by Leah Fleming
‘Thanks, I’ll take you up on that.’ Iris waved. Only time would tell how this garden would grow. She shivered as if someone had walked over her grave. Nothing was going to spoil the fun of it all, the planning, the heaving about, the satisfaction of creating a garden. Surely one of the greatest pleasures in a lifetime?
Goodnight
Iris
It’s time to say goodnight to Frankie whose dust nourishes the rose ‘Compassion’, always the last stop on the tour. He was not for public display in the rose bed but tucked away close at hand to gossip to by the kitchen steps.
Ours was not one of those thunderbolt affairs; all flame and no substance. We grew towards each other like new grafting on old stock, didn’t we? Iris pauses to dead head the bush.
We needed no ceremony to declare our love. Just seven good years and seven lean when his persistent cough wouldn’t heal. No one told us about killer tobacco then. It should have been me to go first, not him. How can I leave this garden when Frankie is still here? She turns her face to the upstairs window where he used to sit, propped up with pillows, giving her orders for the day, too weak to come outside, putting a brave face on his dying. It was Frankie who taught her to make lists and never to hoe without carefully checking all the seedlings for interesting self-setters. ‘Never miss a freebie,’ he would chuckle.
How can I leave this garden when it’s so much a part of me and mine, part of us? While I live so do both of us for a marriage of souls can’t end until both parties are gone. It’s been the best therapy for my grief. Let them all squabble over it when I’m fit only for fertiliser. I bet there’ll be Bagshotts crawling out of the woodwork who’ve never darkened my door, hoping for a share of the spoils. I’ve made plans with my solicitor to stitch up their greedy purses. Pity we had no cuttings ourselves but a new century will bring fresh stock to the place. A new challenge for someone else.
How I longed to give you a child, Frankie, but it was always too late. Our child is this garden. Still, there’ve been plenty of little monkeys swinging in the orchard and riding the donkey, fishing in the pond, playing hide and seek in the shrubbery. James Bowman’s brood, Peter Nagy’s boys and Magda’s girls. Do you remember how at each of our reunions they’d all troop in with bags full of baby gear, pushchairs and carrycots, and we’d show them all our work, presenting our garden like proud parents?
When Henry passed away, James took over the running of S & B Motors, Flora sold The Grange and now it is a guest house called ‘Country Sunshine’. Flora and James transported half their garden up to Friddy’s Piece for Iris to cram into her borders; the silk tassel bush, the Viburnum farrerii with its pink pompoms giving delicious winter scent, the Kerria japonica whose golden buttons sprout up the kitchen wall – so many Salt memories to cherish. Flora will be visiting soon to see her offspring.
This garden has been a labour of love, difficult to keep up but measured in many lifetimes. And mine’s not over yet! So much to see to still, but the tour is over for tonight, Frankie. Time to call Lady in from the wild end, but first I must hammer this notice on to the gatepost. It’s been burning a hole in my pocket. Then I can sleep in peace.
MISS BAGSHOTT WISHES IT TO BE KNOWN THAT SHE DOES NOT INTEND TO SELL HER PLOT. SHE IS QUITE WELL AND DOES NOT WISH TO BE INTERRUPTED UNTIL OPEN DAY.
Tomorrow the For Sale sign would be coming down.
Iris smiles. That should warm the heart of the garden.
Acknowledgements
Thank you, all my gardening friends for your help in supplying me with information about the history of plants and gardening, especially Menna and Alan Picton who found the source of the Fridwell spring.
I am indebted to the following: The Lichfield Archive office for information on the medieval priory at Farewell, Staffs, the late Howard Clayton’s excellent book on the Civil War in the Midlands: Loyal and Ancient City, the Hungarian social club of Rochdale for a warm welcome and to those willing to share personal experiences of their escape from Hungary in 1956.
The plant quotations are taken from Culpeper’s Complete Herbal. I would like to thank the National Trust for permission to quote from Rudyard Kipling’s poem ‘The Glory of the Garden’ and Barbara Thornton for her lovely illustrations. Most of all I must thank my husband, David, who was always able to locate a fine watering hole on our garden quests!
My story is fictitious. The setting is real. The house stands, the church flourishes, the stream flows but alas the garden grows only in my heart.
About the Druin Burch
LEAH FLEMING worked in teaching, catering, running a market stall, stress management – as well as being a mother of four – before finding her true calling as a storyteller. She lives in the beautiful Yorkshire Dales but spends part of the year marinating her next tale from an olive grove on her favourite island of Crete.
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