The Greenhouse – Part 1: Seedlings in March

The greenhouse stood on the roof of an old warehouse in Rotterdam, a little glass house full of tomato vines, trailing ivy and rows of seedlings in egg cartons. Noor had built it herself three years ago, from salvaged windows and a great deal of stubbornness, and it was the only place in the city where she felt she could breathe.

On the first Saturday in March, someone knocked on the glass.

A woman stood outside in a yellow raincoat, holding a pot of something brown and drooping. She had short red hair, freckles and the miserable expression of a person delivering a body.

"I am so sorry," she said. "I live downstairs. I am Eline. This was basil."

"It still is," said Noor, taking the pot. "It is just very sad."

"I water it every day."

"How much?"

"A cup. Sometimes two. I was worried it was thirsty."

Noor laughed, softly. "It is drowning, not thirsty." She set the pot on the workbench and pushed up her sleeves. "Come in. I will show you."

Eline stepped inside and went very still. The greenhouse was warm and green and smelled of earth and tomato leaves. Sunlight fell through the old glass in bright, uneven squares.

"It is like a secret," she whispered.

"It is a very untidy secret," said Noor.

She showed her how to check the soil with a finger, how to water from the bottom, how to pinch the leaves so the plant grew bushy instead of tall. Eline listened with her whole face, her hands clasped behind her back as if she were in a museum.

"Why do you do this?" she asked.

"Because plants are honest," said Noor. "They tell you exactly what they need, if you pay attention."

"I am not good at paying attention," said Eline. "I am a translator. I live in other people's sentences."

"Then live in this one," said Noor, and handed her the watering can.

Eline came back the next day, and the day after. She brought coffee and stroopwafels and questions. By the end of the month, the basil had two new leaves, and Eline had a small pot of thyme on her own windowsill that she talked to every morning.

"Can I ask you something?" said Noor, one evening, as the light turned gold on the glass.

"Yes."

"Would you like to help me plant the tomatoes on Sunday? I need someone with steady hands and a good sense of humour."

"I have neither."

"You have a sense of humour," said Noor. "Steady hands can be taught."

Eline smiled, slow and shy. "Yes," she said. "Green?"

"Green," said Noor. "Very green. Bring your thyme."

Continue the story: Part 2 – Tomatoes.