The Midnight Gardener: Chapter Two | Bedtime Story For Sleep | Rewind

Before we begin, here's a quick ad break that keeps this free content possible. To go ad free, subscribe via the link in the show notes. For a lot of us, making time to take care of our mental health isn't always straightforward. For me, therapy has been part of that. And one thing I've learned is that even after you decide to ask for help, finding care that's affordable and fits into your life can still be difficult. It can sometimes feel like choosing between getting the right support and being able to afford it, which shouldn't be how mental health care works. That's one of the reasons Rula exists. Rula is a health care company that helps you find in-network therapy that fits your budget and works with your insurance, without the endless searching or confusing fine print. They work with over 100 insurance plans, which means many people pay around $15 a session, and depending on your coverage, it could even be zero. And instead of sitting on a wait list for months, you can often find a licensed therapist accepting new clients as soon as tomorrow. What I also appreciate is that Rula doesn't just match you and disappear. They stay involved, checking in along the way to make sure your care continues to work for you. Thousands of people are already using Rula to get affordable, high quality therapy that's actually covered by insurance. Visit Rula.com forward slash nightfalls to get started. After you sign up, you'll be asked how you heard about them. Please support our show and let them know we sent you. That's rula.com slash nightfalls. You deserve mental health care that works with you, not against your budget. A moment with Murphy is a little quiet space in the middle of all the noise. I'm Kerry from Murphy Sketches, and each week I sit down for real heart-led conversations about the things that truly shape us as parents. Children's mental health, IVF, EHCPs, neonatal care, and more. each episode is a breather for you and a chance for guests to share what truly matters to them you'll hear bits of my poetry woven in two if you're looking for a moment to yourself this is it follow a moment with murphy wherever you get your podcasts Welcome back to Nightfalls, the bedtime show of classic and original stories designed to guide you into a calm and peaceful sleep. I'm Geoffrey, and I've just been out for the most gorgeous walk with Otto. It's quite hot and humid here today, but I suspect it's nowhere near as hot as where we're heading tonight. Let's go back to the azure waters and lush green forests of the Caribbean island of Nevis, where Catherine and Sam have eased into a simple and wonderful life together. But there's so much Catherine doesn't know about him still, like where does he disappear to when he takes off for the day? So Catherine takes it into her own hands to uncover the secrets of this man she's fallen in love with. Relax, get comfy, and let's begin. Caribbean islands such as Nevis have worked their magic on visitors for hundreds of years. It is hard to visit places covered in palm trees, fringed by white sand beaches and turquoise seas, and not feel as if your life has been blessed in some way. Catherine had felt the magic of the island from the first moment she arrived. She knew, as she trailed her hand in the sea from the little boat that carried her across the narrows from St. Kitts to patiently waiting Nevis, head in the clouds, she knew that she had found somewhere special, and where she was meant to be. The fact is, she still felt the same pull every time she made the crossing between the islands, and every morning when she woke and looked out at her tumbling green view that reached to the sea. But that early magic had always been tinged with something like regret, for having made that trip to the island, to her new home, all by herself. Now she had Sam, and her world was complete. They still spent time taming the garden together, weaving bougainvillea back to where it should be, and easing honeysuckle and jasmine to the perfect places so their scents filled the night air on the veranda. But now Catherine's walks through the jungles, the pathways woven with intertwined tree roots, were not alone. She had someone to head to the beach with To float in the sea with To dive for sand dollars And watch as fish dressed in colours Not even seen in her glorious garden Played hide-and-seek Behind the gently waving fans of corals They often went out on Sam's boat heading to new coves and corners you couldn't reach from the land. There were private places, barely larger than their two beach towels, and surrounded by jagged black rocks that hid them from the rest of the world. They found the places the turtles hid from the swell of the waves and lay with them in the warm waters. One evening, Sam took her to the beach and they watched the light of the moon as turtles dragged themselves slowly, heavily up the sands to the waiting dunes, digging holes and laying eggs before heading back to sea They were there too when the eggs hatched and Catherine watched her heart in her mouth as hundreds of tiny turtles battled their way across the beach and into the gentle midnight wash. They were headed home in that same determined way she had originally arrived at the island, following something deep inside that drew them to where they must be. Sam had become a part of Catherine's everyday life, as if he'd been there forever, slipping into her mornings and afternoons and evenings. He knew everything about her, and for a while, this was enough. Until she realized that she had been so wrapped up in the way he loved her, that she had left little space for finding out about him. She knew that he sailed, because she went with him. She knew that everyone on the island seemed to know him and like him, for everywhere they went they were greeted with kindness and smiles. She knew that every few days he would disappear for some hours, returning with a fresh pile of shirts and the stubble swept from his face. But he took to disappearing for longer and longer, and one evening he never returned. Catherine stood in the garden at midnight, remembering how she had been drawn by that slow, steady swish of the machete in the dark, how she had found him there, bringing the garden back to life. For some reason she didn't want to ask more about him. Not directly. There was a spell that she didn't want to break. So the next time, a few days later, when he kissed her softly on the lips and smiled a promise that he would return soon, she let him get to the end of the driveway before she dashed to her pink jeep and leapt inside. Following someone on Nevis without being seen is tricky. This isn't an island where the cars pile up in a New York-style traffic jam. Following someone on Nevis without being seen in a pink jeep is almost impossible. She almost felt the sunlight dancing off the shining paintwork, pointing her out as if to say to Sam, Here, here she is, she's following you. But the roads he took were full of twists and turns, and she seemed to always catch a glimpse of him disappearing around a corner, just as she came around hers. The massive plants clearly showed the gates at the end of his driveway had been open for some time. Catherine parked the pink jeep and walked slowly. cautiously up the winding drive, standing behind the trunks of flamboyance that dripped red petals onto the green grass, and then dashing across to palm trees. As the house slowly rose into view, she saw that it was one of the old mills, rescued from ruin and transformed into a home that stood firm and strong against the prevailing winds. Drawing closer, she saw how the outbuildings had been rescued too, with dark green shutters waiting to block out any storms, and dark green doors, so strong, they looked as if they could hold back an army. Looking at the sea, the other sea, the wild one, for her home was on the Caribbean facing side of the island, and his was on the Atlantic, she realized you could see no other rooftops from here, no roads, no evidence of human life at all. Even the road she had followed had disappeared into the jungle of trees her pink jeep completely hidden The door of the mill itself stood open and she walked in looking at the kitchen that had been perfectly rounded to fit the carving walls of the building. Sam's keys and phone lay on the table in the middle of the room. His hat, presumably once hung on the back of a chair, had fallen to the floor. and out of habit she picked it up and placed it beside the other things on the table. A staircase leaned against one of the walls and up she went, into a sitting room where again the sofas curved companionably against the wall. The windows all round were divided into four neat panes of glass by a crisscross of white wood, and light seemed to pour in from all sides. She went up to the next floor, stepping as softly as she could on the wooden staircase, and this time found the bedroom. A four-poster bed, draped with soft white muslin curtains, stood in the center, sheets thrown back and tangled in a mass of pale blue and white. Catherine heard footsteps from the floor above and Sam's low voice, as if he were talking quietly on the phone, or perhaps mumbling to himself. The house had given away no secret. There was no sign of anyone but Sam here. But onwards she went, to find him standing in front of a huge canvas, paintbrush in hand, stepping forwards and sweeping it in broad strokes to add a moment of sea or sky. He grinned at her and winked. I've been waiting for you to follow me for a month, you know, he said with a laugh in his voice. Sam's secret was out. He was a painter, obliged on rare occasions to leave the island in order to head to the glitz and glamour of New York and London and Paris galleries, dragged by his publicist and paraded for the press. He'd been planning to tell her, soon enough, if only because he was due to disappear the following week, and he thought she might just notice his absence. He showed her the outhouses, throwing open those solid doors and revealing gallery after gallery, his paintings capturing everything that made Nevis magical. The final room he seemed almost reluctant to show her, fighting with himself at the doorway, but in the end he shrugged his shoulders and threw open that door too. There was their life in a gallery. The view from her veranda, as it was when she arrived, and there, on the other side of the room, as it was now. She looked at the tangled mass, and her mind went back to those early silent days working side by side with Darren, his deafness, and her longing for peace, the perfect companions. And here was a darker painting, the thousand greens and reds and pinks of her garden replaced with muted silhouettes, and in the centre stood two people, hand in hand, lit by the moonbeams and the starlight as they gazed towards the distant sea. showed them leaning back against that sun-warmed boulder on the top of the peak, and another had her diving from his boat, her fingers just breaking the surface of the sea. He asked if she minded, and she burrowed her head into his neck. None of the other paintings had shown any people. They were all sweeping seascapes and skies and tangled jungles and breadfruits jostling alongside mangoes and donkeys peering around corners. They were the island she had learned to love before she had met Sam, but this gallery was the island she knew after he had found her. This room was everything. He wanted to take them with him to Paris, and he wanted to take her too, of course, but at the last minute she found she couldn't leave. She knew he wanted the world to know her the way he did, but suddenly she was shy and afraid of abandoning everything she had come to know. The garden, she said, the garden would be impossible if she left it for a week. They both knew it was an excuse, but he let her have it. Looking back at her over the dancing water as he headed across the narrows. When your days have, for so long, been consumed by a single person, then it's hard to know what to do with them. Catherine went back to her swimming and stargazing but something was missing now. She joined a group of ladies on a hike to the waterfalls one day rising early and getting to the start just as the sun was considering joining them. They chatted about this and that and Catherine tried to be interested in a tennis game on Saturday and a brunch meet-up on Sunday, but it all felt like filling in time and just waiting for when Sam would be back. But she went to the tennis and surprised herself by enjoying it, and on Sunday she turned up for the brunch, and she laughed with the others as she sipped her orange juice and champagne and ate the lobster fresh from the ocean. She didn't join the conversation so much as listen to it, an enthusiastic cheerleader from the sidelines. Later that evening, thinking back over everything she'd heard while she sat on the veranda, her feet swishing this way and that in the coolness of the pool. She made a decision. It was to be a full moon that night, so it was the perfect opportunity, the world synchronizing in such a way as to confirm her idea as the perfect choice. She waited until after ten o'clock, until the only sounds were the locusts and the frogs and the breezes in the trees, and then she climbed into her little pink jeep and disappeared down the side of the mountain. She was looking for a house she'd never been to before, but one that had been talked about that morning at brunch. Mrs. Lily lived quite alone and had done so for some years now. She was one of those women who fought against the inevitabilities of age, refusing to give in to aching bones and pushing herself to be as much a part of the world as she could for as long as she could. Mrs. Lily, it seemed, had tripped some weeks ago and had a badly broken ankle. While friends had taken it upon themselves to deliver both food and company, nobody had thought to help her with the garden. Mrs. Lily was by no means a wealthy woman. She had come to the Caribbean decades ago with her husband, searching for a quieter and simpler life and finding it among the mangoes and the monkeys. Mrs. Lily had used her skills as a seamstress to make a way of life there, becoming the go-to person for anyone who wanted the latest fashions but didn't want to leave the island. She'd used one of the old singer machines set out on her porch, pushing the pedal up and down with her foot and sliding the richly patterned materials through the needle that danced and flashed in the sunlight. Even though her work was now so slow that by the time she had created an item the trend had passed, but people still went to her for dresses to be let in and let out, for bows to be added and sashes removed. Her garden was small but beautiful, something for her to look at while she sowed and from which she had always drawn inspiration when daring to design something herself. For the last few weeks, while she had been barely able to move, the garden had started to turn itself back into something of a jungle, a tangle of vines and leaves that were becoming so knotted that plants were disappearing by the day. Catherine found the house, a single-story wooden home surrounded by a white painted picket fence. It was a charming cottage exuding warmth and happiness and kindness. Catherine pushed open the latch of the gate and silently let herself in. placing her tools carefully on the ground. Moonbeams reached into all corners of the garden and lit the way for her, and she worked slowly and steadily, unwrapping vine from vine and retrieving flame ginger and delicate yellow and white frangipangy flowers from increasingly hidden corners. It was after her fourth night in the garden that Catherine overheard a conversation at the market one morning Have you heard Catherine leaned in and listened picking up a pair of pineapples and seeming to compare them intently Mrs. Lily's garden is tidying itself up for her. Catherine heard the snort from the other lady and smiled to herself. A garden, my dear, can't tidy itself up now, can it? Be sensible, Doris. Doris was clearly not going to be ignored. It's true, she said. Each day Mrs. Lily wakes up and the garden is a little more unraveled. She says it must be the spirits of the island. I think so too. The other lady said she'd never heard such nonsense, and of course spirits didn't exist, and there must be a perfectly rational explanation. After another few nights of working, the garden was just as it should be again, and it was perfect timing, for Sam was coming home the next day. Catherine played the tricks people always play when they're expecting someone, working out how soon he might be there, but then convincing herself that, no, flights would be delayed, and baggage take forever to be found, and taxis full, and he would miss the little boat that worked its way back and forth across the narrows. all the while secretly hoping that he would get there a little earlier and she would be back by side a little sooner. He was the first off the boat. He was the first to walk down the dock. He pushed past the porters and the drivers waiting for the tourists and found his way to Catherine, lifting her up and twirling her round and round before standing with her at arm's length and looking at every part of her face, searching the familiar lines. The show had been a success, and he had sold all but one of his paintings. Their story was out there now, shared with the world, but still a secret, for nobody had more than one painting, and nobody knew the connections between all the images. And Sam had placed a red dot on one particular painting before the gallery had even opened to the public, making sure that nobody could buy the image of two people silhouetted in a garden and lit only by the moonlight. That painting was for them and would be back on the island soon, ready to be hung in her bedroom so it would be the last thing she saw at night and the first thing she saw in the morning. Sam had been home for a few days when he heard the rumours of the spirits and Mrs. Lily's garden. The group had determined to gather together and head down there at midnight to see for themselves who had transformed the garden from a knotted tangle into a beautiful paradise once more. As Sam told Catherine, he raised an eyebrow at her, an unspoken question, and she said, oh, it sounded wonderful, and they should go too, looking steadfastly at him and refusing to acknowledge the question of that single raised eyebrow. And so they joined the group late at night at the end of the lane that led to Mrs. Lily's cottage. They whispered in hushed tones, all of them agreeing to approach as silently as they could, so as not to disturb whoever might be there. Doris chattered excitedly about the spirits of the island and how she had always known they were there, and this was finally her chance to see them. And other ladies exchanged glances over her head, but smiled kindly to her face. Four dozen people must have gathered to head down the lane that evening. Sam and Catherine hung back, hand in hand, following the others as they stepped carefully in the dark. As they rounded the final bend, they gasped and put their hands to their mouths, just as the others had done. For there was the cottage, with the sewing machine sitting peacefully on the porch, and the rocking chair alongside it, with a book waiting for the morning, and a garden lit by thousands upon thousands of fireflies that darted and dashed and dived and danced. The fireflies threw light into all corners of the little garden and seemed almost to be brushing against the leaves and vines and flowers that folded and rustled gently in the warm breeze. Doris broke the silence, whispering, I knew the spirits had been here, I just knew it. And the lady who had chided her in the market put her arm around the other woman's shoulder. Sam turned to Catherine and held her face softly in his hands. And I knew you were magic the first time I saw you. The fireflies danced a little harder, and the moonbeams shone a little brighter, and the secret stayed unspoken and where it belonged, with the spirits of the island and the magic that is everywhere in the world. All you have to do is look. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you For more information visit www Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you.