The Garden Nursery – Part 1: Seedlings

"I was just passing," said Walter.

Beryl stood in the doorway of the potting shed with a mug of tea and a look of deep suspicion. It was six in the morning, and for the fifth day running, the previous owner of Hillside Nursery was standing in her greenhouse with a watering can.

"You live eleven miles away."

"It's a long passing."

"You've been watering my roses."

"They were thirsty."

She was sixty-three, a retired nurse, with iron-grey hair under a straw hat and a no-nonsense manner developed over forty years of hospital wards. He was sixty-seven, tall, stooped, in a patched jumper and a flat cap, with the shyest blue eyes she'd ever seen. He had run the nursery for thirty years until his hip gave out and his wife died, within the same winter.

"I bought this place," she said, "to grow things. Not to be supervised."

"Quite right." He lowered the watering can. "I'll go."

Something in his face made her stop. He wasn't being sly. He looked as if she'd told him to leave his home.

"Oh, for goodness' sake," said Beryl. "Sit down. I'll make another cup."

He sat on an upturned crate, hat in his hands. She handed him tea, and a custard cream. For a while, they watched the sun climb over the neat rows of seedlings, golden light filling the greenhouse.

"What do I do with the delphiniums?" she asked, grudgingly.

"Stake them. Now. Before the wind."

"And the roses?"

"Dead-head. Gently. They like to be asked."

He taught her, quietly, a little each morning. The right depth for cuttings, the right moment for dividing. She taught him how to make a proper cup of tea. By the end of the month, he stopped pretending to pass.

"Can I ask you something?" said Beryl.

"Yes."

"Why do you come?"

"Because it was always happier with someone in it," said Walter, softly.

"Green?" she said, gruffly.

"Green," said Walter, startled and delighted. "Very green, Beryl."

Continue the story: Part 2 – Second Spring.