My garden. I surveyed it with pride. I felt like a mother watching her children in a playground: proud, protective, interested in their welfare, willing to nurture them to adulthood.
What would Jason and Amy say? They sometimes dropped in and occasionally came for an early dinner, but that would change when the children were older and went to bed a bit later. They would be upstairs, of course. I don’t think Jason had ever seen the basement since we inspected the house prior to purchase. I planned to put a lock on the door to the basement in the hall in case one of the children decided to explore.
It occurred to me that there was nothing to relieve the intense brightness of the room, the heat, the fans; the poor wee plants had no stimuli. I would find them something to look at and some music to listen to.
A short while later I had improved their environment. Three Western Wilderness posters of tall trees, hanging on the white walls, would inspire my buddies to reach for the sky, and an old CD player repeatedly played The Best of Mozart. My cameo brooch, depicting the Goddess of the Harvest, hung from its ribbon on the temperature gauge for further encouragement. I asked Ceres to bless my plants, watch over them and encourage them to grow.
12
The next morning, before I’d even had breakfast, I heard Marcus’s truck. I no longer expected him to seek me out or let me know he was there, so I wandered downstairs to find him in the grow room. “What are those?” he asked, pointing to the posters.
“It’s very bright in here, sunny and warm, but nothing for the plants to look at,” I said. “I thought the tall trees would inspire them.”
To my utter astonishment, Marcus laughed. I had never seen him smile before, let alone laugh. “Plants enjoying pictures?” he spluttered.
I didn’t know what to say. He made for the back door. “I’ve set the timer,” he said as he left and, “There’s saucers.” He pointed to a pile of plastic saucers by the door.
I sat on the stool among the plants. What was it with Marcus? One minute he is just a silent presence and the next, he laughs at pictures in the grow room. Would I ever understand him?
Hearing about the laundry room renovation should have been a warning, but it wasn’t; Jason’s phone call set my heart thumping.
“Hi Mum. You know we’re renovating our laundry room, right? We weren’t going to get a new washer and dryer, but now we’ve decided to upgrade to a front-load washer and an energy-efficient dryer. There’s nothing wrong with the ones we’ve got but, you know how it is.”
“Yes.” I had a horrible premonition of what was coming.
It came.
“Would you like our old washer and dryer? There’s still plenty of life in them.”
“That’s very kind of you, luv. I don’t have a dryer and my old washer is losing its swish.” I tried to sound enthusiastic. How the hell was I going to let him into the basement without him seeing what I was doing?
“Great. Do you have a dryer outlet?”
“Yes, I had a new one put in a while ago when I was saving up for a dryer.” Bless Swan for suggesting a second one.
“Good. Well I have a friend here with a truck and he’ll help me bring them over.”
“What now?” My hand flew to my chest.
“Yes.”
I thought quickly. It would take him fifteen minutes to get here. Could I fix things downstairs in that time? “Give me half-an-hour. I’m still in my nightie.”
“Fine. Half-an-hour. We’ll come round the back.”
“I’ll open the door for you.”
I flew downstairs. My breath came in short pants. My hands trembled so much I could hardly undo the hose from the tap. Get a grip. Take it slowly.
Marcus had put a lock on the cupboard door and the key hung on a nail under the stairs. I unlocked the door and coiled the hose into the cupboard. Then I switched off the lights and turned off the fans. Silence. Now what? The vent tube, of course. I stood on my short stepladder to undo the rope holding the tube up and pulled it out of the chimney. Several yards of concertinaed tube lay at my feet. I tried to gather it up but it acted like an slippery python. “Oh no,” I said out loud. “What am I going to do?”
Any minute now there would be a knock at the back door. I wouldn’t answer it. I would pretend I was dead. Or having a heart attack. I was close to that anyway.
I blew out hard several times, then folded the tube from one end until I held a manageable pile. I removed the insulation and shoved the whole pile through the hole into the grow room. The insulation was easy to replace. Now push the plastic back. There. Let’s hope it will stay there.
I checked around. Nothing untoward to be seen except for the new room, of course. No sound. I sniffed. No smell, but I opened the back door in case.
Just as a truck pulled into the space next to the garage, I noticed that the cupboard door was open. I hastily locked it, pocketed the key and went out to greet Jason and a swarthy young man who made me think of the Mafia.
“Mum, this is Tony. They’re bringing the new washer and dryer today so he’s helping me get rid…move the old ones.”
“Here’s where they’re going,” I said, leading the way into the basement. “You’ll have to pull out the old washer first.”
“Hey, what’s this?” Jason ran a hand down the plastic wall of the grow room. He turned to me with wide eyes.
“Oh, it’s a store room I had built,” I said casually. “You can make a bit of money renting out a secure storage space.”
“Are you going to drywall it?” Jason poked at the plastic.
“Next job,” I said. I pointed to the dryer outlet. “That’s where the dryer goes.”
Jason began to unhook the washer. “Got a wrench?” he asked Tony.
“In the truck. I’ll get it.”
“I’m sure you’ll be happy with a new washer, Mum. And you haven’t had a dryer for years, have you?”
“I’ve never had one here in Nelson. I’ve always used a washing line. Still will most of the time.” I didn’t want to sound ungrateful so I added, “But this will be wonderful in the winter and when it’s raining. No more damp laundry kicking about.” I had lost my indoor lines and the dryer would be a blessing.
Jason soon had the washer unhooked and they both hefted it out. My pulse had stopped racing and I swept the area where the dryer was to go and the floor where the old washer had been.
I sat on the stairs pulling my ear lobe while Jason and Tony carried in the dryer. They had to stop to put it down while Jason moved something out of the way. It was the chimney cover. I had forgotten to put it over the hole when I pulled out the vent tube. I looked up at the exposed hole. Would Jason see any significance in it? Luckily he seemed more interested in attaching the washer and dryer.
I couldn’t enjoy Jason’s demonstration of how my new appliances worked, nor take in the instructions. Tony must have thought I was batty with my fixed smile and delighted squeaks and nothing sensible to say.
“Anyway, Mum, I remembered to bring the instruction booklets so you can figure it out at your leisure.” He took a long look around the basement. “Must go,” he said.
“Are you sure you wouldn’t like coffee?” I had already asked, but I couldn’t think of anything else to say.
“I’ll take a rain check.” When Jason reached the back door he turned round and gave me a giant hug and lifted me off my feet, like he used to. “Mum, I want you to know I’d never do anything to hurt you.”
13
From waking up with only a trip to the library or the food bank to look forward to, I now had a garden to tend, two gardens in fact, one indoor and one outdoor. The indoor garden required more attention than I had anticipated. The plants needed water every third day for one thing and the room also required daily inspection to check the temperature and make sure everything was working. I came down one day to find the lights
still off and I had to adjust the timer because the little lever hadn’t been tightened properly and had slipped. It’s a good thing Swan had warned me about this possibility or I would have panicked.
As the plants grew taller, I had to raise the lights. I took a deep breath and placed the stepladder as close as I could to the light. What if I dropped it? It would smash into the plants. I might be electrocuted. I clutched the top bar of my little stepladder and tried to reach out an arm. The lamp, which was turned on, hung by a chain, and because of the shade, I had quite a stretch to reach it. All I had to do was lift and hook the chain on by another link. But if the link wouldn’t slide on, or if I let go, I would drop the lot. What if the hook came out? What then? I would be left, like the Statue of Liberty, holding a lamp, possibly forever.
I could wait for Swan or Marcus but I was already too reliant on them and I was not going to act like a little gray mouse. The hook that held the chain was screwed into wood. If I put another hook beside it to hold the last link, it would prevent the light from crashing to the floor should I lose my grip. In no time I had hooks screwed in, the last links secured on them and I could move the chain without worry.
Although walking around watering was easy, assessing how much water to deliver was not. Swan had told me to water until it seeped out of the bottom of the pots but eventually I learned to count for the length of time I judged to be enough: one and two and three, up to nine, next plant, one and two and three. It was hypnotic standing in the heat of the lamps, counting like a mantra, but I had to concentrate or I would miss one.
The first time this happened, I discovered a wilting plant two days after watering. The poor little thing. I apologized to her, stroked her leaves, and gave her a good dousing. The next day she was fine—marijuana is a weed after all. After that, my watering routine ended with a careful check that no one had been missed.
I also had to look out for my own welfare. Like most women of my age, I had a fear of falling and not being found for days. As a precaution I took a phone with me when I went downstairs, but rather than carry it on me I made the mistake of just leaving it handy. So when I tripped over the hose and fell, I was helpless.
Bloody hell, I’ve gone and done it now. I lay in a heap between the pots, my head cushioned in a plant, staring up into a 1000-watt light bulb. I tested my legs; they seemed to move all right. It was my arms that didn’t respond. Bugger. My shirt had caught in the pallet that supported me and the pots. The more I struggled the tighter it pulled around my throat.
I made myself take deep breaths and relax. After a few moments, I managed to release one arm from its stranglehold and undo the buttons of my shirt. That took the pressure off my neck. The next task was to stand up. I tried to do this without damaging any more buddies, but I had to squash another one when I rolled over. Once on my front I was able to get onto my knees and inspect the plants before me at eye level.
At my age I always took advantage of being on the ground, since it is such a job to stand up again, so I inspected the underside of the leaves for signs of nutritional defects. I fluffed out the plant that had been a pillow and tried to restore the one I had crushed, but it had lost a whole branch. I stood up and stroked the remaining branches with soothing murmurs of repentance and wishes for a quick recovery, but she looked a sorry sight. I went upstairs for Rescue Remedy, a homeopathic emergency medicine, and shook a few drops on her leaves.
For myself? I made a cup of tea.
The time came to feed the plants. Marcus had provided two jugs, one of SuperCropA and one of SuperCropB/Grow, each with instructions about the amount to use. The garbage can reservoir held about 130 litres. Of course the liquid food was calculated in quarts so, after much ado with a calculator and a pencil, I figured a cup of each in the reservoir would be right.
The spider mites had risen again. At some point Marcus had brought in a sprayer and a bottle of neem oil with instructions to spray every few days and to wear a mask. Damn Marcus. Surely he could have set me up with healthy plants? Instead, he’d brought me infested cuttings leaving me with a chronic problem that neem oil did little to cure.
As Swan had said, Marcus was a whiz with electricity and building, but when it came to plant care he didn’t have a clue—neither did Swan when it came down to it. Both of them had mentioned regular pruning, but had not said how, so I simply snipped away with scissors until there was more greenery on the floor than on the plants. I gathered it all up to stuff into a garbage bag. By this time the plants were beginning to smell, a sweetish smell that was quite distinctive. What was I to do with the garbage? I couldn’t put it out with the regular garbage—that would be a real give-away. It would have to wait until the end when we’d have to get rid of all the plants. But it had to be stored somewhere and the basement was becoming quite crowded. I stashed the bag near the back door. If unexpected visitors arrived, I’d have to deal with the problem then.
I needed advice, but where would I find it? The Internet at the library was a good source, but I didn’t like to write “marijuana growing” in the Search box in case someone looked over my shoulder. There didn’t seem to be any books on the subject either. Not only that, Marcus and Swan, who had been around almost daily, had now evaporated. Was it deliberate? To show me that it was my garden, that they were only there to start me up, that I was to do all the work? That would be fine—if I knew what to do.
Then Marcus appeared at the front door. He usually came through the back door into the basement with a task in mind, so a knock at the front meant he needed to talk to me.
“I’m going away,” he said without preamble. “Tree planting.”
“How nice,” I said.
“Here’s some money.” He handed me a $100 bill. “For SuperCropB/Bloom. And Mighty Bud.”
“Oh yes. When do I use those?”
“When you switch.”
“Where do I get them?”
“The shop near the airstrip.”
“Right.” Switch meant turn the lights to a twelve-hour cycle so the plants would flower, but what was the food? Maybe the shop would tell me.
This exchange had taken place with Marcus holding onto the knob on the inside of the front door, as if ready to make a run for it. He suddenly swung the door open, uncoiled his tense body and almost leapt into the garden.
“Marcus,” I said firmly. “Wait.”
He stopped and looked at me like a dog obeying the ‘sit’ command. “Don’t you want to look at the plants?”
“Why? What’s wrong?”
“Nothing. Except spider mites. But I thought you might be interested. And I would like to know if they’re ready to switch.”
“Oh. Okay.”
I unlocked the inside door to the basement and followed him down. He poked his head into the grow room, stared, and entered with what seemed like caution.
“What’s wrong?” I asked.
“You been pruning?”
“Yes. But I don’t know how. Why?”
“Small buds.”
I wanted to shake him. “If you show me what to do, I’ll do it. But I need instruction.”
He didn’t say anything but started to go upstairs.
“Are they ready to switch?”
“Yes.”
The conversation, if you could call it that, was clearly over. I would put a call in for Swan.
“When are you back?” I called after his retreating figure.
“September.”
I was still clutching the $100 bill. They had occasionally shown up at the Grill but I’d never owned one before. I fingered it gingerly and held it up to the light. What if it was a forgery? How would I explain how I came by it?
“I got it from the bank, Your Honor. When I drew money out.”
“You have nothing in your account, Mrs. Kemp. Where did this note come from?”
“I don’t know, Y
our Honor.”
“You don’t know? Take her down.”
This sort of scene playing in my head didn’t help me approach the grow shop. It looked like a regular gardening store, but I half expected to see plainclothes police spying on it from the bushes. I parked several yards away, sauntered past, stared in the window and, when no one was in sight, slipped in.
Neatly stacked shelves held jugs of plant food, large light bulbs wrapped in corrugated cardboard, smaller containers of things like hydrogen peroxide and calcium, bags of worm droppings, bat guano, everything healthy or ailing plants might need.
Before I had time to examine the outer shelves laden with timers and gadgets, a tall, clean-shaven young man, wearing those silky shorts with a stripe around the hem, appeared from a door at the back. “Good morning,” he said pleasantly. “Can I help you?”
“I’m looking for SuperCropB/Bloom,” I said, “and Mighty Bud.”
He didn’t seem at all surprised, but walked past me to reach for a gallon jug and a smaller bottle that he took over to the counter. It was all so natural—like purchasing shampoo.
“Anything else?” he asked.
“No thank you.”
“That will be $66.20.”
I handed over the $100 note that he took without comment and gave me change.
“Would you like a bag?”
“Oh, yes please. I forgot my shopping bag.” He put the two bottles into a black plastic bag and laid it on the counter. He didn’t seem to be in any hurry; in fact he leaned on the counter as if ready to share confidences. Beside him, on the counter, a printed notice advised shoppers that talking about illegal substances was forbidden.
Gone to Pot Page 9
