Water Baby

Zoe Tiller

I spent a lot of time at garden centres throughout my childhood. 

First with my grandparents, all of whom had an affinity for being outside in the harsh Tasmanian sun, pottering about in their semi-retirement.

When Dad’s mum and her partner decided to pull up the entire back garden, a complete uprooting and rejuvenation, we caught the ferry down from Victoria to help. The adults took refuge under the weeping plane tree, wiping their brow from a hard day’s labour in the late December sun. 

I wouldn’t have been much help even if I had wanted to be; I was preoccupied

My little seven-year-old hands covered in gritty mud; hair pulled back into tight braids—my mum’s futile attempts to keep it clean. I was galivanting around the with Boof, the resident German shepherd, who mostly spent his days digging child size holes in the yard. Together, my brother and I, filled up each hole with water, creating deep ponds of swirling dirt and gum leaves. With plot being on a steep hill facing the Derwent River, we started at the top of the garden. We had dotted a total of five holes along the stretch of the garden, filling them all with progressively less and less water – we had been cut off, lest we single-handily bring the water bill up into the thousands. Then, starting from the bottom pool, we began to dig winding, shallow channels. 

By the time we reached the top pond again, we were covered completely in mud, mum was yelling at us that we’d have to strip off before even thinking of coming inside. We paid her no mind. Instead, we parted the dirt with our hands, leaping backwards away from the now flowing water. Our clumsy feet clambered back down the hill, racing the little river down to the bottom of the garden. 

***

Chandler’s garden centre was tucked away in the back streets of Sandy Bay. It was only a short walk from my grandparents’ house, and an even shorter drive. It had winding pebbled paths and stacks of sharp, sour smelling fertiliser. Majority of the shop was outside, the main building being an old pioneer cottage that had been gutted to fit the space. 

The main attraction of the centre, especially for my grandmother, was their large selection of pots. They had hundreds of pots stacked up throughout the courtyard store, some big enough for small kids to climb into and hide, and others small enough to balance on a kitchen windowsill. My grandmother would spend ages looking at the pots, deciding which she would pluck from their gravel-lain show floor and squeeze into the boot of her red hatchback for the two-minute drive home. 

I loved coming to Chandler’s with her. Not so much for the pots, for even in my adult life, they’re not something I consider with much intrigue, but rather for the water features. Like most garden centres, Chandler had a range of water features on display, trying their best to entice buyers to bring one home with them. The faint trickling of water beckoned me forward as soon as we would arrive, my grandmother telling me not to stray too far. But she always knew, if she lost me, to just follow the sound of the water. 

What made Chandler’s so special to me, however, was the permanent water fixture. Tucked away at the back of the courtyard, stood a small greenhouse. It homed many a seedling, and my dad’s favourite, carnivorous plants. To keep the humidity up, in the centre of the greenhouse, was an old fountain. The once white stone was yellowed with age, with a spattering of green moss that edged its way through any cracks. It was one of those classical fountains, with tiered bowls, adorned with floral carvings and scalloped bowl lips. 

I would spend the entirety of my Chandler visits by the fountain, listening to the soft patter of the water droplets as they echoed around the quiet space. I would often dip the tips of my fingers into the bottom of the fountain. Never would I touch the coins that shimmered at the bottom, for I knew it to be bad luck. Instead, I would just skim my fingers across the top of the pool, watching as the water rippled beneath my touch. 

*** 

It was windy outside when we first arrived, and this already had me in a bad mood. Melbourne winds never failed to tip me over the edge of overstimulation. Stepping into the gallery was a welcome reprieve, the warmth from the heaters kissed my cheeks. I began to regret my choice of clothing, my cardigan too large to take off and put into my bag, but slightly too warm for me to keep comfortably wearing. I left it on though. 

As we were ushered through into the next room, there was already a group of school kids there. And they were loud. There was a tight pinch behind my eyes, the dull thud of a headache began to grow. I pinched the bridge of my nose in an attempt to push away the migraine.

I tried my best to listen to what we were being told but it’s not easy when you’re in a room playing multiple different videos, with multiple different groups of school kids. 

I wasn’t paying any attention, rather picking at the cuffs of my cardigan as I felt myself begin to sweat. This room was hot. It was only when we shuffled behind our guide back into the first room, that I began to take notice of my surroundings. The first thing that caught my attention, was the flowing water. 

*** 

The Salamanca Square fountain was—and still is—a garish thing. With its bright blue pool tile base and dark metal shapes put right in the middle. This fountain didn’t trickle, rather it splashed. Water gushing up through pipes and down the alien curves of dark grey sheet metal. The water smelled strongly of chlorine and rotting oak leaves. It wasn’t my favourite body of water, but it would do. 

I couldn’t begin to wrap my naïve mind around the idea that someone could install such a huge fountain, and then not expect people to want to get in. I knew that this wasn’t something you were allowed to do—my mum reminded me often. I tended to count myself lucky if I was even allowed to dip a finger into the bright blue water.

I found solace by the water. On the weekends not spent at the grandparents’ houses, meandering through their gardens and digging in my own water features, we would sit in the square with our Banjo’s sausage rolls and party pies. I would beg for us to sit on the fountain’s ledge, despite the fact it gurgled and yelled. Because when I was done, I would lay flat on my stomach and float leaves along the top of the water, watching them get pulled in towards the pump and shot up into the metal overhangs, where they would get stuck and join the rest of the rotting masses. 

***

My grandmother had installed her own water feature. Really, it was a bog garden for her partner to house his carnivorous plants. But the three multi-litre containers had been staggered down three different levels, with each having a small ribbon of pond lining connecting them. I watched my dad help set it up. Handing him a different tool upon request. By the time it was finished, the sun had begun to set, and the smell of a lit barbeque permeated the air.

As everyone sat around the outdoor table, picking at their teeth and feeding the dogs the scraps, I had made myself comfortable by the bog garden. I was under direct instructions not to stick my hands in the water, as we were trying to let it cycle through completely. So, I sat on my fingers, and leaned in close, my nose just resting on the side of the second box. The water flowed between the three containers slowly at first, nothing more than a sliver of murky brown water. As the sky grew darker and the warmth faded from the air, most people retreated into the living room, to lounge on the sticky leather couches and suck on their frosty fruits.

I remained in my own world, outside on the hard brick stairs, watching as the rivers between containers grew in size, transforming themselves from an ashy brown to a crystal clear, filling the quiet garden with the gentle hum of water.

*** 

In the middle of the room stood a bathtub. Strung above it were three shower heads, all of them at different heights. It was as though someone had gotten out after a shower and not turned the knobs all the way off, instead leaving the water to bubble up out of the pipes and out of the head. But instead of hitting tile, they instead fell neatly into the half full tub. 

There was a soft pattering, each drop hitting the surface of the water at different times, just enough to create a symphony of water. I wanted to reach my hand out and touch it, thinking maybe it would have the same soothing affect as the fountains of my youth. But painfully aware of my surroundings and anxious to be the first to do so, I resigned my hands to my jean pockets. 

Don’t touch the artwork, I suppose. 

Everyone moved onto the next piece within the room – a small table and chairs. I stayed put though; the echoing sounds of the falling water glued my feet to the floor. 

It’s not like I had never seen a water feature indoors – I’d seen quite a few, especially in art gallery spaces. But this one stuck out to me. The sound of the water beads falling from the shower heads and hitting the water in the tub below sent shivers down my back. I felt the heat in my face begin to subside and my body which had begun to itch with anxiety started to relax. It sounded like Chandler’s garden centre. 

I stood next to the tub, eyes glazing over, and head titled to the side. Mesmerised. The group of school kids had now moved on to the next room, the door separating the two spaces slid shut, sealing away their commotion. 

Being so preoccupied with watching the water and willing away any remnants of my headache, I hadn’t realised our guided tour was now over, and we were free to move around the space as desired. When she slid up beside me and told me I could touch it if I wanted – I was startled. My now steady heart picking up its tempo once again. I asked if she was being serious, to which she nodded. 

So, I reached out my hand and held it under the droplets. 

The water was cool to the touch. I was unsure if this was due to the fact that I was running hot, anxiety humming through my bones, painfully aware of the small group that had now reformed around the installation. 

With the addition of my hand in the shower, the sound of the downfall hitting the bath changed; it grew louder, less uniform. It made me smile. I pulled my hand back, briefly drying it on my jeans, before I reached for the pool of water within the deep tub. I let the tip of my fingers skim along the surface, grinning down at the resulting ripples. 

I stayed there for a while, just letting my body relax alongside the soothing burbling of water. It was like I was a kid again, playing in my grandmothers’ backyard, digging holes and making rivers.

 If I closed my eyes, I could feel myself sitting by the fountain at Chandler’s trying to count the coins that lay at the bottom of the basin. 

Zoe Tiller is a Tasmanian-born, Melbourne based writer who is currently completing a Bachelor of Arts in Creative Writing at RMIT. Her specialisations include auto fiction, fiction and poetry, finding great inspiration in family and nature. Her autofiction work is set to feature in a digital publication of the Bowen Street Press in late 2024.