Short Story

A BRIEF ENCOUNTER Jan Garner, Sherborne Scribblers

Iwas disappointed that the Chelsea Flower Show in May had been cancelled, but it was just one of many casualties during the pandemic. Still, the BBC had come to the rescue and was airing a week of highlights from previous years. That evening, as I settled down to wait for the first programme to begin, my mind strayed back to that May in ‘92 and to the troublesome thoughts that had plagued me over the years about the tiny woman, with the watery blue eyes and hair the colour of weak tea, that I’d met on the train.

She boarded at Sherborne and made her way through the crowded carriage. I recognised her once fashionable accordion-pleated skirt and buttoned-up blouse, topped with a row of pearls, as something I’d worn myself back in the fifties. ‘23B, that’s me,’ she said. I glanced up and smiled as she put her bag down on the table and took the window seat opposite me.

As the train glided out of the station and gathered speed, I went back to reading my magazine. ‘Snap,’ she said. I looked up; she was holding an identical Gardener’s Weekly. ‘Are you going up to Chelsea?’ she asked.

‘Unfortunately not,’ I replied. ‘Are you?’

‘Yes, I never miss it. It’s the only time of the year that I bother to get dressed up. It’s a wonderful day out, isn’t it?’ I agreed with her and asked if she was, as I suspected, given her rough hands and broken nails, a keen gardener.

‘I am, I’ve over half an acre.’

‘Gosh,’ I said, ‘that must be a lot of hard work.’

‘Well, it’s a lot easier now,’ she replied and brushed away a stray lock of hair. ‘When my husband Graham and I first discovered it, it was overgrown with pernicious weeds and nettles taller than me. But the views of the countryside were breathtaking and even though the cottage was derelict, I just knew we had to buy it. We had to be patient for almost a year whilst it was fixed up. But that was fine because we both agreed that this was going to be our forever home and we wanted it to be perfect. And of course, it gave me time to plan the garden of my dreams.’

‘How lovely,’ I said. ’Was your husband a gardener too?’

‘Oh, no. He couldn’t tell one flower from another and the only roses he liked

came in a tin at Christmas, but we were newly-weds then and he indulged me. However, over the years he began to resent the time and money I spent on it; said it was a substitute for the children I couldn’t have. In a way, he was right because it did give me something to nurture and I admit it did become my overriding passion.’

I looked out of the window as embankments filled with cow parsley and rows of terraced houses flashed by whilst the guard hovered, as she searched for her ticket.

By the time we reached Salisbury, I had a complete picture of her garden. She’d talked nonstop about roses scrambling over rustic arbours, glorious spires of hollyhocks, beds filled with foxgloves and delphiniums and hedges of lavender spilling over cobbled paths.

‘It sounds like heaven,’ I said enviously. ‘So, what will you be tempted to buy at the show?’

Her face lit up and she grinned liked a naughty child. ‘Oh, some more roses, I expect. They’re my favourites. You can’t have too many, can you?’ As the countryside gave way to the suburban sprawl, we continued our discussion of all things horticultural and before I knew it we were one stop from Clapham Junction.

‘Well dear,’ she said as she started to gather her things together. ‘It’s been lovely chatting to you but I have to change at the next stop for the Victoria train.’

‘Are you going back home this evening?’ I asked.

‘Yes, on the seven o’clock train.’

‘Is your husband meeting you?’

‘Oh no, unfortunately, unlike our home, our marriage didn’t last for forever.’

‘I’m sorry,’ I said.

‘I’m not. He became very difficult as he got older. He thought I was being unreasonable when I wouldn’t leave the garden to go on holiday with him. And then when he retired, things came to a head. He wanted us to sell up and go and live on the Costa Blanca. Of course, I refused, so he said he’d divorce me to get his half of the house. Well, I couldn’t let that happen.’

‘Oh, so where is he now?’ I said, as the train slowed on its approach into the station. She stood up, hesitated for just a second, then tapped the side of her nose.

‘In the mixed border dear, under Graham Thomas. Such a beautiful rose,’ she muttered before disappearing down the aisle.