The Winter Garden – Part 1: Cuttings

The glasshouse was the only warm place in Oslo in January, and Ingrid guarded it like a dragon.

"You're the volunteer," she said, at the door, in her work gloves, with a trowel in one hand. It was minus twelve outside; steam curled off her scarf.

"Sofia," said the woman on the step. She was twenty-nine, with a mop of dark curls and a rather desperate smile. "I should tell you now. I have killed a cactus."

"A cactus."

"It was in a window. I watered it. It died. I think I drowned it."

Ingrid stared at her. Then, against her will, her mouth twitched. "Come in. You are letting the heat out."

Inside, it was another world: green and humid, fragrant with earth and orchid, palms rising to the glass roof, frost feathering the panes outside. Sofia stood among the ferns with her mouth open.

"It's like another country."

"It is a tropical one," said Ingrid. "Also it is my favourite place."

She put Sofia to work at the potting bench. They repotted seedlings side by side, hands deep in compost, and Ingrid, who rarely spoke to volunteers, found herself explaining about roots, and light, and why most plants die from kindness rather than neglect.

"That is the cactus," said Sofia, enlightened.

"Probably."

"I killed it by loving it too much."

"You killed it by watching it," said Ingrid, gently. "Some things need to be left alone a little."

Sofia looked at her. "And some don't?"

Ingrid's pulse stuttered. "Can I ask you something?" she said.

"Yes."

"Do you want to come back tomorrow?"

"More than anything."

"Green?" said Ingrid, awkwardly.

"Green," said Sofia, beaming. "Very green."

Continue the story: Part 2 – Bloom.