Read by Carrie Cohen
“Hello?”
“Ah, um, is this ...?” The voice of a mouse, ringing the doorbell of the neighbourhood cat, and hoping they don't answer. “Is that ... the gardener?”
“Yes dear, this is Agnes Rose, The Welsden Herald's Gardening Agony Aunt. Do you have a horticultural conundrum for me?”
“Are you ...?” The voice drifted, before coming back with something like renewed confidence. “Are you also known as the green-fingered witch?”
“I haven't been called that for an awfully long time,” Agnes replied, neutrally.
“But ... you can help?” It was more a plea than a question.
“That depends on what the problem is.”
“It's ... my lady garden.”
“Your?... Oh. I'm not sure what you've been told, dear, but have you tried talking to your GP?”
“It's ... barren?!”
“- Or your gynaecologist?”
“No, not that sort of barren it's ... ah, Christ. Nothing will grow down there!”
Agnes glanced to the framed drawings marching up the stairs; flowers, and seeds, and leaves, and the occasional butterfly. “Nothing?”
“Not even a solitary white-tipped pube ... Oh, god-damn it. I'm sorry, I shouldn't--”
“You should come and see me, dear. I can't promise anything, you understand. But ... Well, come see me.”
Agnes traded her address in return for a reluctantly revealed name and a vague promise of sometime maybe next Tuesday. After replacing the receiver in its cradle, she stared into mid-distance, before shaking herself into action. The rain was letting up, and there was always gardening to be done.
#
The woman--late thirties or perhaps a fortunate early forties, in her very best, agonised over for at least an hour, casual dress--passed by on the other side of the street three times, before she summoned her nerve and bravely tackled the little white gate at the end of Agnes's front garden. Agnes straightened, secateurs in hand.
“You must be Charlotte,” she said, with a smile.
“Mrs ... Rose?”
“It's Ms, actually, but I'd prefer Agnes, if you don't mind. Come through, the back garden perhaps? Can I get you a cuppa?” She noticed the bottle of wine Charlotte clutched in a white-knuckled grip. “It's a little early ...?”
“This isn't for you, it's for me,” Charlotte said, determinedly. “I don't think I can have this conversation sober.”
Sat on a garden bench, the wall at her back--a suntrap, even in winter, though she kept her coat on--Charlotte resisted the temptation to crack open the screw-top bottle, waiting for Agnes and the promise of a wine glass. She took the moment to take in her surroundings. The garden was a riot of colour, even at this time of year, and everything looked green, and vibrant, and healthy.
Well, almost everything. Agnes re-emerged and found her guest staring at the random assortment of pots by her feet, all given their own space, as if it'd be a problem if their brown, withered leaves touched. Perhaps it would; most of them looked pretty sorry for themselves.
“Oh, these are my rescue plants,” Agnes said, putting the disappointingly small glass on Charlotte's side of the little table, a mug of steaming tea on hers. “Other people's plants. I nurse them back to health. It's a long road for some of them, I'm afraid. Now dear, take your time, and tell me your problem.”
Charlotte poured the wine and took a hearty gulp, and then another. “It was an ex-boyfriend,” she began, turning red, “He never said anything direct, but he kept making little comments, or distasteful faces, you know?”
Agnes nodded solemnly. “I take it he wasn't shaved?”
“Of course not!” Charlotte scoffed. “But I still went ahead and did what I thought he wanted. It didn't save our relationship, he just found other things to snipe at. And when the topiary didn't grow back... well, at first I thought I was lucky! Save me a fortune in waxing. But then I started worrying that something was wrong with me. And then--quite quickly, actually--I began to hate it. The look, the feel, the not so subtle message I was sending out to a male-dominated world... even if no-one but me actually knew the message was there.”
“And who did you hear about me from?” Agnes prompted.
Charlotte recharged her empty glass. “My aunt has a friend. A bit of a battleaxe, as was my aunt in the day by all accounts. Violet Mackie, sometimes referred to as Violent Mackie. She warned me you'd turned your back on the Sisters of the Trowel?”
Agnes snorted. “She might think that. I did no such thing. I just decided that helping women grow brambles, and poison ivy, and even cacti between their legs was all a bit... silly. And people were beginning to talk. Not everyone used the word 'witch'. Not that that concerned me overly, I've been called names all my life, but it made me wonder if I was doing the right thing, which I guess is all part of growing up.”
She sipped her tea, thoughtful. “I think I remember Violet. She was a fan of the Chelsea Physic Garden, had me reading up on all the most toxic of plants.” Agnes shook her head. “I had to point out to the daft dear that what was poisonous for a man was likely to be just as poisonous for a woman, whether one between her legs or the owner of those legs. But Violet seemed convinced the magic would protect them both, and the quite possibly lethal revenge to anyone who didn't get clear consent was considered worth the risk. I had to disappoint her, in the end. Refuse to play ball, for everyone's sake. I'm afraid she didn't take that very well and did her best to blacken my name amongst the sisters.” Agnes shrugged. “It was no loss in the end, though I'm surprised she sent you my way?”
Charlotte's blush came back with a vengeance. “My aunt never was very discreet. Two days after her monthly gathering, I got an 'anonymous' note through the letterbox with your number scrawled on it in green biro. Auntie wasn't very discrete about telling me who sent it, either. So I went to talk to Violet, briefly. She refused to tell me much, and seemed to regret the whole thing.”
“And yet here you are.” Agnes peered over the edge of her mug. Her nails, Charlotte noticed with a shudder, were grimed with dirt, and she wondered at what point she might have to lower the neutral knickers she'd carefully picked out, just in case.
“Oh, I don't need to see it, Charlotte,” Agnes said, amused by the hinted-at question. “By all accounts, there's nothing to see, right?”
Another gulp of wine swiftly chased the rest, and Agnes did her best to distract her visitor from her blushes. “After my estrangement from the Sisters of the Trowel, I took up other challenges, such as the Britain in Bloom contest. And even that wouldn't have been much of a challenge, had there not been a hedge witch over in the neighbouring village of Lower Harsby. Harold is his name.”
“Harold?”
“Not all witches are women, Charlotte, even the green ones.” Agnes tilted her head, as if reminiscing. “Though maybe I wouldn't have been quite so competitive if it hadn't been a male, cocksure and full of himself.”
“So, who won?” Charlotte asked, as much to delay the inevitable return to her own intimate struggle, as out of genuine interest.
Agnes smiled ruefully. “I'm afraid it got a little out of hand. Each of us too eager to outdo the other. It all came to a head in 2012, when we were both permanently expelled from the contest, after an unfortunate incident with the triffids.”
“Triffids?”
“A lot of fuss over nothing, if you ask me. It's not as if our triffids spat poison; we're not completely barmy. But yes, they did move around, albeit rather slowly. It caused a great deal of consternation for the judging committee, and ruffled too many twin-sets and pearls. It's a silly contest anyway. Vanity, and a quite ridiculous set of rules. After that, Harold took solace in his giant marrows, and I started the Agony Aunt column in the local paper, less likely to go tits up, I hoped. I may not be the wise woman you seek, Charlotte, but hopefully I'm getting there.”
Agnes turned her full attention back on her visitor, now the better part of a bottle of wine down, and ignored her hiccup of alarm.
“A garden is highly sensitive to the mood of the gardener. A lot of the so-called magic is simply recognising that. The problem when you clear ground of all its growth is that it can take a while to re-establish, and, often, it’s the weeds that pop up first. You do your best to keep those down and so the patch remains bare.
“But, with a little patience and a little love, you can grow anything, pretty much anywhere. All you have to do is sow the right seeds.” She smiled, and reached out her hand. “Let's go for a wander through my garden, shall we Charlotte? Decide exactly what might suit you best?”
#
It took a couple of weeks for the new growth to fully bed in. A couple of weeks during which Charlotte checked the progress at every opportunity, fussing and worrying and regularly misting with distilled water until she learnt to relax and let nature take its course. She was delighted with the results. For the first time in a long time it felt entirely natural, down there.
But she was still nervous about sharing her unusual garden with anybody else. What if they thought she was a freak? What if they wanted her to cut it back?
Well, then they weren't the right partner for her, Charlotte thought, as she carefully redrafted her Bumble dating profile in time for Valentine's. Nothing overt, of course. A few references to loving nature and being content, while making it quite clear that she wasn't some lump of clay, to be moulded by a man who would drop her as soon as something closer to his idea of porn perfection loomed into view.
It helped that she was the one who initiated first contact, though she still ending up being more selective, and cautious, then she had been in the past. Whoever she found would have to love her for who she was. Love her as much as she did. Or should. It was a work in progress, still.
Paul wasn't classically beautiful. Wasn't even her type. But where had her type got her? The two of them took it slow, growing into the relationship, aware that there was a serious moment building, aware that they were probably past the point of no return.
When it finally arrived, when Charlotte allowed him to put his slender hands down her pants, releasing the heady scent of earth, the damp of summer rain, the soft feel of luxuriant moss, his mouth dropped open in astonishment, and then in delight. “Oh, my!”
“You... like?” Charlotte asked, staring into his wide brown eyes, bashful, wary, hopeful.
“I certainly do! And, Charlotte, I've been meaning to admit... I had a problem, y'know, down there. But then I met this marvellous old duffer over in Lower Harsby. Harold, his name; a gardener, and an absolute miracle worker. And now... I think, I trust, we might be perfectly matched?”
“I hope so too,” Charlotte said huskily, her hand cupping the prominent bulge in Paul's Marks and Spencers boxers, fingers playing with the button fly. “Touch wood.”
END
(c) Liam Hogan, 2022
This is Liam's third Liars' League Valentine's story in five years. Though he likes to consider it three in three, by ignoring the road wrecks that were 2020 and 2021. Such is the way he massages his fragile ego to convince himself he is a short story writer, when all he's really doing is sitting in a cold, gloomy room mashing keys. Take pity on him and read some of the other stuff he's written at http://happyendingnotguaranteed.blogspot.co.uk.
Carrie’s lockdown work includes the film Sunday Service and the creation of a Youtube comedy channel “What’s That For, From Carrie’s Drawer.” Last summer Carrie filmed the role of the eponymous wife’s mother in The Thief, His Wife and The Canoe for ITV. In March she will be performing her own script at SLAMinutes at The Pleasance. Full details www.carriecohen.co.uk
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