Read by Michael Flamel

“Thank you ever so much for fixing the lawnmower; that darn thing has been playing up for some time now. You’re too kind…”

“Donald Wiseman,” Donald cut in. “But please, call me Don.” Don smiled, giving a little tip of his hat. “I was just taking a stroll through your village and admiring the lovely gardens. Sorry, I didn’t catch your name?”

“Biddy Balshaw, and it’s a pleasure to meet you,” Biddy smiled with formidable politeness. “It’s always nice to meet a fellow gardener and one that can fix lawnmowers, too. Albert will be pleased when he meets you.”

“I’m not a gardener,” Don explained. “I was just walking by and saw you struggling there and…”

“We used to have a lovely gardener until he whisked himself away to Australia on a whim,” Biddy interrupted. “Something about the weather being better,” she mused with a shake of her head. “He had no respect for the mower, not like you, Don. In its day, I’ll have you know, this lawnmower was the Rolls Royce of its kind.”

“I see,” Don acknowledged with a fixed smile. “Well, if I’m ever passing by and you need a hand…”

“Lots of flies in Australia,” Biddy added, pulling a face.

“Yes, I suppose there are.”

“Still, all this rain we get must be good for the garden.”

“That’s true,” Don agreed, scratching his head. “Anyway, I must dash.”

“Dash?” Biddy’s brows knitted together. “Is there somewhere you need to be?”

Don didn’t have anywhere he needed to be and not wanting to appear rude to someone he’d just met, said, “I don’t have any plans.”

“Then you must meet Albert,” Biddy insisted. “He would love to chat with you about gardening over a cup of tea.”

“I’m not a gardener,” Don repeated as he followed Biddy up the garden path. “I don’t wish to intrude.”

“Nonsense,” Biddy parried back as they approached the front door. “Albert only lets me loose on the lawns; he does all the rest of the garden himself,” Biddy beamed, showing off their roses. “Wonderful, aren’t they?”

“Stunning.”

“I’m sure Albert would love to pick the brain of another gardener like yourself.”

“But I’m not…” Don tried to explain, but Biddy was already leading the way through the house.

“Albert, this is Don. He’s finally fixed our lawnmower and has been paying lovely compliments about your roses,” Biddy announced and then whispered through the side of her mouth, “I thought you might like a chat. He’s a bit of a gardening guru.”

“That was you making all the noise, was it?” Albert quipped, putting down his newspaper and rising from his chair to shake Don’s hand.

“Lovely to meet you,” Don said, shaking Albert’s hand with customary politeness. “I can’t stay long…”

“Biddy, tea please,” Albert called out, sitting back down and gesturing for Don to take the seat opposite. Albert watched Biddy leave the room and then leaned forward towards Don, whispering, “She’s utterly useless in the garden, doesn’t know a begonia from a buttercup.”

Don smiled back, trying to get comfortable in his chair. “I must confess…”

“Tell me,” Albert interrupted, raising his voice again. “What’s your opinion on box hedges?”

“Box?” Don stammered. “Hedges?”

“English box, of course,” Albert scoffed. “There’s some debate in the village about how often they should be cut. Some madmen are saying three times a year. Personally, I’ve never heard such fiddle-faddle in all my life. What’s your opinion?”

“Yes, that does sound absurd,” Don smiled politely, trying to think. “Maybe once a year would suffice?”

“Once a year? Interesting,” Albert pondered, leaning back in his chair and scratching his chin. “I always cut mine twice a year, once at the start of Spring and once at the end of Summer. Once, you say?”

“Maybe twice,” Don backtracked. “I suppose it depends on how much they grow.”

“I see, ah, here we are,” Albert announced cheerfully as Biddy returned with the tea, handing them out.

“This is very kind,” Don said, taking his cup under everyone’s watchful eye. “I’ll just stay for one.”

Biddy took her seat, and Albert continued to badger, “As a gardener…”

“Yes,” Don found himself agreeing, intensely stirring his tea.

“I have a question for you.” Albert put his tea down and bellowed from the top of his lungs, “Blasted ravens!”

Don nearly spat out his tea. “Blasted ravens?”

“They make an awful mess of the thatch, picking it all to pieces for their darn nests.” Albert picked up his tea again and took another sip. “How do you stop them?”

Don stirred his tea and found himself staring into the vortex with abstraction, hoping the answer could be found somewhere from within. “I’m not really sure.”

“I was up the ladder the other day pruning the wisteria,” Albert went on, unperturbed. “And a blasted raven flew out and nearly knocked me off the ladder!”

“Blasted ravens,” Biddy muttered gravely.

“Blasted ravens,” Don concurred.

“Any suggestions?” Albert asked around his teacup, taking a large sip.

“Maybe get a cat?”

“Tiddles?” Albert roared with laughter and Biddy joined in. “He couldn’t catch a cold, let alone a blasted raven!”

“Blasted ravens,” Biddy added.

“Blasted ravens,” Don agreed.

“When is the best time to prune wisteria?” Biddy quizzed, and a thin film of sweat began to form on Don’s head.

“I’m not ashamed to admit, I don’t know a begonia from a buttercup. Sorry, Don, do you take sugar?”

“No, thank you.”

“No sugar!” Albert roared again. “You need to keep your strength up, a gardener like you, pushing lawnmowers around all day long.”

“Yes, but you see…” Don tried to say.

“We always prune the wisteria after it’s flowered,” Biddy chimed in.

“Yes,” Don found himself agreeing in a hollow tone. “That sounds right.”

“Not the clematis, though,” Albert chuckled, giving Don a slightly excessive wink. “That would never do, would it, Don?”

“No,” Don agreed again, unsure of the joke being made, and taking a large gulp of his tea.

“Do you have problems with ravens in your thatch?” Biddy queried.

“I don’t have a thatch. I live on a new housing estate.”

Everyone sipped their tea silently for a moment.

“Probably more hassle than they’re worth,” Albert added with some gusto, breaking the silence.

“More tea?” Biddy asked, already pouring Don another cup.

“This is the last one, then I must be on my way.”

“Cake?” Biddy asked.

“I feel I must press on.”

“Of course, cake!” Albert boomed, and Biddy got up to leave again. “Perhaps now we’re alone, you can explain to me how you got that darn mower started?”

“It was simple, really. It just ran out of…”

“In its day, that mower was the Rolls Royce of its kind,” Albert declared proudly, leaning in towards Don. “You’re a handy man to have around, quite the expert.”

“I’m no expert,” Don snapped back, putting his tea down decisively. “I must get going.”

“The cake’s on its way,” Albert frowned, giving Don a long look, then suggesting, “Perhaps we should grab a slice of cake and take a walk around the garden. I could do with some of your expert advice on a few matters out there.”

Don and Albert walked around the garden several times. Don ate the cake, and Albert gave the expert advice.

When they returned to the house, Biddy was already cooking dinner, and it was decided that it would be awfully rude if Don didn’t join them. Afterwards, Albert showed Don all his gardening books in the study, and Biddy pulled out several photo albums that she thought might interest Don. In one particular album that Biddy kept showing Don because he was a gardener, there was a picture of Albert’s brother on holiday in Australia. In the picture, he was at the botanical gardens, pulling a funny face and holding his nose behind a corpse flower, and Biddy explained to Don that it only flowered once every ten years, so he was very lucky to see it.

“This has been ever so interesting,” Don said finally, feeling overcome with exhaustion. “But I really must get going.”

“Going?” Albert parroted, gesturing for Don to sit back down. “It’s far too late for you to go now, and we can’t have you walking alone by yourself in the dark through the village. What if something happened?”

“You can stay in the study,” Biddy suggested. “The sofa pulls out as a bed.”

“I feel as if I’ve overstayed my welcome,” Don told them in a strained voice, still trying to be polite.

“Nonsense, my good man,” Albert thundered. “You can never outstay your welcome!”

“No,” Don whimpered, miserably. “I suppose not.” Don pulled out his phone to call home but realized there was no signal in the village.

“You look tired, Don,” Biddy pointed out. “A good night’s sleep will do you good.”

The next day, Albert went for his morning walk, and Biddy made Don several more cups of tea while he looked at gardening books in the study. When Albert returned, he stuck his head around the door to find Don staring absently into an open gardening book. “Good man, an expert never stops learning.”

Don didn’t look up; instead, he twitched a little, then muttered to himself, “Blasted ravens.”

Days passed by, and after a while, Don spent most of them alone by himself in the study, staring at gardening books and photo albums. Often, he would find himself coming back to the picture of Albert’s brother in Australia, pulling a funny face in the botanical gardens. Sometimes he swore at the photo, but most of the time, he just shook his head bitterly and wept. He tried many times to make an excuse to leave, but after a while, he soon gave up because he didn’t want to appear rude and have to turn down the polite offerings of tea, cake, meals, and lodging.

“Don?” Biddy called out one day.

“Tea, please,” Don replied automatically, while rocking back and forth in the corner of the room, holding open another gardening book. “One more won’t do any harm.”

“Don, there’s someone here to see you.”

“Albert’s brother from Australia?” Don looked up with fear in his eyes.

“No, Don, it’s your wife. She’s been looking for you.”

Don began to rock like a mad parrot in a cage as his wife entered the room.

“He’s over there,” Albert pointed to the darkest corner of the room.

“Donald?” his wife said calmly, kneeling down next to him and patting his head. “What are you doing?”

“Reading,” Don replied quietly, staring vacantly into the open gardening book and twitching.

“What about?”

“Corpse flower,” Don spluttered. “Albert’s brother!”

“Who?” his wife asked and looked over to Biddy and Albert, who simply shrugged. “What are you talking about? You don’t even like gardening, Donald?”

Donald turned to his wife, his eyes filled with emotion. “I’m the expert.”

His wife put her arm around him, and he started to weep. “I think it’s time to get going, Donald.”

“Going?” Donald looked up again. “Who will look after the garden?”

“The garden will be fine, Donald,” his wife assured him, helping him to his feet.

“I don’t know a begonia from a buttercup,” Don admitted with a sob.

“I know, Donald, it’s time to go home.”

“Home?” Donald barked with a nervous laugh, shaking like a cocker spaniel.

“Yes, home.”

Donald looked at his wife intensely for a moment, then shouted, “Blasted ravens!”

His wife suddenly stopped, while Biddy and Albert raised a hand to their mouths.

“He told us he was a gardener,” Albert insisted, shrugging his shoulders. “He seemed so interested.”

“He was just being polite,” his wife explained. “This happens all the time.”

“Such a shame,” Biddy reflected.

“Perhaps you should get him seen by someone,” Albert suggested.

“Yes,” his wife nodded in agreement. “He’ll have to be seen by some kind of expert.” ❖

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About the Author: Gregory Ballinger is an avid reader, doodler, time traveler, gardener, and sometimes, when he’s not doing all that, a writer. Gregory has often dreamt about going into space and becoming an astronaut, but his general lack of skills and ability quickly put an end to that. Instead, Gregory decided to use his time-traveling ability to go back to the 1800s, where he likes to spend time in English country gardens as an ornamental hermit contemplating life in the cosmos. Gregory has amassed a slightly impressive collection of rocks over the years, which he hopes to be worth something one day if the writing thing doesn’t work out. Gregory also likes cats.