Talking to plants, well that's just plain daft - isn't it?
Gilding the Lily
Edna cursed inwardly. She hadn’t seen the other woman until it was too late. Had she have been more alert then the confrontation might easily have been avoided. As it was, she was in a hurry and she wanted to finish her shopping and return home – home to her lilies – her beautiful lilies.
In a hurry, Edna was keen to terminate the conversation as quickly as possible. Slim chance. Once this woman started talking to you, there was little hope of having a short conversation.
“Good morning Miss Farley,” the woman said. “How are you today?”
Briefly she stared at the woman then her countenance softening slightly, answered, “Good morning Lorna, I am well. Thank you for asking.”
The woman who had intercepted her was Lorna Beecham, a woman that Edna had little time for. In fact, Edna had little time for anyone. Her life and her love were her plants, lilies especially. Her garden and her conservatory were positively festooned with them. For years she had been an avid collector of lilies and had recently acquired some new species and she was keen to return home to tend to them.
“How are those beautiful lilies of yours? Still majestic I understand.”
Although Edna kept pretty much to herself: her collection was well known and greatly admired. Often people would stop by her front garden to look at them or to take photographs.
Edna glanced away, looking impatiently along the street to her next port of call answered, “Yes they are doing well again this year. I’m very pleased with the results.” Edna took a pace away but Lorna caught her by the arm.
“You know Miss Farley, I simply do not understand why on earth you don’t enter some of you lilies in the annual flower show. Your plants are some of the best in the entire village, you’d win a medal for them, I just know you would.”
Lorna Beecham was the founder and president of the Brookett Hatch Horticultural Society and she pestered Edna every year to enter the show. Steadfastly Edna had refused. Each year there were only a handful of entrants in that particular category and it was Reg Thompson who regularly won the gold medal. Seldom was there a year when he didn’t. Other members were beginning to complain that a fresh influx of new blood were needed, and Lorna was desperate to inject new life into an otherwise flagging exhibition.
“Oh really Lorna, I can’t, I simply can’t bring myself to do it, to cut a single bloom I mean. In all the years I’ve been growing lilies, I’ve never once cut so much as a single stem, not even to bring into the house. I would much rather see and enjoy them as God intended, displayed in all their glory in the garden.”
Lorna’s expression dropped. “Oh dear, Please do reconsider. As I understand it you have such a glorious showing this year.”
Edna’s face flushed slightly. This year was special, she thought. It must be that new plant feed she was using. Sighing, she said, “I’m sorry Lorna, my mind is firm.”
“Please,” Lorna begged, “please tell me you’ll think about it. Your entry would be the highlight of the show, I just know it.”
Edna, looking at the anxious face before her, shuffled impatiently from one foot to the other. Lorna was persistent, if nothing else but then that was her way. Once this woman started it was difficult to get loose. “All right, I’ll think about it,” she conceded, not really wanting to commit herself.
Lorna’s features shone. “Do you mean it?”
Edna felt herself losing the battle. “ I never said I would but I will give it some thought.’
“Oh how wonderful,” Lorna enthused. “I’ll send you an entry form.”
Instantly she regretted her decision. “Lorna, I haven’t said I was going to, I merely said I would consider it.”
Lorna pounced, not want to let the opportunity pass. “I’ll send you one anyway, in case you should decide to go ahead.”
Edna smiled thinly. Slowly she had begun to inch away from Lorna, keen to finish her business in the village and to get away from this overbearing woman. “Thank you Lorna, now really, I must be getting on.” Clutching her bags ever tighter she stepped past her.
“Remember, the show is only two weeks away,” Lorna called after her.”
“Yes, yes,” Edna called back over her shoulder, giving a cursory wave of her hand. Walking briskly, she berated herself. “Edna you chicken-livered idiot,” she muttered, “why didn’t you just ay no, right out and that would have been that. Now look what you have gotten yourself into.” She hurried along the street; picked up the few groceries she needed from the small store she then went two shops along the road and entered the small gardening store to purchase the new liquid fertilizer that she had been trying. Turning away from the counter and as she slipped the bottle into her bag, Lorna Beecham came into the shop, the small bell above the door clanging loudly and sounding like a death-knell to Edna when she saw whom it was who had entered.
“We meet again!” Lorna gushed, when she saw Edna.
“Or cursed,” mumbled Edna.
“You know Mr Knowles,” Lorna said to the aging man behind the counter, “Edna’s agreed to enter the flower show this year.”
Edna’s face exploded then paled. “I never said . . .”
“Really!” Frank Knowles boomed, stopping Edna short. Well I have to say that this is a turn up for the books. I’ll have to let old Reg Thompson know he’ll have some fierce competition this year.”
Edna’s face went from white to red as her frustration and indignation mounted. “I’m sorry,” she blurted, “but I really must be getting along, I’ve so much to do this morning.”
Striding across the floor towards the door, she was about to grasp the handle when she heard Lorna say, “I told her that I would send her an entry form.”
“No need, I’ve got one here.”
Edna’s eyes closed with utter resignation. There seemed to be no escaping it now.
“Oh, isn’t that wonderful,” Lorna enthused, “that’ll save me a stamp.”
“Oh yes, just marvellous,” mumbled Edna.
Frank’s head disappeared momentarily behind the counter as he searched for the forms. Reappearing he cried out, “Here they are!” He waved one aloft in triumph and came from behind the counter and approached Edna, waving the piece of paper in front of him like a flag of truce.
Edna snatched it from his hand and without glancing at it pushed into her jacket pocket. “I have to dash now,” she announced and pulling hard on the door, so that the bell clanged violently, she sped from the shop. The door thudded shut behind her. Muttering angrily, she marched along the street.
Getting to her small cottage, she closed the gate carefully. Pausing, she looked about her garden. It was looking an absolute picture this year. Stepping up to the front door and going inside, she leant back against the door as it closed. Putting her hand into her pocket, she felt the crumpled piece of paper. Annoyed, she pulled it out and looked at it like it was a bomb about to explode. Leaving her shopping in the hallway, she put her jacket on the back of a chair in her living room as she swept past it on her way to the conservatory at the rear of the house. “Hello my pretty ones,” she called out as her eyes feasted themselves on her pride and joy. A smile of contentment played on her lips as she breathed in the heavy scent. Her mind returned to the morning’s events. I suppose it wouldn’t hurt, not just this once, would it? She thought.
Walking over to her newest addition to her collection, she held and caressed the bloom like it was the face of a small child. “And how are you my precious?” Edna bent forward and examined closely the flower, the first of many. “My, you are looking gorgeous. I didn’t think you would have done a well as you have. But you are, aren’t you.” She passed from one plant to the next, talking to and encouraging each one. It was a ritual she carried out each and every day. Talking to her plants, she was convinced, was the reason why they did so well, that and the playing of classical music. A stress free and tranquil environment was why her lilies did so well. She was convinced of it.
“You are so beautiful, all of you,” she said with a contented sigh. Going through to her living room and sitting in her favourite chair, she turned her attention once more to the flower show. “Just this once,” she muttered to herself. “I don’t suppose any harm could come of it.” Silently she pondered which variety she should show. It would be a difficult choice. It wasn’t urgent; she had two weeks to decide. Easing herself out of her chair, she crossed the floor to the cocktail cabinet and poured herself a small sherry and returning to her seat, thought about Reg Thompson. It didn’t matter to her that he won year after year. Edna smiled smugly. She would show, as her prize exhibit, her Lilium Taliense, they were notoriously difficult to keep. She knew that Reg went in for the more common varieties. My ‘Brushmark’ would cast his into shadow; she mused as she warmed to the idea.
The next day she had an uninvited, but not altogether and expected visitor. Reg Thompson arrived on her doorstep.
“Hello Edna,” he said smoothly, “a little bird tells me you’re entering the flower show this year,” he said, trying to peer past her and out into the conservatory beyond.
“Perhaps Reg,” she said testily, “you should change your birdseed, they appear to attract pests.”
Reg stared flatly at her for a few moments, and then his craggy face broke into a toothy grin. “Very droll Edna, very droll indeed,” he said, still trying to gain a peak over her shoulder.
“Was there something you wanted Reg?” although she well knew the answer.
Hovering on the doorstep he said with an air of innocence, “I just thought I’d pop round and offer a few words of advice, seeing as this is your first time of entering.”
Edna regarded him sternly. “Reg,” she boomed, “you’re as transparent as a pane of glass. Why don’t you have the backbone to tell me what you really want,” she said, regaining a lot of her usual vigour.
“Now Edna, I really don’t know what . . .”
“Stop babbling man,” she rebuked him. “You’ve come around here to size up the competition, haven’t you?”
Reg’s face turned bright red. “Edna, you can’t possibly imagine for one moment that I would stoop to such a thing.”
“Yes I can Reg, and I do.
Edna took a pace back and widened the door. “Stop prattling man and come in.”
Reg’s eyes widened like a schoolboy who’d just been given free reign to a sweet store. Swivelling his head, first one way then the other, to satisfy himself that no one was watching, he crossed the threshold into Edna’s house. Shutting the door, she marched ahead of him though the house and into the conservatory. Entering her shrine, Reg’s eyes went out on stalks. Looking sideways at him, Edna saw him pale visibly.
“There you are Reg! Feast your eyes all you want,” she said gloating at his limp expression.
Licking his dry lips, the tongue working its way several times around his mouth, he stared in awe. “My goodness Edna, you truly do have a magnificent display,” he whispered, with genuine reverence. Cocking his ear he noted the soft music. “What’s that I hear?”
Edna paused as she recognized one of her favourite tunes. “It’s Mendelssohn’s violin concerto, second movement,” she said matter-of-factly.
“Really?” he replied.
“Yes, really,” she answered, irritated by his ignorance.
“Is that his first or second concerto?”
Edna rolled her eyes in utter contempt. “He only wrote the one Reg.”
His face flushed slightly. “Oh yes, how silly of me.” He threw more anxious glances around the room. “You play music in here often, do you?” he asked quietly.
“Yes, of course, don’t you?”
Regaining some of his composure, he said condescendingly, “No, no I don’t. I can’t see the point.” He spoke quietly, his gaze still wondering around the room. “They don’t have ears, do they, I mean it’s not like that can hear you, is it?”
“How do you know?” She snapped indignantly.
“What do you do Edna, ask them for requests?” He laughed heartily at his own joke.
“You can scoff Reg Thompson. But no one is entirely sure what plants are capable off,” she said to him with acute irritation.
Reg smiled within himself. The old bat’s gone cuckoo, he thought smugly. “Well,” he said, “I know there are certain schools of thought that give credence to what you yourself believe, but I’m not one of them. I myself don’t believe in such things, all a load of dribble if you ask me.”
Edna looked blandly at him. That’s what you think, she thought.
“I have to be getting along now Edna, thanks for the sneak peek. He threw one last look around then his gaze fell on one particular bloom. He walked slowly over to it. His chin dropped. “I see you have a Taliense,” he whispered with obvious envy.
“Yes, do you like it?”
Reg was dumbfounded. He had tried several times himself to grow one but never succeeded. He looked at her with a defeated expression on his face. Nothing he had in his collection could compete with what Edna had to offer. “I wish you every success Edna,” he said meekly. He offered his hand, then left, his shoulders visibly sagging.
Edna peered out of her living room window and watched the hunched shoulders of Reg disappearing along the road. His visit had confirmed what she already had decided. But she thought she enter a few extra ones just for the fun of it.
Over the next two weeks she paid more than the usual attention to her plants, while continuing to play her music to them. The lilies thrived, each glorious trumpet giving her endless hours of joy.
On the morning of the show, she dressed in her finest tweed suit and went out into the conservatory. They looked even more splendid than they had ever before. Edna’s heart burst with pride. Taking her secateurs from her cupboard she looked fondly at the blooms. “Just this once all right my sweet?” Mildly she scolded herself. “What am I doing!” she exclaimed. Quickly she went back into the house and filled four glass vases she had bought for the occasion and filled each with water and carried them back to the plants. “That’s better isn’t it? I can’t have you going thirsty now, can I?”
Delicately she took one of the stems in her fingers and grasping the secateurs snipped the stem of the bloom she wanted. Instantly, she heard and ear-piercing scream. Short and shrill. Her head snapped round. Where did that noise come from? She asked herself. She scanned the conservatory but could see nothing or anyone that might have made the noise. Tentatively she snipped another stem. Again her ears were pierced by a similar shrill, blood-chilling shriek. Edna dropped the secateurs as the realization of what had happened dawned on her.
Backing away, the second stem shaking in her trembling hand, she stared in abject horror at the plants. “Oh my goodness,” she cried tears falling down her cheeks, “I’ve killed them.” Looking with tear-soaked eyes she exclaimed, “Oh my babies, my poor babies. What have I done? What have I done?”
With increasingly shaking hands, she placed the two severed stems in one of the vases and carried them carefully to the house. Looking at the water she saw a faint green tinge discolour the water. “Oh,” she wailed, “you’re bleeding. I am so sorry, so very, very sorry.” She broke down, almost sobbing. “What have I done?”
With every fibre of courage she could muster, she lifted the telephone receiver and dialled Lorna’s number. “Hello, Lorna?” she said, gulping back her tears. “I am most dreadfully sorry but I shan’t be able to make it today after all, something dreadful has happened.” She rested the receiver back in its cradle without waiting for a response and looked once more at the cut flowers. In deep remorse she buried her face in her hands. “Oh my poor babies . . .”
Chris has been fostered at the Crowley boot camp since he turned seven. At sixteen, he is finally ready to run away because his foster father is an abusive person who works Chris and the other children to the point of exhaustion. All he has left of h
