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Authors: Marty Wingate
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the corner plantings. “I put seven in each bed to get that repetition of color and form—and to be a bit different from box balls.”
Orlando snorted. Pru arched an eyebrow. “Boxwood,” Pru said. “Boxwood that is sheared into round forms. Box balls.”
“Yes, Aunt Pru,” he replied, coloring. He pointed to a mound in the back corner. “That one looks a bit greener than the rest.”
Simon squinted at the form. “Right—that one is a box. One of the hebes looked peaky—too much shade back there—so I took it out and put in a box instead. That makes six hebes in this section, and one box.”
“There’re only four now,” Orlando said. “Four of the gray ones.”
Pru glanced at Simon out of the corner of her eye. She didn’t like to challenge him so early in the morning; it only led to bickering, followed by a row. But Simon didn’t seem to mind.
“I’ll just check,” he said and began flipping through a bound black notebook. Its corners were worn through to cardboard, and its wrinkled and spotted pages were filled with penciled scribbles, lists, drawings smeared with soil, and the occasional plant tag or magazine photo taped down. “Must be in one of the others. Orlando, nip back to the shed and bring back the next book on top of the stack.”
“Good, well-drained soil here for hebes,” Pru said to Simon, while they waited for Orlando to return.
“It is that,” her brother replied. “This whole area used to be a graveled yard.”
“I saw that on an old map Christopher has. It had an
X
marked right in the center,” she said, pointing without thought to the center of the circle where, set off by a small ring of boxwood surrounded by the Celtic knot, stood a half-dead tree. Pru averted her eyes. This was a sore subject with Simon.
He had noticed her gaze. “Orlando,” he said, as the boy returned and handed over another worn journal, “bring me a long-handled spade from the shed. It’s time we had that out.” Orlando scampered off, and Simon approached the small tree. Pru followed.
The silver foliage of the weeping willowleaf pear had started losing its leaves in August. Simon had planted it seven years earlier in honor of Harry and Vernona Wilson’s fortieth wedding anniversary, and it had never grown more than a foot in all that time.
“I amended the soil in the tree pit, but could be there’s more gravel below than I thought.” Simon studied the ground as if trying to see through to the tree’s roots.
“You really shouldn’t amend the soil when you plant a tree,” Pru said. “The roots can end up just circling the hole, never getting out into the native soil. They don’t establish well.”
Simon flipped through the notebook and sent a plant tag flying off the page. “I know how to plant a tree,” he said, not looking at Pru.
Pru pushed on through the yellow caution light. “All I’m saying is that if you want to replant—maybe something else would be better. What if there’s root rot?”
“That’s unlikely, as the soil is so fast-draining.”
“Do you have a website for the garden?” Their heads turned. Orlando had appeared with a spade and a timely distraction.
“Why would we need a website?” Simon asked, jabbing at a page in the second book. “There, planted four years ago spring.
Hebe topiaria
—ah, I see now, it was five of them first planted after all.”
“You could keep track of all the plants in the garden—what dies and what doesn’t. And won’t the magazine people want to know things before they arrive? Where to go to see the…” He nodded toward a mounded plant that sported a final blue flower.
“Asters,” Pru said, imagining the parterre through the eyes of a professional photographer and feeling that familiar stab of panic.
“They can ask us—they don’t need to look at a computer,” Simon replied.
“What if you can’t find it in your books?” Orlando asked. “You could…” He caught sight of Simon’s glare and his
Orlando snorted. Pru arched an eyebrow. “Boxwood,” Pru said. “Boxwood that is sheared into round forms. Box balls.”
“Yes, Aunt Pru,” he replied, coloring. He pointed to a mound in the back corner. “That one looks a bit greener than the rest.”
Simon squinted at the form. “Right—that one is a box. One of the hebes looked peaky—too much shade back there—so I took it out and put in a box instead. That makes six hebes in this section, and one box.”
“There’re only four now,” Orlando said. “Four of the gray ones.”
Pru glanced at Simon out of the corner of her eye. She didn’t like to challenge him so early in the morning; it only led to bickering, followed by a row. But Simon didn’t seem to mind.
“I’ll just check,” he said and began flipping through a bound black notebook. Its corners were worn through to cardboard, and its wrinkled and spotted pages were filled with penciled scribbles, lists, drawings smeared with soil, and the occasional plant tag or magazine photo taped down. “Must be in one of the others. Orlando, nip back to the shed and bring back the next book on top of the stack.”
“Good, well-drained soil here for hebes,” Pru said to Simon, while they waited for Orlando to return.
“It is that,” her brother replied. “This whole area used to be a graveled yard.”
“I saw that on an old map Christopher has. It had an
X
marked right in the center,” she said, pointing without thought to the center of the circle where, set off by a small ring of boxwood surrounded by the Celtic knot, stood a half-dead tree. Pru averted her eyes. This was a sore subject with Simon.
He had noticed her gaze. “Orlando,” he said, as the boy returned and handed over another worn journal, “bring me a long-handled spade from the shed. It’s time we had that out.” Orlando scampered off, and Simon approached the small tree. Pru followed.
The silver foliage of the weeping willowleaf pear had started losing its leaves in August. Simon had planted it seven years earlier in honor of Harry and Vernona Wilson’s fortieth wedding anniversary, and it had never grown more than a foot in all that time.
“I amended the soil in the tree pit, but could be there’s more gravel below than I thought.” Simon studied the ground as if trying to see through to the tree’s roots.
“You really shouldn’t amend the soil when you plant a tree,” Pru said. “The roots can end up just circling the hole, never getting out into the native soil. They don’t establish well.”
Simon flipped through the notebook and sent a plant tag flying off the page. “I know how to plant a tree,” he said, not looking at Pru.
Pru pushed on through the yellow caution light. “All I’m saying is that if you want to replant—maybe something else would be better. What if there’s root rot?”
“That’s unlikely, as the soil is so fast-draining.”
“Do you have a website for the garden?” Their heads turned. Orlando had appeared with a spade and a timely distraction.
“Why would we need a website?” Simon asked, jabbing at a page in the second book. “There, planted four years ago spring.
Hebe topiaria
—ah, I see now, it was five of them first planted after all.”
“You could keep track of all the plants in the garden—what dies and what doesn’t. And won’t the magazine people want to know things before they arrive? Where to go to see the…” He nodded toward a mounded plant that sported a final blue flower.
“Asters,” Pru said, imagining the parterre through the eyes of a professional photographer and feeling that familiar stab of panic.
“They can ask us—they don’t need to look at a computer,” Simon replied.
“What if you can’t find it in your books?” Orlando asked. “You could…” He caught sight of Simon’s glare and his
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