The Virtual Gardener by Linda Lewis

I was great at the theory, but now I needed to put my knowledge into practice!

IHAVE news,” my boss, Penny, told me. “The producer of ‘Gardeners’ Forum’ wants you to host the show when Howard Jenkins has his hip operation.”

I took a breath and hoped any panic I was feeling didn’t show up in my voice.

“Thanks, but I’m not keen on live radio. I’d be worried in case I said something I shouldn’t.”

“Not a problem, David, ” she said. “The show’s pre-recorded.”

Then she hung up. Penny was the editor of the local newspaper. I started writing the gardening column two years ago after winning a competition to find a replacement for “Gardening With Gertrude”, which had run for twenty years. The paper had changed hands and the new owners wanted fresh blood.

I was delighted when my piece, “Gardening With Grandad”, won first prize, and even more thrilled when the paper offered me a regular column.

I already had lots of ideas for topics. It never occurred to me to say I had little practical experience. Most of my knowledge came from the internet and the gardening journals Grandad had left to me.

My grandfather was a gardening wizard. From an average-sized garden he supplied his neighbours with most of their fruit and veg.

I’d learned a lot since I took over the column, but it was mostly theoretical. In an ideal world I’d have had a big garden and grown all my own fruit and veg, the way he did, but big gardens didn’t come cheap. All I had was a concrete courtyard with a couple of containers where I grew lettuces and courgettes.

An e-mail pinged into my inbox. It was from Penny.

A date for your diary. The first radio slot has been booked.

I had two options. I could turn the radio show down, upset Penny and risk losing my column, or I could take a crash course in practical gardening and try to bluff my way through.

I considered option one for less than ten seconds. My proper job involved teaching English Lit at the local sixth-form college, but in my heart I was a writer. Every week, I looked forward to writing my column.

I would sit at my desk with my grandfather’s notebooks and journals, looking for inspiration.

Every minute I spent with my grandfather had been a delight. When I thought back to those happy times I could picture his hands – rough and dry, and almost always grubby. As a child I wanted hands like that.

I was twelve when he died. Writing the column brought back so many wonderful memories and made me feel closer to him. I didn’t want to lose that.

That left me with option two – get some lessons in practical gardening. I hot-footed it to the garden centre and asked for advice.

“Try Wendy.” The man pointed to a capablelooking woman crouching on the floor, transplanting lavender into larger pots.

“I need a crash course in gardening,” I told her.

She looked me up and down.

“Have you tried the college?”

“Yes, but their courses start in September. I need to start now.”

Luckily, she didn’t ask why I was in such a rush.

“As it happens,” she said, “you’re in luck. I’m about to take some time off to landscape a garden. I can give you lessons while I’m working, but it’ll cost you.”

She named an exorbitant sum, but I didn’t have much choice.

“Done,” I said.

She scribbled an address on the back of a seed packet and gave it to me.

“Be there on Wednesday. Eight o’clock sharp; and wear something sensible.”

Fortunately, it was half term. I had a lot of paperwork to catch up on, but providing I burned some midnight oil, I’d be able to take a few days off.

The house was a tiredlooking semi that stood out from its neighbours for all the wrong reasons. The door was the original wooden one and had obviously had a hard life; the paint was peeling off in several places. The windows needed replacing and there were tiles missing from the roof.

As I walked down the short path I studied the neglected front garden, and wondered how much I was going to learn. I already knew the difference between dandelions and daisies, both of which were very much in evidence on the tiny square of grass.

Wendy opened the door before I knocked.

“You came, then?” She held out a hand for the money, counted it, then led me through the house. With a triumphant “Ta da!” she flung open the back door. I gazed out on to a jungle.

“What do you think?” she asked. “I’m doing it for my nephew as a housewarming present while he’s visiting his

“I didn’t think you’d come back. You’re tougher than you look” The whole episode had left me feeling guilty

parents in Scotland.”

She rubbed her hands together with something like glee.

“Right. Time to set you to work.”

She threw instructions and information at me like an out-of-control ball server at Wimbledon. By the end of the day, we’d cut down the worst of the weeds and brambles and had cleared a large bed. What was just a plot of land had started to look like a garden.

I collapsed as soon as I got home, too tired to cook anything more than beans on toast, all thoughts of paperwork gone from my mind.

My back ached and so did my feet, my legs, my arms and my wrists, not to mention my head.

Worst of all, I was wondering how tackling weeds and overgrown bushes would help me answer questions on the radio.

The following morning, Wendy greeted me with a smile, which was an improvement on the previous day’s frown.

“I didn’t think you’d come back,” she said. “Clearly you’re tougher than you look. This way.”

She marched round the side of the house, where dozens of pots were arranged in rows, then she led me up and down, asking me to name the plants. Fortunately, I recognised most of them without too much trouble.

I was starting to relax when Wendy began asking questions.

“Does this plant like shade or sun? When should this shrub be pruned? Autumn or spring? How tall does it grow?”

Most of the time, I didn’t have a clue, so I guessed. Disconcertingly, she didn’t say anything so I hoped I was getting everything right.

When she held up a fern and asked if it was hardy, my confidence was soaring. The fern had soft green fronds tinged with silver and pink and looked as though a breeze might blow it away.

“It’s not hardy,” I said. “Wrong. You’re looking at the Japanese painted fern and it’s as tough as old boots. Try this one.” She pointed to a sturdylooking fern. “Hardy,” I said.

She tutted.

“This is a tree fern. It’s very expensive and if you don’t protect it from frost, it will die.”

She put the pot down. “It’s no use recognising a plant if you don’t know how to take care of it.” She pierced me with her sharp green eyes. “Why do you need to learn about gardening in such a hurry?”

There was no point trying to fob her off; I knew she’d see right through me.

“I’m going on the radio. Hosting a gardening show.” She laughed. “They’ll tear you to shreds. Why did you agree to do the show?”

“My editor didn’t give me much choice.” I told her about my column.

“Who really writes the column? Not you, clearly.” I gulped. “Actually, I do.” I explained about my grandfather and his journals.

“I spent ages with him when I was small. I read his journals and the memories come flooding back. The facts and other information come from books and the internet. If I had space I’d love to grow all my own veg, but I couldn’t afford a place with a garden. I’ve only got a courtyard.”

She thought for a few moments then smiled.

“Well, well. Whatever are we going to do?”

I rather liked the way she said “we”.

“You can’t do the show, that’s for sure,” she said.

Until then, I’d held on to a shred of hope that she could figure out a way to help me. Now I knew that wasn’t going to happen.

“I had a gardening column once,” she said. “They made me give it up when the paper changed hands. Broke my heart.” A large penny dropped. “You’re Gertrude!” “That’s me.” Wendy glared at the gathering grey clouds. “Let’s go inside and have a cup of tea.”

I went to see my editor the next day.

“I’m not doing the radio show. I don’t have any practical know-how,” I told Penny. “Before you say anything, don’t worry. I’ve found a replacement.”

I was in the audience for the first show. Wendy was a natural. In fact, she was such a huge hit, the producer asked if she’d like to co-host the show in the future.

“I’d be honoured,” she replied.“but you’d need to check with Howard. We were an item once. Years ago.”

That might have been the end of it, but two days later, Wendy called to see me.

She gave me back my money.

“I asked you to pay because I was so cross that you’d replaced me on the newspaper.”

“How did you know who I was? I didn’t say.”

“When you won that competition your photo was all over the paper. I never forget a flower and I never forget a face.”

She pulled me into her arms and hugged me.

“The producer asked Howard about co-hosting the radio show and he said yes. I really can’t thank you enough.”

Then she smiled, and I wondered if the old spark between the two of them might be set to burst back into flame.

I could have left it there, but the whole episode had left me feeling guilty. I needed to make Penny aware that most of my knowledge came from books. If it meant losing my column, I’d just have to grin and bear it.

I called in to see her on my way home the next day.

When I finished telling her my story, she grinned.

“I already knew you weren’t a real gardener.” “How?”

“A combination of things. When you’re in the office, you never talk about plants. All you talk about are books.”

She picked up my right hand and inspected it.

“And your hands; they’re so soft. No decent gardener has hands like that.”

“Are you going to replace me?”

“Of course not,” she said. “You didn’t win the competition because of your gardening skills. You won because you can write.

“Our book reviewer is retiring soon and I was hoping you might want to take the job on. We can discuss it over dinner later – if you’re free.”

Over dinner, I discovered that Penny knew Wendy, a.k.a. Gertrude, rather well. They’d been neighbours for many years. She’d been livid when the paper’s new owners made her friend give up her column.

She had been hoping I’d chicken out of the radio show, leaving the paper with no choice but to ask Wendy to step in.

“I wanted them to eat a large portion of humble pie. As it happened, my plan worked, just not in the way I expected.” She looked into my eyes. “So, what’s it like being a pawn in your boss’s hands?” she asked, a smile tugging at the edges of a mouth I realised I’d quite like to kiss one day.

“I think I can live with it,” I said. n