My Garden Story

Following Grant’s death I was at a loss. I asked around, and a friend said she had someone, but he was proving too expensive.  I rang up and Alan appeared. English, very neat and tidy, and he told me he was a heritage rose expert and had trained at a National Trust garden in England. He had been given a job at Harper’s Mansion in Berrima, A gloomy little National Trust Georgian house and museum, with the most perilous stairs I’ve ever seen, set in a large garden full of heritage roses but he had a falling out with the head gardener and left in a huff. I could see I might have to be a bit careful. He was the complete opposite of Grant and we never established any sort of camaraderie.

Alan wore a uniform of his own design. He would arrive promptly, clothes immaculate and neatly pressed, and would leave three hours later, still immaculate, not a speck of garden visible. I wondered if he changed in the car. The weather was a problem, if a spot of rain fell he went home, and if the temperature climbed above 24 he would retreat into the shade, mopping his brow and complaining. He knew a lot about trees, and his garden maintenance was excellent, but somehow, he added nothing I can now point to and say Alan created that. Actually, that’s not quite right. Alan sold me the magnolia Little Gem that turned out to be a gigantic grandiflora, so he didn’t know that much about trees after all. He lived with a Russian who did something clever in IT in a neat little house in Bowral with quite a creative garden at the back.  He became an Australian citizen and invited me to the ceremony.  There were five of us, another couple he worked for and Taras. Shortly after this. Alan and Taras went to New Zealand on holiday, and, when he returned, he informed me that they were moving to New Zealand and had already bought a property on the South Island. I wished him well and thought no more about him.

I asked around my gardening friends, and one said she had marvellous chap,  but he already had more work than he could handle. I rang him up and he said he’d have a look.

He lived with a Russian who did something clever in IT in a neat little house in Bowral with quite a creative garden at the back.  He became an Australian citizen and invited me to the ceremony.  There were five of us, another couple he worked for and Taras. Shortly after this. Alan and Taras went to New Zealand on holiday, and, when he returned, he informed me that they were moving to New Zealand and had already bought a property on the South Island. I wished him well and thought no more about him.

I asked around my gardening friends, and one said she had marvellous chap but he already had more work than he could handle. I rang him up and he said he’d have a look.

It was the universe who sent me Malcolm, and I bless the day. He said he’d give me two or three hours on a Monday every second week. That was enough for me. Get him here, I thought, that’s the start and see what happens.  He started work and straight away I could tell he was a proper gardener of great experience. He lives locally, so he knows the climate. He mows lawns, trims, weeds, spreads mulch, wields a chain saw, and despite the fact he says he doesn’t go in for “cottage” plants in his garden, he is very good at identifying flowers and taking cuttings. There’s nothing he won’t do except go up a ladder. He is tall and very strong, in his 60s and has a slight heart problem. He is not ‘a cup of tea and chat’ person like Grant was, although they share some characteristics, in fact he told me early on that he never came into the house in case something went missing. I accepted that until one day I absolutely had to move something heavy and asked him to help. He did and said “I knew you’d get me inside eventually Jane” but it was not a ruse, it was a genuine and rather urgent need.

We chat in the garden about all sorts of things, travel, wine and families, and apart from taking holidays without warning, he is a treasure. I can’t do nearly as much as I used to, so apart from deadheading, watering, a bit of weeding, potting up and choosing the plants, Malcolm does the rest.  I have always had problems with rabbits as the garden is not fenced, so gradually we are changing over to rabbit-proof plants, big grasses, iris, alliums, lilies and things like ajuga and hellebores, and, under the influence of Abbie Jury (see article 6)  the whole landscape is changing for the better and will be easier to maintain. Malcolm has had skin cancer and is never with his cap and face mask which hides a luxuriant beard. He also wears long sleeves, headphones and drives a truck and trailer which he uses for the green rubbish he takes away, so the bin is never too heavy for me to haul up to the street.

It was Malcom who suggested there was enough work here for him to come weekly.  I agreed, and as he gradually peels some people off his list, I pray I won’t be one of them any time soon.