Nothing lasts forever

I don’t know when it was I got so sentimental. I don’t even like gardening and the problem with growing your own is you either have a glut or nothing at all.

“It’s just a silly old allotment, Lottie,” Derek says, from the burgundy armchair next to the small fridge that bursts into a loud hum. The weak, white light of February illuminates the dust motes and the greyness of his face.

“You’re right,” I reply out loud. Even though I know Derek is dead, he punctuates my thoughts and I am not sure I would make any sense without him. “It’s the in perpetuity thing. Dad used to tell me the story every time I came up here, clearing his throat, so I knew he was going to put on his toff’s accent though he said Major Villiers looked more like a vagabond with his rusty bike than a Gent.”

“Well far as your Dad’s concerned Major Villiers kept his promise,” Derek says, ever the pragmatist. “And let’s be honest love, you’ve never taken to gardening – the plot’s not been looking its best since…”

“Don’t say it,” I interrupt, a little unkindly, but he will go on about it. “It’s Reg I’m thinking of. He’s too old to start again. And the tree he planted when Gladys died is too big to move.”

“Well go to the meeting then. That young un, Margaret, she’s got some good ideas, hasn’t she?”

I turn my back on him and finish wrapping the seed potatoes in newspaper.

“I’m not good with others.” I flatten out the paper, the picture of a fresh-faced young girl catching my attention: Local Hero, Lance Corporal Sarah Jackson, heads out to Afghanistan to serve her country. Her smile is infectious and I find myself returning it, making my cheeks ache.

I back out of the shed and lock it up. It’s nearly time for the Olympic meeting, never have we had so many meetings, and never have the allotments been so busy. I suppose I could pop my head in, nothing to hurry home for except the cat, and that bad tempered bugger can wait for his dinner. I know Margaret, ‘the young un’ as Derek calls her, though she must be at least forty, thinks we can persuade the LDA to build around us. I can’t see it somehow, but I do worry for Reg, what will happen to him without this place to come to?

I hesitate at the door to the large shed with the ugly corrugated roof. I can smell the earth and sweat of the men and women jammed in there. Reg’s wobbly voice rings out above the hum.

“I’m not startin’ over. It’ll kill me.”

I push on the door and slip in the back of the steamy shed. Margaret is at the front, stood on a chair, but no one is paying much attention. I shuffle forward a little and stand next to Reg. He and Derek were good friends. I know he misses him just as much as I do.

“The LDA representative will be here in a minute, he’s got the plans for the new allotments. But we’re going to tell him we are not interested, aren’t we fellow allotmenteers.” She raises her fist in the air. A few of the others do the same, if a little half-heartedly. Margaret is a schoolteacher, I often wonder if she thinks we are the children.

I want to say, oughtn’t we to look at the plans first, after all the land might be better. It does get awful boggy here in the winter. And then I remember Gladys’ tree. For some reason the blonde, smiling Lance Corporal from the paper returns to me. What would she think of our silly little battle compared to the one she faces?

The LDA official is not how imagined. Firstly he is a she, and she is dressed in wellies and jeans and an old barbour jacket. She shows everyone the plans. They have gone quiet, muted by her confidence.

“In perpetuity means forever,” I say – as if my dad was prodding his finger into my back.

She looks to the back of the room. “I’m sorry I didn’t catch that.”

“My dad said that Major Villiers gave the land in perpetuity. That means you can’t take it away from us.”

She nods and smiles. She has braces on her teeth, even though she must nearing thirty. “I understand how difficult this is. Legally the LDA can override the covenant, but they really don’t want to alienate the local people - that’s why they are offering this superior site - honouring Major Villieres legacy.”

Everyone’s murmuring ‘in perpetuity’ now. I have started a mutiny and she knows she has lost this skirmish. She says she will leave the plans with us and come back in a couple of weeks.

At home later, after the cat has been fed, Derek says, “you can’t win.”

“We can try.” I say heating up some chicken soup. I’ve not had much of an appetite since he died and I don’t really see the point in cooking for one.

“Those plans looked mighty impressive. I reckon on that new site I could have made a go of corn, it looks more sheltered, less damp.”

“You told me to fight earlier on?”

“There’s always two sides,” Derek says, a favourite saying of his.

Who are the two sides in this war in Afghanistan? The enemy isn’t as clear as it used to be. Who are we fighting and why? Does that vital young woman, Sarah Jackson, wonder that in the dusty heat as calls to prayer ring out like they do at the mosque at the end of the high street. The new land for the allotments has been donated by the domed white mosque - they want to ingratiate themselves into the old east end community and of course Muslims eat a lot of vegetables, or is that Hindus?

A TV company are at the allotments the next time I’m up there. The broccoli is ready, though I’ve let the lettuces run to seed, much to Derek’s annoyance. Reg is to have a starring role and Margaret of course, who is wearing brand new pink wellies and has had her hair done. It’ll be screened next week and Margaret’s suggested (commanded) we watch it all together. The Anchor is going to put on a buffet. Derek thinks I should go.

“You might meet someone,” he says.

“I don’t want anyone else.”

He lurches off down our handkerchief garden, mumbling “I can’t hang around for ever.”

I do go in the end, because there’s nothing else on the telly and Reg asked me to accompany him. It’s clear from the off the documentary makers support us. I feel sorry for the woman from LDA, they present like she won’t listen and that’s not how she came across, and they cut out the bit about her getting a specialist company to move Gladys tree. Reg did himself proud and cut quite a dashing figure in his tweed jacket. Staunch and righteous, I told him. Though Margaret said he should have cried a bit.

There’s a lot of interest after the programme is aired. The visitors turn the grass track that leads to the allotments into a muddy river. Some are just coming to gawp – the Olympic birds nest, looms above and makes the sheds look like the ones on a model railway. Some of the visitors are reporters. Reg does some interviews. I hang back by the shed. I can hear Derek shuffling around inside. Some are those tree hugger types, with unwashed hair, like plaited wool and rainbow coloured clothes. A few pitch tents, but Margaret threatens the police. One is a girl, blonde haired with a wide smile and swollen belly. She reminds me of Lance Corporal Sarah Jackson. I hope she’s on R&R soon. I offer her my spare bedroom. She says only if she can bring her friend. The friend turns out to be a long, lanky lad, with curly black hair. I don’t know whether he is the father or not. Reg comes back with me and stays for dinner. I think he is worried they might murder me in my bed and steal my pension book. The girl and her friend go to bed early. They seem nice enough and do the washing up without being asked. Reg stays for a nightcap. He sits in Derek’s chair and it’s nice to have someone who is not dead for company.

“It’s a right palaver,” he says.

I nod in agreement, but truth be told I am quite enjoying it. There is always something going on. The young Indian family, who only got a plot last autumn, have started ‘bring and cook’ evenings with the nights lengthening. I’ve not joined in, but I like knowing I can.

“Gladys told me she don’t mind moving.”

I nod. I understand him. “Derek is of the same mind.”

He looks at me and smiles. His eyes are pale blue and quite twinkly despite his age.

“Only we’ve got all these people fighting for us.”

“It’s not going to matter in the end. The Olympic dream is not going to be hindered by a bunch of allotments - in perpetuity or not.”

“Nothing last forever.”

“Never a truer word,” I say, realising in that moment that I, unlike Derek, am not dead.

“When we do move…” Reg hesitates.

“I’ll not take up a new plot,” I say.

“Will you share a plot with me?” He reddens, as he registers what I just said.

“I shouldn’t have asked- -I’d love too,” we say at the same time.

I’m wrapping the bulbs in newspaper, ready for the move. The rainbow clothed couple stayed for a month in the end and I still never worked out if he was the father or not. Certaincies seem to belong to a different time and a different world. He was a nice enough lad and fixed the guttering and repointed the garage.

Though the baby didn’t come, the earth movers did. I feel their omnipotent presence. Lined up along the far edge of the plot, the sheds, not loved enough to be moved are to be flattened. Reg and I have opted for a new shed. Twice the size of the one we have now. We are going to be put in a small woodburning stove, both of us have old bones that need warming in the short autumn days, when our breathe turns as white as our hair.

I see her smile first, my hand brushes the dirt aside. It’s the same picture. Is she home? I pat my pocket for my glasses and put them on. My throat tightens. IED, light armoured vehicle, 19 years old. I am too old to cry, but my eyes overflow anyhow.

The earth movers rumble into life and shake the ground beneath me.