The Horticulturalist

As dawn breaks groggily over Mildred’s small shop, she stumbles down the rickety staircase, grabbing the stone wall and staring around blearily. She blinks, pushes a long, wispy lock of grey hair out of her face, and adjusts her hat. She is looking for a guilty party.

The shop is still, and just how she left it. The old, clunky till, the long, wooden counter, the heavy brass bell above the door. The scattered tables and stands and shelves crammed to bursting with plants of every breed, every size, every shade of green and yellow and red, every texture of leaf, hanging, climbing, draping. Light pours in from the huge glass window, bathing it all in gold. It glints off suspicious flashes of red in between leaves and behind pots.

Somebody is guilty.

Mildred pushes her way past the tendrils of a Devil’s Ivy.

‘Come on, then,’ she croaks, ‘out with it. Who was it?’

There is silence, broken only by quiet rustling and if she listens closely, the small “clink” of porcelain knocking against plant pots.

‘Another night like that and you all are going to the tip, do you hear?’

A small, shiny face pokes out from behind a Peace Lily. A garden gnome, red hat atop his head, rosy cheeks, and an accusing finger pointing across the room.

‘It was him,’ the gnome says. ‘I told him, told him over and over, Mildred does not care for karaoke, not one bit and if you wake her, she will more than likely—’

‘It ruddy wasn’t,’ says the accused, another gnome coming tumbling out of a fern. ‘She hates cell phones, not karaoke. Anyway, it was your idea, and you know it. It’s always your idea, I don’t even like karaoke.’

This draws sarcastic snorts from around the room as more gnomes surface and begin bickering over who the bigger fan of karaoke is and who is the biggest snitch. Someone calls someone else a brown-noser, someone else calls them tone deaf, and then a handful of compost is thrown, and a small riot begins.

Mildred sighs and rubs her ancient face. This is how every day starts and usually ends too. Wrangling a bunch of un-wrangle-able vagabonds and trying to run a shop in the process. Mildred is a revered spellbinder, a renowned witch doctor, a sorceress some might say. She hadn’t heard it said yet, admittedly, but she could be. Yet, a bigger portion of her day than she cares to admit is spent trying to stop these things killing each other or generally setting fire to the shop by accident.

‘I’ve had just about enough of you lot,’ Mildred says, confiscating a large trowel off one gnome who is trying to batter another over the shiny red hat. ‘Can’t you give it a rest for just one minute? I haven’t even had my tea yet.’

‘Your Fiddle Leaf needs misting,’ a gnome on her counter says.

‘Excuse me, I am the shop keeper, I will say when the Fiddle Leaf needs misting, thank you.’

‘Shop keeper?’ he scoffs, ‘I am a gnome, who knows more about plants than me?’

‘I am a horticulturalist,’ says Mildred, ‘I do.’

The gnome hoots with laugher. Horticulturalist my boot! You just made that up, that’s not even a word.’

‘It’s a word, I heard it somewhere.’

Mildred is sure she has heard it somewhere. Quite sure. Or was she confusing it with the name for that medical condition that brings you out in blisters? She saunters off with her old feather duster to attend to some of the display shelves. Her little shop doesn’t just sell plants. There is a small section of goods to entice even the pickiest of customer. Books, candles, packets of hand-picked herbal teas for all kinds of ailment, jars of marmalade with a special little kick.

But best of all, her little shelf of ornaments. These are some of her best works, little figures of people, all different kinds, tall and short, old and young. All with their own identity, each different from the last. A business man in a suit talking into a cell phone, a bailiff, a charity worker, a parking inspector. One figure has a frightening resemblance to Mildred’s third husband, actually. The smallest figure of all is a young, skinny boy who balances a football under one foot, quite the work of art, Mildred thinks.

She is still deep in thought, dragging an old feather duster over the ornaments when the heavy bell above the door clangs.

The couple that crowd themselves through Mildred’s doorway make her stop in her tracks. She holds her duster mid-air, frozen, her eyes flicking between the couple and the nearest gnome, who has also frozen in place. This is unfortunate for the gnome, who was about to jump from one small table to the next and now is left balancing on one leg precariously close to a certain, smashing death.

This is not her usual clientele. Her usual clientele are locals, simple folk, easy folk, hard-working, honest, and most importantly, tolerant of… how should she put it? Of her eccentricities. In other words, she helps them out, they don’t burn her at the stake. A nice, simple, functional relationship. This couple is not local, not by a long shot. The lady is dressed in a bright sun dress and clutches an oversized straw hat, huge sunglasses cover her face and make her look like a grasshopper on holiday. The man behind her is huge, in length and breadth, a jolly Hawaiian shirt straining to contain his vast torso. The man’s bald head seems to have had a recent encounter with the sun, and is blazing red.

‘Oh, Stan,’ the lady drawls, staring around in wonder, ‘isn’t this the cutest? Didn’t I say this shop was the cutest from outside? I said that didn’t I! This shop is just the cutest!’ she addresses the last part to Mildred herself, who clutches her feather duster in fright.

‘Nice masonry,’ the man says. ‘Original build, is it?’ He knocks on the craggy bricks to check and draws his fist back when he realises it is, in fact, solid stone. ‘Well, go on then, dear,’ the man instructs his wife while looking at his watch, ‘get whatever trinkets you like, we’ve got half an hour.’

The man clasps his meaty hands behind his back and turns his attention to the roof now, squinting at the ancient wooden beams and the flaking plaster. Mildred considers her options. She watches the lady gaze around the shop in delight making high pitched noises, touching leaves and admiring the blooms. Mildred really shouldn’t serve out-of-towners. The last thing this town needs is tourists, nosy people clogging up their small streets and asking questions about her special merchandise. The man turns, examining the door frame now, and Mildred catches sight of a bulging wallet in his back pocket.

Still, a sale is a sale, Mildred reasons.

‘Welcome,’ she beams, throwing her feather duster behind her and bursting into action. ‘Welcome to our humble town, and my even more humble little shop!’

‘Yes, what is this,’ the man says, ‘some kind of… garden centre, is it?’

Mildred has managed to fasten some kind of grin on her face in the hope she comes across friendly and not mad. She tries to think off a safe answer but fails, and instead says, ‘Yes, a garden centre! Of course!’

‘Ah, then you must be like a horticulturalist!’ says the woman. Mildred shoots daggers at the gnome on her counter who has made a small choking sound.

‘Exactly. Have a look around, my dear, browse the shelves, we have ornaments, candles, books. Go ahead! Look at anything you like— NOT THOSE ONES!’

The lady shrieks and draws her hand back from the set of potion books she had been reaching for. Mildred clears her throat.

‘Not those ones, dear, those are… French.’

‘Oh, how quaint, did you hear that, Stan? They got French!’

Mildred retreats to her counter and surveys the strangers across the room. Maybe she can just sell them a plant and send them on their way, no damage done. It’s not like they are a whole bus full of tourists. They are just one couple.

‘This is a bad idea,’ the gnome by her elbow murmurs. ‘You could be using your time misting that Fiddle Leaf Fig who is in dire need of a drink, rather than entertaining dangerous folk like that, folk that don’t understand us.’

‘The only thing dangerous around here,’ Mildred hisses back, ‘is your vast misunderstanding of vegetation. Figs don’t like to be too wet, you’d rot it given your way. Mind your business or I’ll sell you to the tourists.’

‘You wouldn’t.’

The shop bell clangs again and Mr Greggory comes in from the paddock at the top of the hill. He strides straight up to the counter, knocking his head on every hanging basket on the way and getting tangled in a Chain of Hearts, which he bats away like a bead curtain.

‘Mildred Thicket,’ he booms. ‘This is getting very long in the tooth.’

Mildred flaps her hands and widens her eyes in warning, gesturing at the holiday makers. ‘Mr Greggory!’ she trilled loudly over his shoulder, ‘More compost, is it?’

Mildred checks the travellers are busy browsing the shelves, leans over the counter, grabs Mr Greggory by the collar and draws him close. ‘What’s the problem?’

He hushes his voice. ‘Where is he?’

‘Who?’

‘You’re not funny, Mildred. My farmhand, Eric. He’s only bloody eight, what’s the matter with you?’

‘He came in here with a football,’ says Mildred. ‘A football. Do you know how much damage a stray ball could do in here? That Monstera alone is over twenty-five years old!’

‘Just hand him over.’

Mildred rolls her eyes and gestures toward her beloved ornament shelf, where Mr Greggory strides and snatches the small figure with the football, slipping him in his deep pocket. ‘I’ve lost bloody half a day’s work, this better have worn off by lunch.’

‘Is there anything I can help you with, my dear?’ she asks the grasshopper lady as Mr Greggory stomps back out of the shop.

‘Oh, how sweet! Stan, isn’t this lady sweet? I’m looking for a gift for my neighbour, she’s watching the cat while we’re away. Dear old thing, she’s eighteen, you know, would you believe that? The cat, not the neighbour,’ the lady lets out such a sudden, high-pitched laugh that Mildred gets a fright and knocks a gnome with her elbow, narrowly missing chipping his round nose.

‘What about a beautiful Monstera,’ Mildred gestures at the huge specimen, who has grown so large its pot sits on the ground rather than on a stand, its leaves reaching out toward the skylight. The lady gasps in awe, tugging an uninterested Stan on the Hawaiian sleeve.

‘How would we get that on a bus, dear?’ he says.

‘On the what?’ asks Mildred.

‘Something smaller, perhaps,’ says the grasshopper lady, ‘What about… well now, what are these funny little things?’

The lady has picked up a gnome, and as she rotates it in her hands to look at the back, it faces Mildred and mouths the word ‘NO,’ as it bares its teeth.

‘Oh, good heavens no,’ says Mildred, ‘you don’t want one of those, not nice fancy folk like you.’

‘How sweet it is, Stan, have you ever seen anything so sweet? Stan. Stanley!’

‘Yes, yes. Very,’ says Stan, checking his watch again.

‘I mean look at his little face, it’s ugly as hell but in a sweet kind of—’ The lady lets out a shriek and drops the gnome, who lands in the pot of the Peace Lily.

‘Ow,’ she says, sucking on her finger.

‘Yes, you see, there are some sharp edges. Hand made, you know. What about a lovely Spider Plant? A Cyclamen, look at these lovely red flowers. How about a Dracaena Massangena? Isn’t it pretty?’

‘Very pretty. But what are these little ornaments up here?’ she has made her way over to the shelf and is running her fingers over the figures. ‘Stan, look, this one has a cell phone, how funny!’

‘Hm,’ Mildred says. She really does hate cell phones.

‘Come on, dear,’ says the man, shoving his watch in her face, ‘pick one and let’s go or the bus will leave without us.’

‘The what?’ says Mildred.

‘The tour bus,’ says the lady. ‘Such a great idea, just wait ‘till we get home and tell all our friends how sweet this little place is! You’ll have another bus load in town before you know it!’

‘Told you,’ hisses the gnome on the counter.

A tour bus? Mildred rather thinks not.

Mildred finally does get her cup of tea that afternoon, and not a moment too soon, it has been an eventful day, something she is much too old for. She sets her empty cup on the counter and then gets back to her dusting. She goes over the ornaments again, because you can never be too shop proud, that’s what Mildred thinks. She moves all the pieces up little, to fill the gap left by the little farm hand. It makes room at the end for two new ornaments, one broad-chested man in a Hawaiian shirt, and a slight lady with big sunglasses that give her the impression of a grasshopper on holiday.

Peace at last. Mildred reaches under the counter and gets out her spray bottle. The fiddle leaf really could use a mist.