Her Garden
On a visit to her house, the visitor would always be shown her garden. She was proud of her work tending to the errantly growing grass, constantly struggling to break free of its enforced rectangular shape, into a freeform verdant fringe. The sandstone bricks enclosed a small hill of earth around the perimeter, full to bursting with plants and bulbs throughout the warmer months; dormant in the winter.
In the spring, the earth came alive with snowdrops and daffodils, and in the summer and autumn, displays of salmon pink, burgundy and ochre pansies, swathes of bluebells, fuschia and blazingly coloured climbing plants would enshroud the garden in the comfort of warm floral perfume; honeyed jasmine, sweet rosemary and balmy violets. With the gently babbling fountain in the garden next-door, when laying on the grass under the warm sunshine, one could envisage being in a cottage garden in an idyllic rural setting, even if the real garden was just a small patch belonging to a modest Victorian terrace.
She had always been keen to tend to her plot; after the loss of her husband and the inspiration to paint on canvas, she turned her paintings to those with petals, soothingly rounded shapes and a gentle touch. He was often too busy to appreciate her efforts, spending his time and income gregariously with his colleagues, but sparingly with his family. She found her consolation by caring for the garden, and it would reward her fruition with the colours of love.
When she retired inside and put her favourite fleece-lined slippers on (a greyed pastel pink in colour, a small bow at the front, and always a little dusty) she would think nothing of returning outside to re-arrange the implements, or to sprinkle a little more water on a plant originally overlooked. Any time spent in her garden was spent in a human, attainable paradise, even more compelling than watching Countdown of an afternoon, and remarking how inappropriate the language of Richard Whiteley was getting to be.
As the evenings drew in, we would fill in crossword puzzles, idling away the time by wrapping words around our fingers, then slowly unravelling the letterjumble onto thick, creamily ecru paper, stained by its passage through time. Sometimes she would sketch, staring wistfully out of the window, however as time passed, the strength of her artful hands faded, and her attentions lay elsewhere. Perhaps she was thinking of the past. I never thought to ask.
We were comfortable in each other’s silent and furtive creation, comfortable in those hours of time, surrounded by the hum of the insects dancing in the breeze, and comforable remembering the bright colours and the gentle warm perfumes of her beautiful garden.
2 Comments