by Gil McNeil
Molly and I are busy planting herbs, and Frank tells us to put the mint inside a large bucket because he says it goes like the clappers and will take over the entire garden, given half a chance, and then we plant some fennel, thyme, and dill. Frank says we have to plant the dill as far away as possible from the fennel, otherwise they cross-pollinate or something. Herbs are obviously a rather lively lot.
Lola is looking glamorous as usual in very tight black jeans and a tiny lilac vest with a matching cardigan. Even with wellies on she looks fabulous, and she spends most of her time flirting like mad, which seems to go down well with everyone except Mrs Pomeroy, who sends Mr Pomeroy home in disgrace when she notices he’s spending most of his time videoing Lola rather than concentrating on the rest of us digging holes for plants.
One of the beds is going to be a garden for the children, and they all get engrossed digging and planting – they’re going to grow sunflowers and tomatoes later, but for now they’re starting off with runner beans and potatoes. Charles helps them with the planting, and Mabel enjoys herself so much she begins digging up newly planted herbs to add to her garden until Lola takes her indoors for a biscuit.
Then Charles gives Lily a ride in his wheelbarrow, which turns out to be a bit of a mistake because he then has to wheel Alfie and Ezra up and down too. But it’s really starting to look like a garden now, and while the children play upstairs we all sit in the kitchen, and eat bowls of Mrs Bishop’s homemade pea-and-ham soup.
Charles makes sure everyone has a glass of wine and then goes bright red and says he wants to make a toast.
‘To all of you, and to the beautiful garden. May it win every prize, and make the Village Garden Society famous.’
We all raise our glasses. ‘Here’s to victory.’
‘To victory.’
And then Frank adds, ‘And a warm spring. But not too warm, and not too much rain.’
He’ll probably start going on about greenfly in a minute.
‘Here’s to victory, and a warm spring.’
4
April
The Long Good Friday
Garden Diary
Plant aquatics and marginals and clear blanketweed from ponds. Place supports over flowering perennials, particularly delphiniums. Establish and maintain a strict regime for weeding. Prune back gooseberries and spray against mildew.
I try to clean up the small filthy pond in the corner of the back garden and get covered in black slime, which smells revolting. I think it might be easier to fill it in and start again, but Alfie’s certain he’s seen a frog. It must be a very stupid frog to have chosen such a tiny pond. I put canes around a plant that looks like it might be a delphinium at some point in the future, and then nearly poke my eye out on the cane when I lean down to pick up the trowel. Go to the garden centre to buy rubber tops for canes, and see trays of delphiniums. Realise plant cannot be a delphinium. May in fact be a very large weed.
‘You’ll never guess what Dan’s done now.’
‘What?’
‘Invited his mother down for Easter, the idiot. She rang up and said she’d got an Easter egg for Lily and he just caved.’
‘Oh dear.’
‘The last time she came she nearly drove me round the bend, and that was only for the day. She offered to hoover – did I tell you?’
‘What a cow.’
‘I know. And the house is a complete tip, and we’ll need new curtains for the spare room – the ones we’ve got are too short. I’ve tried telling him, and do you know what he said?’
‘No, but I’m guessing he didn’t handle it well.’
‘He said he couldn’t talk to me when I was being hysterical.’
‘That was clever. I bet that calmed you down.’
‘Oh definitely. I said I was going upstairs for a bath, and then he said well, go easy, because the new floorboards under the bath aren’t finished yet and he’s not sure how much weight the old ones can take. Anyway I’ve told him, he’d better sort them out before his mother turns up, or she’ll be sitting in the bath and find herself downstairs in the kitchen. That’ll show her. He won’t be such a golden boy then, will he?’
‘Probably not.’
‘And we don’t break up at school until the Thursday before Good Friday, so I won’t have time to get anything ready.’
‘You can borrow the curtains from my spare room, if you like. My Aunty Shirley bought them for a housewarming present. They’re a bit floral, but they’ll be long enough.’
‘Oh that’s great. Can I come round now and collect them? Only Dan’s taken Lily off to Tesco’s as a penance, so I’ve got half an hour spare.’
‘Sure. Was she tired before they left, by any chance?’
‘Completely knackered. She’ll be throwing an epi any minute now.’
‘Shame.’
* * *
At least my Easter’s going to be easier than Molly’s. But somehow my plan of us all going to Mum’s, and covering her soft furnishings with chocolate, has mysteriously mutated into an arrangement whereby everyone comes to me for Easter Sunday lunch. Which is a bit of a blow really, because I’m not sure pizza’s quite what she’s got in mind.
I’m trying to persuade her not to get Alfie a record-breaking Easter egg like she did last year, but I know I’m fighting a losing battle, so he’ll be having a massive sugar high on Easter Sunday, just when I’m trying to cook lunch.
And I’m frantically busy at work, and Janet’s sulking about my doing the design for the Garden Society. I’ve told her I did all the work in my free time, and Malcolm’s fine about it, but she seems to think I’m somehow cheating the firm. Last night I had a dream about punching her, which isn’t good, whichever way you look at it. But at least Alfie’s having a lovely time at nursery at the moment: they’re making eggs and chicks and he’s either covered in glitter when he comes home, or tufts of cotton wool and yellow paint.
Molly collects the curtains, and I spend the afternoon trying to work while Alfie gets all of his jigsaws out, spreads them all over the floor, and then decides he can’t be bothered to actually do them. Supper goes fairly well because it’s one of his favourites, fish pie with lots of cheese, and then Lola rings just after I’ve got him into bed.
‘I hate my children, I’ve decided. Tell me Alfie’s being appalling too – I need a bit of solidarity.’
‘Oh pretty revolting. And very sparkly at the moment. They’re doing Easter at nursery, with glitter. It’s a bugger to get off the bottom of the bath.’
‘Oh sweet. I wouldn’t mind a sparkly bath. It sounds rather nice. Maybe if I sprinkled glitter on Ezra and Mabel they wouldn’t annoy me so much. I made a fantastic minestrone for supper tonight but Ezra spent the entire time trying to pick out all the pasta, and then Mabel refused to eat any at all. Christ. I don’t cook very often, and now I know why. And bedtime was a total nightmare. Ezra tried to drown Mabel in the bath, and she squirted him with shampoo, and then she wouldn’t settle and kept clinging on screaming when I tried to get her into bed. In the end I just left her to it. Honestly, you’d think I was abandoning her in an orphanage or something. Which I bloody well might if she carries on like this. What’s Alfie like at bedtime?’
‘Pretty lethal. You have to do the whole routine – story, drink, another story, drink. It can go on for hours.’
‘Oh I can’t be doing with all that. I try to ignore them if they shout. I think you need to establish proper boundaries, I read it in this marvellous book. But Charles always gives in and goes back up to them, which is useless. I think we need a proper bedtime routine. We sort of play it by ear at the moment and it’s not bloody working.’
I’ve always thought it was pretty important for kids to know someone will come when they shout. But maybe that’s why it takes me so long to get Alfie into bed.
‘Star charts are supposed to be good.’
‘Oh we tried that ages ago. We had a star chart for practically everything, but Ezra’s so Machiavellian he go
t all the stars he needed by Wednesday and then he went tonto, and anyway I really resent having to bribe them to behave well, don’t you? I think they should just do it anyway.’
‘Maybe, but I’d be totally buggered without a bit of bribery and corruption.’
‘But Alfie’s so sweet.’
‘Other people’s children are always sweet. Haven’t you noticed?’
‘Not always. My friend Hermione’s little boy Moby is appalling.’
‘Is he?’
‘Yes. And he’s got a terrible lisp. But I think he just does that to annoy her.’
Poor little thing. I bet some bright spark at school calls him Moby Dick, and that’s just what you need, on top of a lisp, a name that makes everyone laugh.
‘Honestly, sometimes I think boarding schools might be a good idea. I really do.’
I hate the idea of boarding schools, but know it’s a tricky subject, especially if you were packed off to one yourself, which I think Lola was.
‘I think they all go through phases – I mean I know I did. Some of the stories about me and Jim fighting are terrible. I shut his hand in the kitchen door once, and he locked me in the shed for hours, while the lady next door was meant to be looking after us, and I got covered in creosote.’
‘You seem so close now, and he’s rather gorgeous, if you don’t mind me saying. Lovely eyes.’
‘Oh yes, we get on now, but when we were little it was like World War Three. And he uses those lovely eyes to transfix all sorts of women, so don’t be taken in by his butter-wouldn’t-melt routine. He causes all sorts of havoc.’
‘Oh I adore havoc. A nice little diversion to take my mind off my horrible children would be perfect. Send him round next time he’s down. With glitter if you’ve got some spare.’
I’m sure she’s joking. God, I hope she’s joking.
‘Anyway, I should go, I’ve got tons of calls to make. We’re doing a work–life balance thing at work next week, and half our clients are coming. And some idiot’s completely screwed up the invitation list, so I’ve got to ring round and make sure everyone’s been invited, which has completely fucked up my work–life balance for this week, I can tell you. Oh but I meant to say – I’ve found out the name of that herb place, and they sell all sorts of amazing stuff you can’t get anywhere else, apparently – shall we go? I think it’s run by some eccentric. It might be fun.’
‘OK, but it’ll have to be Friday morning. I’ll ask Mr Channing if there’s anything else we need for the new garden.’
‘Great, Friday’s good for me too.’
* * *
I ponder my work–life balance and wonder if I actually have one, but I think they’re meant for people earning a fortune who take themselves very seriously indeed, not people with part-time jobs who just get on with it.
I hope Lola’s not really interested in Jim. I’ve had friends in the past who thought he was lovely, and it always ended in tears. And none of them were married. I’m sure she doesn’t really mean it, and even if she does I’m sure she won’t do anything about it, unless of course she and Charles are what my Aunty Shirley calls swingers, which always makes me think of Tupperware parties and fondue sets.
There was a couple in her road who turned out to be swinging away like mad with half the neighbourhood, and poor old Shirley was furious. She said it was bound to affect house prices, but I think she was just a bit miffed that they didn’t ask her and Uncle Bernard to join in.
The eccentric herb-grower lives about half an hour’s drive away, in the middle of nowhere in a totally ramshackle house. It must have once been the gatehouse to the enormous mansion you can just glimpse behind the gates, and although the house has clearly seen better days the garden’s amazing. There are all sorts of plants, some of which are huge, and they all smell wonderful, and there are rows and rows of black plastic pots with seedlings in them all over what used to be the lawn, and lines of polystyrene plant trays.
We bang on the front door for a bit and then give up and go round the back, which is easier said than done because we have to fight our way through a jungle of some sort of creeper, which smells gorgeous and has stacks of tiny white flowers.
‘You total bastards. Right, well, that’s it. I’m getting the poison out.’
Someone who looks like an old tramp is crouched down by the back wall shouting at a plant pot, but when he stands up he turns out to be a man in his mid-thirties, with nice green eyes and short dark hair that is hidden under a tragic old woolly hat, which he takes off as soon as he sees us.
‘Oh hello, sorry, I didn’t hear you. I hate slugs, don’t you? And beer doesn’t always work, you know. I think mine are teetotal. And I’ve tried coffee, I heard it on the radio, but it didn’t work either. So I’m reduced to those disgusting blue pellets. But it’s either that or lose half my plants.’
Lola recovers first.
‘Yes, well, quite. What a nightmare. We’ve come to buy some herbs. I gather you sell things. Is that right?’
‘Oh yes, well, sometimes. I do the odd market, or people come here. Would you like some coffee? I was just about to make some.’
We follow him into the house, which is a complete tip. A mixture of rather serious antique furniture that would probably be worth a fortune if you cleaned it up, and piles of catalogues, bits of string, plant pots and lethal-looking saws, and a huge scythe in the middle of the kitchen table. It looks like the floor hasn’t been cleaned in decades. Mum would have a heart attack.
‘Sorry about the mess. Now, where’s the coffee pot? It’s silver, sort of battered-looking. Can anyone spot it?’
‘Is this it?’
Lola has found it on the floor, on a cushion, for some reason.
‘That’s it. OK, coffee coming up. I like mine strong – I hope you do too.’
He starts whistling while he fills the pot up with water and puts it on an ancient-looking Aga. He’s wearing really muddy jeans and a checked flannel shirt with a rip on one sleeve, but he’s got nice hands, even if they are filthy.
A very muddy black Labrador wanders in, looks at us for a bit, and then lies down in a basket under the table. It smells revolting and has presumably been on some sort of forensic mission in the garden.
We sit down at the table, trying to avoid getting too close to the dog.
‘What plants are you looking for?’
Before I get a chance to read out the list from Mr Channing Lola says she wants something fabulous to put in pots outside the kitchen.
‘And preferably easy to grow, because I’m a complete beginner.’
She raises her eyebrows at him in a very suggestive way. Oh god. How embarrassing. The poor man’s gone beetroot-red.
‘Right. Well, I’ve got some lovely rosemary, and it’s practically impossible to kill that, unless you’re really determined. I’ll show you round after we have our coffee and you can see if you like the look of anything. Damn.’
The telephone is ringing and as he gets up to answer it we both notice his trousers are split at the back, revealing a large expanse of white underpants. We both try to look away, and are dangerously close to sniggering.
‘Yes, Ma, I do remember. Yes. I said yes, didn’t I? I’ve got to go, I’ve got customers here. Bye. Good god, she’s getting worse, she really is. As if I haven’t got enough to do without taking people to Waitrose. Sorry, do excuse me. My mother tends to bring out the worst in me.’
‘Oh mine too. Do you live alone then?’
I can’t quite believe Lola has said this.
‘Oh yes. Well, my mother’s just up the lane, but I try to stay out of her way.’
‘And who lives in that fabulous big house – the local squire? Lord and Lady Somebody?’
‘Something like that. Lady Boughton. The old man died a few years ago.’
‘Are they nice or mad? Aristocrats are usually a bit of both.’
‘Oh mostly mad. She keeps ringing me up and asking me to take her to Waitrose.’
He’s smiling now, and doesn’t seem at all bothered that Lola’s just suggested his mother is round the twist. I’d be mortified, but Lola just gives him one of her dazzling smiles.
‘Oh, so you’re the local gentry. Good. Well, you must come to dinner – I need some more ruling classes to balance things up a bit. Don’t look so appalled – you might enjoy yourself. I’m Lola, by the way, Lola Barker, and I give fantastic dinner parties, if I say so myself.’
‘Harry Broughton, and I’m sure you do. But I’m allergic to that kind of thing.’
‘Lord Harry to your friends?’
‘Good god, no. My father was the Lord. He was in the Foreign Office. It was a sort of retirement present. They all get one, I think.’
I’d bet serious money the cleaners don’t get one when they retire, but I don’t actually say this, mainly because Lola is on some sort of one-woman fact-finding mission and is not going to give up until she’s got all the information she requires.
‘So have you always lived round here then, or is the house a new acquisition?’
‘Oh no, my mother’s the gentry in our family. The house has been in her family for years.’
Lola prods with more questions and discovers that his parents kept the house as a base while they were abroad, and then retired down here. I can’t believe she’s being so nosy.
‘Well, good for you. I love London, but I like the country life too. Couldn’t do it full-time, though, I’d go mad.’
‘Oh I think that helps.’
Lola continues her cross-examination and he says he used to be in the City like his brother, at some posh firm Lola knows, but he got fed up with it and gave it all up to grow herbs. He’s got lovely eyes, actually, and a really nice smile. Lola’s flirting like mad with him.
We walk round the garden being given amazing facts about all sorts of plants, most of which I barely recognise. He clearly knows his stuff. I tell him about the new garden and show him Mr Channing’s list, and he seems to have most of the things on it, and then Lola buys some rosemary bushes, and asks him if he can deliver them tomorrow, because we’re in a bit of a rush and need to get back. He seems fine about this, and she gives him her number and address. As we drive off she waves out of the window, and toots.
