Welcome to the second extract of my memoir (that needs an agent!). Every week I will put a teaser live of my memoir about my gardening journey.
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Plant Dieback
I could barely hear the old lady over the telephone. Her voice sounded as crackly as an old gramophone. I suspected she was probably deaf as well. After ten minutes of talking as loudly as possible without shouting, I extracted a Richmond address and agreed to have a look at the garden two days later.
Mrs Agatha Brady had clearly forgotten our conversation because, when I arrived, I received a blank look after ten minutes of knocking and ringing the bell at her small terraced cottage. A dog was yapping so wildly on the other side of the front door that I was already afraid of it before she even opened the door.
Mrs Brady’s little pug rushed out to greet me joyously and had a damn good try at biting my ankles. Luckily, I was one step ahead and had already planted my oversized gardening tool bag in front of my legs which always comes in handy when faced with troublesome canines.
‘Owwww, he likes you. He doesn’t usually like people much. Or other dogs, come to that,’ Mrs Brady told me in a very quiet voice.
‘What a darling little dog,’ I lied. USEFUL TIP: It’s imperative to tell clients that you love their dogs and children no matter what or otherwise you can guarantee the job won’t go well.
‘Have you come to fix my computer?’ she enquired.
‘Err, I’m the gardener you talked to on the phone and asked to come and see what can be done with your garden Mrs Brady.’
‘Did I? Well, I do have a garden. Will you have a look but first a cup of tea dear?’ she asked.
Because I have a soft heart and years of experience, I could predict what was to happen next. She would sit me down, get her best china out and reminisce about the ‘good old days’ over thick, over-brewed tea, encouraging me to eat slice upon slice of a massive cake. Eventually she would then show me a wilderness of a garden and I would feel obliged to submit a very low quotation so that she could afford it. However, a soft heart is not an advantage in the gardening business. In a strange way, gardening is a form of community service because humans, like plants, don’t like being neglected.
I followed her into her kitchen complete with an ancient Aga as she attempted to make me some tea, but her tiny arms were shaking wildly in front of her like a mini–Tyrannosaurus Rex. I felt compelled to assist her with making the tea to avoid a hot, scary incident before finally we both sat down for tea and the predicted stale cake.
‘So, my husband will be back any minute,’ she told me.
‘Err, ok,’ I said thinking she hadn’t mentioned a husband before.
‘Does he like gardening?’ I enquired.
‘Oh yes, he spends most of his time out there.’
I looked around her sitting room which was adorned with dated seventies wallpaper and my eyes were quickly drawn towards the mantelpiece which was crammed full of framed pictures. My eyes darted along the row of photos until they landed on a faded photo of a combat soldier who I guessed might have been in the Korean War. I quickly surmised that this may be the mysterious husband that she was talking about.
‘Is that your husband?’ I enquired.
‘Oh yes, that’s Eric, isn’t he handsome?’
‘He certainly is.’ In this case I didn’t need to lie, he was incredibly attractive and looked like a young George Clooney.
After plying me with oodles of stale cake, (it’s lucky this job burns lots of calories!) I followed Mrs Brady out into the garden and surveyed the scene. My heart sank as the little town garden was literally stuffed to the rafters with overgrown shrubs, weeds and strangely loads of pampas grass which has a reputation for well you know what…*The whole garden smelt like old dirty socks swaying in the wind after years of neglect.
*Pampas grass is commonly known as a sign that you are into swinging. So, if you want to attract your neighbours, you know what to do. However, I couldn’t imagine that Mrs Brady was up to swinging from the chandeliers.
I tentatively pushed back the pampas grass stems to see what was behind them and there, on a dusty table, sat an old wooden urn covered in millions of little creatures. There were spiders, woodlice and beetles, all covered by a blanket of cobwebs. I gulped down hard. I immediately suspected that this must be Mr Brady who most likely ‘wouldn’t be back any minute’ but she was damn right he did spend a lot of time in the garden.
‘What do you think?’ she enquired, failing to mention the urn right in front of her.
‘Can you help out next week?’
‘Sure, it would be my pleasure.’
I really couldn’t say no even though I knew the job would be extremely hard work, unprofitable, messy and I had sleepless nights thinking what to do with Eric. In the end, I decided to clean up the garden table, remove piles of little critters and place him there surrounded with a terracotta pot full of sweet-smelling daffodil bulbs. Hopefully Eric was happy with his new garden surroundings.
Mrs Brady didn’t mention her husband again but she did have a very happy face seeing the garden after the makeover which gives you a warm and fuzzy feeling inside not dissimilar to drinking hot mulled wine on a cold day.