I sometimes yearn for when my day involved rummaging around in this rather tatty make-up bag every morning. Sometimes.
|
||||
|
We’re a bit discombobulated here at the moment – Joe Brown returned home with a back worse than it was before he went, my knees are making me wince and the house is, quite frankly, a mess. One bedroom was cleared a week or so ago for The Builder to attend to walls and floorboards but has since put his finger in a saw so is understandably taking some time off. I have half a dozen or so half-finished jobs on the go and it seems everywhere I look there’s something else to be done. I think this evening may involve double egg and chips (fries to you Americans), Joe Brown may resort to taking his strong painkillers which I’m banned from stealing and I may resort to Jack Daniels.
I forgot to make bread so, at lunchtime, was wandering round the kitchen trying to decide what to have. Result was first harvested shallot from the garden, a pile of which are drying off in the garage before plaiting, two courgettes twisted off the plants, a handful of small early potatoes from the allotment which are a bit scabby but fine nonetheless, chopped garlic (nearly last clove from bought bulb) and half a red pepper sliced. Chopping and cooking this up was probably the most energetic thing I’ve done today having cancelled this morning’s gardening gig owing to still dodgy knee which made my right leg feel like a tree trunk.
Better late than never due to server down. Yesterday was something of a wash-out – morning gardening gig was cut short due to heavy rain which was something of a relief given I again have a swollen, crock knee which is a tad worrisome. Joe Brown headed for the airport, armed with a walking stick due to back problem. Afternoon gardening cancelled, I spent the rest of the day slouching on the sofa, doing leg exercises and watching the four-hour epic Cleopatra and drinking copious amounts of tea. Learned that someone I know, whose faith and confidence in me spurred me on to set up my own freelancing business nearly ten years ago, is in his last days of life.
Given that I took on an allotment last year, I found that one of the vegetable beds in the garden was rather superfluous to requirements. Square, nearly 3m x 3m, I decided to use it as a dedicated bed for cut flowers which seemed a nifty idea. A wigwam for sweet peas was erected in the middle, four planks act as narrow paths leading to the wigwam from all four sides and half the planting area was pretty much stuffed with Dahlia tubers and interspersed with white Cosmos I grew from seed. Anxious weeks were spent waiting for the Dahlias to appear but appear they have. The Cosmos has grown far taller and voluminous than I thought they would but the overall effect is pretty good and very pretty. I’m also cutting flowers virtually every day and regularly running out of vases.
One of my gardening clients has these dotted round the garden which can be startling as you come across a tiny face, leering in all their chipped-paint glory, whilst rummaging amongst the shrubbery.
There’s been a cupboard in the garage since we bought it two years ago which I’ve been meaning to paint the same colour as the walls in an effort to tidy a jumbled corner of a room. I then decided to change the colour of the walls so there’s been blobs of different shades of off white on the chimney breast for six months. Given that we may have strangers trooping through the house in the not-too-distant future, I finally started to paint the cupboard a few weeks ago – a rather arduous job given that it’s a self-assembly jobbie and therefore in bits, all of which need priming, painting and then matt varnishing to ward off chips and marks. Once the cupboard’s done, I’ll do the walls. A couple of jobs on a very long list.
Written words aren’t coming easily at the moment, as is apparent. Words are bouncing round my head like the bees on the lavender but they’re all ending with question marks that I, Joe Brown, you and the internet can’t answer at the moment so I’m keeping quiet. I haven’t even taken any pictures of late (pic above was taken at the end of June on a rare hour or so I spent lolling in the garden on a checky blanket with my cat). I’m therefore joining in on the super-multi-talented Susannah’s Jolly Good Idea of taking an August break. The deliciously loose rules entail a picture be taken and shared on your blog every day, or not as the case may be, with or without words, howsoever you feel. She has a slinky link to include your blog on the August Break Blogroll which is getting impressively big, there’s even a Flickr group and a badge to upload and everything. Unfortunately, I’ve clearly lost the ability to do anything remotely fancy on my blog and can’t manage to upload summery August Break badge so a picture of part of my leg in a daisy-patterned skirt and my cat will have to do. I could do with a bit of lighthearted fun so I’m up for it.
The morning rain falls gently on the grass as I pour coffee and crack open a new jar of jam, a surprise find on the shelf a couple of days ago after I recently mentioned to Joe Brown I used to buy it, an occasional treat in days gone by when I truly couldn’t afford it. Spread on buttered toast, I’d forgotten how good it is. I’d cried off my morning stint of gardening, the idea of crawling through shrubbery to dig out years’ worth of creeping weeds in the rain just too unappealing a prospect. Having spent three hours there last week tackling stinging nettles under shrubs and small trees in the pouring rain and sheltering under a lilac bush to drink plastic-tasting tea from my flask, I think I’ve already proved I’m no lightweight. I lick jammy fingers and pull off my nightdress, flinging it on the bed where I’ll undoubtedly need to rummage for it later amongst rumpled bedclothes, Joe Brown not here to straighten duvet, puff pillows and lay my nightdress out as he always does whilst I brush my teeth at night, one of the many rituals that have evolved between us in the three years I’ve been here, rituals I miss when he’s away on a business trip. I dress, work trousers, laundered of weekend weeding on the allotment but pull on a large cashmere sweater which at the very least needs airing of its smoky scent from an evening spent alone just sitting, staring and smoking last night. I go downstairs, push open the kitchen window and prop the door open to air downstairs, soft rain silent as it falls. There are two goldfinches picking at the nigella seeds in one of the birdfeeders and the peanut feeder swings back and forth, telltale evidence that the woodpecker has just flown away, skittered by the opening door. I swirl remnants of the coffee in the cafetiere before pouring it in to the bucket for composting and leave a dish to soak in hot water, its burnt on vestiges of last night’s roasted vegetables too tiresome to contemplate dealing with right now. The rain suddenly gathers pace and starts hissing outside, spattering in to the porch through the open doorway. I give a small cry as cold drops hit my back through fine wool as I pull shut the door, an involuntary shiver running through me as I sink on to the sofa and press myself against it to get rid of the wet coldness. I sigh, my breath pushed out hard as though by emptying my lungs I could empty the cloud that hangs over my head, worrisome thoughts that won’t go away and I consciously let them in and view them, turning over options and outcomes that are largely out of my control. By the time I shut them all down and contemplate tea, an hour has passed, the hiss of rain has fallen silent and the sun has broken through the clouds. I prop the door and meander up the garden to see what’s changed since yesterday. The ‘Jolly Bee’ geranium has started blooming which will flower from now ’til early Autumn and there is a Californian poppy ready to unroll its vivid orange petals, still hidden by its pointy hat which I cannot resist gently taking off. Frondy fennel sparkles with rain and tiny violas, with blooms that look like screwed up faces, shake in the slight breeze. There may, just may be seedlings in the wild flower bed but I may just be willing this after weeks of bare earth staring back at me. Plantain heads nod amongst the strips of aluminium and glass, greened with algae, lying amongst the grass, awaiting a new concrete base for the second greenhouse, acquired from a client who was happy to be rid of it. Hanging baskets and pots are beginning to sprout and spill their growth, promising trailing hair of green and grey, long garlands of purple and fuck off pink petunias, with fuchsias that pop in the sun to show their can-can girl underskirts. The two ‘Devonshire Dumpling’ fuchsias are already showing pale round buds and I gently twirl them between my fingers, my recollection of my mother’s fingers doing exactly the same five years ago to the row of them she had in her window box as she smiled and said “Just wait ’til these bloom, they’re just delightful”. They were but at the end of the season they weren’t taken in and died during that winter, just as she did. I nearly wept with joy as I spotted the label amongst rows and rows of different fuchsia plugs in the nursery last month after four years of looking for them everywhere in a rather J.R. Hartley kind of way and I vowed to keep them safe. Rose bushes dotted round the garden have masses of swollen buds, the Gertrude Jekyll having unfurled her first bloom and the two elegant Forest Pansy trees are finally covered in green and purple leaves. My throat constricts slightly as I recall my saying to Joe Brown just after I planted it two years ago “If we ever leave here, this Forest Pansy would be the one thing that I take from the garden”. I turn away and go indoors to stand and stare blankly for unknown amount of time before clumping heavily up the stairs, not sure where or why I’m going. I open the wardrobe and muse on the row of clothes, each hanger pulled out yesterday during a stress-induced clutter clear as I pondered yet again whether to sell or charity shop some of my suits which I rarely or never wear any more. One binliner was filled for the charity shop but none of the suits went. I may be glad of them at some point, possible city living may call for suit-wearing as I learn to sprechen le languages. I close the wardrobe and busy myself with tidying the bedclothes in a vague, ineffectual way, turning to the window to look out over the garden which has changed muchly in three years. We laughed heartily over the weekend as we recalled The Great Garage and Garden Clear Out of 2007, a clear out of rubbish that Joe Brown had had neither the time nor motivation to rid himself of until I pitched up for good. It involved four skips, welcome coke floats in the shade of the garage and a bonfire that was kept going for over a week which we sat round in the evening with cups of tea. The huge garden rubbish pile was where the vegetable garden is now, rows of onions, shallots and garlics fattening in the warm sun and early summer rain. The strawberry bed was netted over the weekend, concentrated effort made between us but both undoubtedly with other thoughts in mind as we did it. It would be hard to leave, heartbreaking even, the prospect of city living in an unknown country makes me feel like I can’t breathe, with visions in my head of standing and staring out of an apartment window but if fate, forced job move and fear of unemployment forces it, I will go to remain by the side of the man who puffs pillows, buys me jam, keeps me safe and warm and was the best decision I made.
My hands chill instantly against the cold metal of my fork and spade as I pull them out of the car, fingers curling round tubs of tools as I carry them round to the garden, once owned by an eminent, well-known and long gone gardener, her ghost seemingly always present when I am there. Hot tea splashes in to the plastic cup and I roll a cigarette as I peer down at the soil in the raised bed, fluffed by the hard overnight frost which is already dissipating in the early March sun. The metal garden chair scrapes across the patio and I sit for a moment, musing that my “It’ll take at least a day to clear” was undoubtedly correct and suitably vague before I flick the cigarette in to the soil where it curls for a while amongst the shrubbery. The raised bed is long, spanning the width of the whole house, two sleepers high and six feet deep but terraced with another sleeper and it widens at one end to 14 feet near a path that borders the edge of the garden. The long gone gardener of high repute was not responsible for the planting of this bed – I do not know who was but the present owner is tired of looking at it and I do not blame them. I decide to start at the wider end, more full of large and lolling plants that twist and curl, spindly witchy fingers coming at me as I stand and start to prune old roses that have never seen secateurs. The lavender – a long row bordering the path – has been chewed by shears cutting straight across the top, pruning last seasons’ growth but nothing will hide the tatty woodiness of the stems, gnarled and twisted by their ten year age and I start to chop, sharp secateurs making a far more satisfying sound through their thickness than it did through the roses. Long stems that have wound their way in to the border, evading the shears, are pulled out – sad ineffectual growth that runs out of steam at the tips. Fork is sliced into the ground, coaxing, pulling, levering at the roots with gritted teeth and furrowed brow, the perfect sound being heard as they relinquish their hold in the soil and give and I grab with gloved hands and lift, throwing unwanted tattiness in to the barrow. One down, nine to go. I push the barrow up the path, rhythmic squeaks from the wheel as I go, turning right and along the wooden path to The Pile where all is flung on the top for a weekend bonfire that will momentarily fuse the air with the scent of lavender before the heat of flame overcomes it all. By the fourth bush, my jacket is hung over the garden chair, thin grey lavender leaves litter the path and my breath is emitted short and sharp through my mouth as fork hits soil and levers against roots. My lips feel dry and cracked and I smear cocoa butter balm across them, speckled with grit from my fingers. By half ten, they are all out and on the weekend pyre. More tea splashes and steam curls from the plastic cup. The ivy twirls and twines its way everywhere, gleaming dark green amongst the undergrowth and I pull long strands, sufficient for a whole wardrobe of dresses and garlands for woodland sprites. Rose thorns scrape and stab my skin as I step in amongst the soil and start to chop away at hateful purple sage with the loppers, hurling 6ft stems down on to the patio in the vague direction of the overflowing barrow. I’m stepping on thick ivy now which covers the ground and pull and pull, causing shrubbery 6 feet away to shudder as its adventitious roots leave hold of the soil. The sword-like leaves of the Phormium bend towards me and I back away as they threaten with their nearness. Beads of sweat form above my lip and I taste salty cocoa butter and spit grit on to the soil. As I pull stems of sage, hundreds of grey-purple leaves cover the ivy and I see the tiny, glossy red domes spotted with black of ladybirds fall amongst the foliage and I whimper at the idea of squishing them just as they emerge from their winter hibernation amongst the curled, deadened leaves. I step carefully away, leaving zig-zags of mud across the path from my boots and chew on a squashed sandwich, the peanut butter not welcome as I contemplate crisp, homegrown lettuce and sweet tomatoes from the greenhouse, a distance of months away. There is less steam from the tea. I roll a cigarette, glued with saliva and grit and I cannot find my fork, browned with mud and disappearing from view amongst the shrubbery. The purple sage has lengthened with age, stems creeping down the sloping bed and rerooting as it contacts the soil and I have to heave against their grip to release them. The barrow is heaped for the innumerable time, its squeak louder with each journey to the pyre. I glance furtively from left to right before crouching behind the laurel amongst the snowdrops, hot wee staining my muddy boots. I eat half a bruised banana before flinging the remainder in the barrow, its small Fairtrade sticker to be a tiny, momentary toxic plume as it melts in the heat of fire. I coax ladybirds on to leaves to lead to safety before clambering back in the bed to dig, pull, heave and squeal as thorns draw blood. Rooks caw in the Scots Pine across the way as I brush the path, the afternoon wind whipping deadened leaves in to whirls which I catch in my hands and fling in the barrow. There is a squished ladybird and I emit a long “Oh” of sorrow. Tools are gathered, warmed by the sun now and the barrow squeaks to its resting place by the greenhouse. I bash muddy boots by the car before sinking in to the seat, resting my arms, criss-crossed with thin lines of dried blood, on the steering wheel just for a moment before starting the engine. At home I languish on the sofa, all doors and windows open in the early evening and watch the shadows lengthen in the garden before hearing the click of the gate and see Joe Brown appear, holding a laptop and shopping bag, bulging with double cream yoghurts that he knows I like and cod for dinner. I smile as he knows his fish curry makes my toes curl with pleasure. I run a bath, wafting chemical fragrance across the landing and hiss as I sink my scraped arms in to the heat and detergent bubbles before leaning back and sighing. I hear a cork pop in the kitchen. Silky cream is rubbed in to dried skin, the scent of roses as red as undoubtedly red can be wafting, enveloping as I walk downstairs. There is ice in the shape of fish in the ice tray. I clink fish in to the glass and add gin, topped with tonic. The chill and bite of juniper makes me shiver slightly as it hits the back of my throat and I hear cumin seeds pop in the pan. |
 |
|||
|
Copyright © 2010 Thursday's Child - All Rights Reserved. Copying's downright rude, not to mention ILLEGAL. |
||||
