The lift shuddered to a halt at the end of its journey from the fourth floor. A moment’s hesitation before the twin doors opened with a metallic clang and Harry trundled out, pushing a green wheelbarrow loaded with garden tools. “Morning Mrs Riley“ he said cheerfully to the lady standing waiting, desperately trying to silence a yapping off-white dog on a leash. The threat of eviction was standing over her, and waking the other residents at this early hour was not going to improve matters. “You’re early Harry”, she replied, “up with the lark”. “No rest for the wicked, as mother used to say” answered Harry and headed for the front door.
Harry was a wiry man, not very tall, with hairy arms and large worker’s hands. A battered old trilby of nondescript colour clamped on an almost hairless head, checked lumberjack shirt, and baggy overalls tucked into grey woollen socks and green Wellies was his working outfit. A colourful cotton scarf for wiping his brow hung from a back pocket. Some said he could double as a scarecrow, but that didn’t bother Harry.
He had moved into the apartment block a year ago after a painful but inevitable divorce. His ex-wife Mary complained that Harry loved the large garden which surrounded their detached house more than he loved her. Finally she had had enough and found someone else. For Harry it was traumatic; not losing Mary or the house, but losing his garden. For the best part of twenty years the annual round of digging, spreading manure, planting, pruning, weeding and harvesting had ruled his life. Still it did come as a bit of a surprise when Mary slapped the legal papers on the kitchen table in front of him, instead of the dinner he was expecting.
It was as though part of him died that day, leaving a big empty space. To pass the time he spent mornings and evenings wandering around parks, allotments, lanes, fields – anywhere he could enjoy the company of plants, bushes and trees. He even sneaked around outside the old house, to mourn his old garden. It was grossly neglected. At times he blamed Mary and her new husband, but realised that without loving care nature would gradually reclaim all the land.
One crispy winters’ day he came across an abandoned piece of land down by the river. Harry guessed it ran to a couple of acres, left over when the new bypass was built about half a mile away. It was a bit out of the way, nearest neighbour a floodlit round-the-clock petrol station. The plot sloped to the south, skirted by a narrow footpath which meandered along with the river bank. The river was about 500 yards wide at the most, a shallow tidal river which was reduced to a narrow channel when the water was sucked out into the Irish Sea. A putrid smell of muddy sediment and rotting seaweed crept over the river bank when the tide was out. Then the returning tide brought with it the fresh salty smell of the sea, and banks of mist which rolled slowly over the low-lying, neighbouring fields. Harry occasionally met dog owners down there, who passed the time of day. And in the distance he saw a gang of youths on bikes bound for the petrol station. In all it was not a popular place.
The plot was enclosed on two sides by a thick wall of overgrown bushes and trees, which provided some shelter from the wind. Thin young saplings were already marching across the plot like an invading army. Harry knew that if nothing was done they would take over completely in a few years. The rest of the land was choked with tall dried grass and weeds, seeds rustling in the slight breeze coming off the river. Rubbish dumped by fly-tippers was lurking in the undergrowth nearest the footpath, lying in wait for unsuspecting visitors.
To most it was probably just an overgrown, derelict site hardly meriting a glance. To Harry it had potential as a new garden. He started making daily visits to the plot. It had become almost an obsession. Harry felt his hands twitching, longing to feel the black, rich soil between his fingers again, to slice through the sods with the sharp edge of his spade, to reveal juicy fat worms wriggling in the daylight.
Back in the apartment Harry started planning “his” new garden. The excitement kept him awake, writing a mental list of what needed doing. Soon he had a clear picture in his head what it would look like – not unlike his old garden.
Harry was a methodical soul. He got out his black notebook and a sheet of squared paper. All morning he sat at the kitchen table, scribbling and pencilling in rose bushes, vegetable patches, furrows for potatoes, fruit bushes and flower beds for perennials. By lunchtime he was exhausted. He had to have another look. A quick sandwich and mug of hot tea, and he was off. It was hardly a quarter of an hour’s walk away but Harry automatically lengthened his stride, eager to check out his plans. He realised that he would have to be careful, not attract too much attention. Hopefully he could work early mornings and late evenings if the street lights along the bypass provided enough light.
In a sober moment he started to have second thoughts about the new garden. Who owned the land? What would the council say if they found out? Could he do all the work by himself? And how much would all the plants and bushes cost? He brushed these misgivings aside when he sat down with his plans for the garden, now that he had a clearer picture of what needed doing, and where to start. To get anywhere with the land he was going to need his garden tools. Hopefully they were still locked away in the old shed, unless Mary had got rid of them. Harry hadn’t spoken to her for six months. He decided to call their son David, which he did occasionally, to find out the lay of the land. David always appeared very busy so they never spoke for long. The usual topics were quickly rattled off: work, wife, kids, school, car, holidays and the rest. Harry usually stood up when he spoke on the phone, a habit from the time when telephones were installed in the hall with a short cord. It suited him, kept calls short.
“Hello David, Dad here” said Harry, as though David wouldn’t recognise his voice.
“You still alive then?” which was David’s way of saying that it was a long time since Harry had called.
“Just hanging in there, not literally of course,” was Harry’s weak attempt at being funny.
“Any contact with Mum these days?” he asked, trying not to appear too interested.
“Not much. Too busy with the new man” said David, disinterested.
“Still live in the old house do they?”
“Think so, off travelling most of the time. Spain next week think she said”.
“Long as she’s happy, David.” said Harry with an end-of-conversation voice.
After a painful silence David sighed and hung up with a “See you Dad.”
Relieved, Harry shuffled over to his favourite armchair, in fact his only armchair, to mull over which tools he would need. Luckily he still had the key to the old garden shed. Mary hated the place so most likely nothing had been touched since he moved out. He sank into the soft, worn leather and closed his eyes, pictured himself standing there in the shed, surrounded by shining tools. He dozed off, the earthy smell of peat, soil and manure taking him back to the shed. This was where Harry belonged, a safe house, his den, where he could hide from the demands of the outside world.
It was still dark when Harry woke. He made an early breakfast, planning a dawn raid on his own garden shed, before sun-up. He dressed for the job; old jeans, a grey plaid shirt, and an outsize black hoodie over a dark green cap and finally his old hiking boots. He found the key to the shed at the back of the cutlery drawer. Closing the door quietly behind him, he tiptoed down the four flights of stairs, afraid to wake the neighbours by using the lift. Harry’s heart was beating faster than was healthy, as though he was about to rob a bank. Outside the morning mist was still lying thick, so he was not likely to meet anyone. Still it was a good half hour’s walk to the old house through a large estate of older detached houses. Fortunately the street lights were weak and far between.
Approaching the old house, something moving about twenty yards ahead caught Harry’s attention. Stray cat perhaps. He ignored it and strode on. Suddenly a torch full in the face dazzled him. Instinctively he held up an arm to shield his eyes, hearing a dog growl and a woman cry out: ”Oh my God, who’s there?” Harry instantly recognised the sharp voice. It was Jean, a former neighbour. She lived in a small white cottage at the end of the lane. “Hullo Jean” muttered Harry, as though walking around far after midnight dressed in a hoodie was the most natural thing in the world. “Oh, that you Harry? Near scared the wits out o’ me, you did”. “Dog woke me, needed to go out. Bit scary what with the mist an’ all”.
Jean was deceptively mousy-looking, auburn hair going on grey in a loose pony-tail, rosy cheeks, oversized glasses, usually seen wearing a thick home-made woollen cardigan, black leggings and red anorak. Sensible outdoor shoes, soil coloured. Always seen with a reluctant, yapping Cairn terrier in tow and pockets bulging with dog bags. Harry had never really spoken to her before.
“Haven’t seen you around for a while, Harry.”
“No, not been near the place for ages,” said Harry, “couldn’t sleep.”
“Keep us company for a bit then?” asked Jean.
“Mmmm, why not”, said Harry after some initial hesitation. He couldn’t really explain what he was up to that late at night.
They walked along in silence, following the dog’s nose as it hunted for traces of other canines. The mist was lifting slowly, and soon they came up to the red picket fence which enclosed Harry’s old garden.
“Not been looked after since you left, Harry,” said Jean, “a shame really to let it run down.”
“Starting a new garden” said Harry, without thinking.
“Oh, where’s that then?” asked Jean.
“Bit of land near the by-pass.”
“Whatye’ doing here then, inspiration?”
“Here to collect my old gardening tools.”
“Middle o’ the night, wearing a hoodie!” said Jean laughing, “doing a break in then?”
“Something like that. It is my stuff after all, just collecting it.”
“I can keep a lookout if you like, Harry”, said Jean sounding rather amused.
“OK, would you?”
Jean realised then that Harry was serious.
The house was in darkness except for two dim outdoor lights. Harry slipped in through the gates and followed the familiar path to the garden shed. Jean hung around outside the fence, trying hard to look like an innocent dog walker.
Harry was nervous and fumbled as he pushed the key in the lock, afraid he might have to break in. Fortunately the lock opened with a familiar grating sound and the door swung open. He stepped inside but didn’t dare switch on the light, just stood there breathing in the familiar smell . With a small torch he found the tools hanging from their shiny metal hooks along the walls, arranged as though on display in a garden centre. Smaller tools were arranged on rough wooden shelves along one wall. Harry had made a mental list of what he was going to take, but hesitated when it came to loading his trusty green wheelbarrow. Hearing Jean’s impatient dog barking in the distance, he had to get a move on: digging spade, heavy garden fork, scythe, whetstone, pruning shears, a rake, furrow iron, pair of gloves and rubber boots. He pushed the heavy wheelbarrow towards the door, stopping only to apply a little oil to the creaky wheel – something he had long been meaning to do – before locking up the shed again. He made his way slowly through the garden gate to where Jean was still waiting, stifling a yawn. “Got all you need then?” she asked.
“This new garden of yours, Harry, is it a secret?”
“Nah, just something to keep me busy, time on my hands now” said Harry, a bit cagey. He didn’t want visitors who might attract the wrong kind of attention.
“Let me know if you need an accomplice again then”, said Jean, laughing nervously.
“I’ll get in touch, Jean”, said Harry marching off, “night!”
It was early spring before Harry started clearing the land. The mornings were still nippy. Sometimes night frost glistened from the tall grass swaying in the light breeze. Some early trees and bushes were already displaying swollen buds. Harry started with the thickets of bushes and small trees which bordered the plot. Using a sturdy stick he forced his way through the jungle of brambles and wild roses. Hawthorns with vicious thorns stood in the front ranks. They would have to go. The undergrowth of weeds and nettles needed clearing. Deeper into the thicket he found tall, overgrown lilacs with bare trunks, a few buds and leaves at the top. Looking up he could see old sycamores wrapped up in strings of ivy like a helter-skelter, yews with branches splaying in all directions, a sombre scraggy pine or two and some one-time majestic oaks. The only way to attack this would be to start from the footpath and work his way into the thickets, he thought.
Harry began with the saplings. He enjoyed bending them over using his thick gloves, gripping close to the ground with the jaws of the pruning shears and gently squeezing the handles. The blades cutting through the bark and pulp made a crunching sound when the young saplings finally gave way. He could do this all day. For the trees he had a bow saw, then his scythe to silently slice through last years’ grass and weeds, wet from the early morning dew. It took two mornings to clear the lot.
The next day Harry planned to start clearing rubbish from the plot so that he could start digging. He slept poorly again, waking while it was still dark. After an early breakfast he tried calling Mary to talk about reclaiming his fruit bushes. In passing he was going to mention his visit to the shed. He only got to her answering service, and declined the offer to leave a message.
He summoned the lift and heard it creaking as it reluctantly climbed to the fourth floor. The narrow doors opened with a hiss. Harry was waiting with his wheelbarrow already loaded for the morning’s expedition, pleased to see that the tools were in good shape. Down, it took him a few minutes to extricate the wheelbarrow . “What’s going on here then?” he heard a woman’s voice exclaim, feigning complaint. “Not that woman again”, said Harry to himself, “on sentry duty here is she?” With her guarding the place he realised it would not be easy to sneak out unnoticed. “Morning Mrs Riley”, he replied a bit too friendly, “soon be out of your way. Off to my new allotment.”
“Can see that. Whatye’ gonna’ grow then?” she teased.
“You wait and see, Mrs Riley, just you wait and see.”
“Keep you out of mischief then I suppose”, she said over her shoulder as she squeezed past his wheelbarrow into the lift.
Harry didn’t bother to reply. Outside the street smelt fresh after an early heavy shower which had rinsed the dust from the pavements. He set off at a good pace down the street with his wheelbarrow. Not many people about this early, which suited Harry. By the pathway approaching the river, Harry found himself in a solid bank of mist floating in from the sea. The plot was almost invisible. First he tried to manhandle the wheelbarrow across the rough ground, but it was too heavy and the ground too uneven. In the end he gave up and parked the tools by the edge of the thicket. With spade on his shoulder Harry marched slowly across the plot, testing the ground here and there before deciding where to start digging. He preferred to dig from left to right, one row at a time. Leaning the spade slightly towards him, he rested his left boot on the footrest, took a deep breath and, shifting his weight over onto his left leg, made the first cut. There was some resistance from the thick layer of grass which covered the ground. He gradually let his full weight bear down on the spade and felt it slice into the soil below. A quick turn and lift followed by a smooth swing with the back of the spade to break up the soil. The soil crumbled, released at last by his spade from the suffocating layer of grass. Harry enjoyed the well-oiled routine, muscles honed after many seasons of digging. He bent down and picked up a handful of damp, black soil, rubbing it between his fingers. Greasy to the touch and smelling of rotten vegetation and full of squirming worms, brutally lifted from the safety of their dark underground tunnels.
Head down, he carried on methodically turning over the soil until he reached the end of the first row. He looked up, stretched his back, walked slowly to the other end, inspected his work, and then started on the next row. His mouth felt dry, but he carried on digging until his back ached from turning over the heavy sods. Straightening up, he noticed that the mist had already lifted.
A disturbing feeling hit Harry as he stood there surveying the morning’s work; he was not alone, someone was watching him. He looked around slowly and saw a figure lurking by the bushes near the footpath. A man stepped into the thicket when Harry looked in his direction. He was tall, charity shop clothing, military jacket and orange bob hat on top of a mop of black, longish wavy hair. Harry thought the man nodded, but it was no one he recognised. Time to call it a day anyway, so he loaded his tools onto the wheelbarrow and made his way home.
The next morning Harry arrived later after a slow breakfast, to find half the plot already turned over. In one corner he saw Jean with her dog and the stranger from yesterday huddling over some mugs. “Hello Harry, thought we’d lend you a hand” said Jean. “This here is Les.” The stranger nodded: “Taken on quite a job here mate. Not been turned over for I don’t know how long.”
Harry tried to appear friendly, but he was worried where it was all leading to. Jean noticed that Harry kept looking around him, and seemed wary of Les. “Well I’ll leave you to it. Dog needs his walk” she said, pulling the leash and making a quick escape.
Harry and Les worked together for a couple of hours, mostly in silence, and by lunchtime they were done for the day. Harry could see that Les was a good worker. Turns out he used to have an allotment. “Must be off now” said Les. “Thanks for the help,” said Harry, in the friendliest voice he could muster as Jean appeared to see how they were getting on.
“I’m not happy about this Jean. Glad for the help and all, but it’s going to attract too much attention. Word soon gets around in a place like this.”
“Don’t worry Harry. It’s been derelict for years. Too low and too close to the river for building, and out of the way for most” said Jean, trying to cheer him up. “Fancy a cuppa’? It’s not far and you could leave your wheelbarrow in the garden.”
Harry gave in, collected his tools and tagged along. He parked the wheelbarrow in Jean’s garden and then sat in the kitchen while she brewed up.
“What’s next step?” she asked. “Soon be time for planting”.
“Need to get potatoes down, earlies,” said Harry, “best way of getting the soil in shape first season.”
“We’ll need manure, lots of it, and set potatoes too,” said Jean, knowledgeable.
“Like to get bushes down too before it gets too warm, currants, gooseberries and the rest”, said Harry,
“That’ll cost a bit!”
“Plenty in the old garden, and they’re all mine for the taking!”
“Have to get your skates on then. For Sale signs came up last week. Didn’t you know?”
Harry ’s mouth went all dry when he heard this and his voice failed him. He didn’t know the house was up for sale,so lifted his tea mug to avoid answering Jean’s question. He thought she was asking too much about his plans for the garden. They sat there quiet for several minutes. Finally Jean broke the silence with a giggle:
”We could do a few more night raids, Harry. I can stand guard.”
“What if we get caught digging up bushes in the middle of the night?”
“Well, they are all yours, aren’t they! I’m up for it, if you are.”
“I’ll think about it Jean. Don’t want to get you into trouble. Must be off now, enough done for today.”
“You can leave the barrow here if you like. It’ll be safe, save you pushing it back and to.” He hesitated at first but then it was late and he was tired. Reluctantly he agreed, leaving Jean sitting at the kitchen table, a smile on her face: ”Thanks Jean. See you soon.”
Harry’s plan was a row of bushes a yard or so in from the footpath, to shelter the potatoes and vegetable plots from passers-by. Of course bushes took years to get established, but in his old garden he had plenty of mature bushes that would do. He decided to raid the garden again, but first had to plan where to put the bushes. Early next morning he started to dig a row of holes, deep enough to accommodate the large root clumps. It took all morning. Then he made his way home for lunch and an afternoon nap. It would take time to dig up the big old bushes, so it would be a few nights’ work. He didn’t want Les and Jean hanging around there. Eating lunch at the kitchen table, he noticed heavy grey clouds in the distance. That’s it, he would make the first raid that night, hoping the wet ground would make it be easier to get the bushes up.
The moon was out as Harry took the familiar path to the old garden. He parked the wheelbarrow outside the fence, near the bushes, which were some distance from the house. With luck his night shift would go unnoticed. Heart beating loudly he lifted the fork and spade quietly over the fence and then recklessly decided to climb the fence. It was not a good idea. He was out of practice climbing fences and fell down, hitting his shoulder.
Digging up the currant bushes was easier said than done. They had been standing there for years. Luckily the soil was wet and loose but it was heavy work. It took the best part of an hour to get two bushes up, one black and one red. They were even larger when he got them out of the ground. Harry was sweating and breathing heavily as he heaved them over the fence. Then he had a job getting them up into the wheelbarrow. His shoulder was aching so it took a while.
He hoped no one would notice him pushing a wheelbarrow with large currant bushes in the middle of the night. The roots had to be trimmed too before he could lower the bushes into their new holes, so by the time he had finished the moon had slipped behind the clouds. It was pitch black for the slow walk home. He fell into bed exhausted, still partly dressed.
Early next morning something startled Harry. He sat up stiffly and swung his arm in the direction of the alarm clock, knocking it onto the floor. The ringing didn’t stop. It took him a while to realise it was the phone. He staggered into the hall, squinting in the coloured light from the stained pane of glass above the front door. “Hullo,” he croaked, steadying himself against the wall.
“You been digging up the garden Harry?”
It was a sharp, familiar voice. Never one for niceties, Mary got straight to the point. Harry tried to swallow but his throat was too dry. He coughed instead to try to clear it. He felt hot and sweat started to appear on his forehead, like a schoolboy caught with his pockets full of sweets. Mary had that kind of effect on him.
“They’re my bushes, for a new garden. You’ll never miss them,“ he said.
“The house is for sale Harry, we don’t want you running around at night digging up the garden.”
“All right, all right! I’ll be finished this week and leave it all nice and tidy for you.”
“And don’t forget to empty that old shed too!” said Mary, before hanging up.
Harry looked at the silent phone for a minute or so before dropping it back on the cradle, then shuffled along the hall holding his shoulder, making for the shower.
Over a late breakfast Harry’s thoughts turned to the remaining bushes. Reluctantly he realised that he couldn’t move all of them himself, not with his shoulder. He had to ask Jean and Les for help. Harry thought it could wait a day or two anyway, trying to convince himself that he was still the boss, but really he needed to dig up the bushes before Mary changed her mind. There was no going back, so he went to see Jean.
“Morning Harry” said Jean,” you’re early!” standing on the step, unable to hide that she was pleased to see him.
“ Well, less folk around to see what we’re up to. Still quite a few bushes to dig up. I’ll need a bit of help I think. Mary wants it over and done with.”
“Oh, she didn’t make any trouble then?”
“The usual. Bit surprised, but the house is up for viewing next week so she’s too busy to bother about a few bushes.”
“Oh I see. Don’t need a lookout then!” she said, laughing.
“No, but I can’t dig them all up and replant them in a day. Think Les could help?”
“I’ll give him a ring. Come in Harry, the kettle’s on.”
He slipped into the kitchen, dog at his heels, thinking it best to sit down at the kitchen table. Jean was already on the phone in the hall, then disappeared for a minute or two. When she came back she had brushed her hair, and applied a fresh smudge of orange lipstick. Harry pretended not to notice. “He’ll be over in a bit” she said, pouring water into the teapot and laying out three mugs with pictures of dogs.
It was not often Harry was happy to see Les, but now he felt relieved when he saw the big man coming in through the gate, to be greeted loudly by the dog. Harry explained the problem, avoiding mention of his shoulder, and his plan: “Holes are ready so if I dig up the bushes, you could plant them, Les. About a dozen in all. How about that?”
“Fine with me”, said Les. “I’ll take charge when you’ve got them up.”
“What about watering the bushes?” said Harry.
“Too far away to get a garden hose fixed”, offered Jean. “Perhaps we could fetch water from the river?”
“Heavy work”, said Les.
Nothing was settled about the watering. A quick cuppa from Jean and then off they set. Harry was in charge, deciding which bushes to take. This meant he had the heavy work of digging up the bushes too. Les helped him to lift them over the fence into the wheelbarrow, and then drove them off to the new garden to be replanted. It took all morning and more. Four black currants, four red, couple of gooseberries, loganberries and then a bunch of raspberry canes along the footpath. “Bit more impressive when the leaves come out” was Les’ verdict.
“Lunch”, declared Jean cheerfully, “and a clean up.”
Harry was tired after all the digging so he stayed at home for a week nursing his aching shoulder and back. He worried all the time about his fruit bushes. They should have been trimmed after planting, and watered regularly. Late Sunday afternoon he couldn’t stay away any longer. Equipped with rubber boots, watering can and pruning shears he walked slowly down to the garden plot. Most of the bushes seemed to have survived the move, but the soil banked up around the roots had dried out. Nobody had watered them. But other things had been done while Harry was at home recovering. The area that he and Les had dug over had been cleared of sods and raked over, manure had been spread and furrows for planting potatoes marked out. Harry felt more and more that he was losing control of his garden.
There were two sacks of set potatoes standing in the hall, waiting to be sown, and he was looking forward to working the soil for them. This was what he really enjoyed most with gardening. He usually gave away most of what he grew. Mary would have none of it. He understood that Les and Jean had other ideas. They wanted to invite people to join in, start a community project with harvest festival and all. He felt Les and Jean were taking over his garden, deciding and fixing things without asking when he was not there.
Harry felt sad, but more important was to rescue his bushes. They really should have been cut back soon after planting to help the roots get established. It stimulated long-term growth, even though they would give a smaller harvest the coming autumn. He sighed as he got to work with his pruning shears, but after an hour or so he looked along the row of bushes with a sense of satisfaction.
The watering was more tricky. At one place the river bank was not too steep, so he could slide down and fill his watering can and then clamber up again. Harry poured water around each bush slowly, watching it being absorbed until the soil was saturated. This was a job Harry enjoyed too, but after ten trips down the river bank he called it a day.
The next few weeks he decided to leave them to it. At least that was his plan, but he couldn’t stay away. A couple of times he visited the garden, late evening or early morning so as not to meet anyone. He wasn’t happy with what he saw. A lot of work was being done, too much for Les who must have had help. The whole plot was crammed with vegetable beds, well looked after Harry grudgingly admitted, but his fruit bushes were in a sorry state from too little water. He walked home, never to return, throwing out the sacks of set potatoes in the hall and putting his tools away.
One day towards the end of August, visitors found the plot surrounded by a tall metal fence with a large sign:
A few days later a noisy orange bulldozer, bellowing fumes like an ancient dragon, tore up all the bushes and levelled the ground, Harry read in the local rag that this was in response to an anonymous complaint made to the local council.
A moonless night in September, a dark stooping figure appeared through the swirling mist down by the river, pushing a wheelbarrow loaded with garden tools. It was quiet, except for the regular clucking of the black water. Coming to a halt on the steepest part of the river bank, the figure gently lowered the handles of the wheelbarrow, paused and then released them. The wheelbarrow crept forward, slowly at first, and then picked up speed as it rolled down the bank into the river. It hit the water with a loud splash. By then the lone figure had disappeared, swallowed up in the mist.