The year of her miscarriage, Susan asked me to make her a garden. She’s only got a small patch, but she knows I love gardening. Susan doesn’t know an acer from an apple tree. I don’t like instant gardens - I prefer to plan slowly, plant sparsely, and wait for the roots and shoots and tendrils to do their natural thing. It always shocks me when she calls it ‘the miscarriage’, because it wasn’t a miscarriage in the normal sense of the word. I was there when it happened, and I can honestly say it was one of the worst days of my life, let alone hers.

I’m a natural mother. I’ll happily mother anyone who seems to need it, and even some who don’t. I’ve got two kids of my own - most people would say that’s enough. Some would say more than enough, I expect. I’d gladly have had another one, though, if my husband hadn’t taken himself off and fixed things once and for all. I felt sad for ages after his operation. I felt like there wasn’t really much point... to anything. It wasn’t long after that Susan came into my life. I knew straight away she could do with a good bit of mothering.

Susan Carpenter was the new girl at work; she came through an agency, so she wasn’t really real. She was four years younger than me, tall, gorgeous, immaculately groomed, and completely terrified. She had good reason to be - the women in the office hated her on sight. It turned out, as I got to know her, piece by piece, coffee break by coffee break, that she used to be fat, and I mean FAT - until about a year before. I spread that little tidbit around the office and, overnight, everyone wanted to be her friend. “What on earth happened to that lot?” she asked me, the following morning, after her fifth invitation to lunch in the canteen. “It’s like The Stepford Secretaries in here.” I had to confess that I’d let on about her not-so-little secret. “God! If I’d known that was the way to an easy life, I’d have brought in my before-and-after photos on day one and pinned them to the noticeboard. Thanks Anna.” “They’ll all want a copy of your diet plan, of course,” I said jokingly. “I doubt it,” she said. “I doubt they’d choose to go experience what I’ve been through recently.” I didn’t ask her what she meant. Not right away, at any rate.

“... and so the consultant told me I’d increase my chance of conceiving if I lost some weight,” she finished explaining, as we sat in a quiet corner of Squares Bar & Grill, on a leaving do for some bloke from IT that neither of us really knew. “So what happened?” I prompted. “Nothing - worst luck. There are options... IVF is the last resort, and you only get one free try in this area.”
I didn’t know what to say. My own two daughters had come along so effortlessly. Having wanted a third, I had some small idea of how it felt to want a child and to be denied - to have their image, clear in your mind, to have chosen a name, only to have it haunt you, like something vitally important left unsaid. These troubles would have seemed like nothing to her, so I didn’t tell. They would have been less than nothing - a cruel joke. I kept quiet.
“I’ve tried homeopathy, and a fertility diet off the Internet. I replaced all Steve’s pants with boxers, and I quit my last job because it was giving me so much stress. The consultant said that stress might be a factor.” I hoped the others would carry on being nice to her. We can all find it in ourselves to admire a former-fatty.

Six months later, Susan was still sitting one desk over from me, and the Stepfords - as we had taken to calling them - were busy tormenting a new temp. Nothing else had changed. It was IVF or bust. It turned out Steve had a low sperm count, “to add insult to injury,” she said, when she had finished her account of their latest trip to the clinic. “Injury?” I asked. We had never before covered the topic of the reason behind her infertility. “Oh, a combination of things,” she said. “A pretty nasty attack when I was eight left me badly hurt, and then later on I was anorexic... It’s all water under the bridge now...” “I’m sorry,” I said, feeling the stupid emptiness of the words.

She didn’t tell me when it became time to harvest her eggs - she just didn’t come in to work. Apparently, she had that ‘anaesthetic awareness’ they make TV documentaries about. It sounded hellish. And then they did the implantation. She did tell me about that, and asked me to spend the day with her, two weeks on, when she would give a blood sample first thing and then wait for her results. Susan likes to shop under pressure. I had my youngest with me, so I was dreading a day of traipsing round town in search of lifts and baby-changing rooms, but Susan was a good sport. And then, at barely eleven o’clock, as we rested in a high street coffee shop, she excused herself to use the ladies. When she came back, her face was grey - ashen - and she said to me, “Anna, it’s all over. Have you got a pad or something?”

I know that a garden can't really heal a person. Apple blossom for good fortune and heather to make wishes come true. But at least it will be a pretty garden. The green spikes of euphorbia, for persistence. Honeysuckle for the marriage bond and ivy for friendship. Poor Susan doesn’t know a delphinium from a dandelion. Dark red roses for mourning, and pinks, for a mother’s love.