All The Time In The World

A couple enjoy their retirement in this reflective short story by Patsy Collins.

I’d been looking forward to giving up work – but would my days be full or too empty?

ANYTHING in particular you’d like to do today?” my husband asked as he brought me an early morning cup of tea.

“I thought we could tackle the wisteria.” “Today?”

“Yes, unless the weather forecast is bad.”

It wouldn’t be sensible to be at the top of a ladder, secateurs in hand, reaching for wayward shoots if it were windy or wet.

“It looks set to be a lovely day,”George replied. “I’m just surprised you’d want to do something so much like work on your first day of retirement.”

Although gardening was my passion, I knew what he meant. The wisteria was huge.

My grandparents planted it when they moved in, before my dad was born.

It didn’t just cover the front of our house, but that of the neighbours’, too.

Pruning it, although worthwhile and satisfying when done, was hard work.

It was possible in a single day if we began early, were disciplined about taking only short breaks and put all our energy into it.

“It needs done,” I pointed out. “And it’s the right time of year.”

The previous year it had only had a quick trim to stop it blocking windows, which was why I’d now referred to “tackling” rather than pruning the thing.

“Yes, but I thought we might do something fun today. Make a kind of celebration of it.”

“We spent all last week celebrating my retirement,” I reminded him.

I’d worked in the same school all my life, so staff and pupils past and present had made something of a fuss of me.

As had my husband, children and grandchildren. Our family didn’t waste an opportunity to get together and eat cake!

“We’ll do the wisteria soon, but we have all the time in the world for things like that.”

“I know.” It was a thought I’d been trying to push out of my mind.

“Do you have something in mind?” I asked.

“I do, actually.”

He did, of course. Since he’d retired four months previously, George had completed lots of jobs that had been put off until we had time.

He’d have done the wisteria already if it wasn’t a two-person task.

He’d been waiting for me to stop working, so we could start doing fun things together.

“Does it involve cake?” His grin answered that. “Count me in,” I said. On the way to the first place, he promised we’d do the wisteria the next day.

“I hadn’t realised it was bothering you that much.

I’d have had a go if I had,” George told me.

“I’m not that bothered.” “You sounded like you were.”

“OK, I was bothered, but not by the wisteria. It was what you said about having all the time in the world.”

“Isn’t that a good thing?” he asked.

“In theory,” I agreed, “but it reminded me of my grandparents; my gran in particular.

“Whenever I went round or phoned, it was often because I wanted something.

“I didn’t mean to be like that. It’s typical of the young. It’s not selfishness exactly; they just think the world revolves around them.

“Our kids were like that for a while, and the grandkids haven’t grown out of it yet,” I finished. George frowned.

“I don’t quite see the problem. I remember your gran and she adored you.”

He reminded me that my visits would have meant my grandparents stopping what they were doing and having tea and cake.

I didn’t need to feel guilty for giving them an excuse to do that.

“You’re right. Thanks, love.” Guilt wasn’t what was bothering me, but I put it aside to enjoy our day.

We had a lovely time looking round wonderful gardens, spending in their shops and eating in the tearoom of the second one.

Afterwards we visited a place which sold reclaimed and antique garden items.

We’d promised ourselves

a water feature and hoped to find something suitable.

The old barrel and hand-operated pump were perfect.

We’d walked a few miles and were on our feet for a good eight hours, but none of it was what you’d call work.

The plants we bought would require planting and the water feature would require us to find a suitable location, clear it, then assemble the thing.

Those were the kind of tasks we most enjoyed.

They involved lots of walking round the garden, thinking and planning. Lots of sitting down with tea and cake.

The work, once we started, could be done in stages, with tea breaks in between, or stopping for a long chat with someone who’d rung up or called round unexpectedly.

That night I tried to explain to George why being reminded of my grandparents bothered me.

“They seemed to have no life of their own after retirement.

“Gran had worked in the post office and told me enough about it for me to know it was a responsible position.

“Grandad had an important role in the local factory, which at the time employed more than half the town’s population.”

“Your job at the school was a responsible post, too,” George pointed out. “You were important to a lot of people.

“That’s part of it,” I replied. “When working I was like them, and I’m worried I will be in retirement, too.”

“You think they weren’t happy?”

“I thought they were, but now I look back it seems as though they did nothing but sit around waiting for me to turn up, call for advice or complain how unfair life was.

“At the time I took it for granted that they always had time for me, but now I’m dreading having a life where my only interest is contact with my grandchildren.”

Of course, I absolutely loved them – we both did.

One of the positives of retirement was that we could have them to stay for weeks at a time in the holidays.

We’d be able to attend every play and sports day.

I just didn’t want that to be our entire lives.

“I see what you mean, but I think you’re worrying for nothing,” George reassured me.

“We’ve holidays planned, you’re starting a poetry course, there’s the garden . . .”

“I know. You’re right.” He almost had me convinced.

****

“Wisteria today?” George asked as he brought in my morning cup of tea.

“Yes,” I replied. “You should have woken me earlier! We won’t get it all done today.”

“We don’t have to. All the time in the world, remember? I’ve been thinking . . .

“We should have a proper breakfast first, then get the ladder set up and everything ready.

“Then we can have a tea break, and do the cutting of one section.

“We needn’t do the picking up and tying back until after lunch,” he continued.

“Good plan.” I smiled. “It will take longer, but will be less stressful.”

So we did exactly that. As usual, George went up the ladder to do the cutting, with me steadying it and calling advice about which bits to cut and which to tie in to extend the ancient plant’s reach.

For the second stage we swapped roles, and I did the tying in, while he held the ladder and directed me to do the same with the stems.

Since my grandparents bought the semi-detached house, there had been several changes of neighbours, but we were fortunate that all had been happy to have the plant trail over their property.

As long as they could enjoy the wonderful scented blooms without having to do the work required to maintain it, they didn’t mind.

Doing the first section of the plant didn’t take all day, despite our tea and lunch break.

“Shall we start the next bit?” I suggested.

“No. We won’t have time to clear it all up before the neighbours get back.”

He had a point, so we decided to remove all the bits we’d cut off and pile them in our garden to deal with later.

It was a good decision, leaving us time to walk round our garden and decide on the ideal spot for our new water feature.

Four days later we’d cut back every wayward shoot, tied in every stem and removed every trace of our activities to a pile in our garden.

“I’m looking forward to getting rid of that,” I said, “but we’ll need to cut back the laurel for the water feature, so maybe we should do that first.”

“Good idea,” George agreed, “then we can shred the whole lot at once.”

We cut a fair bit off the laurel bush, then quite a lot more.

“Do you actually like this?” George asked.

“Not especially. It’s good to have something to look at, as we can see it from the window, but . . .”

“But we won’t need it when we’ve got the water feature?”

“Exactly.” I smiled. Getting it out was a terrific job.

At one point we decided we’d wait for Pete next door to come home and add a bit more muscle to our attempts to pull up the root.

After a refreshing cup of tea and fortifying wedge of cake, George thought of sawing through the root while it was still in the ground.

“Worth a try,” I agreed. The saw was fit for the bin and we were in need of more cake when we’d finished, but we got it out in the end.

“Hello!” a voice called. It was our granddaughter, Kate.

“We’re out in the garden, love,” I called back. “Come round.”

A moment later she appeared.

“Oh, you got rid of a bush!”

Kate had only noticed we’d removed the laurel because the remains of it were lying on the lawn.

She couldn’t see the effort it had taken, just as

I just didn’t want that to be our entire lives

she hadn’t realised the front of our house looked tidy again because we’d spent four days up ladders pruning the wisteria.

“We’re going to put a water feature here,”

George explained.

“Nice.”

Kate didn’t see the fun we’d had choosing it or the time we’d spend assembling it.

She didn’t think about the trips we’d make to get ideas for planting around it, or the way we’d mess about, pumping the handle over-enthusiastically so we splashed each other.

“Are you busy now?”

Kate asked. “Only I wanted to ask your advice about something.”

Just as when I was her age, her mind was on herself and her reason for being there.

She didn’t see our lives were full even when she left, simply because she was young.

“No, love, we’re not too busy for that,” George replied.

“Let’s go in and put the kettle on,” I added.

We had a mountain of shredding to do, the stump and roots of the laurel to take to the tip, the water feature to assemble . . . but all that could wait.

“For you, Kate, my love, we have all the time in the world.”

The End.

En route to Ponden Kirk you’ll pass Ponden Hall, a listed Elizabethan farmhouse with a Georgian extension.

Advertised for sale for £1 million in 2020, the property was most recently used as a B&B, and often frequented by “Wuthering Heights” fans who claim it was the author’s model for Thrushcross Grange.

Perhaps not quite as grand in its heyday as the fictional Linton family home, it’s still worth a look. On stormy nights, so the spooky story goes, Cathy’s ghost can be seen furiously scratching the glass of a small single-paned window in the east wing.

Interestingly, Anne Brontë also loved the building — Ponden Hall was her inspiration for the titular house in “The Tenant Of Wildfell Hall”.