Feature

50 Shades of Green

© LUCIA FOSTER-FOUND 2022 WWW.LUCIAFOSTERFOUND.COM

Out on a walk in the late Spring sunshine, dogs milling about at his feet, Himself sighed and muttered something that sounded a lot like “Fifty shades of grey.” A bit random, she thought as she stopped in her tracks. She didn’t know he’d read it, for one. Although, they’d been talking earlier about her next choice for Book Club – was it a suggestion...? “It’s an idea I suppose.” She concurred. Potentially not a very good one if she were honest. But Himself had apparently given it some thought, so she deliberated. “Well… I heard that charity shops had been inundated with copies, so I suppose it wouldn’t be expensive for everyone to buy. I’ll have to check – maybe Book Club have already read it… Do you think they’d like it?” she pondered. “Who’d like what, Darling?” He looked puzzled. “Book Club. Fifty Shades of Grey.” “Absolutely no idea. Best ask them. Look Darling, look at all those nifty little sheds. And all mellowed into that lovely silvery grey of weathered larch lap.” He sighed with longing and waved his hand expansively over the view of the allotments. Aah. Sheds, not shades - that made a lot more sense. Himself was particularly partial to a nice nifty shed. Of grey. The neatly tended allotment plots were a verdant patchwork, too. “And fifty shades of green,” she commented, less jealously than she might previously have done. Was a time during the first lockdown that she’d been obsessed with growing vegetables. Back then, when supermarket delivery slots were rather rarer than rocking horse droppings, a green-eyed monster might well have possessed her as she took in the view of the allotments. But back then she hadn’t been able to get her hands on tomato or runner bean plants for her pots until it was almost too late. Given the Government green light she’d finally, nervously, visited a garden centre. Buying the very last ones in stock, she’d felt epic excitement of spaniel proportions. Returning triumphantly to the car with her leggy, spindly, slightly sad specimens of gardener’s delight and scarlet emperor, she’d mentally pranced on all four paws, panted and wagged her tail. 2020 had also been the year she attempted to grow courgette seeds she’d rescued from her ratatouille. This was before she’d found out you could get poisoned from the resulting harvest. That was a narrow squeak – saved from ‘toxic squash syndrome’ by an inability to get the seeds to germinate. Paradoxically, not being blessed with green fingers had, for once, been an advantage. But 2020 now seemed like a different century, a different planet. Back in the present, along from the allotments, they were strolling past gardens full of colour. She was reminded of spring 2021, which had delivered her a desperate need for flowers. Like a May dawn mist, her obsession with vegetables had evaporated, along with listening to the hourly news and wanting to go to the pub. The term ‘languishing’ was being bandied about and the somehow joyless, aimless feeling of ‘meh’ had taken hold. Flowers had been the answer; a vibrant, technicolour tonic. She’d packed her pots with pots of colour. “You know the human eye can differentiate between more shades of green than any other colour.” Himself stated, sounding uncharacteristically flat. Perhaps he had a point - looking a little closer, she noted that he was somewhat green around the gills. “You alright?” He shook his head sadly. “I suspect the culprit was that green salad. Maybe not washed properly, or the dressing was off…” Yeah right, she thought. Or maybe, just maybe, it had been something short-date he’d eaten. Perfectly fine when he’d fancied it in the reduced chiller cabinet, but days later when he’d got around to snaffling it? Not so much... Back at home, a glass of Andrews and a quiet sit down in the smallest library of the house sorted him out, however. As she looked at him, his habitually healthy complexion was miraculously restored. “You’re a marvel.” She announced. “Thank you Darling.” He said happily. Then thought about it. “Marvel, why?” “A momentary indisposition and there you are; green for ‘go’ again.” “Salad – definitely the salad.” Himself nodded as he opened the fridge door. “If you say so.” Either way she’d have been sick for a week from eating out-of-date whatever-it-was. She only had to look at an unwashed grape or an overripe cheese to feel queasy - but not him. As she watched him enthusiastically tuck into leftovers she’d earmarked for the dogs, that cast iron constitution of his made her green with envy.