The Waterlily Girl

Four friends and a farmer share a love for nature

One lazy August afternoon, four young friends walked into the countryside surrounding their village, eager to pursue their love of nature through fresh surroundings.Ann had her Kodak, Jo her sketchpad, Stella and Nicola notepads. After a few shots across the fields,Ann broke from the pack and raced down a bridlepath.

Her three friends dashed after her and they fell, giggling, against a five-bar gate, breathless from the sprint.Ann pointed.

“See? Told you there’s a flower meadow behind this cabbage field.”

She raced on down the lane against a cheering accompaniment from birds in the hedgerows.The others followed, all ignoring a weather-worn straw bale which had been tossed against the hedgerow. Gripped under its two binding twines was a grubby board marked “PRIVATE”.

Moments later the girls were leaning over another gate, gazing across a meadow of wavering grasses speckled with dazzling wildflowers.

Ann began snapping away with her camera. Her dad was a wildlife photographer and Ann yearned to follow in his footsteps. Jo began a pencil drawing as an outline for her pastel art. Stella and Nicola jotted notes on their pads.

“Oi, you lot!”An elderly farmer appeared from the hedgerow behind them.They sprang back, grouping together.“What are you up to? You shouldn’t be down this track. It’s signed well enough. Now, off you go.” He flapped a hand.Ann pointed at the meadow.

“Couldn’t we go in just for a few minutes? We’d stay on the verge.You see, I want to be a nature photographer.” She held up her camera.

“I want to be a flower artist.”Jo showed her sketch of red campions.

Stella supported them.

“I want to be a biologist. I’m interested in insects and birds.”

His eyes darted to Nicola, who was gripping her pad tight against her top. Ann knew how shy she was, and that her dream was to write fiction. In the hope he’d grant their wish,Ann decided to answer for her.

“She likes writing stories about animals.” The farmer glanced at each of them. “Well, there’s dangerous machinery up and down here and I don’t want any kids getting hurt. Now, skedaddle.”

The following evening, camera at her eye,Ann was again standing on the lower bar of the gate to the meadow.The descending sun was flooding a peach hue over it and she was getting some great shots. Jo had her pad on the top rail, sketching.

Ann lowered her camera and looked about.There was no sound of machinery. They’d seen no one along the lane. She stepped down and tugged the bolt back.

“Ann, no. If we get caught . . .” Stella stretched to grab her, but Ann slipped through with a giggle. She began snapping the vibrant flowers and the congregation of butterflies and insects feeding on them.

Then, spotting the others approaching, she ran on to the far end of the meadow where it slipped into a copse of trees.

She stopped by a tree trunk, waiting till her friends topped the rise. She stepped out into squelching grassland which dipped to a dark pool of scummy water.

“Yuk. Is that a pond or a bog?” Jo asked, as she and the other two arrived beside her. It was dank and still.

But Ann had spotted life further down, a lone yellow star-like flower reaching above the scum beside yellowing platelike leaves – a waterlily. Determined to snap it, or even recover it, she kicked off her shoes and socks.

“I’m not going down there in these sandals,” Nicola said, wrinkling her nose.

“Ann, don’t, it’s too dodgy.” Stella caught her arm.

Ann tugged free and, clutching her camera, waded through the dishevelled grasses, her feet sucking in the soft mud. She’d set a cautious foot between the reeds and had sunk up to her calves, until . . .

“Help me! Help me!”

The girls stopped.

“Over here! I’m trapped!”

Ann was already stepping out, her legs speckled with slime. Dipping under the feathery willows, she stopped in amazement.A blue tractor sat with its front wheels deep in the bog. “Where are you?” she called.

“Over here. Keep to the high bank!” he yelled.

Ann climbed to where it seemed the tractor must have rolled down. Stepping along the rise and to the far side, she spotted the farmer in a crumpled old jacket, up to his thighs in the bog beside the front tyre, clutching at the grassy bank. “How can we help you?”

“Stay there! Go back the way you came and go to the farm. It’s across the lane and over the rise.Tell Joe in the cottage opposite what’s happened, and to bring the digger and chains to the old pond!”

Ann stumbled back to the others and told them what to do.As they scuttled off she gave her camera to Stella, telling her she was staying with the old man.

From the rise Ann gaped as the tractor shifted slightly. She slid down the grassy bank. His eyes were closed, his breathing hard.

His face was streaked with mud and red with sweat and effort, and Ann took out her hanky and smoothed it over his muddy brow. He opened his eyes and looked at her, surprised.

“Why, you’re one of those girls from yesterday.”

“I’m sorry we’ve trespassed. It was my idea.Are you hurt badly?”

“Foot’s pinned under the wheel. Nothing broken, thanks to the mud. I’ve been avoiding this place since my wife died some years back.We used to picnic here, when it was pretty.

“Then someone dumped some chemical in it so I came to see about filling it in. I went to get out of the tractor and caught the gear lever in this old jacket, and next I’m hanging out the side and, well . . . that was a good hour ago. Then the tractor died, so here we lay.

“Was what you said true, or were you just playing me up about your ambitions so I’d give you permission to go on the wildflower meadow?”

“Yes, it’s all true. Except Nicola.

She wants to write romances. But we wouldn’t have picked the flowers, and we kept to the headland just now when we came through.”

“Well, you can now see why I wouldn’t let you on it.Too close to here, too dangerous.”

Ann turned her hanky to a clean spot. “I wanted to get to the yellow waterlily. It’ll die in there, like all the others. Can’t you save it, and the pond?” She wiped mud from his cheek.“Then you could have your picnics here again.”

“No, it’s never held the same joy for me since Cissy went.We never had kids, so I’m alone now.What’s your name?” “Ann Drake. I live up Foxhall Road.” “I’m Tom Jackson. Now,Ann, it’s getting dark. Go to the rise and wait for Joe.Then go back to the lane and home, all of you. I don’t want you around machinery, getting hurt, too.

“And look at the state of you.Your parents won’t be happy about any of this.”

So Ann found out as she stepped through the kitchen door. Her dad stopped eating his supper. “Where’ve you been till this late hour?” Her mum turned from the sink and hurried to her side.

“What happened?”

“I’m all right,”Ann said brightly.“I – we saved a farmer who got hurt.We heard him when we were down near his pond. His tractor –”

“Pond? Where was this?”

“On his farm, Dad. But we were only taking photos,” she said as her mum tutted at the state of her.“I was trying to take a photo of a waterlily and . . .”

“Let’s get you in a bath,” her mum said, hurrying her out of her dad’s firing range.

“I’ll take that.” Her dad held a hand out and Ann reluctantly placed her camera in it.

The following morning, Saturday,Ann met the others in town.They’d all been truthful, sure their parents would be proud of them, but they had all suffered rebukes regarding trespassing.

“I wanted to take him some flowers,” Ann said.“It only seems . . . caring to ask after him. But I’ve another plan.”

There was a groan of protest from the others, who thought it would be better to forget the whole affair.

“We could make our own get-well card. We could post it. Jo could do a coloured

pastel of what the pond would look like done up.

“And Nicola could write a story about it, say through the eyes of the insects that live there.”

“If my dad...” Nicola began. “Stella will help you with the insects. Then – you’ll like this bit.We sign ourselves...”

“No!” Nicola cried.“If my dad finds I’ve had anything more to do with it all he’ll kill me.”The other two nodded in agreement.

“I was going to say,”Ann went on,“we sign ourselves,‘the Waterlily Girls.’You’re always taking about pen names, Nicola.”

“So that’s why you wanted me to bring my pastels.” Jo tossed her pad and pastel stick on the grass.Ann looked at Stella, who returned her gaze sceptically.

But soon, the other two gave in. Knowing her insects, Stella helped Nicola with the story. Jo’s pastels flowed effortlessly, using the pond before her for inspiration.

As she didn’t have her camera,Ann gave instructions for the best effects, especially the pond’s massing pink and white waterlilies. By the time they wandered home early evening, they were chatting and laughing, eager to complete and post it.

The following Saturday,Ann burst through the garden gate with a clutch of library books.

“Hi, Dad,” she called, catching sight of him in the doorway of his shed.

“Hold on, I want a word with you, young lady.”

As she stepped inside she spotted the envelope on his bench.

“Yes, you know what that is, don’t you? Mr Jackson brought it round this morning. He wanted to thank you in person.Ann, I felt a fool, embarrassed that I knew nothing about it.

“Just tell me in future, like you did last time. I shall show this to your friends’ parents so they know, too.Then I’ll take it back to Mr Jackson as he’d like to keep it. Now off you go.”

It was worth the telling-off.Ann now knew Mr Jackson had received the card and that he was well enough to come round and thank them.

But it had thwarted her hopes of speaking to her dad regarding another plan she’d conceived. It would have to wait till he’d forgotten this affair.

A month later, the affair with the card was forgotten, though her three friends had, strangely, not received a further rebuke or any mention of it from their parents. So it was time, they agreed, to allow Ann to broach their new plan to her dad. It burst from her one Sunday, during lunch.

“Dad, can we have a pond in our garden?” He continued eating.“Oh, Dad, please.We’re the only ones that have a garden big enough.

“And we’ve been reading up on ponds from library books.You see, you have to make sure the sand beneath the liner is dead smooth so stones don’t tear it, and you have to have different depths.

“Waterlilies like it deepish, and flag iris and marsh marigolds prefer the shallow margins.And you need oxygenating plants to make sure all the wildlife thrives. Oh, and grass, not stones, round the edge so baby frogs can climb out and hedgehogs can drink safely.And . . .”

“All right! I get the message.”

“Oh, Dad, thanks.When can we start?” As well as giving his approval, he persuaded the other parents to help, convinced this project would keep their girls close to home.

The girls themselves, eager to begin, worked to clear the plot of stones and weeds. Parents popped round whenever they could, and by the end of November the pond was ready.

Green shoots were sprouting by the first of March, the day for planting up. Everyone bought plants to suit it. Stella, Jo and Nicola brought waterlilies, each a different colour.Ann’s were yellow, of course.

Patiently they waited for the summer for the plot to erupt with colour, and to =shine with its plants and wildlife.

When the first waterlily bud burst open, a celebration took place around the pond. Once filled with cake and contentment, Ann’s dad passed her an envelope.Ann stared at it.

“It’s addressed to the Waterlily Girls.” She flashed a look to the other three.Ann opened it and read out the words inside.

“‘I hope you have an enjoyable party. Your dad will explain why I’m getting in touch after all this time. Best regards,Tom Jackson.’”

Ann looked at her dad.

“Come on.” He smiled and marched towards the house.The adults left behind smiled knowingly.

Half an hour later, Dad drove the girls up the drive to Tom’s house. He stepped out to meet them.

“My goodness, look how you’ve grown,” he said cheerily, looking from one to the other.The girls tried a smile, still puzzled. “Hop in my old Ford estate and I’ll take you for a ride around the farm.”

His direction was away from the old pond the girls presumed he’d restored.

“No, after that accident I filled it in,” he told them.“Meadow’s still there.”

Minutes later he pulled up beside a high hedge. He took them through a gate into a sloping meadow massed with wildflowers.

The girls stared, open-mouthed, squeezing each other in glee as he led them through it to a shining new pond, cobalt blue in the sunshine.

Reeds and marginals ringed it like a fertile crown.Water boatmen and whirligig beetles skated on its surface, sending glittering ripples across it.

Songbirds, insects and butterflies fluttered above, rejoicing in their newfound habitat. Joy was expressed on the girls’ faces, too.

“It was your card that did it.Your care and concern not just for me but for the wildlife conveyed in the little story. It gave me the incentive to try to replicate it.”

“Look at the waterlilies,” Stella said, gripping Ann’s hand in delight.“Pink, white, and yellow just like ours.”

Tom scratched his bristled chin.

“I dug that other yellow one out of the bog, and it’s thriving in a barrel pond in my back garden.You’re welcome any time.”

“And you must come and see our pond . . .”Ann gave her dad a sheepish glance, wondering if he’d agree to that.

He smiled.

“Tom’s welcome any time.”

During visits home through school and university years, they’d congregate by the pond in Ann’s garden or by Tom’s pond, often with him.Tom became a firm friend.

The meadows and ponds became inspirational for the girls as university sent them onward to pursue their dreams.

They’d made a pact to meet up the summer they turned twenty-five.When Ann arrived home for the reunion, her dad told her some startling news regarding Tom’s farm.

“Compulsory purchase!”Ann sat down, shocked.“They want to build further houses on his land.”

“But they can’t.What about the wildflower meadows? And the pond?” “Tom’s already sold it. He’s tired,Ann.” Ann was worried for him as she waited at his door.

“Ann!” Smiling, eyes gleaming,Tom took her hand.“Come in.”

“Tom, why didn’t you tell us? We could have helped you fight this.”

“Ann, you can’t win against authority. I’ve had the best years of my life here but it’s never been the same since Cissy died.” “But where will you go?”

“I’m moving to Torquay, close to my sister Daphne.All that British Riviera sun, eh?”A mischievous twinkle lit his eyes. Emotion gripped her.

“So will they. . .” She bit back her words. It seemed callous to mention the meadow and pond.

“Yes,Ann, they will bulldoze it all. Now don’t get upset.” He patted her hand.“I’ve bought ten acres from my pal at Willow Cross farm, a few miles north of where you live.“I want you four girls to have it.

“No, listen. I owe you girls my life,” he insisted.“If I’d been stuck out there all that night, I wouldn’t be here now.And I wouldn’t have had all these lovely years with you all.

“Trouble is . . . it’s a bit boggy, this patch of land,” he said, a twinkle in his eyes.Ann caught on.

“What you mean is, it would made a fine place for a pond, maybe some wildflowers, a habitat for insects. Somewhere to picnic.” He nodded.Ann hugged him, delighted. “We’re all going to have the best celebration ever, round the garden pond this evening.You will come, won’t you?”

For more great short stories, pick up the People’s Friend, out now