I so want to write this story but have no idea whether people will even like my writing style. Would appreciate some honest feedback - happy to return the favour. Thanks hopefully in advance!
My mother saw the beauty in everything. Poetry, paintings, people and flowers filled our house with great abundance no matter the month or occasion (or even lack thereof.)
“There need be no rhyme nor reason to dwell on the beauty of life,” she would say, and what a wonderful life we had, my eccentric family and I.
“Pleasure!” As in, it was his pleasure to be helping us out. It was the first word I heard him say and honestly the way it rolled so effortlessly over his tongue, steeped in seemingly endless possibilities stayed with me all of these years as if it had happened only yesterday. He was confident without any arrogance, sure of himself and secure in the knowledge we’d be lost without him, our plans for the future safe only in his hands. His hands, so strong and tanned with skin as freckled as a hens egg from hours exposed to the sun, his palms permanently tinged moss green and thick with the scent of plants.
I look into the garden now from the dining room window, replay the word over in my mind and I'm back all those years ago, on the swing that still hangs from the willow, watching him shake hands with my father and uttering that memorable word - pleasure. Loose white shirt with its cuffs rolled back above his elbows, dark cream trousers hiding the form of his lower limbs and the dark green field boots with buckles on the sides that he never went a day without wearing.
Suddenly he's looking at me, and then to the floor, and then back to my father who puts his hand firmly on his shoulder and leads him through the blue gate in the garden wall and down to the little thatched summerhouse. Shortly after my father reappeared through the door, offered me a brief smile and without breaking his stride asked me to fetch a cup of tea and slice of cake for our gardener. “Can’t Anna do it?” I replied quickly. “Well I dare say she can, but I’m asking you darling.” I stopped abruptly on the swing digging my toes into the soft earth. “Then, it would be my pleasure,” I said, crossing my legs into a brief courtesy and drawing out the ‘l’ in the word. I felt foolish as soon as I’d said it but luckily father carried on up to the house, shaking his head and dismissing my subtle attempt at sarcasm. I looked down at the grass for a moment then followed up behind him, made my way to the kitchen and did what he asked me to do.
It was around the same time the previous year that we had first been to visit the house. Father drove us up from London early one Sunday morning, the entire journey consisted of him telling us it would be madness for us to move, and that he didn’t see how leaving the city would be in any of our best interests. Finally, after what felt like forever our car began to slow down a long tree lined avenue, dotted with Georgian box houses before coming to a stop at the very last one. We clambered out and followed mother as she pushed her way through a thicket of over grown brambles that smothered the far side of the house and father hoisted me up onto his shoulders so that I could sneak a peek over the wall and into the garden beyond.
“It was a picnic house”, mother said enthusiastically. “The river was the main entrance and they would come by boat, up the steps and into the garden with their baskets, umbrellas and various bits. Isn’t it pretty Michael?”
“Pretty expensive, I’ll give you that,” he said wryly, lighting a cigarette.
But the fact was that father never took much convincing when it came to matters of my mother. It was clear from that very moment she had fallen in love with the house, the water meadows, the views of the Thames, and she would inevitably get her own way. Six weeks later with our belongings packed we were driving once more out to Richmond, the proud new owners of Winterfold House.
Our involvement with the nurseries came a little while after and was entirely coincidental. Our garden overlooked a small nursery which had been carved from the original grounds of the house and was a quiet, local affair with just a handful of plants people looking after it. We could just about see the greenhouses and their misted glass windows from the bedrooms on the upper floor, but in the garden, enclosed by its high ivy covered walls we barley knew it existed. Winterfold was much bigger than our previous house and my parents insisted on filling it with family, friends, and acquaintances for the majority of the time. I barely recall a dinner when it was just the three of us and it was over one of those evenings with friends that my parents were inspired to breathe new life into the nurseries. An old friend of my mothers, an Italian lady called Ma Pardoe who was head chef at a well known restaurant in London was joining us for dinner. She shared her dreams of leaving the city too and setting up a small space with a kitchen garden where she could grown her own organic produce. My mother leapt from her chair and insisted on showing Ma the gardens and glasshouses right there and then, and asking if it would be suitable for such an endeavour. Ma agreed that the space could indeed be transformed into something quite magical with the right care and attention and accepted on one condition, that she could bring her friends son to tend the gardens and that is how we came to meet Peter.
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utter drivel?
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DrNOmeansNO · 03/03/2022 14:15
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