THE GARDENER

THE GARDENER
By Jane Lockyer Willis


Sam looked up at the sky, dark and threatening. Rain was forecast. Should he risk burying it now or wait? But waiting was not an option, or at least it was a risk he dared not take. A quick look over his shoulder and to the right and to the left ensured he was not being watched. Satisfied, he took the spade and plunged it into the moist dank soil. Its colour reminded him of his mother’s chocolate cakes and the little patch of garden she’d given him as a child to sow his seeds: daffodils, pansies and daisies. Now in his mid twenties, Sam was welcomed into his widowed mother’s new flat. She’d cook him lunch whilst regaling her news, parochial and dull, eager to share what little she had. His mother had been relieved and proud when Sam got his first job as a gardener. This she believed was where his destiny lay. A silent young man, in her eyes his strength lay with the nurturing of plants, and the digging of the soil. His employer a fair, old man called Jacob, was kind and wealthy. He’d slip an extra fiver or two each week into Sam’s pay packet; patted him on the back praising him for his sound work. He invited him out for lunch on the odd occasion for company. But Sam dreaded these outings. Was overcome by the formality of etiquette that his mother had never taught him.

‘Don’t use that knife, lad,’ his boss would say.’ It’s the small knife for bread not the large one.’
What did it matter what knife, what fork? Perhaps this was all a part of what his teachers had called, education. Bit by bit Sam learned about wines, and what Jacob referred to as ‘social graces.’ It was then he realised with a start that he would perhaps like to get on; improve himself in all aspects of life. But there was one thing stopping him. Fear. He was afraid of himself; the child he’d been and the man, the stranger that he might become. Yes, he’d developed strong muscles with the digging. Yes, he was handsome with a fine head of black shiny hair and yes, he was remembering to pronounce his aitches, ‘what’ instead of ‘pardon,’ and napkin instead of serviette. But inside he was a different lad, a child laughed at and chastised because he couldn’t do arithmetic, or do up his shoelaces until he was twelve, or read without stumbling over all the words. He’d overheard one of his teachers tell another that he was backward with a low I.Q. This last overwhelmed him so that at night he had nightmares and chewed his nails. Now he wondered about his boss: was unused to so much kindness such benevolence.

It was autumn and Sam, in the orchard, was sweeping and burning the leaves that had fallen from the fruit trees. He looked up and saw Jacob walking towards him, his body stooped, his gait slow and measured.
‘I want to give you something, Sam.’ Jacob’s breathing was coming in small gasps but his smile was broad and warm as he his handed him a long, brown envelope.
‘A present for me?’
‘Yes. A present for you, Sam. I hope you’ll like and accept it.’
Sam wiped his soiled hands on his overall. ‘Shall I open it now?’
‘Yes. Open it now.’
He undid the envelope and drew out a long piece of paper with a lot of type on it.
‘What is it, Jacob?’
‘It’s a document, Sam.’
‘A document?’
‘My will. A copy of my will. The original is with my solicitor in the high street.’
‘What do I want with your will, Jacob?’
‘I’m leaving everything to you, boy.’
Sam stared. ’What did you say?’
‘I want you to inherit my estate when I’m gone.’
‘No!’ Sam shouted. ‘No!’ And his hands shook so much that he dropped the document. But Jacob ignored him telling him that he was ill, had been for some time that he was indeed dying. There were no living relatives and Sam was now his one remaining close friend. The lad was learning fast the ways of the world and would in time, he was sure, familiarize himself with the affairs of his property. Yes, he was to have it all. Inherit the lot!
‘But I don’t want your money or your land. I can’t understand Arithmetic and that. I wouldn’t know what do. I’m not clever like you.’
But Jacob only laughed. ‘You’ll soon learn, lad. And I’ll show you the ropes.’

Sam choked back tears. Didn’t the man understand? He was only what Jacob had made him. He didn’t want this burden. It would act as a reminder, bring up his past, his ignorance. He had at last discovered his strength, his gift for gardening and he was a good gardener at that. This sudden unexpected revelation cemented the truth. This line of work was everything he would ever want or need. But looking at his bosses’ face he realised that there was no point in arguing. The man was resolute, blinded to Sam’s needs seeing only his own. Those frail grey eyes slowly turning away from Sam’s face and into the distance as though looking towards the hereafter.

Slowly Sam placed the envelope into his overall pocket and smiling his thanks turned away from Jacob, picked up his broom and continued sweeping leaves into small piles which he stacked onto one big one before burning them.

And so it was that the next day whilst he thought Jacob was out, Sam took his spade, dug a hole and buried the document. He found a small laurel sapling which he uprooted and planted over the little grave. He then recited The Lords Prayer, turned towards the house, gave a boy scout’s salute, picked up his tools stacked them into his van and drove away.

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c Jane Lockyer Willis