Feeling the particular kind of heaviness that comes with no sleep (and a little too much wine), Iris boarded the train for Dublin at Limerick Station armed only with a gardening magazine and a bottle of sparkling water and the notion that what she was doing was the only option. Dressed in what Rose called her “uniform”—smart olive green trousers with a camel-colored cardigan twin set—she’d even put on eyeliner and brought her lipstick. Where she was going she wanted to make a good impression. After twenty minutes the train left the outskirts of Limerick city and began its passage into the deep, green middle of the country, past the silver mines, into northern Tipperary, and into rich, horse-breeding farmland. Hedgerows of whitethorn blooming squared off green fields. She thumbed through Gardens Illustrated and read about treatments for a new strand of boxwood blight. She learned how applying cow dung to the base of plants would give the fungus plenty to think about. It was worth a try.
