The Open Garden
George sat in the deckchair
at his garden gate. He was about to count the
money in his collecting tin when a male voice
interrupted:
‘Excuse me, is this
one of the Open Gardens?’
‘Yes,’ replied
George, glancing up at a middle-aged couple.
‘Only you’re not
on the map of Open Gardens they gave us in the
village.’
‘No,’ George
agreed. ‘I was a late entry, and there
wasn’t time to add me to any of the
paperwork. It’s just a pound each to look
round,’ he continued, lifting his tin.
His visitors contributed
their admission fees, and George directed them to
the rear of his bungalow.
He looked up and down the
lane and saw no sign of other visitors. It was
late in the afternoon and it was likely these
would be the last. George painfully rose and
limped to join his guests.
‘It’s rather
different from other gardens we’ve seen
today,’ ventured his male visitor as George
reached the couple.
‘There aren’t any
plants,’ noted the woman.
‘The old arthritis
stops me from doing too much gardening, these
days,’ George explained, ‘so I went for
a simple, low maintenance theme of just grass and
SPIS.’
‘SPIS?’ queried
the woman.
‘Self Planting
Indigenous Species.’
‘You mean weeds?’
she said.
‘A weed is just a name
for a plant growing in the wrong place,’
replied George. ‘My SPIS all carefully
harmonise to construct a natural, uncultivated
effect.’
‘And the grass is
three feet tall,’ observed the man.
‘I like to think that
it forms a counterpoint juxtaposed to the
manicured greenery, characteristic of the other
exhibited gardens.’
The three looked out across
the rusting mattress springs and other discarded
household equipment, to the fire-gutted shell of
an old motor car, beyond.
‘I’m particularly
pleased with that modern art installation,’
announced George with pride. ‘I may enter it
for the Turner Prize.’
Before the couple could
comment, the grass on the far side of the garden
began to ripple, tracking the path of some hidden,
approaching creature. The sound of growls and
snarls reached their ears.
‘Ah, that’s Rufus,
my Rottweiler,’ said George. ‘I
don’t know what’s got into him today.
He’s bitten four of the visitors, and one
had to be taken away by ambulance.’
George looked round to see
his guests fleeing, panic-stricken, from the
garden.
‘There’re serving
tea and cakes in the Village Hall,’ George
helpfully shouted after them, before his voice
was drowned-out by the savage barking of Rufus.
George sat down in his
deckchair, and Rufus, having seen-off the
intruders, laid quietly down on the ground beside
him.
‘Let’s count the
day’s takings, boy,’ George said to his
companion. ‘I reckon we’ve got over
sixty quid here. That’ll pay for getting all
that rubbish taken away from the back garden.’
He patted Rufus on the head. ‘With any luck
there’ll be enough money left to have the
grass cut and to get you a nice bone.’
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