The Wigmaker by Roger Silverwood

eighty-two years of age, all members of the Bromersley Women’s Guild. They were off on their regular Tuesday afternoon excursion, and this was the long-planned trip to Seymour Timms’s famous chrysanthemum garden.
    Terry Shaw, their regular driver, addressed the ladies through the driver’s microphone.
    ‘Sorry about the bumps, ladies. Please keep in your seats until we get there. It’s the only road in and out of the place. Seymour Timms’s garden is in the middle of nowhere. But we’ll be there in a couple of ticks.’
    The ladies seemed pleased, even excited at the prospect of seeing and meeting the famous man. They remembered his many appearances on the television and radio on Gardener’s Question Time, Chelsea Flower Show and the like in the eighties and ninties, and they wondered how the years had treated him.
    Mary Angel was on the front seat with another lady from the church. They held tightly on to the chromium tubing round the top of the stairwell throughout the bumpy journey down the country lane. Eventually the bus stopped as it reached a big double gate that was falling to pieces. Beside it there was a scruffy old man in boots, corduroy trousers, a short-sleeved shirt and a yellow boater. He had a pipe in his mouth but it didn’t seem to be lit. He had opened one part of the gate and dragged an oil drum in front it to stop it swinging to, and was now struggling to push open the other. He had suspended his walking stick on a rail on the gate while he lifted and heaved the old gate open wide enough to admit the bus.
    Mary stared through the window at the scene and at the patched up fencing at each side of the gates. Looking beyond she could see a large old grey house looking very sad and in need of attention, repair and paint. She exchanged glances with the lady in the next seat. They both looked dismayed. There were sounds of disappointment and comment at the dowdiness of the place from some of the other ladies behind them.
    At a wave from the old man, Terry Shaw let in the clutch and the bus moved forward through the gates on to a short track towards the ramshackle house, then it turned sharp right and went along for about a hundred yards, eventually stopping on a hard earthy patch.
    Through the front window of the bus could be seen the most magnificent show of flowers – all chrysanthemums – planted in long rows of various colours like a Fair Isle pullover almost as far as the eye could see. The ladies were overjoyed. This was a great surprise. Their faces changed and their eyes glowed in anticipation. They gasped, laughed and chatted excitedly. Some began to get to their feet.
    Through the mike Terry Shaw said, ‘Now then, ladies, isn’t that a wonderful sight?’
    There were various excited cries of ‘What a surprise! Magnificent! What colours! Wonderful!’
    Terry smiled. ‘Will you please keep your seats, ladies? Mr Timms himself will be along directly to speak to you.’
    They looked about everywhere for the great man, but there was no sign of life anywhere. Behind them next to the house were six huge greenhouses. Some had glass panes broken and seemed to be standing at unsafe angles; all needed a good coat of paint. They turned back and enjoyed looking at the many rows of colours and marvelled at how regular the formation was and were wondering if there were any plants to buy or mementoes to take back. Some needed the loo and others wanted a cup of tea. Suddenly, they heard the bus door slide open and up the steps came the same old man who had struggled to open the gates for them. He smiled and nodded at Terry, who reciprocated, unhooked the microphone from its holder and passed it over to him.
    The old man took the unlit pipe out of his mouth, smiled and said, ‘Thank you, Terry.’
    Then he looked down the bus at the cheerful, curious faces and said, ‘And good afternoon, everybody. I am Seymour Timms. And thank you for coming to see my garden.’
    He had a warm, friendly, confident