recounted the story to Eric over their morning cuppa, Eric had said, âIt sounds like His Lordship is hiding something,â and the name stuck.
Francesca moves into Gwenâs line of sight. She is wearing a straw bonnet that makes her look like Caroline Ingalls from Little House on the Prairie . Wielding secateurs as if she has two left hands, she is cutting branches from the Camellia japonica in the centre bed and throwing the broken limbs into a barrow. âI think this is the perfect spot for a lemon tree, Brandy,â Gwen hears her call.
Not unless you cut everything else down first, Gwen thinks. Lemons need light. Canât they see the giant flowering gum in the neighbourâs yard?
The twins race around the garden beds on their glider bikes, spraying white gravel everywhere. Babs used to rake that gravel. âI find it meditative,â sheâd say, shaping curved lines with the tines around the meandering path. She might not have liked getting her hands dirty but Babs did have an eye for aesthetic detail.
And the toddler, Marigold, has strayed over the border and is plucking alliums from under the crab apples.
âHey, stop that,â Gwen yells, hastening from the shadows to where the little girl merrily destroys the display. âDonât pull the plants out, dear, youâll ruin my garden. Go and see if you can help Mummy and Daddy.â
The little girl stares at Gwen clutching her flowers to her chest, her eyes widening as she decides whether to cry.
Francesca appears, her smile demure beneath her bonnet, resting her hand on her daughterâs shoulder. âSheâs all right, Mrs Hill. Sheâs only trying to help, arenât you, Goldie?â
The little girl squats on her haunches and digs in the earth, exposing the white flesh of the allium bulbs. Francesca smiles benignly at her but Gwen canât help herself. âNow, Marigold, thatâs enough of that. Leave the poor plants alone.â
Francesca takes Marigoldâs hand and whispers in her ear, pointing at His Lordship. Marigold smiles and skips over to her father who is stacking branches of buddleja in the green bin.
When Francesca straightens, Gwen notices that the young woman has invested in a gardening smock with pale pink and blue stripes, high collar and elasticised pockets. She removes a pair of ladiesâ split palm leather gardening gloves with a striped cuff that match her shirt. Gwen knows the brand, they advertise in the magazine every issue, marketing themselves with some nonsense about being essential gardening apparel.
âIâve been meaning to ask you about these trees,â Francesca says, pointing to the row of crab apples.
Gwen follows the line, admiring the trees that, at this time of year, without their leaves, add a sculptured element to the drive. The rounded canopies, the squared box hedges at their base, the alliumsâ bobbing heads poking over the top, create a delightful study in form and texture.
She smiles at her neighbour, knowing Francesca will probably ask, as so many have, how many years it took Gwen to create the rounded foliage, the square hedges, the bobbing under feature. Did she have to prune them regularly to keep them rounded? How inspirational to create such a marvellous garden feature!
âYou know theyâre on our land?â Francesca smiles sweetly.
âPardon, dear?â Gwen must have misheard.
âThose trees are on our land. Iâve checked and they encroach over our boundary a good fifteen centimetres.â
Gwen stares at her. Of course they straddle the border, that was the intention. One day, the four of them â she and Eric, Rohan and Babs â had sat down and discussed it, as good neighbours did. It was not long after the Modys had moved into number 18. Gwen had invited them over, to introduce themselves properly, for a cuppa and a slice of sponge cake.
They had completed a tour of the Hillsâ backyard and
Francesca moves into Gwenâs line of sight. She is wearing a straw bonnet that makes her look like Caroline Ingalls from Little House on the Prairie . Wielding secateurs as if she has two left hands, she is cutting branches from the Camellia japonica in the centre bed and throwing the broken limbs into a barrow. âI think this is the perfect spot for a lemon tree, Brandy,â Gwen hears her call.
Not unless you cut everything else down first, Gwen thinks. Lemons need light. Canât they see the giant flowering gum in the neighbourâs yard?
The twins race around the garden beds on their glider bikes, spraying white gravel everywhere. Babs used to rake that gravel. âI find it meditative,â sheâd say, shaping curved lines with the tines around the meandering path. She might not have liked getting her hands dirty but Babs did have an eye for aesthetic detail.
And the toddler, Marigold, has strayed over the border and is plucking alliums from under the crab apples.
âHey, stop that,â Gwen yells, hastening from the shadows to where the little girl merrily destroys the display. âDonât pull the plants out, dear, youâll ruin my garden. Go and see if you can help Mummy and Daddy.â
The little girl stares at Gwen clutching her flowers to her chest, her eyes widening as she decides whether to cry.
Francesca appears, her smile demure beneath her bonnet, resting her hand on her daughterâs shoulder. âSheâs all right, Mrs Hill. Sheâs only trying to help, arenât you, Goldie?â
The little girl squats on her haunches and digs in the earth, exposing the white flesh of the allium bulbs. Francesca smiles benignly at her but Gwen canât help herself. âNow, Marigold, thatâs enough of that. Leave the poor plants alone.â
Francesca takes Marigoldâs hand and whispers in her ear, pointing at His Lordship. Marigold smiles and skips over to her father who is stacking branches of buddleja in the green bin.
When Francesca straightens, Gwen notices that the young woman has invested in a gardening smock with pale pink and blue stripes, high collar and elasticised pockets. She removes a pair of ladiesâ split palm leather gardening gloves with a striped cuff that match her shirt. Gwen knows the brand, they advertise in the magazine every issue, marketing themselves with some nonsense about being essential gardening apparel.
âIâve been meaning to ask you about these trees,â Francesca says, pointing to the row of crab apples.
Gwen follows the line, admiring the trees that, at this time of year, without their leaves, add a sculptured element to the drive. The rounded canopies, the squared box hedges at their base, the alliumsâ bobbing heads poking over the top, create a delightful study in form and texture.
She smiles at her neighbour, knowing Francesca will probably ask, as so many have, how many years it took Gwen to create the rounded foliage, the square hedges, the bobbing under feature. Did she have to prune them regularly to keep them rounded? How inspirational to create such a marvellous garden feature!
âYou know theyâre on our land?â Francesca smiles sweetly.
âPardon, dear?â Gwen must have misheard.
âThose trees are on our land. Iâve checked and they encroach over our boundary a good fifteen centimetres.â
Gwen stares at her. Of course they straddle the border, that was the intention. One day, the four of them â she and Eric, Rohan and Babs â had sat down and discussed it, as good neighbours did. It was not long after the Modys had moved into number 18. Gwen had invited them over, to introduce themselves properly, for a cuppa and a slice of sponge cake.
They had completed a tour of the Hillsâ backyard and
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