You Don't Have to be Good by Sabrina Broadbent

or the cold even though her garden was north-facing and overlooked by large trees; it was only a matter of time before she would have to surrender to the darkness and grow nothing but hostas. But what was the point? Hostas were immediately sacrificed to the slugs. Her own garden had become enemy territory. There used to be a sunny patch over by the fence where flowers could grow but shade encroached a little more each year, stealing more light and sky. And to make matters worse, she couldn’t read anything these days without a pair of glasses, and as she intended to resist, until the final moment, the wearing of glasses round her neck on a string, she had begun to find that the world of words was retreating unless she peered . Not a good look, sweetheart, Precious reminded her. Peering now at the labels on a display of Hedera helix , she stood upright and grimaced. Who in their right mind would buy ivy? It had invaded her garden; Hedera helix grew up the fences, along the ground and throttled everything in its path. It spread and clung with the tenacity of a malignant disease, however often she was out there with secateurs and gloves.
    In the last aisle she found herself in Water Features. This was more like it. She could abandon the lawn and dig a lake. There would be frogs and newts, lilies and kingcups. It was the answer to her gardening problem. Look, here there was even a fountain and a low trickling waterfall.
    ‘Bad idea,’ said a voice. ‘All those leaves.’
    It startled her, she hadn’t heard him approach. She turned to see a tanned, shaven-headed man. He wore yellow work gloves and an open-mouthed smile.
    ‘Oh,’ she said, smiling too because she recognised him. ‘Haven’t we . . .’
    ‘Urban,’ he said, with a faint trace of an accent that she could not place. He pulled off his gloves and dug his hands into his pockets. ‘Urban Feake.’
    ‘Of course!’ Bea laughed with relief and thought, what sort of a name is that? ‘You’re Wanda’s friend, aren’t you? You did my patio last year . . . I’m just looking for a . . .’ She was jabbering. He was very attractive . . . earthy . It had been joyous having him and Wanda work in her garden. Precious had come round one day after work and helped her cook for everyone. They’d stood at the sink, she and Precious, nudging each other like girls as they watched Urban wield the sledgehammer. And now here he was again, looking at her like an old friend. She stopped herself and glanced around her. ‘Now . . .’ She turned away so she could adjust her bra and straighten her blouse. ‘I think I’ve lost my children.’
    She blushed. Urban must know the set-up. But even so, sometimes it was easier to pretend Adrian and Laura were her own children. It could be so complicated explaining they were her sister’s, and anyway, they looked like Bea. Well, Laura did. She glanced at Urban, who hadn’t moved. Stocky and muscled, he gave the impression of being wound tight like a spring. His English was good, she remembered that, but ‘nephew’ and ‘niece’ might be tricky.
    Scattered gravel made them turn round. Chanel raced towards them, giggling as though she were having an asthma attack. She whisked past and took a running jump at a collection of faux-terracotta urns, four feet tall and enough to take a good-sized tree or teenager.
    ‘That’s not one of mine,’ said Bea, pointing. ‘She’s a friend.’
    Laura skidded round the corner and looked wildly about her. ‘Where’d she go?’
    Bea gestured at the urn. Laura ran up to it and looked inside. Snorts, shushes and guffaws ensued as she swung one leg up over the lip of it and hopped on the other foot.
    Chanel started to giggle.
    Laura said, ‘It’s not funny, man, I’m gonna wet meself, innnit though?’ She carried on hopping.
    Chanel stood up in the urn and gave Laura’s leg a yank.
    Laura let out a shriek. ‘Mind me mufti!’
    Chanel started to hoot.
    Bea said, ‘Stop it,