The Garden

Sheila looked out of her front window and gave a sigh. It was a beautiful day; the sun was shining, the birds were singing and the grass was growing fast. So fast in fact it was almost knee height. She’d watched it grow, inch by depressingly fast inch, trying to summon the courage to go out and cut it. Yet every time she’d grabbed the shed key and tried to step outside to get the lawnmower, she’d stopped fearfully in the doorway, too afraid to make that tiny step - that giant leap - into the dangerous world outside. 

Since her husband had died, her agoraphobia had got worse. She’d never been particularly sociable, preferring to spend her time at home with her family, and she didn’t have many friends to entice her out. Gradually she’d come to rely on her neighbours more and more to bring her what she needed from the shops, as even walking down the street had made her panic. Finally, the garden, her haven for all these years, her pride and joy, had been lost to her, as panic now set in the moment she thought about leaving the house. 

The beds were choked with weeds, the roses leggy, the hedges unkempt, but it was the grass that annoyed her most. She realised, with a sense of failure, that she would have to get someone in to do her garden for her. Charlie would have been most disappointed with her, she thought sadly, as she picked up the phone book to search for a gardener. He’d always been most proud of her ability to keep the garden looking beautiful all year round; had said it was the thing that had kept him going through his illness, given him somewhere relaxing to rest while he enjoyed the fresh air. Even when he’d been unable to leave the house, shortly before the end, he’d still sat at the open window looking out at the incredible displays of dahlias - his favourite - while enjoying the pungently fragrant scent of jasmine and rose as it wafted in. He’d crowed with delight at the butterflies that alighted on the buddleia and watched avidly as the tiny birds feasted on the well-stocked bird table. It had made her feel that she was doing something useful for him, and he’d never failed to tell her how much he appreciated it. 

As she flicked through the phone book it fell open at the gardeners section and a small business card fell out onto the floor. She picked it up:

‘Jim Green, Gardening Services. No job too small. Friendly, efficient service for over thirty years.’ 

She turned the card over, wondering how it had got there. On the back, in shaky handwriting, was a note:

Don’t ever feel ashamed to ask for help, my love.

Jim’s a good man.

Charlie xxx

Sheila sat with a thump, tears springing to her eyes. He must have known this would happen, her Charlie; he must have known she would get worse without him there to encourage her out; must have seen the day coming when even the garden that she loved so much would be beyond her. Even in his last days he’d thought of her - how like him. She let herself weep for her loss then pulled herself together; she’d been lucky enough to be married to such a wonderful man for forty two years before fate intervened, she wasn’t going to give in to pity. She phoned the number with a trembling hand. 

“Hello, Jim Green Gardening Services,” the man answered politely.

“Uh, hello. Mr Green? My name is Sheila Turner. I believe you may have known my husband, Charlie?” asked Sheila, nervously.

“Mrs Turner, I was so sorry to hear of your loss,” Mr Green replied, sincerely. “I knew Charlie through the work. We often met on site when he was doing the electrics and I was tidying the gardens. He was a very good man; always willing to lend a hand if there was anything needed done. He’s sorely missed by everyone that knew him. Is there anything I can do for you?”

Sheila swallowed the lump in her throat at his kind words. “Actually, Mr Green, there is,” she said, her voice a little unsteady. “I wonder if you could come round and cut my grass for me, please?”

“Of course, Mrs Turner, I’d be delighted to help. Your husband always talked about your amazing ability with plants, and boasted about how beautifully you kept everything. He was very proud of you, you know.” 

Sheila was choked; she didn’t know what to say and suddenly wished she hadn’t asked him around - what would he think when he saw the state of the garden? Before she had a chance to change her mind, however, he told her cheerily that he’d be round that afternoon and rang off. She almost dialled him straight back to cancel but stopped herself; she needed help and, as her Charlie had reminded her, there was no shame in asking. 

She was watching from the front window when he drew up in his small white van, his name printed on the side, and saw the look of puzzlement when he got out and looked around, taking in the unkempt and overgrown appearance. She ducked behind the curtain as he peered at the house, presumably thinking he’d arrived at the wrong address, her face crimson with embarrassment. She heard his footsteps crunching up the gravel path then the doorbell rang. She hesitated until her gaze fell on Charlie’s short note - ‘Don’t ever feel ashamed to ask for help, my love’ - and it bolstered her courage. She took a deep breath and answered the door. 

“Mrs Turner?” he asked.

“Mr Green, thank you for coming,” greeted Sheila, her face still flushed. “As you can see, I need some help. Please, come in.”

Mr Green stamped his boots to dislodge the majority of the dirt and gingerly stepped into the house, noting the contrast between the immaculate interior and the untidy garden.

“This is a beautiful house you have, Mrs Turner,” he said politely.

“But not such a beautiful garden,” she replied ruefully, closing the door thankfully.

“Oh, now, I didn’t say that,” he rebuked her gently. “It’s a fine garden, just needing a little TLC to bring it back to its former glory.” 

Sheila smiled at his kindness and invited him through to the kitchen for a cup of tea. He was a fine looking man, quite handsome in a rugged, outdoorsy kind of way. His hair was salt and pepper and lent him a distinguished air, despite the coveralls he was wearing. He was slightly shorter than her Charlie had been and was clean-shaven where Charlie had had a moustache. He had a kind face and eyes that twinkled when he smiled. She liked him immediately. 

He sat where she indicated and watched as she made a pot of tea and poured him a cup. She reminded him of his late wife, more in her polite mannerisms than appearance, although she was a striking woman. He thanked her and took a biscuit when offered.

“I’m afraid the garden’s not what it was when my Charlie was here,” she said sadly. “I’ve rather let it lapse since then. I was hoping you could help.” She looked at him beseechingly.

“I’d be delighted to help, Mrs Turner. As I said, I used to talk to Charlie a fair bit when we were working. I know what the garden means to you, what it meant to Charlie. He knew how you sometimes struggled to keep it looking so good and appreciated all your efforts. He couldn’t praise you highly enough.” 

Sheila flushed at the praise. “Please, call me Sheila, Mr Green. You did know my husband well, after all.”

“Jim, please. And I won’t hear a word about payment, you hear?” insisted Jim, thinking how radiant she looked with her rosy cheeks. “Charlie was a good friend of mine, it’s the least I can do.” 

Sheila blushed shyly and accepted graciously, feeling for a moment like a teenager as Jim smiled at her, his blue eyes twinkling. 

Jim finished his tea and got started on the garden, Sheila watching through the window as Charlie had watched her so many months ago. She observed eagerly, over the following weeks, as her garden was transformed once again into the tidy, lush paradise it had been before - with one noticeable change, insisted upon by Jim. 

He came in one day, looking pleased with himself.

“Sheila, my love, it’s finished,” he declared proudly. “I would be honoured if you would inspect the new summer house.” 

She took his proffered arm with a shaky hand, pausing in the doorway as he led her forward, looking out at the neat grass and borders overflowing with colourful blooms glowing in the bright sunlight. He stepped over the threshold and took both her hands in his.

“You can do this,” he said, encouragingly. “I’ll help you.” 

She remembered Charlie’s note and for the first time wondered if this was the help he’d been meaning all along. Gripping Jim’s hands tightly she stepped courageously out into the sunlight. Into freedom.

- THE END -