Notes from a Dirt Engineer - Potted Husband

'Oh don't mind him, that's just Graham, he's re-building my wall for me, my neighbour caught it with her Polo,' Carol glances over her shoulder, 'Silly cow,' she whispers then laughs, wrinkling her nose and shrugging to make me know she doesn't mean it. Cows never were bred for driving afterall, I think. 

Graham pauses with a blob of cement on his trowel, he nods at me as I remove tools from my van. I can tell he's the sort of person who will watch everything I do and constantly try and think of little things to say, helpful suggestions, cloaked criticisms. I must be on my guard, I must be armed with clever quips.

It's very hot today and Carol's soil is nothing more than dust. It defies gravity, floating up as I bend to unearth the undesirables which have invaded her border; it gets into my mouth, I feel the gritty particles as I close my jaws and I inhale it in my nostrils, it sticks there; I will remove it later when it has formed a berg.

I'm not that good in the heat. It's fine if I stay in one position but the crouching then standing then bending and the general upping and downing gives me what I call a 'sweaty whiteout', i.e. I perspire and get bright lights in my field of vision. Drinking more isn't really an option since I have no access to a loo except in the more remote, overgrown gardens. This garden is south-facing with absolutely no shade. It's very conservative in design, small and oppressive, a square of lawn with a perimeter border planted all over with rose bushes but the colours are an unconsious mix which verges on psychedelic; pinks, reds, oranges, yellows, the white which breaks it all up and makes it all the more jarring. Is it a communcation to drop out, to groove? I don't really know but it is certainly a lively display.

Carol comes out again to offer me a cup of tea. I don't know her well, we met once before when I went round to give her a quote but she seemed very quiet and unsure, today she's more confident.

'I'm not interested in the garden,' she says, 'Gardens are for sitting in and drinking wine on a summer's evening.'

'Well it looks very nice - I mean for someone who isn't into it,' I say, assuming she lives alone. At least that was the impression I got when I walked through the house on my previous visit.

'My husband did all this. That's him there,' she points towards the back door and my eyes flash around trying to make out the presence of another human as my brain, perceiving something odd in the tone of her voice, attempts to fill in the gaps.

Carol walks over to a large terracotta pot with another, sickly looking rose in it. She points and says, 'That's him in there. My old gardener suggested we get a potted rose for his ashes, then I can take it with me if I move.'

The rose looks terrible, stunted little flowers, leaves coated with mold, plagued with Black Spot. 'The standards never really do well,' I say, 'Especially not in pots. It would have to be watered most days in this garden and fed regularly, and if you're no gardener.....' Graham stops the scraping and stares at me and I feel ashamed suddenly, talking so matter of factly about..about what? Her rose, her husband, I don't know. Carol looks blank and goes back inside to make the tea. I feel as if I have accused her of some kind of neglect.

My clothes keep snagging on the thorns as I squat to dig out a patch of green alkanet, being careful not to let the leaves brush against my skin; the tiny hairs are an irritant, the blue flowers would be a gardener's dream if it were a difficult plant to grow rather than a noxious weed.

'Now you are getting all the roots out aren't you,' Graham calls out.

'No - I thought I'd leave a little bit in, you know, just to make sure that they come back.'

He remains quiet for a few minutes then I hear him down tools, wander over to me amd for a few seconds he towers over me breathing heavily. 'He did it to himself you know.'

'What?' I say, continuing to dig out the long, fleshy tap roots of the alkanet, not looking up at him.

'Him, in the pot. He did himself in.'

Carol comes back out and places a mug of tea on the grass near me. Graham returns to the wall. I thank her and feeling that I had washed over the rather large subject of her late husband with glib horticultural advice, I re-open the subject. 'You look too young to be a widow,' I say.

'I'm sixty one,' Carol puts her hands on her hips defensively, 'sixty one, 'she repeats. 'I'm not living the rest of my life on my own, that's for sure, no.' she laughs, 'I signed up with a dating agency last week, there's no way I'm going to die without having another bonk.' She turns and goes back inside.

I can feel Graham's eyes watching me for a reaction. The word bonk sticks in my mind, blocking all else out, I can't taste the tea, even my taste buds have died. I can understand that she may not want to die without having sex again but why oh why did she have to use the eighties term bonk? I try to think of alternatives, the nineties term shag? No that's horrible too. I glance over at the standard rose by the back door, it seems to have whithered further. What else could she have said? 'There's no way I'm going to die without...finding another partner?' No that sounds unfaithful to the potted husband.

Graham walks over again, trowel in hand. This time I start the conversation. 'Poor Carol, that must have been awful for her.'

'Mmmm. Well at least they never had any children,' he says slowly and thoughtfully.

I think for a few seconds, then say, 'But that's worse in a way, now she's completely on her own.'

'Maybe she drove him to it,' he says shrugging.

I feel my neck tighten and I pull my head back from him and say, 'I don't think that's fair.'

'Oh no, don't get me wrong love, don't get me wrong. No-one's accusing her, it's just you don't know what goes on do you, in a relationship I mean.'

'Exactly, you shouldn't judge.'

'No, no you shouldn't. I've had some experience of this in my own family love. My cousin, his wife did herself in, left him all alone with two young boys.' He shakes his head, 'It's a selfish, thing, a selfish, selfish thing she done. We'll never forgive her that, never.'

There's a flapping noise at the back door. A large black and white cat comes out, brushes past my knees and begins rolling around in the dusty soil. I stroke its tummy and it lashes out, clawing my hand but it a controlled, gentle way.

'I bloody hate cats!' says Graham.

I turn my back on him, glug back my tea, it's hot but somehow very refreshing in the heat of the afternoon. As I stand I get the mother of all sweaty whiteouts and have to stand still, holding my head until it passes. My hour is up but before I leave I fill a watering can and give the potted rose a good soaking, most of the water runs off the top of the soil and over the surface of the patio.

Carol opens the back door and pops her head out. 'You off now? Oh you've watered Tony.'

'Yes, sorry I just thought it looked dry.'

'No that's fine. Will you come back next week for me, the roses will need deadheading?'

'Yes of course.' I wave goodbye. Graham watches me from behind the wall but I avoid his eyes.