The Allotment Gardens – Part 1: Plot Twelve

The allotments behind the railway embankment in Manchester were a patchwork of sheds, bean frames and rain butts. Pauline stood at the gate of plot twelve in her late sister's wellies, holding a key, a trowel and a very bad feeling.

The plot was a jungle. Brambles had swallowed the compost heap, the shed door hung from one hinge, and a single sad row of leeks stood in the middle like a delegation.

"Those need earthing up," said a voice from the next plot.

A man was leaning on a spade, a flat cap pushed back on his head. He was tall and bony, with sharp blue eyes, a grey moustache and an expression of long, cheerful judgement.

"I am sure they do," said Pauline. "Who are you?"

"Desmond. Plot thirteen. I have been here forty years. Your sister was a very good gardener, and an even better arguer."

Pauline's throat tightened. "She talked about you."

"I hope not kindly. I could not have borne it."

She laughed, in spite of herself. "She said you were insufferable."

"She was an excellent judge of character."

He leaned over the fence, and in half an hour he had shown her how to earth up the leeks, how to tell a weed from a seedling, and how to keep the slugs off the lettuces with a ring of crushed eggshell. He talked the whole time, in a warm, dry voice, mostly about people who had done things wrong.

"You are bossy," said Pauline.

"I am helpful. It is a different thing entirely."

"It does not feel different."

"Then you are not paying attention," said Desmond, with satisfaction.

She came back every day that week. By Friday, the brambles were gone. By Sunday, Desmond had mended the shed door, grumbling the entire time. They drank tea from flasks on two upturned buckets, watching the trains rattle by on the embankment.

"Can I ask you something?" said Pauline.

"Yes."

"Why did you and my sister argue? She never told me."

Desmond turned his flask in his hands. "Because she said I was lonely," he said. "And she was right. I was too stubborn to say it."

Pauline was quiet. Then she said, softly, "I am a bit lonely myself."

"Then we have something in common."

"Can I ask you something else?"

"Yes."

"Would you like to come to tea at mine on Saturday? I make a terrible cake."

"Yes," said Desmond, at once. "I will bring a better one."

"Green?" she asked.

"Green," said Desmond. "Very green. Mind the leeks, Pauline. They are watching."

Continue the story: Part 2 – The Harvest Supper.