Let It GROW
Dora felt her late husband cared more for his garden than her… surely not!
It was a simple enough question, and yet the young man standing by the display of herbs was looking at Dora Grayson like she’d asked if the moon was made of cheese.
She raised her eyes to the heavens.
Or, more precisely, the slate grey Yorkshire skies presiding over the very last place she’d wanted to come. It wasn’t how she’d imagined it. She was supposed to turn up, make the deal and hurry home as fast as she could. But the young man in the green polo shirt and khaki work trousers clearly hadn’t read the script. Dora eyeballed him and tried again. “I said, do you buy tools?”
“I thought that was what you said,” he replied, his mud-splattered brown boots scuffing at the gravel path.
“So? Do you buy them or not?” He glanced around as if seeking allies, then leaned in a little, lowering his voice. “This is garden centre, madam. We don’t buy tools. We sell them. We’ve a lovely selection in there.” He nodded towards the tatty looking large glass building that had seen better days.
Frustration balled in Dora’s stomach, joining knots that had resided there for six weeks. “You don’t understand,” she said, loathing the tremble in her voice. “I don’t need more tools. The shed is stuffed with the things.”
Blasted tears! Why did they appear when she didn’t want them to? Six weeks ago when she’d needed them to arrive – when release was so desperately wanted – they had refused to show. But now, in the middle of a dreary garden centre next to a complete stranger, she couldn’t stop them. Quite what the startled young man thought of her she dreaded to think. Why did she ever think anyone would listen? It was all Doug’s fault.
He was the one who knew what to do, the one with all the solutions. Leave that to me, pet was his answer to everything. If only he hadn’t left…
“Hey, it’s OK,” the young man rushed, reaching a hand towards her but quickly rethinking the gesture.
“I’m sorry…” All Dora wanted to do was escape, but as she made to leave, the young man reached out again.
“Look, do you fancy a cuppa? I find tea makes most things better.” He gave a self-conscious smile. “You’re upset – maybe you’d like a sit down and a chat? I’m just going on my break and we have a shed up top and it has a comfy chair.”
He had nice eyes, Dora thought. Friendly and warm, probably a bit twinkly when they weren’t as panicked as they were now. Dark brown, like those chocolate drops she and Doug used to get as a treat for walks on the moors…
“I like tea,” Dora sniffed, feeling such a fool.
“That’s a start, then,” he grinned, tapping the badge pinned wonkily to his shirt “I’m Patrick Metcalfe, by the way.
Apprentice plantsman.”
“Dora. Dora Grayson.”
“Right then, Dora.” He brushed soil from his sleeve and offered his arm. “Shall we?”
They walked between raised beds of plants, cheerful colour amid the grey day. Dora’s garden was like this last year. But it had no colour now. January had passed without her even setting foot outside, what little view she’d glimpsed of the garden through rain-pelted windows was a depressing palette of brown and grey.
They walked up onto a wide, empty scar of land at the top of the hill.
“We used to have conservatories and sheds here,” Patrick said, nodding at the brick outlines that pockmarked the now empty ground. “But we lost the contract with the supplier a while ago.”
“What about that one?” Dora pointed at a lone shed at the edge of the land. “That’s Eric’s shed.”
“Will he mind visitors?”
“Don’t worry,” he reassured her as they walked towards it. “Eric’s our senior nurseryman and a total legend. He lets us pop in for tea on his day off.”
Eric’s shed was filled with the familiar scent that surrounded Doug when he came in from the garden: old wood and wool, the ghosts of oil and peat, wafts of lavender and garlic from bunches hanging from the roof. It lifted her heart and bruised it both at once.
Two armchairs took pride of place in the centre of the shed, their much patched upholstery just visible beneath bright, granny-square crocheted throws. Heart-sore, Dora sat carefully on one, searching her sleeve for a tissue. The chair was surprisingly comfortable – instantly reminding her of an argument with Doug last spring about his own decrepit shed chair.
“It’s falling to bits. No wonder your back aches, sitting for hours on that.” He’d had none of it, of course. “It’s fine. My back aches from making the garden look beautiful. It’s a good ache.”
But it hadn’t been a good ache, had it?
Dora buried her nose in her hanky.
The rumble of a kettle on an old tea crate at the back of the shed grew louder, followed by the clink of mugs and a metallic tap of a teaspoon. When the chair beside her creaked in protest, Dora dared to raise her eyes.
Patrick offered her a chipped mug. “I wasn’t sure if you took milk and sugar so I did a bit of both.”
“Thank you.” It wasn’t how she took her tea, but the thought was kind and the mug warmed her fingers that had become inexplicably cold.
“Now, why were you trying to sell Bright Hill Nurseries your tools?” Patrick asked, the humour in his question clearly kindly meant.
Dora flushed a little. “They’re no use to me. Gardening isn’t my thing. But Doug – my husband – he loved it. More
Crocuses clustered close together, forming a shape that summoned a cry from breathless Dora’s lips
than me, sometimes.” It sounded harsh when she said it aloud, but that was how she had felt.
“I’m sure that’s not true,”
Patrick replied. If he was shocked by her confession he was careful not to let it show.
“Then he went away, and all I have left is a crumbling old shed, packed with useless tools. I can’t even look at them…” Her voice cracked again and she took a hurried sip of tea.
“He didn’t take them with him?” the young man asked, as if it were an unthinkable act.
Dora stared at him, until the penny dropped. “Oh love, he didn’t leave. He died. New Year’s Eve, at home, as the fireworks came on TV.” “I’m so sorry…”
She hated that phrase more than anything, although she wouldn’t tell the sweet young man. It was all she’d heard for weeks, from concerned people wanting to say something but not knowing what. Grief was an awkward beggar for everyone it seemed.
“Don’t be. Before he died, Doug spent every minute he could in that blessed garden, in all weathers, when his daft body was so weak. I kept telling him to rest, to take his pills, to stay warm – but he wouldn’t listen. He kept saying it was the only thing keeping him going. Which was a slap in itself. I mean, I’d given up everything to look after him, at home, where he wanted to be.”
“That’s tough,” Patrick agreed. “But maybe the garden helped?”
“That’s the saddest thing: he didn’t do anything. The bank he was digging is just mud and a tumble of weeds. I don’t know what he was doing out there.”
All that wasted time and nothing to show for it…
Patrick downed his tea, then said, “Maybe I can help.”
Dora frowned. “But you said…” “There’s a couple of gardening clubs that meet here sometimes. I’m sure they’d be glad of your husband’s tools.” “Oh… That would be wonderful.” “And how about I take a look at this bank of yours, eh? We could choose some flowers you like and I could pop over on my day off and plant them for you,” he added.
“I couldn’t ask you to do that,” Dora began, but Patrick was on the edge of his seat, those kind eyes twinkling just as she had suspected they might.
“I’d like to. Gardens should be a gift, not a curse. Maybe if yours looks nice it’ll help you remember the good times.”
Put like that, how could she refuse?
The following Saturday, Patrick arrived at Dora’s home, three boxes of bedding plants in hand. Bright spring sunshine had chased away the dark clouds that had hung over the town of Yarm for days and the house seemed to light up with Patrick’s arrival.
“I’ll pop these out the back for now,” he grinned. “Want to show me this bank of Doug’s?”
Dora hesitated, suddenly scared by the prospect. The last time she’d ventured into the garden was the day of Doug’s funeral. It didn’t feel like part of her home any more, only proof that he was gone.
“We’ll go together.” Patrick took the top box of plants and handed it to Dora. “Carry this for me?”
It was the perfect invitation.
Heart thudding, Dora followed
Patrick through the kitchen door and out into the garden. In the lawn, so muddy and desolate during the winter, the first brave shoots of green were appearing. Snowdrops edged one side of Doug’s old shed, while in a blue glazed pot by the greenhouse, pale pink cyclamen shivered in the breeze.
It was magical. And she could so easily have missed it.
“Dora…”
“I know. I see them,” she breathed, the spring flowers dancing in her vision as tears returned.
“Not those. Turn around.”
Dora turned – and instantly lost her breath.
There, in the middle of the bank where mud and weeds had been, a burst of colour met her gaze. Crocuses – bright white, butter yellow and deep purple – clustered close together, forming a shape that summoned a cry from her lips. A heart.
“He wasn’t doing nothing,” Patrick said, his voice filled with emotion. “Doug left this for you.” “It’s beautiful…”
He smiled, wiping his eyes with the back of his sleeve. “And it’s not just for this year, either.”
“What do you mean?”
“They multiply, you see. Come back stronger and more vibrant every year. So you’ll always remember him, in the place where he was happiest.”
A heart, unashamedly bright, returning every year with more colour and life, a lasting reminder of how loved she was. Dora gazed up to the spring blue sky, her heart full.
“There’s just one problem…” When she looked back, Patrick was holding a tray of plants and beaming at her. “What are we going to do with these?”
Dora took a breath and pushed up the sleeves of her sweater, silently thanking the love of her life for making this inevitable. “We’d best get gardening.” “Deal. Got any tools?”
It was a gift to laugh again. “There’s one or two in the shed!”