I’ve been surrounded by keen gardeners all my life. If my memory is correct, I played under my grandparent’s apple tree when I was young. One of my best friends appeared on the BBC’s Gardeners World; for those who don’t know what GW is, it’s a pretty big deal. However, my dad was the biggest gardening influence in my life. My brother and I used to tease him about his raised beds and moan when he asked us to cut the grass or help him take the trimmings to the dump. Now we both have our own places; we’ve started to garden ourselves. Albeit, my ‘garden’ is nothing more than seven pots sitting on my metre-squared balcony. My brother’s garden is much more impressive. This short story was loosely inspired by those around me who love to grow. Don’t look too closely, the lonely man in this story shares little to nothing with my friend, brother, dad or grandparents.
Mr Greenfingers
There was once a lonely man who did nothing but tend to his garden. It was as much a part of him as his own hands. He toiled throughout the year; planting, composting, pruning and watering. He was, as the town came to know him, Mr Greenfingers. And for a time, he became something of an attraction. People would walk past the garden discussing the timing of the daffodils, how delicate the lilies looked as they blossomed or how fragrant the fig tree was under the beating summer sun.Â
One year, things changed, and Mr Greenfingers lost his grip on his garden. That spring, he headed to his garden as usual and knelt down to plant his daffodils. Every year their yellow petals marked the beginning of spring, but they were delicate. He knew planting them too early would risk their flowers; one good frost would kill them. He waited longer than usual; the winter dragged its heels. Then the sun began to visit more regularly, and he was confident. Soon enough, the town knew spring was on its way. People walked past, praising the patients Mr Greenfingers had. "He always knows when to plant and when not to." That night, a frost came and killed the lot. Mr Greenfingers was devastated; a tear fell down his cheek while he mourned the wilted flowers.
Once April came, he had recovered from his loss and decided to plant his beetroots. He would give them away once they were ready. When he looked outside the next day, he saw the whole row he'd planted had been unrooted. A mole or perhaps a thief? But who would steal newly planted beets? Mr Greenfinegrs was saddened by another failure. He had never had such bad luck. He didn't wait this time to plant again, and now he was determined to grow the most spectacular plants the town had ever seen. The next day he replanted beets and filled the other beds with flowers of every variety. Everyone was excited to see him hard at work; they would be treated this year, watching more flowers bloom and more plants fruit.Â
Weeks passed, and spring crept on, waiting for summer to take the baton. The flowers were forming buds, and the beets had sprouted their red-veined leaves, but they were not spectacular like Mr Greenfingers wanted. It was his only way to make up for the disappointing start. He was so saddened by the lack of progress that he decided to build a greenhouse. He spent weeks to constructed it big enough to cover the whole garden. After he finished his glass temple, he returned to the soil to plant more. Tomatoes, chilis, coneflowers, ranunculus, lavender and alliums. He was a man possessed. He watched his plants in the day, laying on a plastic sunbed; in the evenings, he played soft classical music, and to protect them at night, he put up cameras. Days went by, and nothing unusual happened. The greenhouse was doing its job; even the summer storms couldn't hurt his flowers now. They grew bigger and brighter than ever before. But as the harvest day drew nearer, he became more and more paranoid, unable to shake his experience earlier in the year. He drilled more cameras into his walls and a cat detector which screamed and replaced his clear greenhouse glass with clouded panels. If people got too close and saw how well everything was growing, someone would try to steal them; he was sure of that.Â
Eventually, harvest came, and he was thrilled he finally had flowers, vegetables and fruit to share with the town. He cut the flower stems and picked the tomatoes, chilis and strawberries. He placed them in baskets outside his house as he usually did. It was there that people could take what they wanted. This was his favourite part; the look on a child's face when they bit into one of his strawberries, the delight the ladies got from the small bags of lavender. Even the burliest of the townsmen, couldn't help but delight at the heat of the chilis. These subtle moments: a growing smile, blossoming into a beam or the unconvinced eyes bursting with joy, made him feel useful and wanted. This was his time of year to become a part of something outside his garden.Â
But this year, no one came. He hadn't noticed before, but people were avoiding his street altogether. He stepped out onto the street and looked back at his house. It was only then; that he saw what he had done to his garden.Â
"It's a shame you put all those things up. We liked to watch your garden grow." Said one of his neighbours as they passed him.Â
"But my flowers are more beautiful than ever, my tomatoes are juicer, my strawberries are as sweet as jam, and my chilis are hotter than the sun."Â
"That might be, but I can buy big and beautiful flowers from the florist, buy juicy tomatoes at the greengrocers, and if I want some spice...I'll order a curry." Said the neighbour.Â
"And what of my strawberries?" Asked Mr Greenfingers.
"I've never cared for them."Â Â
If you like Mr Greenfingers, please consider sharing this newsletter with a friend. Enjoy your Sunday!
Luke