The Garden Plot Read Free Page B

that led down to the garden, she waved her arm in presentation. “There! Isn’t it just awful?”
    The back garden, as narrow as the house, and deep in that typical London fashion, was framed by brick walls. Near to the house, at the bottom of the stairs, a small flagstone patio gave way to lawn that had seen better days. Against the walls grew creeper vines, just starting to color up for autumn.
    The lawn grew weedy as it receded, until at the back—the “bottom” of the garden—rose a mountain of ivy. On the left, a couple of bare white branches emerged from an unfortunate birch, and on the right, just visible above the sea of green, a small roof. The garden on the other side of the wall contrasted sharply: a tidy lawn with an ovalisland bed full of shrub roses and climbers lining the walls.
    “We haven’t had a moment to sort it out since we moved in last year, and I’m afraid it’s got the better of us now. Mr. Wilson, you see, is so very busy with work, and he didn’t want me to bother with this at all. ‘Just leave it, Vernona,’ he said, ‘don’t touch it,’ but I want to give him a bit of a surprise and get a good start on a proper garden, just like we had in Hampshire.”
    “It’s a lovely space, and with good sun. May I take some snapshots today?” Pru asked, reaching into her canvas bag. “Once it’s cleaned up, I’d love to be able to make a garden for you. Would you like to see any of my designs, Mrs. Wilson?”
    “No, certainly not; Victoria couldn’t say enough about you, wonderful American gardener. She said you transformed her rose arbor.” Yes, Pru remembered that rose arbor—a neglected climber with vicious thorns engulfing it, Pru had spent days untangling and pruning it back; she still had the scars to prove it.
    “Shall we get down to particulars, dear? Let me write you a cheque now for £200, and we’ll say that’s for your visit today and a bonus, then we’ll begin your hourly wage when you get going—plus expenses, of course. Will that be sufficient? You can take a look at what you’re up against now, and get stuck in tomorrow.” Mrs. Wilson grabbed a diary off the small desk just inside the door and flipped a page. “Yes, you’ll need to do it tomorrow.”
    What a wonderful woman, this Mrs. Wilson,
thought Pru, although she knew that the job would call for Sammy and his truck, and she wasn’t sure how quickly she could get him. Still, she wouldn’t argue with a £200 deposit.
    At the sound of the phone, Mrs. Wilson retreated into the house with an “off you go, dear, have a look round” to Pru who, accompanied by Toffee Woof-Woof, struck out across the lumpy lawn for the wilds of the back garden, wondering if the Wilsons might be interested in an architectural water feature, just a small one, with a weeping willowleaf pear behind to echo the flow of the water.
    Near the ivy forest, the dog slowed, then stopped and growled slightly. Pru stopped, too, and considered the green mass. Rats? Neighbor cat? Nothing flew out of the green tangle at her, so she dropped her bag, put on gloves, got out her pruners, and began snipping away at some of the freshest ivy stems, the easiest to cut. That made no difference at all, but it seemed to cause a head topped with reddish, curly hair to pop up over the back wall.
    “Hello, I’m Malcolm Crisp. I saw you out my window. Are you helping Vernona with the garden?” Malcolm appeared neither young nor old—probably about forty. He rested his arms on the top of the wall, which was at least six feet high; Pru wonderedwhat he stood on.
    “Yes, hello, I’m Pru Parke. Mrs. Wilson’s asked me to clean up down here, and I hope to do some design and planting after that.”
    “Oh, an American. Did you train here?”
    “I did a month at Wisley, and I’ve done a few study days at Great Dixter … but I did my coursework in the States and worked at a garden there,” she finished feebly, and a little too defensively. The conviction