The Joys of Gardening.

by Kate R | Uncategorized | 0 comments

         Miss Marguerite turned over the sod in the patch of her garden she had marked out for her new flower bed, all the time singing that famous tune from Frozen, “Let it Go “which she had adopted as her new mantra, following news of the mini reshuffle which had just taken place in Coven headquarters.

       As you might know, Miss Marguerite, a keen party member, yearned for a call up to the front bench, and when she heard that a vacancy was imminent following an unexpected resignation, she felt sure that her time had come to shine at last.    For ages now she had watched as her arch rival Miss Helena had secured promotion after promotion and made a pig’s ear of every department she went to. There aren’t many people who have the gift of failing upwards,  but Miss Helena seemed to manage it.  Miss Marguerite marvelled at her uncanny ability to manage it.    She just went from department to department shedding voters with her every pronouncement.    Miss Marguerite’s  teeth were on edge every time she saw her appear on T.V. With her lovely blond locks ( not quite Holly Cairns lovely, admittedly), but then she would open her mouth and demonstrate that those pretty locks covered a pretty empty head.  

“Surely, surely the Council can see at this stage that a change of personnel on the front bench is needed,” muttered Miss Marguerite as she turned on the TV and that’s when she heard that the upwardly failing nepo-baby had scored yet again.  Foreign Affairs this time!  And that’s when she took out her shovel to do some digging in her garden as she sang along to the famous song “Let it Go”, but she didn’t really know if she could.

     After about thirty minutes of sweaty work which left her red faced and panting, she felt spent as she came to terms with the realisation that she was passed over yet again and she was probably never going to get her chance to display her political talent to the nation. She felt ready to forgive the dear leader and Miss Helena, his acolyte and faithful follower. When suddenly her eye was caught by that gorgeous blue flower nestled beneath the oak tree in the boundary ditch.  She approached carefully, yes, it was! Monk’s Hood, that most beautiful, but poisonous plant was flourishing right here in her garden.  This raised possibilities in her mind that she hadn’t previously considered.  Maybe she was being too impetuous in her “forgive and forget” approach.  

     In the twinkling of an eye, Miss Marguerite slipped on a pair of gloves and carefully dug up a good clump of Monk’s Hood and headed indoors to look up suitable recipes as she sang “Morning has broken, like the first morning.” 

     I’ll let you know what happens next.

     So Miss Marguerite consulted recipe books, but no matter how many she looked at,  she found nothing featuring Monk’s Hood that wouldn’t land her in Limerick prison for a very long time.  They would all make her more notorious than the Australian mushroom poisoner.  So, with a heavy heart, she decided to replant the clump of beautiful blue flowers back where she found them.

    And while she was doing so she spotted old Miss Jemima over the boundary ditch working in her old tunnel which had  rotting doors falling off their hinges.  Little old fat Miss Jemima was a source of endless amusement at coven meetings when she turned up with her hat askew and talk of ancient remedies that no one would dream of using nowadays.  “The very woman,” thought Miss Marguerite as she “Yoohoo-ed” her across the ditch, but she got no response. “Darn it, but she has got much deafer lately, lets hope she is not “trine cheile”  or even seafoideach as well!” She thought, as she made her way across the grass to where Miss Jemima stood. “Good morning, Miss Jemima, lovely morning, isn’t it, if a bit chilly,” she bellowed into what she thought was the old lady’s good ear,” and the old lady was so surprised she nearly jumped out of her skin and dropped her book and  and wooden spoon.

      “Oh dear, oh dear, I didn’t see you there, Marguerite, and what are you up to dear, and what is that you have in your hand, I do declare, I could have sworn it was a clump of Monk’s Hood, but that’s impossible, I’m the only one in the locality that grows it, and you’d never take it from my garden, would you? No, no, what am I thinking, of course you’d never do such a thing.”

       Miss Marguerite was a bit taken aback with this response. It was growing in her own garden, of course, but taking cuttings from neighbours gardens was a long tradition with the coven, so why was Jemima making such a fuss?

   “Of course I didn’t take it from your garden, Miss Jemima, it was growing under that oak tree on my side of the boundary ditch.”

    “No, no that’s not possible dear, I only plant it over those  secret documents and on my own land, oh my goodness, I’ve said too much,” the little old lady spluttered as she clutched, Marguerite’s arm and looked at her wild-eyed,  “please, please forget what I said, I’ll take that clump from you and replant it, no need for you to bother your head about it,” and she grabbed the plant from Marguerite’s hand, and despite her girth, waddled back to her cottage at surprising speed.

     Marguerite stared after her open-mouthed . “What the heck was that all about,” she thought. She went over what she heard in her  mind as she slowly made her way back to her own garden. When she came to the old oak tree, she paused, looked at it thoughtfully, and taking a deep breath, she walked purposely towards it.

      She pushed her shovel into the loose soil where the Monk’s Hood was growing and heard the sound of metal on metal.  “Well, well, what have we here,” she thought and knelt down and used her hands to scoop clay out of the hole. It was a two foot by one and three quarter foot metal box, with two handles and about one and a half foot deep, quite heavy, it wasn’t buried too deep so she managed to haul it out without too much difficulty. Sitting on the grass Marguerite examined it carefully, it was locked and she couldn’t see any clue as to where it came from or what it might contain.  “Hm, I’ll need a wheelbarrow to get this home, and check it out.”  So she found  a wheelbarrow, hoisted the box onto it and headed back to her cottage, but when  she got there she was disgusted to find that despite her undoubted skills at lock busting using a credit card or a hanger, the lock on that box simply would not yield.

     “Well, I guess, there is nothing for it but to go back to Miss Jemima and get the key.”  But the memory of the old lady’s  strange behaviour gave her pause and she decided to sleep on the matter and not rush into anything.  “Let’s see what a new day will bring.”

     Fresh out from ideas, Miss Marguerite, donned  raincoat and wellies, braved the torrential rain and made her way to Jemima’s cottage, next morning.  She had  scarcely  lifted the knocker on the door when to her surprise it was flung open by the little old lady herself. 

     “She must have noticed me coming across the field,” 

      “Come in, come in before you catch your death, you wouldn’t put a dog out on a day like this,”

      Miss Marguerite wasn’t expecting such an effusive welcome, but before she could state her business, the old lady continued:

     “Was the traffic from Dublin bad, Monica, dear? Was it necessary for you to make the journey in such weather?  Surely these documents could wait for burial?”

     Miss Marguerite was completely bewildered, documents, burials, and who was Monica?  And was Miss Jemima blind as well as deaf? Or just demented? She felt there was some mystery here and she was determined to  find out about it before she left the house.

       “Let me take off my wet things, and maybe we could sit down and have a cup of tea?” 

        With surprising agility, given her age and girth, Miss Jemima, whipped around, eyes popping, she gasped, “but you’re not Monica, who are you? And what do you want here?”

       At this point, Marguerite had a good look around the kitchen and was astonished to see several boxes, identical to the one she had found under the old oak tree.

       “ Of course not, Miss Jemima, I’m Marguerite, your next door neighbour, and hadn’t we better clear these boxes away before this Miss Monica turns up, what’s in them anyway?”

     At this point Miss Jemima had collapsed onto the nearest chair, and cried

“How I wish I had never met that woman, she told me I’d only have to dispose of a few boxes of documents for her, but they have been arriving with such frequency recently, I can’t possibly handle them, digging holes to bury them all is way beyond someone with my arthritis.  And I don’t know what she’ll say when she realises you are in on the secret.”

     “But what’s in the boxes anyway?”

     “ Oh for goodness sake dear, surely you know there is no stove in Government buildings for burning sensitive documents, everything from orders from Brussels, Government formation negotiations, roll calls for Dail votes, talks with NGO’s that “public service media” never reports on, etc. These  have to be disposed of safely and discreetly.”

     “Well, it’s certainly discreet, I haven’t been able to open this box, which is why I’ve called.  Do you have a key?”

     “That’s just it, I’ve lost the key!”

     “And what are you going to tell Miss Monica when she arrives with another batch of documents?” 

     “I’ve just thought of the solution, dear. It’s a lucky thing for me that you turned up today.  I’ll just tell her that I’ve sold my business to you and that you’ll deal with the service from now on.”  And with that the little old lady took her coat from the hook behind the door, put on her wellies and lifting the latch of the back door, was gone down the boreen before Miss Marguerite could think of a thing to say.  When she recovered her power of speech, she just shouted after the little old lady:

     “Wait, I don’t know what to do, where are you going? Where will I find you?” But it was like she was talking into an empty mist.

      But Miss Marguerite wasn’t someone to be down for long. Searching the pantry of the cottage she found a tool box and using a variety of wrenches, screwdrivers and pliers she managed to get one of the boxes open, read what it contained and whistled to herself.  “ Not so discreet after all!  No wonder these were never meant to see the light of day.  And clearly burying these boxes is not a safe  solution, if I can open these boxes, anyone can, there must be a better way to bury the evidence that Government don’t want people to  know about.”

    But while all this was going through her head that niggling feeling of anger at being passed over for promotion raised its head again. And this battled in her heart with the knowledge that maybe she didn’t really want to be part of the shenanigans that this Government was engaged in. Pacing back and forth across the floor of Miss Jemima’s little kitchen she  came to a realization which perhaps didn’t quite show her in a very noble light.

There and then she decided that if she couldn’t join them she would use them!  She would sell her silence and discretion back to her erstwhile colleagues and still hide their documents but for a price. But these darn boxes would have to go. Too difficult to hide and not safe anyway.  But what was the alternative?

     Miss Marguerite gave a little chuckle to herself as she caught a glimpse of those beautiful deep blue blossoms growing under the oak tree when she looked out the kitchen window.  Rumaging through Miss Jemima’s little writing bureau she found pen and paper and she sat down at the table to compose her letter to headquarters and began thus:

       Dear Secretary,

       I write to inform you that your contact in the important work of secure disposal of confidential information has resigned her post and disappeared. She left me in charge of her library of documents . I am happy to continue her work on your behalf for a consideration. I require you to  forward the said documentation to me in compostable envelopes rather than the metal boxes used up to now, and I will see to their safe disposal for the sum of 1000 Euro per envelope.  Should you wish to discuss the matter further I can be contacted on tele 072 254398.

  Yours sincerely, 

    Miss Marguerite 

The reply arrived by return post.

    

     Dear Miss Marguerite,

                                       Thank you for your information regarding Miss Jemima’s resignation.  I’m certainly interested in your proposal regarding the disposal of sensitive documents, but I would need to see evidence that your system is superior to what we have been doing up to now and thus I’ll pay you a visit next Friday to inspect your system.

         Yours Faithfully,

         Simon Moncton,

         Secretary.

  

 On reading this, Miss Marguerite clapped her hands with glee, put on her gardening gloves, grabbed her shovel and set to work, singing, ”High Hopes” as she worked.

    When the beautiful Mercedes rolled up the lane the following Friday, and suave Simon emerged, most inappropriately dressed in cream trousers, Miss Marguerite, took him on a tour of her facility.  She brought him to a series of raised beds, which were labelled, Killarney Fern, Cottonwood, Serrated Wintergreen, Saxifrages and Wild Orchids, and nearby was a large sign saying KEEP OFF: it is an offence to cut, uproot damage or sell any of these species, or to disturb their habitat, they are legally protection under the Wildlife Act 1976 and the Flora (Protection) Order 2022. 

     “Your documents will be as safe as houses in compostable envelopes, buried here under endangered plant species. People are far too politically correct  to dig them up,” said Miss Marguerite, leaning on her shovel.

  Simon turned to her with a smile, hand outstretched, “You have got yourself a deal. Let’s retire to you’re kitchen, boil the kettle and make a cup of tea and drink to our arrangement.”