That was his first entry into the world of gardening: reading his paper while his wife worked around him. From there he graduated to putting his paper aside and watching his wife crawl around, digging and planting. He didn’t mind watching his wife who was, for a woman of her age, still very easy on the eye. Still life in the old dog yet, he would think. The couple had been married for over forty years, and Ted still marvelled at the spark he felt when he watched his wife work up a sweat. He would always sneak a smack of her backside when she passed him, and Sissy would, invariably, turn and glare at him, running her glasses down to the tip of her nose to peer over them. Ted knew she liked it though, and sex after a long day in the garden was always lively, even at their age.
Over time – a lot of time – Ted began asking questions and taking a more active involvement in his wife’s hobby, and if it were possible, the two of them grew closer. They shared the work evenly, and eventually, Ted became quite the gardener himself, although he never felt that he achieved the same degree of success as Sissy. He marvelled at the work she put in; tireless effort had created something beautiful. But not as beautiful as her.
Part Four
Ted woke early the following morning and headed down to the shop. The crease in his trousers was visible, and his white shirt shone in the early morning light. He had gone without his jacket – a compromise he had reached with Sissy – but smart trousers and shirt still felt the way to go. His red tie was tight up against his neck, shirt buttoned to the top. He thought he might roll his sleeves up later, if the sun stayed out.
The imaginatively named ‘Village Store’ stood in the centre of the village square. It stocked bread, milk and other produce. It also offered a basic post office service and photocopying facilities. The small bell above the door jingled as he walked in. The floor was bare wood, with dark gaps separating the floorboards, leading down to whatever was below. Ted suspected it was a storage cellar, but had never cared enough to enquire. During the winter, the breeze that whistled through the gaps made the shop cold, even with the electric heaters that were rolled out after the middle of September. Today, there was no breeze, and the shop was pleasantly cool. The gentleman behind the counter was Jack Farnham. He was red-faced, with a beard. He looked at Ted as he came in.
“Morning,” said Jack. He threw a glance up the other aisle.
“Morning, Jack,” Ted replied. He turned to look in the direction Jack was indicating. Mrs Butler-Thompson was filling her basket with her shopping. She had a teenage boy with her. Ted acknowledged the heads-up from Jack, who knew of the spikey relationship the two had. It had always been civil but never more. It was clear that on Ted’s side, he bore no ill feeling to the woman, but it was equally clear that the feeling was not reciprocated. When she heard his voice, she looked up briefly and then returned to her shopping.
“Some milk and a paper please, Jack.” Ted reached into his pocket and brought out the money, which he placed on the counter.
“Mister Harris.”
Ted jumped slightly and spilled his remaining money on the floor. The coins rolled in several directions. One or two of the coins fell through the gaps in the floorboards. The young man with Mrs Butler-Thompson bent down and made a clumsy attempt to chase them. “Jordan!” Her voice was harsh. “Get up off the floor. You don’t know what’s down there.” Jordan stood up and pocketed the few coins he had collected. He watched as the remaining coins rolled under a stack of cereal boxes.
“Are they yours, young man?” She pointed to the pocket where he had stashed the coins.
“Finders keepers.”
Mrs Butler-Thompson glared at her grandson. He met her stare for a moment, before reaching in to his pocket and pulling out the few coins he had in there. He held them out to Ted.
“Sorry, gran.”
“Thank you,” said Ted, pocketing the coins. He estimated the boy’s age at fifteen or sixteen. He was taller than his gran, but looked just about as wide. When he and his wife moved to Haverly, Jordan had been a small boy. The couple had seen him with his parents on a few occasions, but he spent the majority of the time with his gran, Mrs Butler-Thompson. He wore his jeans slung low on his waist, the crotch sagging half way down his thighs. His large white polo shirt looked big enough to hide another small child. He wiped his hands down the front of his legs.
“Jordan! Really.” Mrs Butler-Thompson put her shopping down and pulled out a pack of wet-wipes, and gave one to Jordan. “Please pull your trousers up.” She lifted his t-shirt, revealing his ample belly. Jordan hitched the trousers up.
“Let me get some chocolate, then.” He held out his hand, expecting money.
“Ok, pick what you want.” Jordan trudged off towards the chocolate aisle, and she turned to Ted. “Children!” Ted shrugged. “Oh, that’s right. You never had any, did you?” She lifted her shopping onto the counter and pulled out her purse.
“No, no children,” said Ted.
“Was it your wife? Was she…what’s the word…barren?”
Ted took a deep breath, letting it out slowly. “I don’t think that’s the word but no, we just didn’t want any.”
“Really?” Ted got the impression that she had deposited that information somewhere in the bowels of her memory, to be used at a later date.
“Gran?” Jordan slapped two chocolate bars on the counter.
“Two? Oh well, alright.” She stroked his hair out of his eyes then slid the money over to Jack, who had been standing silently, observing the interplay. He had wanted to like Ted, as did others in the village, Sissy too, but Mrs Butler-Thompson was a larger-than-life personality, and in such a tiny community, no one wanted to rock the boat, so the couple were largely ostracised. Jack thought it wiser to stay quiet, scooping the money off the counter and in to his hand. The till rang as he deposited the money.
“Thanks again, Jordan.” Ted jingled the change in his pocket. “I’ll leave those others, I think. They’re yours if you can find them.”
Jordan made a face at Ted. It could have been a smile, or it could have been a sneer. His face, like the rest of his body, was plump; his cheeks were pushed outwards, distorting his lips, and his eyes were slits, making it difficult to read.
Ted held his stare for a moment, trying to decide if this Butler-Thompson was going to be another version of his gran. Sceptical by nature, Ted heard Sissy’s voice in his head: benefit of the doubt, Ted, benefit of the doubt. He smiled and nodded at the boy before leaving the shop.
Mrs Butler-Thompson began loading her canvas pull along shopping basket with her purchases as she watched Ted walk away from the shop. There was another tiny jingle as the door closed, and she turned to her grandson. “Please try not to help that man. I think subterfuge is afoot.”
Jordan stared at his gran and took a bite of one of the bars of chocolate.
She shook her head. “Do you know what that means?”
“Not really.” The bar was half gone.
“It means I think that Mister Harris may very well have a secret.” She touched the side of her nose with her index finger. “I think he may be cheating in order to win this year’s competition.”
“Why would you think that?”
“Well, just look at his garden. It’s quite a turnaround from his last year’s dismal showing, don’t you think?”
“I’ve never noticed.”
“Well, you need to pay more attention.” She rapped her knuckles on his forehead.
“Yes gran, sorry gran.” Jordan’s face flushed and he turned away.
Mrs Butler-Thompson shot a glance at the shopkeeper, who stood behind the counter, watching the exchange. “And you, Jack Farnham, had better keep your mouth shut about what I just said.” Jack cleared his throat and stepped back from the counter. “What does he buy here?”
“Groceries, mostly. Bread, milk, eggs.” Jack shrugged. “I can’t see Ted-”
“I didn’t ask for your opinion, thank you.” She placed her items into her pull-along trolley. “
Come along, Jordan.
As the two left the store, Jordan turned to his gran. He was already on the second bar of chocolate. “Do you really think he’s cheating?”
“Well, I’m not certain, but shall we say, I have strong suspicions.” Her jowls wobbled as she pulled her shopping basket over the cobbles. “You might be able to help me with that.”
“What can I do?” Jordan looked at her.
“I need to think.” They walked the rest of the way home in silence.
Part Five
That night, Ted found himself plodding along the landing to his toilet. At his time of life, two or three trips in the night were good, but tonight, the count was already at four. The moon was visible through the small landing window, casting crisp shadows on his wall. He left the toilet without flushing; conserve water, Sissy would say. He picked his way along the landing, avoiding the threadbare patches of carpet where the floorboards were visible. He stopped for a moment, as something caught his eye. He moved to the window and looked out at his garden, monochrome and painted in moonlight. There appeared to be some movement outside. A fox? Ted’s glasses were next to his bed, and he cursed as he reached into his pocket. Moving closer to the glass, he squinted, trying to see. Whatever was outside was bigger than a fox, that much he could say for certain. He returned to his bedroom and collected his glasses. Putting them on, he went back to the window. The shape was still there, in the middle of his lawn. It looked like a person.
Tying his dressing gown tightly around his waist, Ted went downstairs. He slipped his wellingtons on and opened the back door. Leaning against the wall outside was his shovel, which he picked up. He moved quietly around to the front of his house. Peering around the edge of the cottage, he could see the dark shape. The figure was wearing a dark hooded top. The moonlight did not reveal his face, but it was clear what he was doing: he was emptying his bladder onto the border and the flowers planted there. Ted watched for a moment until he had zipped himself back up. Stepping into the front garden, he slammed the blade of the shovel to the floor and cleared his throat. The man turned, and when he saw Ted, he ran. The shadows kept his face hidden, but he left with a parting shot; as he threw the garden gate open, the man paused to push the dry stone wall. Thick and well built as it was, he still managed to dislodge some of the stones, sending them tumbling into the flowerbeds.
Ted watched the dark figure disappear down the road and went over to inspect the damage. Most of the stones were intact, and he thought he could remake the wall, but it would have to wait until the morning. He moved some of the bigger stones that were on top of his border plants, carefully avoiding the still-soaking in urine.
Trudging back to bed, Ted clenched his fists to stop his hands shaking. His own cowardice frustrated him, and he cursed his inaction as he climbed the stairs. He thought again of his wife. She would have handled things differently; she would have said something to the man. Ted was not made that way. He would do what he always did – take it and move on.
The following day, Ted set about repairing the damage to his wall. He took his time, as some of the larger stones were heavy. He wouldn’t accept any help, so the wall would get built when he was good and ready. He was breathing hard when he heard a familiar voice.
“Mister Harris, what happened here?” Mrs Butler-Thompson sounded genuinely surprised.
“Nothing I can’t handle,” he said, pulling out his handkerchief and wiping his forehead. As he stood to talk, he rolled down his shirtsleeves and began to fasten the cuffs. His tie had become tucked in the shirt, and he pulled it out, straightening it as he did so. He brushed the soil from his trousers.
“I hope no damage was done to your plants.” She leaned over the wall and looked at the plants below. “I would hate to win by default.”
“Nothing that can’t be fixed.”
“Have you any idea how this happened?”
“Well, I happened to catch sight of a man in the garden last night. When I challenged him, he ran, but this was the result.” He indicated the fallen stones.
“Did you recognise this person?” Mrs Butler-Thompson suddenly seemed more interested.
“No. It was late and too dark.”
Mrs Butler-Thompson nodded thoughtfully. “It’s probably for the best. Don’t want him to come looking for you now, do we?”
“Probably just a kid. Perhaps drunk.”
“What makes you think it was a kid?” Her question came quickly.
“I was just speculating. I don’t really know who it could have been.”
“Well, I’ll leave you to your work. Best of luck.” She turned and walked away, leaving Ted to finish rebuilding the wall. As he moved one of the stones, he noticed something half buried in the soil. Pulling it out, Ted looked at the chocolate bar wrapper. Jordan? He had never been in trouble, so far as Ted knew, but he had to admit, however, that he didn’t know the boy well. Jordan had returned his coins in the shop the previous day, albeit with some prompting. Benefit of the doubt, his wife’s inner voice pointed out. If it had been Jordan nosing around, Ted wondered what he had been doing. He quickly played through the events of two years ago in his mind. He had been careful, discreet. Surely nothing could have surfaced now to implicate him? Despite the warmth of the sun, Ted felt a chill.
That night, Ted struggled to find sleep. The thought that someone had desecrated his garden bothered him. But more than that, memories of Sissy and how it had ended, troubled him. He was not ashamed of what he had done, but for the first time in almost two years, he was afraid of what others would think if they knew his part. He had never talked about Sissy’s disappearance. Yes, he heard the gossip, the stories, the speculation, but he chose to keep his silence. He had done what he felt was necessary, and his conscience was clear. But this new development worried him. His discovery of the chocolate wrapper, and the possibility that Jordan had been there, troubled him greatly. If his grandma had sent him – and he expected that would be the case - it was possibly related to the imminent ‘In Bloom’ competition; however, if she dug too deeply, Ted worried what else she would uncover. People would not understand.
Throwing back the covers, Ted swung his legs over the end of the bed. He sat that way for several minutes, listening to the sound of his heart in his ears. He glanced back at the other side of his bed. Empty for two years now, he could still imagine Sissy laying there, silver hair splayed on her pillow. The pain was as fresh as ever, and Ted wiped his eyes before the first tear could fall.
Moving downstairs into the kitchen, he made himself a pot of tea and sat at the table. He twisted the teapot, waited, and then poured himself a cup. He was tired, and his eyelids drooped. Laying his head on the table, he let his eyes close. Sissy’s face swam into view. It was her face as she had been when they met: young, vibrant, and smiling, not as she had been at the end: tired, old, and afraid. Ted thought about her, and the tears began to run down his cheeks.
Part Six
The couple enjoyed life in their cottage; however, the same could not be said for life beyond the garden wall. They had moved to Haverly almost eight years ago, but were still seen as outsiders by many in the tiny rural community. They made every effort to integrate – Sissy even joined the local book club, but she didn’t fit in; her busy life had granted her a trim figure, which she showed off to good effect; tight jeans and a t-shirt suited her, but marked her out as different, an oddity. It seemed that in Haverly, the dress code was prim and proper, and most of the women wore skirts of muted colours that hung below the knee, paired with knitted cardigans of generally plain colours.
Sissy was approaching seventy but had been reinvigorated by the country air, free from pollution and far away from the hustle and bustle of city life. She was not ready to move into long skirts and hand-knitted shawls. The book club had turned their noses up when she suggested reading a Dean Koontz novel. They had insisted on reviewing Jane Austin’s ‘Pride and Prejudice’. A great book, no doubt, written by a great author, but reviewin
g it for the third time in three yeas had been too much, prompting the Koontz suggestion. She was told in no uncertain terms, “That’s not the sort of thing that ladies read.”
Ted was similarly unsuccessful in his attempts to join the local darts team. He knew it would be hard going from the moment he walked into the local pub. It was full of people in muddy boots and mud-stained overalls that turned to look at him as he walked in. His neatly pressed trousers and pressed white shirt shone like a beacon. "Sorry, we have no spots available”, he was told when he enquired about the team. He persevered, but making in-roads to this close-knit community remained challenging.
Integration was slow and painful, but over the years, they cultivated what could only be described as a tolerance within the community; people smiled and made pleasantries, but to call them friends would be a stretch, but that was ok, because Ted had Sissy, and Sissy had her garden.
Though far from perfect, they led a happy life, content with the slower pace it was lived at. That was until one spring morning when Sissy awoke complaining of a headache. The couple thought nothing of it, until several days later when Sissy collapsed in the garden.
Ted had managed to get her back inside the house, and he called a taxi. A private man, he had no intention of putting fuel on the gossip fire of Haverly, so the local doctor was out of the question. By the time the taxi picked them up, Sissy was able to walk, albeit awkwardly. The drive to the closest hospital had taken almost an hour. They were seen by a triage nurse, who referred her for a CT scan. The results would be ready in days. By the time they returned, Sissy had improved, but was still complaining of headaches. The consultant was a distinguished looking Greek gentleman named Michelakos. They both watched his lips moving as he gave them the results of the scan: Sissy had a brain tumour.
Die, Blossom, Bloom Page 2
