold in her small body.
"Good," Robbie grunted. He wheeled away from Stephanie, deposited his sandpaper on a cluttered workbench, and turned back to her with his usual arrogant manner.
"You're too much of a goody-two-shoes to want to steal my chocolate supply," he mewed caustically. "So I can only assume you've barged in here to see me about something."
He eyed the folder in her clutches, sighed, and drew her out to the main chamber.
"What has our little pink princess found?" He inquired, crossing his legs over the arm of the recliner.
Stephanie blushed, feeling put on the spot by Robbie's abruptness. Fumbling about with her plastic sheets, she finally produced a photocopy of the picture she had found in the book of town history.
"This is my great-grandmother, Melissa Meanswell," she said, her confidence beginning to return. "She was a famous horticulturalist. She designed and opened Lazy Park. She also bred the first of that plant," she pointed to the shrub on the table. "It's called the Lazytown Lilac, it's been the town emblem since the 1950s."
Robbie cocked an eyebrow. "Very nice. I assume this is all somehow relevant to something more important?"
Rifling through another sheet, the girl showed Robbie a photograph of a young tree sapling sitting in a large terracotta pot.
"She also grew this plant, the only one of its kind. Do you know what it is?"
"Enlighten me."
"It's called the Anastasia Plum."
Robbie sat forward, his mocking attitude melting away instantly.
"I read her journal, which Uncle Milford was keeping in the attic. She said it was the very first living thing ever to be able to regenerate itself. To come back from the dead. It would be able to grow anywhere, even in the salty dirt in your dad's garden."
Robbie grabbed the photo out of her hand.
"Wh… what happened to it?"
"She only ever grew one Anastasia Plum tree in her greenhouse. She decided it was far too dangerous to let loose into the earth. All the seeds were vaccum sealed, freeze-dried and put away. In her will, she requested that they be buried with her in the stone mausoleum of the Meanswell family.
Robbie's mind was ticking over. He stared into the child's eyes. Both of them were of an accord.
"So you've checked the police records?"
She nodded heavily. "Lolli showed them to me. The coffin that your dad was caught opening was my great-grandmother's."
Robbie felt heavy inside. Though seated, he felt he had to lean a hand on the girl's shoulder for support.
"I'm sorry, Stephanie."
Her brown eyes were tender and forgiving. "It's not your fault, Robbie. You're better than what your dad was."
**
"I've got mail!"
Sportacus pranced over to the chute that opened upon the pristine airship floor. As usual, the pneumatic tube flew up at him, and he caught it effortlessly.
The paper was torn and uneven on one edge, as if it had been ripped hastily out of a ledger. The handwriting was unfamiliar, and made almost unreadable by its hurried pace and big ornate loops. Sportacus struggled to read it, his frown deepening as he deciphered it.
"Dear Sportakook,
I need your help again. I want to re-enter the manor.
Yours,
Robbie."