You can bury a lot of troubles, digging in the dirt.
When I braved the unseasonably cold weather this morning to dig over the vegetable garden for a new round of planting, I was in a grumpy old mood. The fresh breeze nipped at my ears so I was soon forced to retreat indoors in search of extra layers.
I caught my reflection in the mirror on the landing – lumpy clothes, no make-up, red bobble hat – and I burst out laughing. It was a far cry from my neat trouser suits and life in a centrally heated, north London classroom. A fake white beard and I could almost pass as a store Santa.
But, suitably clad, I went out and started on the digging. And after several hours of rhythmically turning over the earth with my gleaming new spade, I was feeling energised and much calmer.
I can’t believe I’ve lived at Farthing Cottage for almost two years now.
Like many people, I’d had vague thoughts of one day ‘giving it all up’ for the slower pace of country living. Moving here permanently in 1990 seemed auspicious somehow – it was not only the start of a new decade, but also the beginning of a brand new phase for me. Life would be tranquil, the bleat of a lamb after the roar of London.
Tranquil, my arse!
There’s as much conflict living in this house in deepest Surrey as there was in the classroom. It’s just that here my battles are waged against potato blight, carrot fly and large black slugs that munch their way through my yummy seedlings with no concern at all for the painstaking hours I’ve spent preparing their sodding feast!
But hey-ho. That’s life in the garden. Survival of the fittest. And pests, watch out! I am determined to bloody survive!
As a rule, I try not to think about London and the life I left behind. Although on days like this – with summer behind us and a long winter in prospect – I can’t help a pang or two.
Izzy is coming to stay for the half-term autumn break, though, and no-one can shake up my dull routine better than my lively, ten-year-old niece! Izzy adores helping me in the garden, especially if there are raspberries to pick, which there will be. (The autumn rasps are at their best in October.)
Today, lunching on the last of the tomato and basil soup, I came across a line in a magazine: ‘A gardener’s best tool is his memory of past seasons.’
I reflected on the truth of this and came to the conclusion that since there are goldfish with better memories than me, I had better start keeping a gardening diary …
When Hormonal Harriet gives a violent judder then plays dead a mile from the village, I react like any other normal, level-headed person. Thumping the steering wheel with an agonised howl then pleading with her to start.
My car might be ancient but she’s also a bit of a diva, so I should have known that forcing her to drive at breakneck speed along potholed country roads would provoke first, surprised outrage, then an all-out strike.
Heart racing, I glance at my phone.
Twenty-two minutes.
Twenty-two minutes to get there and prevent myself from slithering further into the slimy pit of humiliation I’ve been trying to scramble out of since CLB left.
When she heard the news of Jamie’s betrayal, my forthright and fiercely protective friend, Anna, declared, ‘Izzy, I will never speak that wanker’s name again!’
So now she refers to Jamie as Cheating Lying Bastard (aka CLB). The label seems to have stuck and I, for one, am certainly not complaining.
Twenty-one minutes!
There’s nothing else for it. I’m going to have to run.
I scramble out of the car and glance at my feet. Scabby trainers. Perfect. I was cross-country champion at school so running a mile should be a walk in the park.
Three minutes later, I’m in so much agony I think I might be suffering a minor heart attack. But the memory of that doom-laden text message spurs me on. Without Jamie paying the mortgage, it’s all down to me now – and I’ve slipped up badly. Those panic-inducing words – not enough funds to cover – pinged onto my phone only an hour ago.
I was in the kitchen, intent on a double mission: attacking my garden’s embarrassing glut of carrots and leeks by chopping them up into soup and thereby saving money on this week’s food bill. I froze with fear. If I missed the mortgage payment – due next day – I’d be on a slippery slope I couldn’t bear to think about. Transferring funds into the account was the logical thing to do. Just one small fly in the ointment. My meagre savings had run out; there were no funds to transfer.
Then I remembered the brand new tablet I’d bought for Jamie when we were still together and money wasn’t a problem. The tablet was a gift to mark the anniversary of the day we’d met five years earlier. But before I had a chance to present him with it, I found out he’d been cheating on me and we broke up.
I pictured the tablet, lying in my bedside drawer, still wrapped in its romantic, heart-patterned cellophane, with a label that read: To Jamie, All My Love, Izzy xxx
Thank God I hadn’t given it to him!
I could return the tablet to the shop and the refund would plug the gap in my account.
As I jog along the lane, shoulder bag clamped tight, I can hear the cellophane crackling inside. I’m panting so loudly, I sound like I’m having wildly inventive, leap-off-the-wardrobe sex. I should be so lucky. Thank God it’s a quiet country road so no-one can witness me lurching along with the sweaty complexion of a bursting tomato.
At last the High Street comes into view.
The shop closes at 5.30. It’s now 5.23.
I think I’m going to make it!
I lumber past the post office then hang onto some railings, wheezing for Britain. One big push and I’ll be there …
Launching myself off, I stare grimly at my target and stagger on. Luckily, the shop is at this end of the High Street, just beyond a trendy juice bar and the newsagent’s.
A hulking, mud-spattered lorry is taking up most of the pavement outside the juice bar, its back door thrown up. I concentrate hard on the very small space on the pavement between the lorry and the shops. Definitely single file only, but there’s no-one approaching from the other direction.
I’m almost there, ready to squeeze through, when I’m momentarily distracted by the lorry’s cargo. A familiar scent wafts up my nose. Vegetables. Curious, I slow down to take a closer look at the stacked wooden trays filled with fresh broccoli and pears. Ooh, and juicy-looking clementines with their glossy green leaves still attached. Lovely. And something else – oh, it’s kohlrabi. I’ve been meaning to try growing some of that – there’s room in my vegetable patch between
