Trial Period

It was all due to a misunderstanding. My dismissal, I mean.

I had been employed as a gardener by Lady Chatterbee on a three months trial, which was OK by me.

The probationary period wasn't a problem as I was sure of my own abilities.

My knowledge of botany was second to none; I could talk for hours on related subjects. Propagation, pruning, cross-fertilisation did not hold any mystery for me.
It was a topic of which I could confidently say I had complete mastery.

Alas, the same could not be said for anatomy; that was anathema to me.
It is fair to admit that I didn't know my knee from my elbow. I was an utter ignoramus on the matter.

In retrospect, I wish that I had brushed up on this particular subject but was unprepared for what was to follow.

Everything was progressing to my satisfaction: the rose bushes were free of greenflies, the herbaceous border was neat and tidy with not a weed on sight,
the fruit trees had been trained across the trellis and their roots had been fed a good dose of manure; the vegetable plot had been thoroughly dug up ready for sowing.
I felt proud of the variety of flowers I had chosen for the garden I was planning; gypsophila, antirrhinums, cytisus and love-in-a mist. In addition, the greenhouse was full of pots of spring bulbs germinating.

My next big task would be the rockery with alpine plants and miniature roses.
This was a job I had left until last because of a number of heavy stones which required some hefty lifting.

All in all a very good show, I said to myself. I would pass the test with flying colours.

Lady C. was always hovering around, watching like a hawk. Every move I made was scrutinised. It was difficult to guess whether she was being critical: her face was inscrutable.

I knew that sooner or later she would say something and, as I anticipated, one day she approached me.

She seemed embarrassed and was red in the face.

'Ged, I want you to do a special job for me', she said breathlessly, 'but you have to prove your virility.'

I looked at her heaving bosom and my mind raced to the torrid events described in "Lady Chatterley's lover ". I understood then how poor Mellor had been unable to resist her advances.

I tried to reassure myself that I was a gardener and not a gamekeeper but then she went on: 'Show me your biceps'.

It was at that point that the misunderstanding occurred.

As I mentioned, anatomy is not my best subject.

© Luigi Pagano