trees?
His expression, though, seemed more one of amusement than anything.
‘Aye, from the look of them I’d say they’ve been let go for two or three years, easy.’
Well at least he didn’t seem to mind the criticism. Either that or he hadn’t noticed.
‘And these raspberries need cutting down hard, too. Same with them blackberries,’ she remarked, pointing across to a hostile-looking mound of thorny growth. ‘And by rights, now’s the time to be doing these goosegogs but quite where the old wood is, I couldn’t say.’ She bent low. Goodness they were a leggy mess; there was an entire afternoon’s work there alone.
‘Aye,’ she heard him agreeing.
What else, she wondered, had been let go so badly? Further down the slope, she could see a small, level square of land that had clearly once been used to grow vegetables. She headed towards it, the movement of her skirt setting adrift seeds from the dandelion clocks standing wraithlike in the morning sunlight. Looking about, she idly snapped off a waist-high stem of rhubarb. The odour from it was still tart and enticing but the innards looked woody and inedible.
‘This is where we need to start,’ she announced, letting the rumpled leaf fall from her hand. ‘If we dig this over now, then the frosts will do the hard work for us—’ But what on earth was she doing, telling him where to start? Even ignoring the fact that he was no doubt perfectly capable of working it out for himself, it wasn’t her place to tell him anyway. Wasn’t her mother always saying that she didn’t know when to hold her tongue? She hung her head. Make quick with regret; yes, that was the best thing. ‘Forgive me,’ she began, risking a glance towards him, ‘I’m used to ordering about the little ones and so I forget sometimes…’
‘No call for forgiveness,’ he said, coming to stand alongside her. ‘I’m just grateful you know your way around a vegetable garden. See, when I found out you were a carpenter’s daughter, well, I didn’t think you’d be up for the poor sort of life I had to offer, you know, on the land. But word was that you knew how to get on with things. So if first impressions don’t deceive, then you’re just what this place needs.’
She watched him wave an arm over the small plot. It might have been nice if he had said that she was just what he needed, rather than what the place needed but well, it was a start.
‘Aye, well maybe I should be getting stuck in then.’
‘Please, don’t let me stand in your way,’ he replied, grinning back at her.
*
With a rickety garden fork that she found in the woodshed, Mary set to work on the overgrown vegetable plot. If nothing else, it was a relief to be left to her own devices. She liked that there was no need to make conversation and very little chance of doing anything wrong. Digging was digging. Weeds were weeds. They might be hard work but they didn’t demand an opinion or require from her some sort of behaviour that she didn’t yet understand. Not that she was going to let her thoughts wander off down that route again. Last night was done with and so far he had made no mention of it. And tonight, well, she would cope with that when it came. For now, though, she would just drive her fork down into the leafy growth and watch the clouds of weightless crane flies whirring away in search of new shelter. She would lift away the mounds of soft foliage and send ground beetles scurrying over the disturbed earth, their suits of armour shimmering green-black in the light. Tangled roots would cleave without a fight, while airy-headed dandelions and grey-brown tufts of prickly milk thistle would yield to her determination to achieve something. Only the nettles, with their cursed stinging hairs would she treat with any respect; the mounting pile of their lance-shaped leaves bringing to mind the vile-tasting nettle tea that her mother saw fit to steep by the gallon. In front of her a grey-mottled garden
His expression, though, seemed more one of amusement than anything.
‘Aye, from the look of them I’d say they’ve been let go for two or three years, easy.’
Well at least he didn’t seem to mind the criticism. Either that or he hadn’t noticed.
‘And these raspberries need cutting down hard, too. Same with them blackberries,’ she remarked, pointing across to a hostile-looking mound of thorny growth. ‘And by rights, now’s the time to be doing these goosegogs but quite where the old wood is, I couldn’t say.’ She bent low. Goodness they were a leggy mess; there was an entire afternoon’s work there alone.
‘Aye,’ she heard him agreeing.
What else, she wondered, had been let go so badly? Further down the slope, she could see a small, level square of land that had clearly once been used to grow vegetables. She headed towards it, the movement of her skirt setting adrift seeds from the dandelion clocks standing wraithlike in the morning sunlight. Looking about, she idly snapped off a waist-high stem of rhubarb. The odour from it was still tart and enticing but the innards looked woody and inedible.
‘This is where we need to start,’ she announced, letting the rumpled leaf fall from her hand. ‘If we dig this over now, then the frosts will do the hard work for us—’ But what on earth was she doing, telling him where to start? Even ignoring the fact that he was no doubt perfectly capable of working it out for himself, it wasn’t her place to tell him anyway. Wasn’t her mother always saying that she didn’t know when to hold her tongue? She hung her head. Make quick with regret; yes, that was the best thing. ‘Forgive me,’ she began, risking a glance towards him, ‘I’m used to ordering about the little ones and so I forget sometimes…’
‘No call for forgiveness,’ he said, coming to stand alongside her. ‘I’m just grateful you know your way around a vegetable garden. See, when I found out you were a carpenter’s daughter, well, I didn’t think you’d be up for the poor sort of life I had to offer, you know, on the land. But word was that you knew how to get on with things. So if first impressions don’t deceive, then you’re just what this place needs.’
She watched him wave an arm over the small plot. It might have been nice if he had said that she was just what he needed, rather than what the place needed but well, it was a start.
‘Aye, well maybe I should be getting stuck in then.’
‘Please, don’t let me stand in your way,’ he replied, grinning back at her.
*
With a rickety garden fork that she found in the woodshed, Mary set to work on the overgrown vegetable plot. If nothing else, it was a relief to be left to her own devices. She liked that there was no need to make conversation and very little chance of doing anything wrong. Digging was digging. Weeds were weeds. They might be hard work but they didn’t demand an opinion or require from her some sort of behaviour that she didn’t yet understand. Not that she was going to let her thoughts wander off down that route again. Last night was done with and so far he had made no mention of it. And tonight, well, she would cope with that when it came. For now, though, she would just drive her fork down into the leafy growth and watch the clouds of weightless crane flies whirring away in search of new shelter. She would lift away the mounds of soft foliage and send ground beetles scurrying over the disturbed earth, their suits of armour shimmering green-black in the light. Tangled roots would cleave without a fight, while airy-headed dandelions and grey-brown tufts of prickly milk thistle would yield to her determination to achieve something. Only the nettles, with their cursed stinging hairs would she treat with any respect; the mounting pile of their lance-shaped leaves bringing to mind the vile-tasting nettle tea that her mother saw fit to steep by the gallon. In front of her a grey-mottled garden
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