The gardener, Roland Sparrow, was waiting in the porch; pencil-thin and whisky-faced, he gave a nervous cough as Harry approached. ‘I’ve not been waiting too long, Mr Blake,’ he pre-empted Harry’s question. ‘Five minutes at most.’
Taking off his flat cap, he then addressed him with a mood of respect. ‘Might I say before we start, the boss informed me of your loss, and if you don’t mind, I would very much like to offer my condolences.’
Harry acknowledged his concern. ‘Thank you, Mr Sparrow, that’s very kind.’ Quickly changing the subject, he asked, ‘Did you bring the copy of instructions I left at your office?’
‘I have them here,’ came the answer. ‘Very thorough they are too. Most folks either don’t know how, or don’t bother, to take the time and trouble drawing plans and naming flowers, but you’ve done it all, and it makes my job that much easier, if I may say so.’
‘And are you comfortable with everything?’ Harry had taken a long time, thinking about what Sara would have wanted.
‘I have, and what’s more I think it’ll turn out to be the prettiest little garden in the churchyard. Keeping the place beautiful, it’s what I do.’
Looking down his glasses, which were precariously perched at the end of his narrow nose, he read from Harry’s list. ‘Let’s see now … the planting of different coloured heathers for autumn and winter; daffodil and tulip bulbs all around the border for spring, and a girdle of low-growing pink and blue perennials for the summertime.
‘By! It’ll be well pretty! Oh, and just think of the perfumes in the summertime!’ His voice adopted a reverent tone again. ‘I understand you’ve chosen a black marble cross, with two inbuilt flower vases?’
Harry confirmed it with a nod.
‘Well, I can tell you now, the vases will be filled every two weeks with seasonal flowers, and they’ll be regularly topped up with water ’cause that’s what I do.’
‘So, I can count on you, then?’ Harry needed reassuring.
Mr Sparrow beamed with pride. ‘I shall tend your lady’s garden with great care, you can depend on it.’
Harry concluded the discussion. ‘You’ll find all the names and telephone numbers you need on your list, and I will be in touch with your office with regards to everything. Also, I’ll be back as often as I can, so as to keep an eye on things.’
‘That’s absolutely understood, Mr Blake. And I’m sure you’ll find everything to your satisfaction.’ Sparrow glanced about the well-tended churchyard. ‘I’ve been doing this work for nigh on twenty years. It’s what I do, and though I say so meself … nobody does it better.’
‘I’m sure.’ With that, they parted company.
Harry watched the older man amble away. He did not particularly enjoy the idea of someone else tending Sara’s grave plot, but for now it had to be that way, if he was to keep his promise to her.
‘Is the man getting yellow roses for Mammy?’ Cradling his precious raggedy dog, Tom had stood silent throughout the conversation. Now though, as he looked up at Harry, the tears were not far away.
Harry swung the boy into his arms. ‘That’s right, and because we’ll be nearly two hundred miles away, Daddy’s paying him to take care of your mammy’s garden when we can’t be here.’ It hurt him to see how the boy was so hopelessly out of his depth. ‘Is that all right with you, young man?’
‘Will he put the yellow roses where Mammy can see them?’
‘I’m sure he will, yes. Mr Sparrow is a good, kind man. He would want Mammy to see her favourite flowers.’
He and Tom then went to stand before Sara’s grave for what seemed an age. They talked of the past and spoke of the future, and they gave their heartfelt promise to come back whenever they could.
After a time, they made their way out of the churchyard in silence, lost in thoughts of that wonderful woman who had briefly touched their lives, and made them all the stronger for it.
Leaning back on his rickety wooden bench, the gardener saw them leave; he saw how the little boy clung to his father, and he saw the grief in the latter’s face, and he shook his greying head.
‘Time will help,’ he muttered. ‘Wait and see if I’m not right.’ His own young wife had died of blood poisoning twenty years or more since, and at the time, he had thought he would never get over it. But he’d now been married to the excellent second Mrs Sparrow for over fifteen years, and couldn’t be happier.
He then slid the whisky flask out of his back pocket and took a healthy swig. ‘Phew! Puts hairs on a man’s chest that does, and no mistake!’ he said to the gravestones.
Returning the flask to his back pocket, he began merrily whistling as he went about his work.
Roland Sparrow was used to seeing folks come and go. He tended their graves and he drank to their health.
After all … it was what he did.
At the gate, Harry glanced back. In his mind’s eye he could see Sara as plain as day; laughing in that carefree way he loved, her long hair blown by the breeze while she chased Tom across the park. She was always so brimful of life and energy.
He smiled at her memory now, and through the rest of his life, that was the way he would always remember her.
The final stop was the estate agent.
‘So the house is empty now, is it, sir?’ The agent was a fresh-faced young fellow with a blue and white spotted tie and a smile as wide as the Mersey Tunnel.
Harry handed over the keys.
‘We’ll be in touch.’ The young man’s smile was comforting. ‘Matter of fact, the gentleman who viewed your property a week ago has sold his own place and now he’s arranged to view your house again.’
‘Sounds hopeful.’ Harry had agonised about selling their home, but it was all part of the promise he had made to Sara. ‘It’s best if you do it straight away.’ She had been insistent. ‘Before Tom starts school.’
‘I’ll let you know how it goes.’ The young man’s voice penetrated Harry’s thoughts. ‘Is that all right with you?’
Harry apologised. ‘Sorry … er, yes. Yes, that’s absolutely fine. I’ll wait to hear from you.’
A few moments later, taking hold of Tom’s hand, Harry then embarked on the journey he never dreamed he would make. He would not be making it now, if Sara had not made him promise.
The memories of his youth had never really gone away; Sara knew that. When he first met her, he told her everything, and she was a tower of strength to him.
The memories were suffocating, of the way it had been. Wonderful memories. Crippling memories.
After he lost his parents in a fire, there was the lovely Irish Kathleen, always there, wise and caring. She had been like a mother to him.
Sometimes tragedy frightens people away, like the mates he used to hang about with – Bob, Alan, and the unpredictable Phil Saunders, who had always been his rival. Where were they now? What had become of them? Had they done well, or fallen by the wayside?
He smiled, despite his sombre mood. Wasn’t it strange how life swept you along, whether you wanted it or not. Like the ebb and flow of the tide, it was meant to be.
Without him even realising it, the girl grew strong in his mind.
‘Judy.’ After all this time, her name came softly to his lips. Back then when they were young, she had meant the world to him. When it all went wrong, he had moved away – to the mayhem of war and manhood. And then some turbulent years later he had met his darling Sara and moved to Weymouth to build a life with her. Warm and forgiving, she had been