Like my father, I wanted to be a botanist and travel the world studying plants, but I had to forego my plans when my mother became ill.
Well, not ill as such, but a nuisance.
Although she had a deep love for gardening, it wasn’t as strong as my father’s was. Now her health was failing, she wanted so much more from life. To do some of the things she’d dreamt about before having to give it all up to support her husband in his chosen career.
The more she complained, the more my father hid out of her reach in the potting shed, leaving me to see to her needs. Since a small child, my mother had always told me I had an old head on young shoulders and that I was more than capable of looking after her and dad as well as myself too.
It started with them being sick. Throughout the day, they became worse, even though I gave them plenty of fluid and some weak, watery soup I made after following a recipe I found in my father’s notebook. Fortunately for me, all the plants I needed grew in our garden.
‘What on earth is that strange smell, Jenny?’ Molly said, coming into the kitchen via the back door without even knocking.
‘Goodness me, Molly you made me jump. Couldn’t you have knocked?’
‘Your Mum never said I had to.’
Molly, a good fifteen years younger than my mother, was her oldest friend. She was constantly popping in to see how I was coping with both my parents’ sickness. When I was small she used to look after me whenever they went away for a long weekend when my father used to give lectures on ‘The Healing Properties of Plants’.
I never saw her as a replacement mother though I knew she saw me as the child she never had.
‘Whatever it is, it doesn’t smell right?’ she said, opening a window.
‘Oh, it’s one of my father’s medicinal recipes,’ I said, with a smile.
‘Well, I would’ve thought the smell alone could kill them. It’s awful,’ she said, rubbing at her nose with the side of her finger. ‘How are they doing anyway?’
‘Fine, I think, though I am a little worried. Could you check on them and tell me what you think,’ I said, emptying the last of the soup down the sink and adding some bleach to get rid of the smell.
‘Okay,’ she said heading for the door to the stairs.
Moments later, she had returned, her face pale.
‘Call the doctor, Jenny! I don’t like the look of them. Something isn’t right.’
Molly stayed with me as we waited for the doctor, who came as quickly as he could. When he arrived he told me there was a lot of it about, but because of their age, he wanted to be on the safe side, so admitted them to hospital straightaway.
Within a week of falling ill, my dear parents passed away within a couple of days of each other. At their inquest, the hospital consultant, a kind and gentle man, explained, because of the flu bug, which weakened their immune system, plus their age they were unable to fight off the infection. This, together with the toxins in the contaminated food we’d consumed the night before they fell ill had brought about their premature death. If they had survived, I would’ve had to spend the rest of my life nursing them.
He said I was lucky not to have gone the same way as them, but being so young had helped me to survive.
The loss of one’s parents at such a young age is shocking, I know, but the worst part of it all was the loss of my garden and home too, devastating beyond words really.
It was only after my parents’ obituary appeared in our local paper that I found out the truth about our house. An unexpected visit by the owner was the first I knew that we didn’t own it, so why hadn’t my parents told me that it wasn’t ours?
All my careful planning and planting of my garden had gone to waste. It wasn’t as though I could just dig it up and move it to somewhere else overnight. I cannot begin to say how angry I felt.
The house had belonged to a friend of my father’s, Arthur Kingsmore. His son, Bert explained that the lease on the property ended with the death of my parents and had become his after his father had passed away last year.
‘You have two weeks after your parents’ funeral to leave my house, unless you can find the money to buy it,’ he said with a grin.
Knowing I didn’t have the sort of money he was looking for I began to sob. Through my eyelashes, I saw that no amount of crying would melt his heart. My tears were that of frustration more than anything else. Suddenly it began to dawn on me the fruitlessness of what I had done.
As I watched the dreadful little man climb into his car, I picked up my phone and put in an anonymous call to our local newspaper.
‘News Desk,’ a cheerful voice came on the phone, ‘How can I help you?’
‘Hello, I’d rather not say who I am, but I have a story, which maybe of interest to your readers,’ I said, staring out at my wonderful collection of plants, hoping I could buy myself more time to save my garden.
After putting the phone down, tears began to roll down my cheeks. I inhaled deeply. Wiping them away, I told myself, ‘Just get digging. This isn’t the time to feel sorry for what you’ve done.’
On the morning of my parents’ funeral as I bent to gather up more pathetic sympathy cards, I caught sight of the headline emblazoned on the front page of the newspaper; Tragedy: young girl made orphan loses family home too.
I carried the paper through to the kitchen. After dumping the unopened cards onto the work surface with the rest, I began to read the article.
Bert Kingsmore told the reporter that his solicitor was busy drawing up a contract to allow Miss Sanders more time to find alternative accommodation, so he couldn’t comment further on the misunderstanding.
Grinning smugly to myself, I switched on the kettle as a wave of satisfaction washed over me.
During the tedious service arranged by Molly, I sat with my head bent trying to look meek rather than how I felt – bored. From all around, I could hear the gentle mutterings from the other mourners. Their concerns and worries drifted over to me as I felt Molly’s fat hand patting my arm in a motherly, comforting way.
How I wished with all my heart that it were over, so everyone would just go away and leave me alone.
As my parents’ coffins slipped slowly into the cold, wet ground a bitter wind whistled around us. Staring up at the bleak slate-grey sky overhead, my thoughts weren’t for my parents, but where was I going to live, and how could I rescue all my most important plants.
‘I read about your plight in the paper this morning, Jenny,’ a voice said behind me. Turning to see who had spoken, I saw the other mourners dashing for their cars as the rain cascaded down on us.
The voice belonged to one of my neighbours, who now held an umbrella over me as the rain ran in rivulets down my face, chilling my cheeks and soaking through my black jacket and skirt.
‘Why thank you kindly, Mr Hampden,’ I said smiling up at a tall, rather good-looking widower who lived on our corner.
‘Are you here in your car?’ he said, as brightly as one could at a funeral.
As I lowered my head to hide my pleasure, an idea began to form.
‘Mr and Mrs Maclaren brought me in their car,’ I said, trying to muster up some tears. I dabbed at my eyes and thanked the rain.
‘Then, my dear, as I will be attending your parents’ wake, we shall travel back in mine.’
After he’d closed the passenger door for me, I watched through the windscreen as he dashed, umbrella held aloft, across to Molly who was just getting into her husband’s car, and spoke to her briefly. She turned, smiled, and waved to me.
At last, the day from hell, as far as I was concerned was at an end, as Molly helped me to clear away the last of the plates along with a few straggling mourners. After I’d finally convinced them all that I was perfectly capable of looking after myself.
Now all I wanted to do was just get on with potting up my plants into plastic co
ntainers. With my seventeenth birthday looming soon, I really didn’t feel up to celebrating, though I did hope for some good news from my solicitor, Mister Jarrold sometime during the next week.
Mister Jarrold’s call came on my birthday while I was busy in the garden. Dashing to the greenhouse, I quickly shed my dirty gardening gloves and snatched up the phone from where I had left it. Trying not to allow my voice to give away my enthusiasm, I listened carefully as he waffled on about his costs, and that of the funeral, and then he dropped a bombshell. The costs of the repairs needed on the house, through my parents’ neglect.
I felt my fervour waning as he explained about a clause in the original lease on the property, that stated my parents were responsible for the maintenance on the house.
My parents’ love for their garden was far greater than their love for me, I realised, knowing how much of their time and money they had lavished on it. With no thought for the upkeep of the house that was now going to cost me dearly. In some small way, maybe my mother had been right to complain as she did about my father ignoring what was important and burying his head in the compost heap.
Forking out such a large sum now, meant I would have to forego a place with a garden, as what was left of my inheritance would just about cover the cost of renting a room.
‘My dear child,’ Mister Jarrold said, ‘With such a small amount of money left my advice to you would be to get a job.’
After a polite goodbye, I slammed the wretched phone down in frustration. A job! Any job would do, just something to bring in the money, he’d informed me, taking more of my money no doubt for that piece of advice.
Up as early as I could be, I skipped breakfast and set to work potting up my most valuable plants. Without stopping for lunch, I worked into the afternoon. Suddenly aware of someone standing behind me, I turned quickly, trowel in hand, and found Mister Hampden standing there.
‘I’m so sorry to startle you. I did call, but you were so lost in what you were doing,’ he said.
I smiled, lowering my trowel.
‘I’m so glad you weren’t planning to use it on me,’ he beamed. ‘Have you found somewhere to live yet?’
As I brushed my dark, brown hair back from my grey eyes, I felt the thumb of my muddy glove catch my cheek. In my effort to clean it, I wasn’t sure whether I was making it worse.
‘Here let me,’ he said taking a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped my cheek.
‘Please come in. I’ll put the kettle on,’ I said stepping back from him. I wasn’t sure at first what he was planning to say to me, but I didn’t want to look too keen. In the warm kitchen as the kettle boiled Mister Hampden sat looking around at the dusty, dirt splattered kitchen units, which Molly had cleaned before the wake.
‘Sorry about the mess,’ I said coyly, ‘I just don’t want to leave any of my plants behind.’ I lowered my head and added tearfully, ‘They’re all I have left of my parents as I must sell everything off to cover my costs, not that I could take much with me. I was so shocked to find out that house wasn’t theirs, and to lose the garden too.’
I felt his strong arms around me.
‘My poor child, dear girl,’ he whispered into my hair. ‘I hope you don’t mind me saying...’ he paused.
I leant into his chest, hoping it would spur him on. He coughed and stepped back from me. Embarrassed, I turned away, adding coffee to the cups and sugar to mine before turning back to him.
‘Do you take sugar?’ I asked meekly wiping my eyes with the side of my hand.
He drew in a deep breath, ‘Jenny, I know I’m a great deal older than you,’ he said in a flurry. ‘You can say no, if you are shocked by what I’m about to say, but I’ve spoken to Molly and some of your parents’ other friends.’
I narrowed my eyes, and turned back to the coffee making, adding the boiling water while trying to calm myself. ‘About what?’ I whispered.
‘Come to live with me, Jenny. I’ve that large house and garden all to myself. It would be ideal. You, of course, would have your own suite of rooms. You don’t even have to cook for me; I’m quite capable of looking after myself. Even if it’s for a short while until you can find somewhere more suitable.’ He paused as I turned to face him.
‘One sugar or two, Mister Hampden?’ I asked smiling.
‘Please do call me Henry. One sugar for me, please. So what do you think?’
With my plants settled into their containers, dotted around Henry’s large garden, in places I knew were most agreeable for them, I adjusted to my new life. I sold everything belonging to my parents only keeping my personal belongings, a few photographs, my father’s old desk, his invaluable notebooks and an array of old gardening books I had collected since a child.
With no worries about household bills, rent, or even food, I knew I should’ve felt contented. Henry had even provided me with a small allowance, so even my meagre savings was happily growing along with my plants, but still I had a nagging feeling that he was expecting so much more from me.
A year after I had moved in, my suspicions proved correct when one evening after dinner Henry asked me to marry him. At forty-two, he was strikingly good-looking, with a thick head of red hair and a trim body, which he kept fit by running every day. Deciding it would give me some sort of security, I agreed.
After a very showy wedding with all the neighbours in attendance, things settled down and I was able to get back to what was important to me. Early one morning, the following year, as the sun broke through the gap in the curtain, I rose quickly, dressed, and headed for the greenhouse, eager to get started on sowing seeds.
I was happily enjoying the peacefulness of a warm, sunny morning and the feel of the compost in my hands, while busy potting on some Passion Flower seedlings, when my solitude was shattered.
‘There you are, Jenny,’ Henry said suddenly appeared in the doorway, stepping in, and crowding my space.
I smiled though I felt a nagging feeling slither up from the pit of my stomach. I held my breath knowing he was about ask me something I wasn’t going to like.
‘You were up early this morning, my dear.’ He slipped his arm around my waist.
‘I’m sorry I disturbed you, Henry, but I didn’t want to waste such a beautiful morning,’ I said, focusing on adding another seedling to a fresh pot.
‘What are those?’
‘These? Oh, they’re Passion Flowers.’
‘Hmm,” he whispered in my ear, ‘Passion flower, oh how I wish you felt as passionately about me as you do about your garden.’ Turning me towards him, he took the pot from my hand and set it down, where it instantly toppled over.
I went to reach for it, but he stopped me and pulled me in closer.
‘Jenny, I’ve been very patient with you, but now I think its time for us to think about starting a family.’
I looked down at the seedling laying neglected in the warmth of the sun, wanting so much to stop its delicate roots from drying out. Looking up into Henry’s blue eyes, I smiled.
‘If you make a start on the breakfast, my dear husband, I shall be in soon and we’ll talk about it. First, I must finish potting these up.’
He kissed me softly, and whispered, ‘We shall do more than just talk, Jenny.’ Releasing me, he added, ‘Oh, how wonderful it’ll be to see little ones enjoying your garden.’
I tried to keep a smile on my tight lips. ‘Maybe I can teach them all about growing plants in the same way as my father taught me,’ I said as something to say.
‘You’ll make a terrific mother, Jenny, and teacher too,’ Henry said brightly. Then I saw his smile fade as a frown crossed his face, ‘Why haven’t you planted your collection, and got rid of those horrid plastic containers?’
‘Oh, because they don’t like having their roots disturbed,’ I said through gritted teeth as I turned back to my seedling and tenderly gathered it up.
&
nbsp; The funny thing about death is that one is so unprepared for it.
Within a month of our chat about starting a family, Henry became unwell. At night he became so restless that for me to get any sleep at all, he decided to move into the guest bedroom. Some mornings he was so weak after vomiting through the night, he couldn’t get out of bed for work, let alone to run.
On entering his bedroom, he turned his face slowly towards me. Gone were his handsome features. A pale, startled face stared up at me from the white linen sheet. Black smudges under each bloodshot eye seemed to emphasise the hollowness of his cheeks, his full lips now shrunken to thin black lines as he tried to smile at me. On seeing the bowl I had brought, he tried to shake his head.
‘Jenny.’ His voice seemed to come from afar. ‘Your father’s concoction isn’t helping me; I need a doctor, please.’
‘Hush now, you know what they say the worse it tastes the better it is for you,’ I smiled. ‘But, if you are no better by the end of today, I’ll call the doctor. Now drink up,’ I said, holding the spoon to his parched lips.
‘Promise me, tomorrow, please...’ he said, closing his eyes.
‘This all started because you wanted a family, Henry, maybe we’re trying too hard in the bedroom,’ I laughed, wiping his mouth.
He tried to laugh. It came out as a croak. Pulling himself up, his eyes widened as he began to cough violently, shaking his thin frame. Gagging, he vomited evil smelling greenish-brown bile into a bowl, before throwing himself back onto his pillow.
‘Please... a doctor, Jenny.’
After many trips to the hospital for tests they couldn’t find out what was wrong with him. On his last trip, they decided to keep him in for further tests. This worried me.
After a few weeks, they allowed me to bring him home as his health had begun to improve. Henry was excited, pleased to be coming home, at last, but sadly, six months later, he slipped peacefully away.
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