My Garden Story

There have been six, and a couple of lawn mowing franchises. Most were competent, but two have been outstanding, one fairly useless and the others willing, but not very knowledgeable. They weren’t stayers anyway.

I inherited Mert, who was lean and energetic but not a gardener. He was a good handyman, he built me a post and rail fence, mowed the lawn and dug and moved trees. As I had very little idea of what I was doing I was just pleased to have somebody. He stayed about a year, then one day he said he’d been offered a permanent job painting houses in Goulburn, so I wished him luck and off he went.

Next came Warwick. He had short term memory problem. He pruned the fruit trees, and dug edges around the garden beds, but he couldn’t recall what I’d asked him to do. I made lists but it was no use. One day he said he really wasn’t good at working alone and much preferred to be part of a team. He’d been offered a job on a big team working in large gardens, and he left without regrets.

Then there was Daniel, He was English, very young and inexperienced but willing. He didn’t last very long as his wife, who managed a local motel said she needed help when the season got busy, so he left to go and work in the motel.

I advertised in the local paper and Grant appeared in March 2008. My first impression was one of dismay though I tried not to show it.  He was tall, with muddy boots and a dirty old uniform he’d worn when he worked for a council. On his head he wore a strange stocking cap adorned with prayer beads, he was unshaven and laconic, and smelled strongly of cigarettes. B was staying for the weekend, and he did most of the interview. Then we walked around the garden and came to the Teucrium hedge which was looking distinctly poorly. That’s struggling, he said, mind if I dig a bit up and have a look at the roots? Go ahead I said, and he dug a small root and said Just as I thought, its horribly root bound, you could lose the lot. Who planted it? I told him about the landscaper and the one very hot day when three men came and planted everything in a big hurry. He grinned, they do that he said. I asked if it could be saved. Well, he said, you could spread a lot of gypsum around the roots, water it in and hope for the best. I didn’t know what gypsum was. After he left, I asked B what he thought. You should definitely take him on, he said. I was surprised. But he’s a grub, I said. Possibly, said B., but he’s a good man and he knows about gardens. I don’t know how B could tell but I trusted his judgement and hired Grant. It was the best decision I made in the garden.

For months we hardly spoke to each other. I let him get on with the garden and I’d leave a mug of tea for him on the wall. He’d bring the empty to the kitchen door when he collected his wages. Over months he gradually relaxed a bit, and I asked to have his tea in the kitchen with me. Gradually I got to know his story, and it was grim. He was bi-polar and a recovering alcoholic. His overweight wife was diabetic, he had an intellectually disabled daughter and another girl who had finished school and was training as a beautician.  He was the only driver in the family, and the only transport was an elderly truck which often broke down. He drove miles dropping the girls off in the morning before he came to work. At night, he drove a taxi to make ends meet.

During his first year with me, his disabled daughter ran off to Sydney with an intellectually disabled boyfriend. They had a baby, which his mother took over and refused to let Grant or his wife see so Grant took her to court. It was a real mess and upset him very much.

Constantly on the move, Grant would rent a house, and it was during the property boom, so after a year the landlord would say he wanted to renovate and sell, and the family had to move again. Grant would join the queue of rent seekers, but in his work clothes he was seldom at the top of the list. If he did find somewhere the landlord was quick to say he couldn’t have his beloved dog, so it would go and stay with friends in Campbelltown. He often had to store his furniture in my garage between moves, and when his truck broke down I lent him the money to get it fixed.

He gave me things; a bonsai Gingko which I treasure, and a fish-tailed camellia which only bloomed after five years. I I keep in a large tub outside the kitchen.  He was an interesting man, with a distinctly spiritual outlook, which enabled him to cope when his depression hit and he couldn’t get out of bed for days. He knew about plants, and he knew about soil. He had his own agenda and if I asked him to do something he wanted to avoid, Yeah, yeah, I’ll get it sorted, he’d say. But he never did. His favourite thing was weeding. He’d sit on upturned bucket, cigarette dangling, weeding with one hand and while the other held his mobile, talking, usually to his wife who phoned every hour. The garden improved immeasurably under his care.

It was a hot Sunday morning, and he was working alone in an orchard near Mittagong. He got heatstroke, got in his truck around midday to drive home, passed out and went into a tree. He had been with me for six years

There was a memorial for him at the Mittagong RSL and I took white lilies. Several men spoke about his involvement with AA and said what a good and helpful man he was. And he was.

I kept in touch with his wife for a while, then one day she phoned and said they were moving to Sydney.  I do miss him, but I have the gingko and the camellia which I see every day.

Next time the final two. One is still with me and long may he stay.