The Gardener
by Alison T. Bond
‘Clods of mud all over the place, you mucky little pup.’ Alfred could hear his mother’s voice chiding him even now. And he was 78 and two thirds. He thought that he was old enough to start adding fractions onto his age the way he used to do when he was a child, trying to seem older than six or seven. But now he was adding fractions in order to appear younger. Not nearly 79. And it was better than his chums down at the Men’s Forum, always adding an extra year onto the one they had actually reached, as if to add superiority to their stature. Alfred reckoned that 78 sounded quite decrepit enough, thank you very much. In fact, 79 sounded ancient. But according to Gertie from the Women’s Institute, Alfred was still ‘a bit of a goer’. She relayed this to anyone who would listen, with a smile and a wink. Alfred had the urge to slap her across the face every time she said it, but refrained. It wouldn’t be very gentlemanly, would it? It was clear Gertie was sweet on him, but he’d become used to living a fairly quiet life since being divorced. Divorce, what a terrible ending. As a church-goer, it sat uneasily with him. But there you have it, modern life, and nowadays women knew what they wanted, and it didn’t always include being a good little wife. He’d been married three times. Divorced twice. His first wife Beattie had passed away, leaving him a widower at the tender age of 22. Sad times. They had met at school and she had been the love of his life. There had been terrible days before she passed, pain being her constant companion, the cancer slowly gnawing away at her. Her favourite blooms were hydrangeas, bright and cheery, keeping a smile on her face however weak she was feeling. So it was hydrangeas that he grew more than any other flower; he tended them in her honour. He was a keen gardener and was a very green-fingered chap. He enjoyed the outdoor life so much, he not only tended his own garden but also that of the vicarage, the local councillor’s, a lawyer’s and the doctor’s. He liked to think he was covering every angle of life should he need professional help; however, if he needed the occupant of the vicarage any time soon, he’d be more than a little disappointed. The second wife, Edith, had been a voracious gossip and did nothing but stick her nose in where it blatantly was not wanted. She had caused a great deal of trouble for him, always having to apologise for her behaviour. She had once insinuated that the vicar had married a fallen woman, a pole dancer, no less, when in fact she had been a chorus girl in a theatre down south. The gossip even got into the local newspaper. A huge embarrassment all round. The third, the last one, had been a shocking spendthrift and had nearly bankrupted him. He wasn’t a rich man. He had, however, been careful and had looked forward to his retirement with a little nest egg to comfort his aging bones. Fur coats and Gucci handbags are very expensive, and, though they did
look very nice on Lottie, they were a little over the top for a small village in the north east. Poppleton Highgrove, population 154, hardly set the world of fashion alight. It was home to mainly farmers, shop owners and publicans, with a few commuting professionals having just enough children to keep the local school open. Lottie had been a monster really. She had been a drunk. A Chardonnay queen. Not to mention a sexual tease. Alfred had been tempted by her flighty behaviour and paid the price: marriage. A few other men in the village had been tempted too, as Lottie liked to remind Alfred at every opportunity. But now she and Edith were long gone – to hell, for all Alfred cared. Gertie was always finding an excuse to wander past whichever garden he was working in, which today was his own fair oasis. She was persistent, which he had to admire at least a bit. He wasn’t even a little interested, but that wasn’t her fault. She had never been married and probably had fanciful ideas of what having a man in her life meant. Alfred wasn’t about to teach her either. Beattie had been the one for him, and only peer pressure had made him bother with the other two. That was a road not to be travelled again. ‘I wonder, Alfred, how you manage to keep all those hydrangeas so beautiful. There must be at least a dozen!’ she quizzed. ‘It’s just the soil, Gertie, good soil. Depending on the acidity, they change colour,’ he replied, slightly annoyed at the distraction. ‘But it’s strange that they are all pink apart from just those two at the back.’ ‘Well, Gertie, the pink ones are in honour of my beloved, sweet, first wife Beattie. I miss her more than I can say. And the two blue ones are to remind me of my other two wives, Edith and Lottie. Never were there two more acidic creatures to grace the face of this planet. So they are dark blue, and they remind me never to marry again. Not even if my life depends on it.’ Alfred’s harsh voice cut right through Gertie and made her wince, mumbling a reply about being sorry if she had caused offence, and then scurrying away. Alfred turned back to his garden, peaceful, tranquil and silent but for the soothing sounds of bees buzzing in and out of the flowers, magical birdsong and the odd cricket joining in for good measure. A smile drew across Alfred’s face. Soil. His garden had always had the most alkaline soil you could possibly have. Only the acidic contents of his dead wives buried beneath two of the hydrangeas made them turn blue. He really did enjoy gardening.
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