Ah! Is there anything better? Anything at all, better than this? That smell of freshly watered blooms, of damp
leaves, all mixed in with an earthy aroma from freshly dampened soil. A strange, elusive scent that only appears in summer;
is only sensed after a storm, or a good hosing, and only when the heat of a glorious day fades as the sun rapidly heads off
to America. Good job I remembered to buy a new hosepipe, she’d have a fit if I’d forgotten. Her precious garden.
I sometimes think she prefers it to me.
Twenty years living with her, our garden, and our understanding – she does the gardening and I don’t.
Calls it hers when she’s having a go, but I built the two patios as well as the block-paved area, so I’ve done
my fair share, and she knows it.
She’ll be back soon; Jo says this, and Jo’s got that, and you’ll never guess what Jo’s
done in her garden. The same old routine -- spends a weekend at her sister’s and I get earache for
a week. But Paul says Jo’s just the same after she’s been here, must be a woman thing.
Anyway, just enjoy the peace, sip your whisky, and take in the view. The Wych Elm dominating the far end. Look
how it’s grown in fifteen years -- just a sapling back then, growing purely by chance on the boundary between next door’s
garden and ours. That old hag, she wanted to destroy it. “There’ll be trouble,” I told Marg. “If she
touches that tree, I’ll give her the biggest rollicking of her life.”
“I’ll tell her to leave it alone,” she said. “It’s probably on our side anyway.”
The old bat, a good day when she moved out – just look at it now? Twenty feet at least, and spreading majestically
over the garage. I suppose it must be a bit of a pain in the autumn picking up all those leaves, but Marg doesn’t seem
to mind?
The weeping cherry and miniature crab apple, eight years ago we bought ’em, the blossom’s lovely
in the spring but I wish we'd sited that cherry somewhere else, but would she listen. Ah well, too late now I suppose?
Top patio looks a bit bare, says she wants a pond in the corner, that’ll work. Perhaps, next year?
Ah, my favourite, the block-paved area between the two patios. Blimey! It’s about seven years since I did
it; got fed up of the dog digging up the lawn. Where does the bloody time go? She wasn’t too keen at first, said a garden
without a lawn is like a room without a fireplace. So I laid it in the style of old fashioned cobbles, I know she doesn’t
like a modern look, with a circle in the middle and small islands of soil along each edge for the her to do her planting –
to stop her moaning. Those Rose, Hollyhock and Lavender bushes are lovely, glad I decided to leave islands
for her.
I suppose we haven’t done a bad job. It’s quite pleasant just sitting here and relaxing, out of sight
of the rest of the world. Good job it bloody is, after last night with Liz. Our new next door but one neighbour, a divorcee
no less. Moved into the close about two months ago, but only seen her a couple of times to nod to. Marg’s become a bit
friendly with her though. She’s Irish like Marg – the Celtic connection.
Bumped into her in the local last night. Don’t know how we got chatting, she was due to meet a friend but
she never turned up and we simply started talking. Told me about her messy divorce. I just talked about Marg, too long married
I suppose. How did we end up back here? Oh, I remember, come in for a neighbourly drink, I said, and have a look at the garden
while I water it -- forgot to do it earlier – give you a few ideas. Then it happened, right here on the back garden.
She offered and I accepted. I still can’t believe what a fool I’ve been. Jesus, how much did I have to drink last
night? Oh well, I bloody well enjoyed it, and what the wife doesn’t know can’t hurt me, can it?
I can hear her car, she’s back. Deep breaths, she’ll never catch on.
“Hello, love, I’ve missed you, how’s Jo?”
“Don’t you dare hello me! Haven’t you got something to tell me?”
“Don’t know what you mean, love?”
“Don’t know what I mean? Let me see if I can’t jog your memory? You know, last night in the
back garden, with Liz? Did you really think I wouldn’t find out?”
“Jesus, I can’t get away with anything. Look, I was drunk and she offered, you’ve got to believe
me!”
“Oh, I believe you all right. But you didn’t have to accept, did you?”
“It was that old witch Molly who told you, wasn’t it? She must have dislocated her neck, or installed
bloody CCTV to see us from her place, it’s like a women’s bloody mafia down this close.”
“It wasn’t Molly, you fool, it was Liz who told me! We set the whole thing up between us you dope.
I knew you wouldn’t be able to resist. I think you owe me two hundred pounds for smoking that cigarette she gave you.
A bet’s a bet, now give, and I'll not charge you for the other three you smoked!”
“Take it out of my wallet, and I hope you’re bloody pleased with yourselves. Very bloody clever.
I’m off in the garden – for a bit of bloody peace. That’s the last time I water your bloody garden when
you’re away.”
John Sales © 2004.
