Tottering By

Just when I think I’m getting on with things, something shakes my footing . . .

THERE are aphids on the rose bush and, irritated though I am at their presence, I am entranced by how they snuggle together along the stems, coating them in a smothering duvet of green violence.

I’ve never been a gardener, but this rose is special to me.

I planted it when I moved into this house three years ago, as a tribute to those I had lost and those I still had in my life.

I recall my trip to the local garden centre, armed with a credit card and ignorance.

And the ministrations of a ruddy-faced lady who, in her branded fleece and muddy boots, marched me round the rose section, hurling Latin names and soil requirements at me.

At some point I stopped her and asked her just to find me something that was yellow (my husband’s favourite colour), wouldn’t need much maintenance and had a name that would make me feel happy.

She turned and looked at me.

I felt intimidated, standing there in my kitten heels and mascara while there she was in her utterly practical, professional wellies and aura of horticulture.

“Tottering-By-Gently,” she growled at me.

“I know, I’m sorry. I can’t deny I’m definitely tottering, though I’m not sure I’m doing it so gently,” I stammered.

“This one”, she said, grasping my arm roughly.

I followed her pointing finger and saw a smallish, bare plant. It had buds on it, but it looked unimpressive.

“It’s called Tottering-ByGently, and it will produce loads of lovely little yellow flowers.

“And yes, I get the feeling you are tottering by, especially in those shoes, but this rose will make you do so more gently.”

I looked in her eye and saw a flash of warm, empathetic humour. And I bought the plant.

Now, these few years on, I am a bit annoyed with myself that I didn’t take better care of it.

I have never pruned it, although I do remove the dead flowers when I notice them.

To be fair, it does produce masses of beautiful flowers, and it seems more than happy for me to let it just get on with life.

But how did I let these little green monsters swarm all over it?

From the bottom of the garden, I hear shrieking. Guiltily, I rise from my knees and rush down the path to where my grandsons were playing.

The rope swing on the old apple tree is empty, twirling gently from the branch it’s attached to.

I can feel my heart pounding in my chest.

What sort of grandmother spends time worrying about greenfly and takes her eyes off her grandchildren?

I look up into the branches – nothing. I am trying to remember what my son-in-law said about coming to collect the boys.

I look at my watch. It’s far too early, surely, for him to have picked them up?

In any case, he always knocks at the front door, so he wouldn’t have come round the back.

When my darling Susan died, Ewan and I, after the initial shock of her being taken from us so fast and so young, were worried that David would take the boys back to where he came from, over 300 miles away.

We wouldn’t have blamed him, mind, as at a time like that his own family ties must have been important.

But he didn’t, and I love him all the more for it.

And it has been a blessing for me to be able to help him out with looking after the boys while he’s at work.

The boys. Where on earth are they? Feeling panicked, I run down to the river at the bottom of the garden.

To be fair, it’s less of a river than a small, silted-up stream.

The kingfisher who lives there and the heron who likes to visit daily for a meal aren’t bothered about the distinction.

Is it deep enough to get two smallish boys into trouble? Ewan and I never thought so, or we would have fenced it off.

I scan the surface of the water. There is

some slight movement, but it’s merely the result of some sophisticated choreography among the shimmering blue dragonflies.

I feel that I am going to stop breathing. Nevertheless, I run along the riverbank, glad that I can.

My GP telling me a year ago that I was at risk of developing diabetes encouraged me to get active.

I took up jogging, and have hated every second of it.

Especially the part where I have to run past my neighbours’ houses, conscious of their critical eyes assessing my lessthan-perfect figure wrapped too tightly in cheap supermarket Lycra.

But now I feel glad that she took me to task.

There’s a large oak tree further down the riverbank. I can see something blue at the base of the tree.

It’s a spot where I love to sit on a sunny afternoon and read a book or do a crossword.

But that blue is the exact colour of the boys’ school uniform.

Heart in my mouth, I sprint to the foot of the tree and scan its branches. Nothing.

I call out their names, but realise that what I think is a scream is coming out as a feeble whimper.

Across the river, a young deer is peering at me from behind a tree.

I don’t want to scare it, but my grandsons have to come first.

I shout out, louder this time, and the deer flees, the little white spot on its rump visible as it bounces through the trees into the distance.

And now there’s silence, broken subtly by the high-pitched mew of a sparrowhawk circling the skies far above.

I sink to my knees. The boys! How will I explain this to their dad? How will I ever forgive myself for not taking better care of them?

I close my eyes and allow myself a moment to wallow. If only Ewan were here by my side, as he was for nearly 40 years.

My best friend: my soul mate. The man who taught me how to love, and how to be lovable.

His strength, and his constant warmth in my heart, have kept me going these last few years.

I can still hear his voice, that wonderful, deep, soulful sound of the northern counties.

Grammatically flawed, delightfully artless. Uneducated, my mother said, making her disapproval obvious when I first brought him home.

That was probably the reason I left home so young, moving with him into a shabby bedsit run by an auburn-haired Irishwoman with many cats and a huge heart.

I taught him when to use “me” and “I” in a sentence. He taught me how to relax and to laugh at things that would normally have made me anxious.

The landlady excused our frequently late rent payments and brought us home-made chocolate brownies every Friday.

Now, kneeling here on the damp soil, I can feel him next to me. I can almost feel him squeezing my hand. I know it’s all going to be fine.

A tear is pushing its way through my tightly clenched eyes, but it’s a happy tear, so I let it fall instead of brushing it away.

“Nanna, look what we found!”

I open my eyes to see my boys rushing towards me from beyond the oak tree. Callum is carefully carrying something in his hands.

He is running, and looks flushed with excitement, but I can tell he’s cradling his find like precious cargo.

I spread my arms wide to embrace them both, and persuade Callum to open the cage of his fingers.

It’s a toad. It has bumpy, dry skin and a wide mouth that promises a smile.

Gently, we carry it back to my garden and place it by the rose bush. I know nothing about toads, but I hope this one likes eating aphids.

The boys and I go indoors. As the kettle boils, I hear Ewan’s voice.

“You and me done well with those two, doll.”

I wince. We’ll need to keep up the grammar lessons.

The End.