I’ve always wanted to try my hand at gardening, see just how good I’d be. My mum was incredible in the garden – her green thumb went all the way up to her elbow. She grew the most delicious vegetables in the village, and her flowers were second-to-none. A not-insubstantial portion of our family’s income was from her annual winnings from the town fete, when she’d take home at least two or three of the top gardening prizes.
I asked her what her secret was once or twice, and she’d just smile at me and not answer. My wife laughed when I told her that story, flustered and flabbergasted each time.
‘What’s so funny?’ I’d asked her, feeling the redness in my face.
‘I think she was telling you her secret!’ my wife smiled, laying a hand on my hot cheek. ‘Patience!’
She was a patient woman, too, my mother. She never raised her voice during my childhood, not once, not even when my sister and I accidentally drove our billy cart through her miniature roses – although it did go out with the hard rubbish the next day.
Naturally, I’ve tried to grow my own little veggie patch out the back of my yard, but I can never get them to produce quite as well as I’d like. The cucumbers are always small and watery, and my tomatoes are smaller than some strawberries I’ve seen my mum harvest in the summer.
But I try to be patient – that’s the secret, after all. At least, I think it’s the secret. She never did answer me (although I did convince her to give me her tips for growing hippeastrum bulbs as a Christmas present a few years ago).
My mum died half a year back – it wasn’t sudden, but it wasn’t drawn out either. She passed just like she lived: gently, with no great fuss.
I visit her plot on the hillside every week, to make sure it’s tidy and looked after. It’s what she would have wanted, I think. And it’s the funniest thing – her grave is absolutely covered with flowers.