The Garden Nursery – Part 2: Second Spring

By April, Hillside Nursery was in bloom.

Rows of tulips blazed in red and yellow. The blossom frothed on the old apple trees. Seedlings in neat trays pushed up fresh green. On Saturday, the car park filled with customers, and Beryl, in a clean apron, sold two hundred pounds of plants before noon.

Walter stood at the till in a freshly ironed shirt, cap straight, taking money with a beaming courtesy. He had officially been hired. Beryl called it "consulting."

"Mrs Hale, those are the sweet peas," he told a customer. "The best in Kent."

"They're the only ones in Kent," murmured Beryl, passing him a bag.

By five, the last car had gone. The two of them sat in the potting shed with a pot of tea, surveying the empty shelves.

"We did well," said Walter.

"We did."

"I haven't seen it like this since Margaret."

Beryl set down her cup. "Does it hurt, still?"

"Less." He turned his cap over. "And differently. As if there's room beside it."

She nodded. She understood that, entirely. Outside the open door, the evening sun slanted across the beds, gilding the rows of young plants.

"Can I ask you something?" said Beryl.

"Yes."

"May I kiss you, Walter?"

His ears went pink. "Yes," he said. "And if you say stop, you must let me water the roses forever."

"I'd have let you anyway."

She kissed him, gruff and soft, a calloused hand cupping his bristly cheek. He kissed her back with the shy, careful gentleness of a man planting something that might not take, and found, wondering, that it already had. The evening smelled of earth and growing things. A blackbird sang from the apple tree.

When they parted, both of them were smiling.

"Green?" he asked.

"Green," said Beryl. "Very green."

The nursery sign has been repainted. It reads: Hillside Nursery. Beryl & Walter. Passing is welcome.

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