Mr. Bradshaw’s Garden

The widower Barbera Wilson waited her turn in the post office queue. She conversed with a taller woman who had in her arms a large parcel. “May I ask what is in that package?” Asked Mrs. Wilson.
“You may indeed, I am not affronted. It is a parcel of small clothes for my grandchildren in Australia.”
“My, that’s far.” Exclaimed Mrs. Wilson.
“Very far. My son lives in Melbourne with his Australian wife. He went there for a trek and ended up falling in love.” Explained the tall woman.
“Do you miss him?”
“Painfully but the times when we do meet eases that pain into nothingness. My husband seems to be alright about it.”
“It’s difficult though. You don’t want to let them go but you cannot…Well you have to…Actually I don’t know. Does one have to?”

“Next please!”

“Oops! Sorry.” Apologised Mrs. Wilson and left the tall woman in order to draw her pension. Afterwards Mrs. Wilson went to the wholesale grocers to get some provisions. The village where she lived was an idyllic one with the homes built with flint and stone, the roofs were thatched and the tavern faced respectfully towards the Anglican Church, the oldest building in the district. The village in which Mrs. Wilson lived looked most desirable in spring except for one area that was adjacent to Mrs. Wilson’s cottage. She turned to look at it, felt a little gloomy and retired back to her cottage. Sat imbibing fresh tea and munching on shortbread whilst being entertained by ‘The Paul O’Grady Show’ Mrs. Wilson could not get rid of the gloomy feeling the cottage next door was instilling in her. It had a morbid appearance, no greenery in the garden just black fungi and overgrown brambles that bore no fruit and the cottage itself was abandoned and was bleaker than despair itself. Windows were broken and most of the thatch had rotted. Any birds that did fly into the garden, and often through the cottage, were unattractive in appearance and dissonant in song. These avian nightmares brought bad luck to the superstitious. Nobody appeared to live in that cottage, the last owner, one Leonard Bradshaw, was found hanging from the guttering in the back garden. Mrs. Wilson had that memory lingering in her mind as she boiled the potatoes. It would remain with her throughout the night.

Mrs. Wilson awoke at the time when sensible people would be having their elevenses. It took her a while to drift off to the land of nod and even though she caught up on sleep Mrs. Wilson still felt a bit heavy in the eyes. She tuned her radio to Classic FM as she wanted to ease her process into alertedness as comfortably as she could possibly make it. Lime flavoured marmalade on a crumpet gave her mind some sustenance as she bit into it with her chipped false teeth. When her late breakfast was devoured Mrs. Wilson stepped out into her back garden. By contrast it was a sweet piece of greenery where songbirds, hedgehogs and vixens with cubs would sometimes frequent. During one English heat wave both Mr. and Mrs. Wilson were amused by the sight of a dopey Dora of a wood pigeon cooling itself in their granite birdbath. Its underwings were where the pigeon felt much of the heat.

Mrs. Wilson picked up a few things round the back of her cottage. They were a bucket, a watering can, a trowel, a small fork, gardening gloves and to fill the watering can she used the bronze tap underneath her kitchen window.

As he walked out of the newsagent holding his mother’s hand and carrying ‘The Beano’ in the other five year old Craig Gavin noticed Mrs. Wilson walk into Mr. Bradshaw’s garden. He directed his mummy’s attention to it and she also became intrigued. Feeling that it would be rude to intrude both strolled nonchalantly to their home. Mrs. Wilson was left alone with painful rheumatism to go on her hands and knees in Mr. Bradshaw’s garden and dig the barren soil with small fork and trowel obtaining painful cuts and scratches in the process.

Word soon got round the village what the geriatric was doing and many were discussing the matter in the church one Sunday morning.
“Have you heard about old Mrs. Wilson?”
“I know, at her age it’s quite amazing.”
“I wonder why she is doing it?”
“I don’t know Reverend but I guess its because she had to live next door to that gloomy place for most of her life and when a widower…”
“Ooh better get back into character. I can hear her coming up the pathway.” And with that the vicar disappeared back into the vestry ready to begin his work for John Betjeman’s beloved institution. When Mrs. Wilson opened the door with a gentle geriatric push she felt a mite overwhelmed by the smiling faces that greeted her. She hobbled towards her favourite spot of the pews which she shared with Craig and Miss Gavin. After the service the congregation and the vicar communed for a quasi-banquet of tea, coffee and custard creams. There was a general air of chit-chat in the room but conversations generally steered from what everybody wanted to talk about to menial things like how ‘Collision’ was a hard-to-follow drama. It was five year old Craig Gavin that asked the sixty four thousand dollar question.

“Why are you digging about in Mr. Bradshaw’s garden?” Mrs. Wilson smiling knelt down, making a loud snapping sound from her knees as she did, and whispered to Craig what she was doing but more importantly why she was doing it. “Anyway young man, I’m going to have to go home now, don’t break any hearts.” Miss Gavin tickled her son’s tousled hair and Mrs. Wilson lightly waved goodbye and headed towards her cottage. Mr. Bradshaw’s garden still looked grim and overgrown. So Mrs. Wilson carried on with her efforts. For entertainment she took her late husband’s portable radio with her and listened to BBC Radio 2. Pretty soon the elderly gardener found herself with an audience. An audience of one.
“Can I help Mrs. Wilson?”
“Course you can Craig. Does your mother know?”
“No, she doesn’t.”
“Oh well at least you’re being naughty for a good cause.” Mrs. Wilson then told Master Gavin to wear her gardening gloves and pick up the bits of bramble that fell to the ground that was either removed by shears or secateurs. Master Gavin took to his job with great ease as a mallard did to his council funded pond. It didn’t take long for the young chap to land into trouble. “Craig! Where on Earth have you been?” His mother chastised. Craig’s expression looked like a rabbit that got caught in the headlights.
“Oh don’t be too hard on him Miss Gavin. He’s a good little help.”
Miss Gavin was slightly confused. “How…How did you get him to do that?” Normally at home Miss Gavin found it nigh impossible to get her son to even place his dirty plate in the sink let alone help in the garden. “I asked if I could help.” Craig declared.
“I…erm…You’re doing a…quite a good job, actually…Just stay there Craig, I’ll be back soon.” Craig’s mother sped off and as sure as eggs she returned in full gardening gear with tools. The trio of horticulturalists worked into the afternoon with the radio broadcasting populist melodies. Soon the woman that Mrs. Wilson met in the post office queue walked by with her husband and their Springer spaniel.
“Halloo! Can anyone join in?” Enquired the husband.
“Woof!” Enunciated the Springer spaniel. Mrs. Wilson nodded. Now there were six people weeding, pruning, digging (particular the Springer spaniel) and clearing out the rubbish. Sadly the sun began to set and everybody became too cold to work, even Mrs. Wilson. So they all went home. At home when watching her black and white television Mrs. Wilson knew that as it was Monday the following day it was very likely that she would be working alone in the garden due to most of the village either going to work or even school. How wrong she was as little did she know that word spread round, particularly in the public house, of her scheme. For all sorts came to help in the garden, some bought tools, some bought plants, some bought packets of seeds. Mr. Bradshaw’s garden was slowly looking like a little piece of paradise. Mrs. Wilson was very happy, her efforts were paying off but she also had the added bonus of bringing everyone together.

One late night at the witching hour a smell wafted through Mrs. Wilson’s bedroom door causing her nostrils to react by waking her. Being awakened suddenly made Mrs. Wilson feel disorientated but she soon got her bearings. She got up from her bed, picked up a candle holder from the window, stepped into her slippers and keeping warm by wearing her dressing gown Mrs. Wilson crept slowly to find the source of the smell. A smell of bacon, of sausage, of egg and is that fried mushrooms and a black pudding Mrs. Wilson’s nasal membranes can detect? Mrs. Wilson reached the kitchen and saw the light was on by seeing the glow through the cracks. Mrs. Wilson held aloft the candle holder whilst gently pushing the door open with her free hand.
“I would like to take this opportunity to say ‘Thank you’ to you Mrs. Barbera Wilson.” Mrs. Wilson almost stuttered but she at least managed to spit out in astonishment, “Mr. Bradshaw!”

On her kitchen table Mr. Bradshaw had laid out a full breakfast for two with a pot of tea freshly brewing and an already full toast tack plus small glasses of freshly squeezed orange juice with the bits in along with pots of Ski yoghurt. Mrs. Wilson was flabbergasted and so would you be if such a thing happened in your so-called real life. “Please, sit down Barbera. I do so believe that a full English is good at any time of the day.” So she sat down and eat, drink they did with bits of food and hot beverage spraying out of their lips as they conversed. They talked at length about themselves their lives and even what secrets they may have with an agreement that what was revealed would go no further than Mrs. Wilson’s kitchen. When it nearly came to the end of their meal Mrs. Wilson noticed that Mr. Bradshaw was holding something in. She asked him if he was alright and he replied, “It’s just…It’s just,” the floodgates opened, “I’ve never had people be so very nice to me before. I never knew people could be so nice. I don’t deserve it, I really don’t. I’m a bad man, a very bad man.” Mrs. Wilson went over to comfort him and tried to reassure him that he wasn’t a bad man. By then Mr. Bradshaw couldn’t speak, his body was trembling and the tears were flowing down his cheeks. Mrs. Wilson placed her arm around him and kissed him on the forehead.

Back in the garden some of the helpers had now started to look towards the cottage. It wouldn’t be right to have a garden so lovely with a cottage looking as stagnant as that. This pleased Mr. Bradshaw who now began to visit Mrs. Wilson every night except on Sundays. They began to develop rather strong feelings for one another but it would be a little while before they would admit it. One time she noticed the mark on his neck caused by his suicide but she decided not to ask him why he did it out of courtesy. He, however, wanted to tell as he trusted her so much. After a while Mr. Bradshaw’s garden and cottage was complete. Even the inside was decorated to Mr. Bradshaw’s directions which of course were given by Mrs. Wilson. She never mentioned about Mr. Bradshaw’s nocturnal visits, not because nobody would believe her but as she was in love Mrs. Wilson preferred to keep Mr. Bradshaw to herself. All the village turned up to look at the cottage and the local press took photographs. Gradually a party began with the vicar saying that as this was a small cottage everybody could continue the party in his church and the pub landlord said likewise with all the drinks being on the house. It was rather a jolly affair with all the celebrations criss-crossing between the church, the public house and Mr. Bradshaw’s garden. It certainly exhausted Mrs. Wilson who needed an early night.

Mrs. Wilson’s sleep was broken by Mr. Bradshaw gently shaking her shoulder, “I’ve got a fire going.” Mrs. Wilson took a bit of time to wake up and Mr. Bradshaw, wearing his best pyjamas and dressing gown, helped her up. She stepped into her slippers and Mr. Bradshaw gently fitted Mrs. Wilson into her dressing gown. Holding her hand he led the way downstairs, opened the front door and took her outside to his garden and then into his cottage which was warmed by a roaring fire.

A few days later there was some concern as nobody saw Mrs. Wilson about the village. Miss Gavin took it upon herself to go and see her. She repeatedly knocked on her door, “Mrs. Wilson! Mrs. Wilson!” Soon she looked through Mrs. Wilson’s letterbox, exclaimed to herself and then pulled out her mobile phone to call for a paramedic. But there was nothing that could be done. The local paper had two articles on Mrs. Barbera Wilson that week. One was about her final altruistic achievement and the other was her obituary.

And a honeybee landed in Mr. Bradshaw’s garden.

© 2009 Clinton Morgan