by Cathy Lamb
“A garden must be proper. Orderly. Organized,” Lorna said, her voice brooking no discussion, as if she was the Holy Holder of All Garden Information. “You must not allow any infiltrations by any plants that do not belong. Weeds must be pulled immediately. Native plants flourish best as individuals and for the whole.”
Was she still on the India/Scotland/Immigrant thing?
“One’s home and garden is a reflection of how you see yourself and how others will see you, therefore it must be perfect,” Lorna droned on.
Whew. “Perfect? How can nature ever be perfect?”
She laboriously turned toward me, so put out at this interruption, and lifted a gray eyebrow. “You must tame nature. A Scottish garden must show control. A profusion of color is fine, as long as it’s in the correct place, and not wild.”
“I like wild,” Olive said, her inebriated frog swinging. “My climbing roses are in charge of their own destiny, my dahlias grow wherever they choose, and I think my morning glory would take over my entire garden and cackle about it if I turned my back and got rid of my machete. Wildness everywhere!”
Lorna sniffed. “I am merely saying that a garden must be subservient to its owner.”
“Oh, bother,” Rowena said. “I don’t like the word subservient. Gives me the shudders. For some reason it makes me think of whipping The Arse.” She tapped her fingers together. “I like that image.”
“Subservient. Submissive. Submit,” Kenna said. “All words that should be illegal worldwide.”
“Except,” said Rowena, flipping that thick red hair dramatically as she laughed, “I would be subservient to Tom Selleck in bed.”
“Bring me that man and his hindquarters,” Kenna gushed. “He could do anything to me and I would agree and smile. I would dress in black leather and ask my husband to leave for the night.”
I laughed out loud.
“I’ll take Robert Redford,” Olive said. “He’d take charge and I’d let him woo woo woo me.”
“But that would be the only time I’d be subservient,” Rowena said. “Tom Selleck and I.”
Malvina kept her head tilted down.
“I not do that servant thing again,” Gitanjali said. “No. Not me. That man, that great uncle I force to marry for cows? He yell the word submit to me. Submit! Then he hit me with cane.” Her dark eyes filled with tears. “I submit to him for years. I had to submit to his mother, who hit me, hit again. I had to submit to his father. That was bad submit.”
“If I could explain myself, ladies,” Lorna said, disdain dripping from her words like garden slugs. “A garden should submit to your will. You can tend it carefully, water it well, and fertilize, but you must be in control.”
“No woman, no garden,” Gitanjali said. “I say with pleasant words, no submit. I no ask my garden submit.”
“I agree,” I said. “Submit is not in my vocabulary. I won’t submit to anyone and I don’t want anyone or anything to submit to me.”
“Me either,” Olive said. “Never.” She reached over and hugged Gitanjali.
“Please, all the ladies,” Gitanjali said as she wiped her eyes. “This is garden gobbling club and I am crying. Go on with your talking conversation as I do an embarrassment on myself with this”—she waved a hand—“sad music recital.”
She must have seen our confused expressions.
“I mean, with this sad story I sing.”
“You’re not embarrassing yourself,” Rowena said. “Embarrassing yourself is when you get caught in a car having sex with your boyfriend in the backseat by a constable with a nightstick when you’re seventeen and wearing a witch hat and he tells your mother at church the next day.”
“Embarrassing is when your children find your sex toys,” Kenna said. “Twenty years ago Devon took it to preschool for show and share. It was bring an orange object day.”
“Embarrassing is when you can’t remember what Es on the periodic table means,” I said, chuckling.
They looked blank. Shoot. I cleared my throat, forced a laugh. “It’s a joke.”
“Ah!”
“I think a garden is about freedom, not submission,” Olive said. “Freedom for us to plant, to grow and nourish, and to be in nature’s beauty. It’s something for my animals to look at before they become my meal.”
Rowena said, “I think a garden is where I’ll bury my ex-husband and The Slut who had an affair with him and led him home by the dick with her pinkie.”
“I think a garden is a place where a woman can put herself back together again,” Kenna said. “She can think, argue with herself, philosophize, speech make, tell her herself she can do it, then go back into the world and stand tall.”
“A garden gave me back to me,” Gitanjali said. “No one hurt or bang banged in garden.”
“I think a garden should be restrained!” Lorna said. “A sign of respectable people, living respectable lives.”
“I think a garden is a wonderful excuse to learn Latin,” I said. “To use the Latin words for each plant in your garden.” They all stared blankly at me again. I am such an idiot. “That was a joke.” It wasn’t. I love Latin words for plants. I forced a smile. “Ha-ha! A tulip’s a tulip.”
They laughed. “You are so funny, Charlotte,” Rowena said. “I remember your fine sense of humor from years ago!”
Lorna rolled her eyes and humphed!
Malvina never said a word.
It was a diverse group. But it would be better without Lorna. There was always one wart.
Always.
Lorna and Malvina, the silent, sad one, scuttled out with their oatmeal bottoms, and the rest of us Scottish women—Gitanjali, who sold spices that could make a man’s penis flat; Olive, who loved her animals and eating them; Rowena, who wanted revenge on The Slut; Kenna, the doctor; and I—drank too much. We ended up at Molly Cockles Scottish Dancing Pub in the village and then in the town square, dancing and singing old Scottish songs. Many people from the bar and village joined us in harmonic wonder.
I don’t know why I ended up leading them like a choir director, swaying back and forth, arms waving, and I don’t know how I got a pink flowered hat on my head or whose it was.
I don’t do things like that. I am quiet and reserved. I mind my own business. I like to be alone with my cats and physics books.
It must be something in the Scottish air, that dash of salt, a hint of mint tea.
Olive took off her inebriated frog scarf and hop-hopped in front of the choir, swinging it above her head. She said later it was her “froggy dance.” She was in her cups.
Rowena introduced a new song, which I led the choir in three rounds, with a high soprano closing. The words were, “The Arse has no dick/Why did I marry/such a limp prick?”
We Garden Ladies stumbled by a long, wide vacant lot, after the constables politely asked us to disperse as forty people singing Scottish drinking songs in three-part harmony in the center of town was too noisy. I saw Chief Constable Ben Harris, tall and sharp in his uniform, speaking with Gitanjali, smiling.
“The old Zimmerman Factory,” Kenna said. “Burned to the ground. Gas leak led to an explosion. Boom and boom boom. City doesn’t know what to do with it now, but perhaps if they drank whiskey it would help.” She burped. “Whoops. Like me.”
“Ugly,” I said, leaning on Kenna. “Ugly like my cottage that smelled like corpse and farts. Drunk mice in there, too. I know it.”
“This ugly place need spices,” Gitanjali slurred. She patted my shoulder. “I think I have too many liquid spice tonight in my glass, new garden lady, Charlotte.”
“Gitanjali,” I said to her. “Chief Constable Harris is a good man. I forgot to tell you that.”
“Good man,” Gitanjali echoed, her steps crooked. “I think I sing a song from India right now.”
“Gitanjali has the voice of a mermaid,” I said, as the notes sailed around the stars. “A swimming mermaid.” I felt the need to clarify. “Not a land mermaid.”
“I want a
merman in my bed,” Rowena said, then burped. “Whoops.”
“I am so glad I’m not operating on anyone tomorrow.” Kenna slung an arm around my neck. “I might cut off the wrong limb. Wait! I could operate on Rowena’s husband!”
“Kenna.” Rowena put a hand on Kenna’s arm. “Would you?”
They both burped.
“Sometimes I miss my dead chickens.” Olive’s voice was sad. She flapped her wings. “But they are tasty.” She burst into tears. Then she hop-hop-hopped. Sappy drunk.
“I could bury The Slut here, too,” Rowena shouted. “Right here, right here!” She pointed to the middle of the rubble. “Don’t tell anyone. Shush!” She put a finger to her lips.
“You bet!” I gave Rowena my pink flowered hat. “Have a flower hat. It’s not as drunk as the mice.”
Gitanjali sang Indian songs. Olive hop-hopped, her frog scarf now wrapped around her head. Rowena hummed The Arse/ prick song. Kenna said, “I do want to dress in black leather for Tom Selleck. I do.” She mimicked whipping him.
My head split with a cranium jangling headache the next morning.
Tequila’s curse.
I laughed.
Silver Cat peered through my bedroom door and meowed at me, then snuggled up and went to sleep on my chest. She was a huggy thing.
The next afternoon I found a note in my mailbox at my house.
Dearest Charlotte,
It was a joy to see you late last night dancing and singing with your ladies garden group. You are a gifted choir director.
I was sorry to interrupt you all, and I wanted to make that clear today in my note to you. The singing was melodious, robust, but as a large group from the pubs had joined you, and it was one o’clock in the morning, Officer Telloso and I felt that we had to ask you to engage in whisper-singing.
I apologize to you for any offense taken.
I am partial though, from my university days, to the drinking songs you sang. Especially “The Stable Boy” and “The Cobbler’s Daughter,” and also the song “Mermaid Love,” about the mermaid who swam away from the sailor, breaking his heart forever.
I’m afraid I do have a romantic heart, which those songs sang to. Your father did, too, Charlotte. Tough as nails he was, and I saw him knock flat more than a few men who deserved it, but his love for his wife and you was true.
I must say I was impressed at how you were able to get people to sing in rounds as the choir director. It added texture and depth to the music. I was particularly impressed by Gitanjali’s voice, rich and deep. I bought six more pounds of spices from her recently: turmeric, saffron, basil. She gave me a new recipe and I have filed it in Gitanjali’s Recipe Box.
I was pleased that Toran and Kenna’s husband were eager and willing to come and get all of you and drive you safely home.
I am having a difficult time with my roses, last season was not as bloom-filled as I would have preferred, and I was wondering if you had any suggestions for a successful season. Roses can be so picky.
Yours,
Chief Constable Ben Harris
A friend of your parents, may the angels of heaven fill your father’s heart with joy and exuberance.
Dear Chief Constable Harris,
I apologize for the ruckus we caused in the square last night. I could blame it on the tequila but one must take responsibility for oneself. I had too much to drink after Gab and Gobbling Gardens Group. That might not be the correct name, I shall note that here.
We did enjoy the drinking songs, but did not realize that the men and women from the bars would be so eager to join in. It became a more resounding choir than expected.
I’m afraid I have missed Scottish music, especially “Tuck the Man Down,” which we managed in three-part harmony. I am not sure if you were there at the time.
I will be more circumspect with my behavior in future.
As for the roses. Have you used a granular fertilizer? I always do, every three and a half weeks. I also use two tablespoons of Epsom salts per bush. I use my fall leaves, from my compost pile, around the base of the rose and add some lawn remnants. My mother also taught me to put two pennies in the soil on either side of the rose. Says her mother did the same in Georgia.
Thank you for what you said about my father. I know he valued your friendship—and respected your impressive skills in the Scottish game competitions—tremendously. I heard many stories about the trouble you two engaged in when you were boys. Don’t think I’ve forgotten about your shenanigans.
Yours,
Charlotte
PS I did put in a word for you with Gitanjali.
“Would you like to go for a ride in the tractor, Queen Charlotte?” Toran asked me the next day.
Oh boy. Tractor riding with Toran. Bumpity bump bump bump! “I love tractors.”
“I know. I remember. Let’s give it a go.”
From his tractor—growl, rumble, roar—I saw part of Bridget’s Haven Farms. We didn’t go and see it all as it was enormous. It looked like an organic land quilt, beiges, greens, blues, with a red barn here and there. It was farm heaven, and so much more than what his father had done. More land, better crops, incredible beauty. It was organized, thriving, and efficient.
He had bought land from our neighbors and let the owners stay in their homes. Most of them were elderly and wanted the cash, but not the work anymore. When they died, the homes would go to Toran. It was a fine deal for all.
Toran had called my mother years ago and she’d sold off part of our land to him, too. It paid off the loan she took out, without my knowledge, to put me through college. She thought it was a lucky gift. I wanted to write a letter to thank him, but he was married and I had this shattered feeling in my chest about him, so I didn’t. I couldn’t.
He told me that his blueberries, potatoes, and apples went out to grocery stores across Great Britain and overseas, and he said he donated to families in town who were struggling. “We put it on their front porch and leave. I know what it’s like to be poor, and the last thing I’d have wanted was to thank someone for helping me.”
“Toran,” I told him later as we walked through a line of his blueberry bushes, my nether-private region still reeling from the unexpected eroticism of a bumpy tractor ride beside the Scottish Warrior, “you must be proud. All of this is yours.”
I counted ten tractors, of all sizes, four with wheels taller than me. He had pilers, harvesters, windrowers, spring tine harrows, potato ridgers, grubbers, rollers, rototillers, and reversible ploughs. There were backhoes and forklifts, mammoth-sized trucks, a mechanic’s shop, and behemoth pieces of equipment I didn’t recognize that took up half a warehouse.
Three long greenhouse tunnels, Toran told me, extended the growing season.
Another set of tunnels, 175 feet long and 51 feet wide, made with concrete floors and galvanized steel, held all the potatoes they harvested. The roof was twenty-five feet high. He called it the cellar. Part of it was underground to keep it cool, but they also had air tunnels, ten feet wide and ten feet high, on the sides, for additional cooling.
“We get mountains of potatoes here, Charlotte. They go to the roof. There’s enough storage here for one hundred twenty-five thousand sacks of potatoes, forty-five kilograms each. We harvested seven thousand tons last year.”
“That’s a lot of potatoes.”
“Enough to feed a slice of Scotland, luv.”
“I’m looking forward to eating your potatoes.” I closed my eyes. Why did I say that? It sounded carnal.
“I’ll cook them for you tonight.”
“Thank you.” I focused my attention on the blueberries. It is not always comfortable to have a vivid imagination.
“I’ll cut them up into cubes, and cook them in olive oil, parsley, and salt.”
I tried to turn off that vivid, graphic imagination by reviewing the periodic table.
“They’re delicious, cooked simply.”
“I’m sure they will be.” Next I tried to list all the elemen
ts in my head.
“I eat them three or four times a week.”
Iron. Cobalt. Nickel. Copper. “What about the blueberries?”
“We harvested 725,747 kilograms last year.” He grinned. “Now for the American in you, that would be one point six million pounds last year.”
“I get it.” I tried to stop thinking about his potatoes.
“I know you do, smart Charlotte.” He winked.
My heart actually fluttered. Carbon. Nitrogen. Oxygen.
There were different outbuildings for brushing and cleaning the apples, blueberries, and potatoes with a dizzying array of belts and conveyers, two cooling areas about the size of Nebraska, three different packing and distribution areas, and stacks of crates and boxes with Bridget’s Haven Farms stamped on them. There were six semi-trucks, also stamped with Bridget’s Haven Farms.
Toran also had two longhouses, clean and neat, with bunk beds for the seasonal staff, a living area in the middle, and a kitchen. Another building, between the longhouses, had a full kitchen and four women cooking the meals for the workers. They smiled, shook my hand, welcomed me to Bridget’s Haven Farms.
“All of my workers are paid almost double what I’m required to pay them. They work hard. Most of them have been with me for more than ten years. I have parents and their children working here. They quit only when they get pregnant and want to stay home with their babies or when they die.”
I wasn’t surprised. Toran would be an outstanding boss.
There was a separate building, painted yellow, with a long room with a wall of windows, comfortable furniture for the employees, and offices on the second story. Toran’s office was spacious, in the corner, and had a view of his patchwork quilt. There was paperwork spread all over his desk and on two tables.
I like to organize, so my instinctive reaction was to start in on the mess, categorizing, labeling, making new folders, and filing, but I restrained myself.
“I’m so impressed, Toran. Bridget’s Haven is incredible. You built all this.”
