A Short Story

Something new today. My first attempt at a short story.

Bertie (AKA Angel, the dog I use to walk for the charity Our Special Friends)

I’m always going on about trying new things, not being afraid to have a go at something new is such a good mindset to have at any age. Two weeks ago I sprained my ankle quite badly, it’s still strapped up and although I have been getting out to do a little gardening, I have had to rest for long periods to try and reduce the swelling. In that rest time I wrote short story to entertain myself. I only finished it this morning but I wanted to publish it today for the Thursday Newsletter as a message to everyone to have a go - at anything. Write, paint, draw, climb, swim or fly, whatever you want to do, don’t keep waiting until next year.

Sheila poured too much milk into her first cup of tea of the day and returned the nearly empty carton to the sparsely stocked fridge. The pungent smell of an overripe piece of blue cheese, left over from his birthday in March, wafted out of the door. “I’ll throw that away later” she said to herself. She squashed the teabag against the side of the mug, the one printed with ‘Head Gardener’ in big green letters, scooped it out and added it to the growing pile drying to orange on the draining board. Swatting a few bread crumbs from the kitchen table onto the floor, she placed the mug on the table and eased herself down into a chair.

Grey rain drummed loudly on the kitchen window pane, a mixed blessing as the garden was thirsty after a few sunny late May days but it stopped Sheila from eating her breakfast outside where she liked to share her mornings with the chattering birds in the freshness of the new day.

She squinted to adjust her eyesight, but even with her glasses perched low on her nose, it was impossible to see through the veil of water sheeting down the windows. Her thoughts turned to her precious roses, the first blooms of the season would be taking a buffeting by the heavy rain. This morning’s downpour wasn’t gentle, soft rain that fell like mist and barely kissed the leaves, this was solid storm rain, sharp shards that battered and bruised the fragile petals in its path.

‘What will the birds think of me?” she muttered out loud, holding the warm mug tightly but yet to take a sip of tea. Feeding the birds was usually the first job of the day, handfuls of seed scattered freely into the beds and strewn on unused tables dotted in-between the overflowing flowers beds. Rat food, he called it. Today she would wait for the worst of the deluge to pass over before pulling on her wellies to venture outside.

Ten minutes passed. The mug of tea stopped being of any use as a hand warmer. Sheila thought about turning the central heating on for an hour or two just to take the damp chill out of the air but she had second thoughts. He always used to say putting the heating on past April was frivolous and an unnecessary expense, an extra jumper would do just as well. She gathered her old blue dressing gown further up round her neck and folded it over a bare white leg “That’ll do” she told herself, briskly rubbing her hands up and down her arms to warm her permanently cold fingers.

An untidy heap of unopened post spread towards her from the other end of the pine table. She crooked her neck to see if she recognised any of the envelopes.  Nothing looked very important, it was his job normally to open the post unless it was a gardening catalogue addressed to her, he said he liked to spare her the worry of anything financial and complicated. It wouldn’t hurt to leave them a few more days, they could wait until later.

In the middle of the table, disguising a pale round heat stain he had promised untold times to polish out, stood an unremarkable white ceramic plant pot containing a feeble looking houseplant. Shelia didn’t know the name of the plant, she was the outdoor gardener, the one with dirty nails and scratches up her arms, battle scars left over from fights with pyracanthas and climbing roses. She could wax lyrical on how to care for dahlia tubers or offer sound advice about what perennials to choose for a damp, shady spot but houseplants were not her thing. They were his.

Under his care they thrived. The orchids bloomed prolifically year after year, money plants grew into large plump healthy specimens and flowering peace lilies with arching shiny green leaves graced every room. His favourite, which he cared for with more tenderness than he bestowed on Sheila, were his cacti, which grew fat and adorned themselves with vividly coloured crowns of tiny flowers.

“I’m the houseplant person” he would announce to visitors, followed closely by “She’s useless with houseplants, forgets they need to be watered. They would be dead in a week if I left them to her.” Guests, who were few, would be ushered around the kitchen to be presented with each plant, nodding and pretending to be interested in his long-winded accounts of spider mite infestations.

All the houseplants except one had gone now, given away to neighbours up and down the lane. The plant lovers amongst them were genuinely grateful for the free gifts, others were too embarrassed to say no thank you, but smiled and hurriedly snatched the pot before closing the door.

Sheila wondered why this one plant on the table ended up being left behind. It wasn’t a particularly showy specimen she would have wanted to keep. Not a foot high yet, with dark green veined leaves the shape of thin hearts balanced at the end of each slender stem. A few of the leaves were turning a sickly pale yellow at the tip and wrinkled brown dry patches appeared on the edges of others. Even with her lack of houseplant knowledge Sheila recognised neither of these were a sign of robust health. It crossed her mind to put it out in the garden, but with the heavy rain she decided to leave it until tomorrow.

Sheila looked around the kitchen for something to do. A rainy day was always a good opportunity for a tidy or sort out indoors. She considered putting her winter jumpers and cardigans away for the summer months but this year there was plenty of space for them all without having to lug cumbersome bags up into the loft. She settled on tackling the food cupboards, searching for out of date bags of fruit and cooking ingredients she no longer used. By the end of the afternoon the bin was heavy with various bags of dried beans and rice, strange varieties of flour, sticky half empty tins of treacle and golden syrup, packets and cans of food that should have been eaten three or four years ago. With the cupboards scrubbed out, dried and refilled methodically in food order, Sheila stood with her last cup of tea of the day to admire her handiwork before closing the doors and turning out the light.

Unlike the feather duvet on the double bed, the small Victorian single in the rarely used spare bedroom was made up with sheets and woollen blankets, neatly folded and tucked tightly in at the corners as her Mother taught her. She slipped her legs under the fresh covers then wriggled her body down into the cocoon until the cool sheet touched her chin. The tightness of the covers across her chest felt reassuring, reminiscent of being held safe in someone’s arms. She counted the rhythm of the rise and fall of the covers in time with her breath; one, two, three in, one, two, three, out. She felt the tension ease from her muscles as her body became heavier, melting into the mattress below until her mind was still and sleep took her away until sunrise the next morning.

After waking and running her fingers several times through her once luxurious hair, she put on her slippers and shuffled down the hallway, past faded squares where photos of happy days once hung in rows on the magnolia painted walls. As she did every morning, she popped into the bathroom to clean her teeth before stepping into the bright morning light of the kitchen. Her tumble of long grey locks were usually pinned up into a casual bun away from her delicately lined face, but recently she left them loose to spill over her shoulders. She was frequently complimented on her thick, waist length, wavy red hair in her youth, her crowning glory, her Mother used to say as she brushed it lovingly every morning before school. It was also the first thing he noticed about her, as he reminded her every now and then. He also wouldn’t let her forget she used to have shapely legs and a slim waist, that they used to have ‘intimate relations’ as he called it every Friday night after fish and chips and a bottle of Blue Nun.

The weather had improved overnight, leaving tiny glistening spheres of water on the leaves that sparkled under the cobalt blue sky. Sheila fed the birds while scanning the garden to inspect for any damage. The air was quiet and still, a far cry from yesterday’s rustling wind and driving rain. The only movements that broke the stillness were the skittish birds, flitting in and out of the shrubs, collecting the scattered seeds before hurrying away to feed their hungry fledglings . Thankfully colourful splashes of rose petals strewn across the lawn and a tray of flattened cosmos seedlings were the only casualties of the storm, the garden would recover quickly as it always did and by tomorrow it would be forgotten. Sheila was thankful for small mercies and returned to the kitchen for breakfast.

There was only enough milk left for one cup of tea so instead of the usual porridge she made do with toast and marmalade, the homemade Seville they made together last January. Her peeling the oranges and him cutting the peel into strips while listening to Radio 4 and debating whether or not it was worth putting salt on the icy path. Sheila thought so as she had already slipped while taking the bins out but he thought salt was a waste of money, the ice would be melted in a few days anyway. The remains of the loaf in the bread bin were stale but there was no mould as far as she could tell, it looked and smelt alright so she popped two slices under the grill. While she waited for the bread to toast she crumbled up the last crust and threw it outside for the grateful birds.

Sitting at the table with her tea and thickly buttered toast, Sheila slathered on the marmalade and licked the spoon before taking the first crunchy mouthful. The butter ran down her chin making her giggle as she wiped it away with the back of her hand. She looked at the plant in front of her, a thin brown leaf had fallen off on to the table and she noticed a couple more were drooping lower than yesterday. “I’ll definitely do something with you later” she thought.

She rinsed her mug and plate under the tap and put them on top of last night’s soup bowl and saucepan already in the sink. “I’ll do that this afternoon” she said to herself, adding the washing up to her growing list of to do’s.

A rare glance sideways in the hallway mirror prompted Sheila to freshen herself up with a bath and her wash her hair before popping to the shop to buy some milk, bread and something for dinner. The nearest big supermarket was in town, the journey quite a pleasant one through picturesque villages and the bus stopped conveniently just a few yards from Sainsbury’s but there was only one bus every hour. Last week she was held up at the till when her bag of frozen peas split, the additional wait caused her to miss the bus home so she spent an hour sitting in the café alone with her shopping and cup of overly strong tea. She would have treated herself to a fruit scone but the sorry looking one on the plate behind the glass didn’t look very appetising so she passed it by. “I might make some later” she pondered, trying to remember the successful recipe she used last time.

After that episode she decided that the small but adequately stocked community shop in the village had everything she needed for her day to day needs. She was happy not to have to cook a ‘proper’ evening meal of meat and two veg anymore, beans on toast or a ham sandwich were enough to satisfy her waning appetite. With the warmer weather finally on its way she looked forward to plates of ripe, sweet tomatoes, bitter salad leaves picked from the garden, small but delicious repasts eaten al fresco when she was hungry, not some pre-arranged time set in stone.

The journey on foot to Thornfield entailed a fifteen minute enjoyable ramble along a footpath crossing farm fields. On one side sinuous rows of young sugar beets stretched far into the distance and swaying in the light breeze on the other side an already tall crop of muted green spring barley. From the brow of the hill, peeking out of the newly clothed trees, Sheila could make out familiar landmarks in the village below where she born. The unusual square tower of St Margarets, the medieval church where they became a married couple on a damp late September afternoon over forty years before.  The thatched roof of the long house, newly repaired after a recent fire and the imposing twisted chimneys of the old rectory, smokeless on this fine Spring day. For the first time this year, the air above the fields in the distance appeared to shimmer in the heat. She stopped for a moment and raised a hand up to shield her eyes from the sun, an audible sigh escaped from her lips and she smiled, tilting her head backwards to catch the warmth of the midday sun on her face.

She planned to be back at the bungalow just after lunch but on the way through the village she spotted Rita leaning over her picket fence, wondering where to put half a dozen new pink salvias in her already brimming front garden. Rita took off her gardening gloves as soon as she saw her good friend approaching, left the plants in their pots and waved her very welcome surprise guest through the gate, down the cobbled lavender lined path and into the cool of her stone floored kitchen. A hair’s breadth behind trotted Jasper, a deaf and nearly blind white Jack Russell, the most precious thing, living or otherwise, in Rita’s life.

“It’s about time you came over for a visit,” said Rita as she filled up the kettle. “It’s been far too long and you know how useless I am at picking up the phone.”

“I keep meaning to get over more often, but time just flies by,” replied Sheila “The garden has been keeping me busy and I can see you’ve been at it too, it’s looking beautiful as ever, Rita” she said, meaning every word.

Jasper hopped up onto the settle and laid his head on Sheila’s lap, his dull misty eyes looking up at her pleading for a stroke. Rita smiled as Sheila succumbed and began running her hand over Jasper’s bony head and down his back.

“I don’t know why you haven’t bought yourself a dog yet, you love dogs and you’ve got no excuse now, another soul around the house will do you the world of good.”

“I did phone up a rescue centre last week but they said I have to go to visit and I can’t get there on the bus.”

“Well, that’s not a problem is it, of course I’ll take you. Just let me know a day and I’ll come and pick you up, the car could do with a run” replied Rita as she reached for the always occupied Christmas cake tin.

Sheila spotted “Bertie” a forlorn looking ageing Staffordshire Bull Terrier while she was scrolling through the internet, in essence passing the time more than looking earnestly for a suitable dog to share her life with.  His black hair, greying around his muzzle, portly belly and short stocky legs didn’t earn him a place at the top of the most wanted list but his eyes held so much sadness Sheila had to stop and read his story. A quick flicker through his description and her mind was made up, he was the one. Friendly, liked cuddles, got on well with other dogs, no longer wanted or needed hours of exercise due to a touch of arthritis and his advancing years, he sounded perfect. His owner had recently died and with no-one in the family offering to take him in, he ended up in kennels. After eleven years of the same routine every day, a quiet home and the comfort of his own bed, Bertie was deteriorating in the noisy, hectic kennels, becoming withdrawn and increasingly depressed. After relaying Bertie’s unfortunate story to Rita they agreed to go the rescue centre the very next day to spare poor Bertie any further distress.

After two hours of convivial chat, heavier with cake but lighter in spirit, Sheila said her fond goodbyes and moseyed up the winding lane to the Thornfield Village Shop. She couldn’t help smiling at the thought of owning a dog after all these years of waiting. A faithful friend to cosy up with on the sofa in the evenings, a gardening companion and comforting presence beside her on the bed, definitely not something he would have tolerated. Despite many discussions and pleadings on her part, no pets had ever been allowed at the bungalow. Animals are just poo machines he would say. Despite her reassurances otherwise, she was never able to convince him a dog wouldn’t make the bungalow smell or make too much of an indent in their monthly finances. She gave up mentioning it in the end and made do with her occasional encounters with Jasper who seemed to have a sense she needed somebody to love.

The shop was busy today, by the time Sheila arrived, later than anticipated, it was swarming with boisterous schoolchildren just off the bus, picking out pocket money sweets for the short walk home and flustering the lady behind the counter with their sticky handfuls of small change. She decided to wait on a bench for the bustle of the children to subside before picking up a basket and going inside. The fresh bread had sold out before lunch so she made do with a sliced brown loaf, a small carton of milk, a couple of slices of local ham for her tea, a small bar of dark chocolate and a packet of dog treats for tomorrow’s trip to meet Bertie.

She slept well that night and woke feeling refreshed to the sound of birds greeting the morning. There was a fine mist hanging softly over the garden, a sign of a hot day ahead. After porridge and a cup of tea on the patio she returned to the kitchen, picked up one of the unopened envelopes and began to write a list of all the things she needed to buy for Bertie, who, if all went to plan, would very shortly be moving in to the bungalow. The rescue centre had explained they would need to make a home visit first, but they seemed satisfied over the phone that Sheila was the perfect match. While she was thinking about leads and sizes of dog beds, Shelia noticed another two sickly looking leaves had dropped on to the table. She had never willingly let anything die in her life, she avoided spiders when hoovering, picked insects out of the birdbath and offered struggling bees drops of sugar water to help them on their way, and yet here she was, letting a plant die before her eyes through no fault of it’s own. She picked it up and took it outside to the potting table, carefully teased the roots away from the bottom before pulling the plant out of the pot, shaking off the old dry compost and replacing it with fresh. After carefully picking off the remaining discoloured leaves, she gave it a good water from the watering can and held it up at arms length in front of her as though it was a freshly changed baby. “There you go, good as new” she chirped brightly. She moved some pots around on the table to find a cool spot in the shade where she left it to enjoy the fresh air for a few days.

It stayed the pleasant side of warm every day that week, perfect weather for being outside and getting to know her new housemate. Bertie arrived quiet and subdued, skulking under the table for most of the first two days, refusing to eat and shying away from Sheila’s kind hand. Every day he ventured out a little further to survey his new surroundings, returning to his safe spot under the table to watch Sheila’s every move. By the fifth day he trusted Sheila enough to follow her into the garden, content to lay on the patio eyeing her closely while she pottered around the garden and tended to her pots. He soon discovered he was allowed on the sofa and started to enjoy laying next to Sheila while she gently stroked his short coat, until he drifted off to sleep with a low rumbling snore of a content old man. A new photo of Bertie and Sheila now stood on the kitchen window sill next to the revived plant in its new sunny yellow pot and another two strangely familiar houseplants Sheila found on an honesty stall up the lane. All in all it had been a good May.

Over the last 18 years, the first weekend in June had become one of the highlights in the village calendar when the keenest gardeners opened their gates to welcome neighbours and strangers alike for the annual Thornfield Open Gardens Weekend. A village boundary rule, considered to be unfair by many but reasonable by others, precluded Sheila from participating in the event that saw the usually quiet narrow lanes come alive with green-fingered people from all over the county.  Secretly, she was quite relieved she had a good reason not to join in. Her garden was never meant to be a show garden. The wildlife haven she had spent 40 years cultivating was for her own enjoyment and the benefit of nature, not for the Sargeant Majors of the horticultural world, who placed more value on an immaculate lawn than the moles and expected every plant to be labelled with its correct Latin name.  She had seen the stress and anxiety the event had caused Rita who, as one of the organisers, spent all year planning, printing leaflets and updating social media. She dealt diplomatically with residents concerned with wayward parking and sorted out disputes between the WI and the scouts, who crossed swords every year over whose turn it was to make the bacon sandwiches.

Saturday was the perfect day, with no rain forecast, warm but not warm enough to wilt the geraniums or spoil the cream in the Victoria sponges. Sheila set off for Thornfield just before nine, looking forward to catching up with old friends and their gardens throughout the day. A purposeful walk over the hill with Bertie was enough to make them work up a thirst by the time they reached the village hall. The scouts had been busy putting up colourful swags of homemade bunting and setting out rows of picnic tables for the anticipated hoards of visitors in need of refreshments. She looped Berties lead over the post near the community dog bowl and popped her head round the door to see if anyone was serving tea. “Oooee” she called “Are you open?”

A loud clatter came from the kitchen. “Five minutes!” A voice shouted back before a head popped through the serving hatch and continued “Just heating up the water.” The man looked up and saw Sheila standing frozen in the doorway.

“Sheila,” he said, dropping a party size plastic bag of bread rolls on the counter “I was hoping to see you today.”

“What are you doing here?” was the first thing came came into her head and out of her mouth. She stopped, feeling slightly light headed, consciously trying to compose herself before she said something she regretted later.

“How are you? You look well.” He smiled briefly before disappearing and reappearing again out of the kitchen door. He bounded towards her and bent forward to kiss her cheek but she turned her face away, causing him to laugh awkwardly. His bald head was moist with sweat and Sheila watched his neck redden with itchy blotches as it always did when he was nervous. As he anxiously wiped his hands repeatedly down the sides of his mustard corduroy trousers she fleetingly wondered why he was wearing his favourite trousers to serve tea and cake in a hot kitchen.

“I’m fine, good actually. I just popped in for a cup of tea, that’s all. I’m not staying, I’m going to see Rita.”

“Oh, that’s nice, I’m glad you’re getting out, you know, without a car and everything.”

“I’m enjoying the walking actually,” she answered truthfully.

There was a brief uneasy silence before he asked in the cheeriest voice he could muster “How are my plants?”

“Oh, I’m sure they’re fine,” she replied, again truthfully. “I gave them all away. You know me, I couldn’t remember to water them.” She managed a rueful smile.

He looked down at his feet, hands on hips, inhaled a long, deep breath then exhaled loudly through his nose. Without looking up he said quietly “You didn’t have to do that, I would have come and picked them up.” Then, looking her in the eyes and trying to sound more cheerful “But no matter, as long as they are being looked after.”

She couldn’t think of anything to say and there was another longer uncomfortable pause before he suddenly blurted out “Miranda has left me, she’s gone back to Spain.”

“Oh!” She said, nearly adding “Good” but instead said “Sorry.”

“Bloody greedy cow” he mumbled under his breath. He tried to summon a smile but something resembling a grimace then appeared on his now crimson face. “I’m renting a room in the village at the moment and was wondering if I could pop round one day, you know, have a chat, catch up, maybe have some lunch. Or we could go out for lunch if you prefer.”

“I’ve got nothing to chat about really, not to you anyway.”

He didn’t respond, he didn’t know how. In just a few brief sentences he realised this woman he thought he knew so well, had changed. He shuffled slightly and looked down at his feet again, hoping she would come to her senses, like she did last time.

She did actually feel sorry for him. He appeared thinner, drawn round the face, his white shirt looked slightly grubby and for the first time she noticed he didn’t look so tall anymore. His chin was covered in patchy stubble, neither clean-shaved or bearded, somewhere in between which was unusual for a military man who prized being immaculately presented, even when mowing the lawn.

“Oh, well, I better be off,” Sheila broke the excruciating silence hanging in between them. “Bertie’s waiting outside and we want to visit a few gardens before we go to help Rita.”

“Bertie?”

“Yes, Bertie, he’s my new lodger, you wouldn’t like him, he poos in the garden and leaves hairs in the bed. Bye then.”

He was genuinely stunned as she turned her back on him and sauntered out of the door. For a second he saw her flowing red hair skimming her slim waist and wondered why he had been such an old fool.

“Call me, I’m on the same number” he shouted pathetically after her, knowing as the words came out he would never hear from her again.

“Maybe later” she quipped without turning round to wave goodbye, knowing too that later would never come.

She unhooked Bertie’s lead and they walked side by side in the direction of the nearest garden. “It’s going to be a lovely day, Bertie” she said.