Ah, it’s nice to be able to drink my coffee out here in the warm May sunshine after a chilly winter. I’m thinking of you, as I often do when I’m in the garden. The shrubs are at their best now. The creamy-bronze broom is gorgeous; I wish you could see it, and the white and apricot potentillas each side just set it off. That pale pink peony we planted a couple of years ago is blushing and the hydrangea looks strong and healthy. The lilac’s coming to an end but it’s been heavenly to breathe in its heady scent these fine evenings. Sweeter than the most expensive perfume, you used to say. The fuchsias are coming on, early for them yet. I hope the pendulous one (I can never remember its proper name) does better this year. It soon went off last summer. I don’t know why, it’s usually pretty reliable.
I’ve always measured the seasons by the cycle of flowers and plants. We both did, didn’t we? This February, there was only me to look for the first snowdrops and celandines shyly peeping through the still-cold earth. How I missed you saying in March, as you did every year, the daffodils are out already. Spring is on the way! And, yes, I remembered to rub Vaseline around the rim of the big pot with the hosta in. I know how much the slugs like it. It’s shooting up now. I find it fascinating how there are only the tiniest stumps to start with, then indigo buds pop up, then once the broad, gold-tinged leaves begin to spread there’s no stopping it.
I was surprised you took to gardening the way you did. I suppose there wasn’t much opportunity in the little terraced house with its pocket handkerchief of a back yard. But here, its borders and flower beds, seemed to inspire you. Sometimes your enthusiasm made me quite breathless! We tramped round garden centres together to get inspiration and then bought bulbs and bedding plants at the Sunday market to stretch the budget. Was the last trip out only September? It seems ages ago. We carefully planned where they would go to give the best effect. I’ll have to do that on my own this autumn.
This morning, I noticed the iris. I had quite forgotten it was there. The stem resembled a lily at first, then it looked more like a gladiolus, then I eventually realised it was an iris. And what a specimen! Three petals of glowing purple velvet, with gently curling edges and, in the centre of each, a sunshine yellow spear head, surrounded by snowy white melding into mauve. In between, three slender feathers, creamily veined. One perfect bloom. One?! Last year there were ten! What happened to the other nine? I bet it was that pesky squirrel, stealing the bulbs to stock his winter larder. You’d only laugh. He’s got to live as well, you’d say. Huh! Let him take something less precious, there’s plenty to choose from in the woods and fields.
I’ll have to keep a close watch on the gooseberries now they’re starting to shoot. I haven’t forgotten the time the dreaded sawfly got them. I’d watered them in the evening – it was during that very dry spell – and they were bursting with fruits, ripening nicely. The next morning – devastation! All the foliage stripped completely bare. The berries just withered after that. No gooseberry crumble for the freezer that year!
I think there’ll be a good crop of greengages this time. The blossom was as beautiful as ever and I can’t see any signs of anything munching on the leaves. I don’t know how I’ll manage the top branches – it will probably be a case of giving the trunk a vigorous shake and ducking as the ripe ones tumble to the ground. A bit of bruising won’t hurt once they’re cooked.
I’ve managed all right with the garden since you’ve been gone. Well, you left it well dug over and weeded, set up for this year. The lawn’s been a bit of a problem, there’s such a lot of it, perhaps I should have thought of that when choosing the bungalow. But Clive across the road has come to my rescue, says he’ll be glad to mow it for me now I’m on my own. I get a bit tearful, mind, when I see him pushing the lawnmower instead of you. It won’t take long, you used to call. And it didn’t, an hour a week, twice a week in high season, to keep it neatly striped.
It’s seven months now since I saw you. It seems like yesterday and yet such a long time. Funny that, isn’t it? Working together in the garden was our great pleasure and I know it won’t ever be the same again. But I had to let you go. You couldn’t stay here forever. I hope you’re enjoying your travels in far flung places. There was no such thing as a gap year in my day!
I’ve always measured the seasons by the cycle of flowers and plants. We both did, didn’t we? This February, there was only me to look for the first snowdrops and celandines shyly peeping through the still-cold earth. How I missed you saying in March, as you did every year, the daffodils are out already. Spring is on the way! And, yes, I remembered to rub Vaseline around the rim of the big pot with the hosta in. I know how much the slugs like it. It’s shooting up now. I find it fascinating how there are only the tiniest stumps to start with, then indigo buds pop up, then once the broad, gold-tinged leaves begin to spread there’s no stopping it.
I was surprised you took to gardening the way you did. I suppose there wasn’t much opportunity in the little terraced house with its pocket handkerchief of a back yard. But here, its borders and flower beds, seemed to inspire you. Sometimes your enthusiasm made me quite breathless! We tramped round garden centres together to get inspiration and then bought bulbs and bedding plants at the Sunday market to stretch the budget. Was the last trip out only September? It seems ages ago. We carefully planned where they would go to give the best effect. I’ll have to do that on my own this autumn.
This morning, I noticed the iris. I had quite forgotten it was there. The stem resembled a lily at first, then it looked more like a gladiolus, then I eventually realised it was an iris. And what a specimen! Three petals of glowing purple velvet, with gently curling edges and, in the centre of each, a sunshine yellow spear head, surrounded by snowy white melding into mauve. In between, three slender feathers, creamily veined. One perfect bloom. One?! Last year there were ten! What happened to the other nine? I bet it was that pesky squirrel, stealing the bulbs to stock his winter larder. You’d only laugh. He’s got to live as well, you’d say. Huh! Let him take something less precious, there’s plenty to choose from in the woods and fields.
I’ll have to keep a close watch on the gooseberries now they’re starting to shoot. I haven’t forgotten the time the dreaded sawfly got them. I’d watered them in the evening – it was during that very dry spell – and they were bursting with fruits, ripening nicely. The next morning – devastation! All the foliage stripped completely bare. The berries just withered after that. No gooseberry crumble for the freezer that year!
I think there’ll be a good crop of greengages this time. The blossom was as beautiful as ever and I can’t see any signs of anything munching on the leaves. I don’t know how I’ll manage the top branches – it will probably be a case of giving the trunk a vigorous shake and ducking as the ripe ones tumble to the ground. A bit of bruising won’t hurt once they’re cooked.
I’ve managed all right with the garden since you’ve been gone. Well, you left it well dug over and weeded, set up for this year. The lawn’s been a bit of a problem, there’s such a lot of it, perhaps I should have thought of that when choosing the bungalow. But Clive across the road has come to my rescue, says he’ll be glad to mow it for me now I’m on my own. I get a bit tearful, mind, when I see him pushing the lawnmower instead of you. It won’t take long, you used to call. And it didn’t, an hour a week, twice a week in high season, to keep it neatly striped.
It’s seven months now since I saw you. It seems like yesterday and yet such a long time. Funny that, isn’t it? Working together in the garden was our great pleasure and I know it won’t ever be the same again. But I had to let you go. You couldn’t stay here forever. I hope you’re enjoying your travels in far flung places. There was no such thing as a gap year in my day!