Prologue.
"I dreamed that, as I wandered by the way, Bare Winter suddenly was changed to Spring."
(Shelley "The Question")
Chapter 1. The Gardener in Autumn.
Following in the footsteps of my father I became a gardener at a very fortuitous time. With the use of ever more sophisticated equipment on the farms round our village employment prospects on the farms and in the support services in the village declined. This led to many of the inhabitants leaving the village to find work elsewhere.
Then a sort of reverse process set in. People who had made money in the city started to buy the vacated cottages and houses and use them as places to "get away from it all."
I must say that our village at least looked like a place to "get away from it." Built on a gentle slope that formed one side of a valley, as you approached it along the road that ran along the ridge of the other slope it looked a real picture postcard place, especially when the road dipped down into the valley and you crossed an old stone bridge and entered the village.
These newcomers rarely lived permanently in the village. They would arrive at weekends and at holidays times, but always went back to wherever it was they made their money. They had the old places modernised and in the process of modernising they wanted their gardens to be kept in order. That was where I came in. The newcomers had idealised and romantic views about village life. What they really craved was a cottage garden; a desire I was able to fulfil very easily.
I kept my prices reasonable and made a point of being polite, pleasant and helpful with the customers, doing what I could to gain their confidence. This was important because in time, and as the cottage or house was often uninhabited for weeks and even months at a time, they asked me to "keep and eye on the place." A couple of them even went so far as to give me a key so that I could let myself into the house to check up that all was well.
Most of these people were a bit pretentious; always yacking about the latest book they'd read, what was around in the world of art, theatre and so on. A lot of what they said was la-di-dah nonsense, but I was often able to surprise them. I enjoyed reading and had got through quite a lot of literature in my time.
Of course they thought a gardener should be an ignorant clod and without ruffling their toffee-nosed feathers, if you'll pardon my mixed metaphor, I would let slip something about the latest book I was reading. That seemed to surprise and impress them.
In addition I'd worked on getting rid of my country accent and taught myself– as my mother put it – to "talk proper." After all, most of these nouveau riche had pasted a fancy accent over an original regional accent. At times it was amusing because if they got annoyed or excited the old accent would come peeping through.
I was about twenty five when dad got an offer that he couldn't resist. He really did know his business, but as he was starting to suffer from arthritis when he was offered a job as what was rather flamboyantly called "A horticultural consultant" – that meant telling people what to plant and not plant – he took it. The trouble was that it meant leaving the village and going to live in the county town, and that left me with the cottage.
Mum and dad had never owned the cottage so it was a matter of paying rent. I'd got a nice comfortable business going, but not wanting to keep paying rent I decided I wouldn't stay in the cottage. I bought a second-hand caravan and parked it in the local caravan park at much lower cost. The park had good facilities and was only very busy for a few months of the year, mainly in the summer.
I suppose I was a bit of an anachronism being a young guy and still living in the village. Most of the young people left for the city to get work, and that included the girls. Had it been around two or three decades back I would probably, like most of the village lads then, have got one of the local girls pregnant and married her. As it was, and having no desire to get married anyway, I had to look elsewhere for my gratification, and that wasn't really hard to get as long as I wasn't too particular about age.
My main source of supply was a widow in her fifties. She was one of only a couple of the older residents whom I gardened for. I'd known her since I was a kid, and it only took a few exchanges of compliments to admit me to her bed.
These exchanges went something like this -
Her: "I don't understand why a nice looking and pleasant young fellow like you is still living in this place."
Me: "I like it here and I've got plenty of work, and anyway, I don't understand why a handsome woman like you hasn't remarried."
That brought a flush of pleasure to her face and the protest, "Oh, I don't look all that good." Of course I was supposed to contradict that, and I did, promptly.
In fact she didn't look too bad in a motherly sort of way and it didn't take long for me to be climbing into her bed. She was a fortunate choice because she not only knew how to please a man, but she taught me how to please a woman.
There were a few others but these were the wives of the newcomers. I played it smart and never went for the young ones; I stuck to the forty pluses. Some of these women would spend a bit of time in their "country residence" without their husbands, and it was surprising how ruttish some of them were, and with husbands busy making money in the city they needed a bit of servicing.
The widow had given me some good training and I thought I knew how to get on side with women, especially the older ones who were growing uncertain about their attractions. Being polite and helpful quickly got me into their favour; then a few carefully phrased and not too obvious compliments sooner or later had them opening their legs for me.
I think that a lot of them had read "Lady Chatterley's Lover" and fancied what they thought of as "a bit of rough." I don't think I was particularly rough – except with those who asked me to hurt them – but I always made sure I left them well satisfied and wanting more.
Some of them wanted to give me money, usually by way of offering to pay a bit more for the gardening and odd jobs I did for them, but I always said no to this. That way they felt that I really did think they were attractive and that when I said they were beautiful I meant it. Refusing the money also meant I didn't feel like a gigolo, but there were fringe benefits like drinks, meals and nights spent in comfortable beds instead of the bunk in my old caravan.
Chapter 2. Meeting Mrs. Copper.
One day I was working in Miss Libby's garden. She was an old resident and had been one of our school teachers. She was in her seventies and I looked after her garden at a cut rate.
Next door was a place called "Green Lane Cottage." The previous owner had recently sold it. It had originally been two semi-detached cottages that had been made into one and been expensively modernised. From what I heard his business had gone bankrupt and he'd had to sell the place.
One thing he hadn't got around to dealing with was the garden. He had never employed me or anyone else to look after the garden, and it was a shambles of weeds, overgrown hedges, unpruned fruit trees and the litter of several autumns left lying around.
The place had been sold complete with furniture but no one knew who the new owner was. Then as I was pottering around Miss Libby's place I saw a car pull up outside Green Lane Cottage. A woman got out and even at a distance her stance gave the impression of someone who was weary.
She stood looking at the cottage for a minute or so, and then opened the boot of the car and started with some difficulty to drag out suitcases.
Always on the lookout for some extra work, and given the state of the garden, I thought there might be a bit of business in it for me, so I approached her and said "Good morning."
She looked at me, I thought a bit suspiciously, and said cautiously, "Good morning."
The weariness I had detected at a distance was confirmed when close up. She looked somewhat fragile, her face very pale, haggard and drawn. She appeared to be in her mid thirties to early forties but I could see by the fine bone structure of her face that she must have been a good looking woman when younger.
Her figure was potentially good, but her drooping posture spoilt it. She was a brunette and her hair was long but had a lacklustre and unkempt appearance. Her dark brown eyes must have once been her best facial feature, but now they had a beaten look and dark blotches underneath them added to her general appearance of fatigue.
"She's been ill," I thought, "Something or someone has given her a bad time."
She asked rather defensively, "Is there something you want?"
"No...no, I replied; I was working in the garden next door and I saw you pull up, so I thought I'd come across and introduce myself. "I'm Edward Morris and I'm one of the older residents here." Indicating the cottage I asked, "You're the new owner?"
"Yes."
"Then welcome to the village. I noticed you lifting those suitcases; they look rather heavy, can I give you a hand?"
"I don't think..." she started to say, but I butted in.
"It's okay; I'll just carry them as far as the front door. We all help each other out around here."
"You live next door?" she asked.
I smiled and said, "No, I was just working in the garden; that's what I do, I'm a gardener. Come on, let me help you."
She stared at me searchingly for a few moments, as if trying to make up her mind if I was going to mug her. I smiled back at her, and then she said, "Well thank you, I do find them a bit heavy. By the way, I'm Nicola Copper."
She extended her hand to me and having noticed wedding and engagement rings on her left hand; I shook hands with her and said, "Pleased to meet you Mrs. Copper, I'm Edward Morris."
I grabbed a couple of suitcases and as she went to take another one from the car boot I said, "No, leave it to me, I'll carry your stuff up to the door; you just go and open up."
She made no objection and I followed her up the path to the cottage. I left her to open the door and returning to the car I brought another suitcase and a large cardboard box. With what was in the boot and on the back seat of the car it took several trips to carry all her stuff, and it was on the second trip when standing just inside the door she said, "This is silly, why don't you bring it straight in instead of leaving it outside?"
"Happy to, Mrs. Copper," I said cheerfully and went in.
The place had been unused for some time and it had a damp cold feel about it. "Needs the fire lighting I said, would you like me to do it when I've finished bringing your things in?"
"Would you?" she asked, "I don't want to impose, but I've never had to light an open fire."
"Ah, used to electric fires are you?"
"Gas actually."
"I'll get it going as soon as I've finished the carrying."
A couple more trips and everything was in. I went out the back of the cottage and found some remnants of fuel and carrying in some bark for kindling I got the fire started. It was one of those modern affairs with a hood over it and it was no difficulty getting it going. Actually most of the old inhabitants had gas or electric fires, but the newcomers liked to have log fires; they thought it was very rural. This meant that our local fuel merchant could grossly overcharge.
Having made a reasonable start with Mrs. Copper I decided I wouldn't push my luck, so I said, 'Well, if there's nothing more I can do for you, I'd better get back to work."
She started to fumble in her handbag saying, "I'd like to give you something for your trouble."
"Good heavens no, Mrs. Copper, I just happened to see you arrive and thought I'd introduce myself and give you a bit of a hand. I wouldn't dream of letting you pay me."
"Well, in that case, thank you very much Mr. Morris, you've been most kind."
