AH!

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The Globe Artichoke was a plant too far.

I've killed her.

(Mrs Smith.)

Esther

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MURDER IN THE MORNING

My garden is not designed; it emerges.

I thought it was emerging quite well - what with the

Flowering Nettles

and flowering Sage;

the bright green Mint

- and Hollyhocks growing tall (with buds on);

and the one-day-it-will-be-purple Clematis,

the Marigolds and Californian Poppies;

and the Buttercups looking very sunny and cheerful;

the Dandelion too -

(which I cut around when I neaten the edge)

(well sort of).

(I mean 'sort of neaten' - 'neaten' is an imprecise word).

And, best of all, the Globe Artichoke being nearly two foot high and spreading its arms gracefully

(as if it's already the star of the show,

as if it's already dominating the stage)

embracing the black fly;

- the black fly which are gone

- the black fly which have abandoned its withered and forlorn body as coldheartedly as if it were Thomas a Becket.

I forgive the slugs - the slugs which decimated yet another tuft of chives over night. They were doing what slugs do - decimate.

That my favourite blade of grass has been flattened - well, footballs are nature.

But why, Ceres, Robert and Cadis, did you wrench the Artichoke from its place?

Why did you snap its tap root?

Why did you offer its sap to the morning sun? let the heat suck its life until it resembled nothing more than a pile of old broccoli?

Even the ants are bewildered. They are running up and down its veins - looking for . . . for . . . blackfly? Carting them elsewhere?

(Memory fades. I'm no longer sure they were blackfly.)

Watch out Dicksonia Antarctica - you're about to move to a bigger pot.

The runt of spare Artichokes will be given yours.

With careful tending, it too may have its day.

Then - I'm going to see Mrs Smith.

I've had enough of her sour milk and her weak tea and her plant wrecking, rubbish throwing, whoever-heard-of-your-stupid-little-planets-anyway children.

'Tolerance'?

Gone!

(Marjorie phoned.)

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STANDING TO LOOK AT GRASS

Mrs Smith makes awful tea; weak. And the milk she put in it this morning was right on edge.

I saw her watching me, over the rim of her cup, daring me to drink it. I watched her back, over the rim of mine - and did.

* * * * *

There is one, joyous Bach-note that I listen to over and over again.

I know precisely where to place the needle on the gramaphone. I lower the arm, dash to the other side of the room - and wait. It hits me. (The note.) I go back, raise the arm, lower it, dart away - listen.

There's one blade of grass outside my window that I like above all others. I keep returning to it - admiring the way it reaches above its colleagues, its not-yet-completely-open leaf pointing straight into the morning sunshine; a maze spear in miniature.

I took Mrs Smith to see it.

Side by side, we stood on the pavement, admiring it. (At least, I was.)

Mrs Coverdale came and stood next to us. I explained about the blade of grass but she was inclined to chat. I was glad when she looked at her watch and went.

Still, Mrs Smith and I stood, side by side, looking.

Tentatively, I invited her to look at some of the others.

"They're flowering," I said. "And I didn't plant any of them, they just came - and they flowered - and there are so many different kinds of flowers - and you wouldn't have seen them if I'd pulled them out."

(The Council Mows her grass. It tried to mow mine but I put up a notice saying 'Don't!'.)

(It was massive; that notice. They couldn't have missed it - but I still had to phone the town office seven times before they agreed to leave it alone.)

"I like that," she said, pointing at a small plant with delicate white flowers.

Shepherds Purse.

I've promised to give her seed.

* * * * *

FAULTS CONFESSED: ONE

Putting the cane in the centre of the pot instead of a plant.

I mean, I do put the plant in the pot too - but not in the centre - because that's where I've put the cane.

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BEES, BOOKS AND ASTRONOMY

This morning, I ate breakfast in the garden.

No snails.

Just spider gossamer swinging across the path.

I watered early and did some potting-on.

* * * * *

Later, I took coffee into the garden.

And an astronomy book.

(And watched bees on the roses in between paragraphs.)

They all spin anti-clockwise (planets, that is; not bees). (Bees don't spin.)

Except Venus. (Not that Venus is a bee. Venus is a planet.)

(And Uranus (which is also a planet) stands in a class of it own because it sort of judders.)

And I've been reading about dwarf planets too.

One is Ceres.

Another is Charon.

Hmm..

* * * * *

I'm very behind with my inventories:-

Plants on the right hand side of the front door . . . . .

. . . . . trees and ferns on Pluto . . . . .

. . . . . that kind of thing.

And now I'll get even more behind because I've decided to do bark rubbings as well.

First:-
BAY

(I'm also planning to list my faults and say which plants shouldn't be grown near washing lines.)

(Tomorrow, that is.)

(One has a duty to pass on gardening wisdom to future Montgomery generations!)

(I think.)

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MESSAGE FROM MRS RUSTBRIDGER

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THIS IS MRS RUSTBRIDGER.

I AM CONFISCATING THIS LAPTOP.

I FOUND ESTHER IN HER GARDEN, THIS MORNING, SITTING ON A BENCH NEXT TO A PILE OF DROOPY VINE SNIPPINGS AND UNABLE TO GET BACK TO THE HOUSE.

I COULD SEE HER FROM MY UPSTAIRS WINDOW.

SHE SHOULD REST AFTER A FIT.

I KNOW. I’VE BEEN HER NEIGHBOUR FOR YEARS. UNLIKE HER UPSTART HUSBAND.

SHE’S A HEADSTRONG AND ARROGANT WOMAN.

‘THEY CAN DO WITHOUT YOU!’ - THAT’S WHAT I SAY.
LET THEM READ DICKENS OR THE PEOPLE’S FRIEND.

I’LL LOOK AFTER HER GARDEN.

I’LL KEEP THE BINDWEED FROM THE BLACKCURRANTS.

I’LL TELL THAT HUSBAND OF HERS IT’S ABOUT TIME HE DUG UP HIS ONIONS AND PUT THE REST OF ESTHER’S RUNNER BEANS IN THEIR PLACE.

BUT I WON’T TOUCH THE MARE’S TAIL OR THE CLUMPS OF IRRLEVENT GRASS OR THE BUTTERCUPS OR THE CINQUE FOIL.

LAST YEAR, SHE CULTIVATED A FREE STANDING NETTLE AND INVITED US TO ADMIRE IT. I’LL REFUSE TO WATER NONSENSE LIKE THAT BUT I‘LL SEE WHAT I CAN DO ABOUT GREENFLOES ON HER HONEYSUCKLE.

SHE’LL SLEEP TILL MONDAY.

I’LL SEE TO THAT TOO!

HER HOUSE IS KNEE HIGH IN WASHING UP AND WASTE HIGH IN DUST AND THE POST HASN’T BEEN OPENED FOR DAYS.

ANOTHER THING FOR ME TO CATCH UP ON.

AS IF I HADN’T ENOUGH TO DO IN MY OWN HOUSE!

SHE’S GRATEFUL OF COURSE BUT ANXIOUS.

SHE WANTS ‘LINKS’, WHATEVER THEY ARE, TO BE PUT IN A ‘COMMENT BOX’, WHATEVER THAT IS, SO SHE KNOWS WHO VISITS WHILE SHE’S SLEEPING AND CAN POP ROUND AND SEE EVERYONE WHEN SHE WAKES UP.

NOW SHE’S MUTTERING ABOUT PLAVS LEAVING PLING ON HER PATH. SHE SAYS I’LL KNOW IT IF I SEE IT.

IF I SEE IT I’LL BIN IT WHATEVER IT IS. I CAN TELL YOU THAT.

YOURS SINCERELY

EMMELINE RUSTBRIDGER (MRS)

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BUTTERCUPS AND WARHEADS

I wish I could shrug off sexism.

Ming and the children have crisps in their lunch boxes.

Their decision - my worry.

* * * * *

Ming's chopped down the green manure on the allotment. He'll dig it in after supper.

While he works, he sings an excruciating little ditty called - "We're going to Ma's on Mars'".

(Which is all fixed up for the end of June.)

(And I'm looking forward to it!)

* * * * *

Worthing and Didcott will be spending the day riveting the noses of nuclear warheads to the long tube bits which contain the fuel.

Ming's dusting them.

(The warheads - not Worthing and Didcott.)

(And he's not dusting the warheads they're working on now - but the ones they made earlier.)

(Otherwise, he'd get in the way!)

* * * * *

There's one carrot; lots of buttercups; no beetroot; and the pumpkin's got eaten.

* * * * *

Where's Marjorie?

That's what I want to know.

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MARJORIE HAS BEEN CAPTURED BY PLUTONIANS

Marjorie has been captured by Plutonians.

They came from under the compost heap.

They came up through an inspection cover in the garden.

They came out from behind the Castor Oil plant (which turns out to be a Fatsia Japonica after all).

(I bought it from the W.I. as a very small plant.

.

You’d think they'd know better!)

They burst through the kitchen door (the Plutonians, not the W.I) and smashed through a window in the living room. (The sage got a bit trampled.)

I shouted at them.

They smiled grimly.

I shouted at Ming to ‘do something’!

He shouted back at me. “What?”

I didn’t know.

So they dragged her, kicking and screaming, into a van. Then they drove off.

(Marjorie was doing the kicking and screaming. The Plutonians were silent; professional.)

* * * * *

The boys are pleased she’s gone. It means they can go back to the room Ming slept in when he first arrived. (They’ve been downstairs on camp beds again while Marjorie’s been with us.)

* * * * *

I can’t understand it.

I keep asking Ming how people from such a beautiful place could behave so badly.

Ming looks stern and says the politics of a planet cannot be determined by its scenery.

(Then he goes into a detailed polemic about ‘Free Will’. (He does it every time.) So I day-dream about how happy I was in the Botanic Gardens (on Pluto). (Which is how I distract myself when I’m bored.) (It was so beautiful there; peaceful.))

* * * * *

I’m listening to Fascinating Aida singing ‘Batman Always Wears Tights’ on the record player.

The Lilly of the Valley has one flower; the nettles have lots.

It’s raining.

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'CUTTING OFF THE DEAD BITS'

‘Cutting off the dead bits’?

What ‘dead bits’?

There aren’t any ‘dead bits’ in the garden. Not this time of year!

But it wasn’t too bad.

Worthing had put down saucers of lettuce for slugs.

And Didcott had watered seedlings in the rain.

But dead-heading roses was helpful.

Trimming the Windmill Palm - less so. It looks all sticky-outy now. And the neat-angled scissor-
cuts will go harsh and brown.

I liked its frayed and tatty grace. I liked it how it was!

Worthing has pulled out bamboo stakes. There wasn’t one left. (‘Dead.’)

And Didcott has taken rose prunings away from the Olive Tree. (Dead.)

“Sometimes,” I explained. “‘Dead’ is useful.”

They looked blank.When they set off for work I chased after them and called them back so I could give bigger hugs and better thanks.

Then I washed up the saucers and replaced the stakes.

Marjorie has arranged to meet with the second-in-charge on the M.O.D. bus. She says it’s about time someone makes a stand against Pluto and, if it has to be her on her own - then - so be it.

“What about that lot down the street?” Ming asked.

I began to say they weren’t too bad at present. At least, they’d left the clover alone since it started to flower.

That wasn’t what he meant.

“Sharon,” he said, “Sharon, not Clover.”

What?

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ROSES AFTER A FIT

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I DON’T LIKE ROSES

I’m in bed.

The window is open.

Twenty feet from my nose - the topmost branches of a Rambling Rector.

I hold my breathe; not believing every next intake will bring more scent.

But it doesn’t run out. It’s crossing the street. It’s stopping passers by - it’s June - and there’s endless blackbird.

* * * * *

Cluster upon cluster of small, white, yellow-centred, single flowers - densely packed on kraken-length stems.

Half inch thorns.

It’s gone over the arch; over the bushes; over the gate; over the fence into Lucy’s garden.

It’s ripping its way through the shed roof.

But it can’t get me!

* * * * *

I don’t like Roses.

This can’t be a rose.

* * * * *

FRIDAY:-

I was about to re-draw the apple-tree; pastels, paper, paint and brushes spread ready across the table.

Ming and the children set out for a walk.

Peace coming.

Concentration looming.

I’m restless for it.

I stand at the door calling out, ‘Goodbye’. ‘Enjoy your ice-creams!’

* * * * *

Suddenly, I’ve vanished (it must have been funny from the outside) - keeled over sideways, out of sight, onto the stairs.

There’s a slightly uncomprehending pause.

Then they all come back - where have I gone?

They try to drag me out of the way of the door.

My feet and ankles get stuck.

Ming pulls me further up the stairs.

Didcott tries to hold my hand.

It’s a tug of war.

Worthing gets cross.

I can hear.

I can feel.

But I can’t speak. Can’t move.

My eyelids have flopped - along with the rest of me - so I can’t see.

I like to be boss - in charge. So I’m shouting ‘Do this, do that!’ - but they can’t hear - my voice stays in my head; my lips won’t move.

I’m wild with frustration.

* * * * *

Three days in bed; sleeping, dozing, reading, wandering through the internet (with comments).

The family runs round at my bidding, brings me cups of tea, shops, argues, reads to me, brings me treats; meals.

Not bad eh!?

Ming, Didcott, Worthing, The Rambling Rector - luxury!

* * * * *

(Actually, just at this minute, they’re all shouting at each other. I’m not there to tell them to stop!)

(Well, the Rambling Rector’s not shouting. It’s bobbing around happily - outside the window.)

(I’ll concentrate on that.)

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