A Reason for Everything

I'm glad to say that I'm feeling better now, back to what passes for 'normal' so that I've picked up the manuscript for Book Two. This had a working title of 'Where's The Phone Box Gone' but now it has the proper title of "Plodding Along".

This morning, I don't quite know how or why, perhaps it was a picture I saw on the computer, I was reminded of a story which has been fermenting for some time. Perhaps the tale had reached its birthing condition, who knows, but I writted it down.

Here it is and I hope you like it. Before you ask, it is a true story, embroidered a little, but true nonetheless.


A Reason for Everything (Copyright by Author)


Tom, an old friend of mine, sadly passed on now, told me a tale a few years ago, of which I’m reminded, concerning a neighbour of his. This neighbour, who lived a few doors away from my friend, kept a beautiful garden which was a delight for passers by and which attracted more than a few words of admiration.

He was to be seen at all hours, on his knees, pruning, digging, planting and weeding, doing all those tasks necessary to maintain a tidy garden. He would come home from work, have his tea, get changed, gather his tools and get stuck in.

Every year, without fail, he would root out the dead growths and prepare the ground for next year’s plantings. When that time came, he would be found in the garden, planting the new bedding plants, trimming the existing ones and maintaining a wonderful show. Every scrap of waste vegetation and dirt was collected up and disposed of so that there was never an untidy piece, not stray leaf of grass or fallen leaf to be seen.

That was the front garden, the one that everyone passing by could see and comment upon, but there was also the back garden which was kept in exactly the same fashion. When he was not actually working, he might be seen sitting by his garage with a cup of tea and puffing on his pipe.

He was always appreciative whenever someone commented upon his work, but he would never volunteer a conversation and would merely continue a conversation long enough to maintain politeness. He would always break off saying he was too busy to stop, “Must get on, you know – lots to do!”

All this continued after his retirement, the only difference being that he spent more time in the garden, in all weathers and conditions. Until his wife died.

He received and accepted all the condolences, but he was no more seen in the garden, which seen to go to rack and ruin, to what some would call ‘a natural environment.’ Where before there were gorgeous colours and shapes as the flowers gave their beauty to the world, now there were dead leaves and heads, weeds sprouted all over the place, and the lawn ran to seed.

My friend called on him after some time, wondering if something was wrong, perhaps that the old man was not well after his bereavement. He commented that he’d let the garden go. He asked if he’d lost heart after losing his wife, prepared to offer commiserations and sympathy etc.

“No”, said Jake, “it’s not that at all.”

“Oh!” exclaimed Tom, taken aback and not knowing what more to say.

“No,” Jake went on, “I hate gardening. I detest the bloody thing and I’m allergic to a lot of the bloody stuff she made me put in.”

“But you did all that work!” said Tom.

“Sure I did, but I had to, didn’t I? I mean, she’d have made my life more of a misery if I didn’t do what she wanted!”

“Good God, man! You mean to say you did all that work for all those years and you hated it?” asked Tom, astonished. “It was a beautiful garden, it really was, and my Missus said I ought to try to do what you do. I know I don’t have green fingers, but you do! Everybody admired you and more than a few were jealous!”

“Yeah, well, now you know. It might have been nice, but I hated it and now I’m boss, it can go to pot. Another thing I’ll tell you, Tom – now she’s gone, I don’t have to stand outside in all weathers for a smoke. I smoke in the house now that the bitch has gone!

“I do what I want, when I want, and you know what? I’m happy for the first time since we were married!”

“How long was that, Jake?”

“Forty four years, Mate. Forty four years of bleedin’ purgatory!”