BonsaI Bonkers!
Throwing open my patio doors I am assailed – not by birdsong, but by my neighbour Ted accompanying Edith Piaf to Non, je ne regrette rien! He has positioned his retro-style radio on a shelf between a bonsai Chinese elm and an acer.
‘Cup of tea, Ted?’
‘Not at the moment.’
Ted refusing a cup of anything is unheard of, but this is a busy month on his bonsai calendar and he is obsessed with pruning, snipping, grafting and repotting on a grand yet miniscule scale. Our shared allotment has been abandoned. His erm… close friend, Allotment Alma, has also been abandoned!
Ted’s interest in bonsai began over 30 years ago when he grew an English elm from a small twig. His backyard (I prefer to call it an urban courtyard) is packed with hundreds of tiny trees. That first elm is now two-feet tall – a perfect miniature of its natural counterpart and a multiple prizewinner.
But I am concerned. Earlier I had bumped into Alma looking bereft in front of a display of cakes at the corner shop. (Home of the resident self-important seagull, who divides his time between the doorway and the delivery van. His name is Osborne, although he answers to almost anything apart from ‘Clear off!’)
‘Do you think Ted would like almond slices?’ Alma asked.
‘No,’ I told her firmly. ‘Eccles cakes or apple turnovers.’
‘Not even Mini Battenbergs?’
‘He will eat Mini Battenbergs,’ I concede.
‘But he won’t thank you for them.’ ‘He’s a complicated man,’ she said wistfully.
That’s one way of putting it. I’d drifted to the back of the shop to review their limited range of pesto sauces before reconvening on the pavement. Osborne joined us.
‘Are you off to visit Ted?’ I asked her. Alma offered Osborne a chunk of malt loaf. ‘He might not let me in. Yesterday, when I rang the doorbell, I saw him through the frosted glass, darting upstairs.’
‘You should have banged and shouted. Shamed him into opening his front door.’
From Alma’s dismal expression I could see that shaming Ted into opening up wasn’t a viable solution. She thrust a packet of apple turnovers into my hands. ‘Give him these with my love. Tell him Alma’s aubergines are pining for his touch.’
Not for one minute could I imagine myself telling Ted about Alma’s aubergines, but leaving her in conversation with Osborne, I’d headed home.
Ted has stopped singing, as his voice is no match for Shirley Bassey when she belts out Big Spender.
‘How did the bonsai competition go?’ I ask.
‘Hah!’
‘Douglas Lambert didn’t win, did he?’
Talking of big spenders, DL is Ted’s arch bonsai rival. Last year, DL’s internet-bought Scots pine almost beat Ted’s hand-reared Scots pine in the best conifer category. Ted calls him ‘A ruffian who lets his wallet do the winning’!
Ted holds up a tiny perfect oak tree. ‘First prize,’ he says with satisfaction.
Our gardens are linked by a person-sized gap in the party wall. Carrying Alma’s offering, I make my way through. On Ted’s workbench – an old door balanced on an upended dustbin – the tools of his trade are arranged with surgeon-like neatness: pliers, scissors, knob cutter, saw and rake – all in miniature.
Ted emerges from the greenhouse carrying a tray of cauliflower seedlings.
‘These are ready for the allotment,’ he says.
‘So?’
‘They need to go in this week.’
I am inclined to retort, what did your last servant die of? I instead say, ‘I’ve not got time to plant out your cauliflowers.’
‘Surely you can take an hour off from whatever it is you do?’
‘Surely I can’t. Why not ask Alma?’ I hold out the apple turnovers. ‘She sent you these.’
Ted’s eyes gleam at the sight of cake. ‘I’ll put the kettle on,’ he says. ‘Make yourself comfortable on that tub of chicken manure.’
Five minutes later, he comes out with our tea. ‘I haven’t got to go out with Alma forever, have I?’ he says cheerfully. It is at moments like this that I am struck by the wonder of friendship. Without any preamble, Ted has been able to spell out exactly what is on his mind.
I bite into my turnover. It isn’t delicious but then at one pound for four, that is hardly surprising.
‘She has feelings for you, Ted… she mentioned her aubergines.’
Ted is staring at his turnover as if eating it might imply commitment. ‘I acknowledge that I was initially impressed but aubergines aren’t my favourite vegetable. If indeed they even are a vegetable. Given a choice I’d always opt for Savoy cabbage.’
I am confused. Is there a subtext in this conversation? Is Ted blurring the line between human and vegetable? ‘The other day I asked myself,’ he continues, ‘who or what do I value most in the world?’
‘And?’ I prompt, getting ready to appear at the top of Ted’s list of favourite people.
He takes his mug of tea and stands in front of the 30-year-old English elm. ‘Setting aside children, grandchildren and Dylan the Villain, it would have to be this old pal.’
I can’t believe it! Never mind Alma not getting a mention – I am of less importance than Ted’s cat and a pint-sized elm tree.
No longer struck by the wonder of friendship and with no preamble, I take my tea and haughtily return to my own side of the party wall!
Always You, Edina, by VG Lee, is published by Ward Wood Publishing, priced £9.99.
‘Cup of tea, Ted?’
‘Not at the moment.’
Ted refusing a cup of anything is unheard of, but this is a busy month on his bonsai calendar and he is obsessed with pruning, snipping, grafting and repotting on a grand yet miniscule scale. Our shared allotment has been abandoned. His erm… close friend, Allotment Alma, has also been abandoned!
Ted’s interest in bonsai began over 30 years ago when he grew an English elm from a small twig. His backyard (I prefer to call it an urban courtyard) is packed with hundreds of tiny trees. That first elm is now two-feet tall – a perfect miniature of its natural counterpart and a multiple prizewinner.
But I am concerned. Earlier I had bumped into Alma looking bereft in front of a display of cakes at the corner shop. (Home of the resident self-important seagull, who divides his time between the doorway and the delivery van. His name is Osborne, although he answers to almost anything apart from ‘Clear off!’)
‘Do you think Ted would like almond slices?’ Alma asked.
‘No,’ I told her firmly. ‘Eccles cakes or apple turnovers.’
‘Not even Mini Battenbergs?’
‘He will eat Mini Battenbergs,’ I concede.
‘But he won’t thank you for them.’ ‘He’s a complicated man,’ she said wistfully.
That’s one way of putting it. I’d drifted to the back of the shop to review their limited range of pesto sauces before reconvening on the pavement. Osborne joined us.
‘Are you off to visit Ted?’ I asked her. Alma offered Osborne a chunk of malt loaf. ‘He might not let me in. Yesterday, when I rang the doorbell, I saw him through the frosted glass, darting upstairs.’
‘You should have banged and shouted. Shamed him into opening his front door.’
From Alma’s dismal expression I could see that shaming Ted into opening up wasn’t a viable solution. She thrust a packet of apple turnovers into my hands. ‘Give him these with my love. Tell him Alma’s aubergines are pining for his touch.’
Not for one minute could I imagine myself telling Ted about Alma’s aubergines, but leaving her in conversation with Osborne, I’d headed home.
Ted has stopped singing, as his voice is no match for Shirley Bassey when she belts out Big Spender.
‘How did the bonsai competition go?’ I ask.
‘Hah!’
‘Douglas Lambert didn’t win, did he?’
Talking of big spenders, DL is Ted’s arch bonsai rival. Last year, DL’s internet-bought Scots pine almost beat Ted’s hand-reared Scots pine in the best conifer category. Ted calls him ‘A ruffian who lets his wallet do the winning’!
Ted holds up a tiny perfect oak tree. ‘First prize,’ he says with satisfaction.
Our gardens are linked by a person-sized gap in the party wall. Carrying Alma’s offering, I make my way through. On Ted’s workbench – an old door balanced on an upended dustbin – the tools of his trade are arranged with surgeon-like neatness: pliers, scissors, knob cutter, saw and rake – all in miniature.
Ted emerges from the greenhouse carrying a tray of cauliflower seedlings.
‘These are ready for the allotment,’ he says.
‘So?’
‘They need to go in this week.’
I am inclined to retort, what did your last servant die of? I instead say, ‘I’ve not got time to plant out your cauliflowers.’
‘Surely you can take an hour off from whatever it is you do?’
‘Surely I can’t. Why not ask Alma?’ I hold out the apple turnovers. ‘She sent you these.’
Ted’s eyes gleam at the sight of cake. ‘I’ll put the kettle on,’ he says. ‘Make yourself comfortable on that tub of chicken manure.’
Five minutes later, he comes out with our tea. ‘I haven’t got to go out with Alma forever, have I?’ he says cheerfully. It is at moments like this that I am struck by the wonder of friendship. Without any preamble, Ted has been able to spell out exactly what is on his mind.
I bite into my turnover. It isn’t delicious but then at one pound for four, that is hardly surprising.
‘She has feelings for you, Ted… she mentioned her aubergines.’
Ted is staring at his turnover as if eating it might imply commitment. ‘I acknowledge that I was initially impressed but aubergines aren’t my favourite vegetable. If indeed they even are a vegetable. Given a choice I’d always opt for Savoy cabbage.’
I am confused. Is there a subtext in this conversation? Is Ted blurring the line between human and vegetable? ‘The other day I asked myself,’ he continues, ‘who or what do I value most in the world?’
‘And?’ I prompt, getting ready to appear at the top of Ted’s list of favourite people.
He takes his mug of tea and stands in front of the 30-year-old English elm. ‘Setting aside children, grandchildren and Dylan the Villain, it would have to be this old pal.’
I can’t believe it! Never mind Alma not getting a mention – I am of less importance than Ted’s cat and a pint-sized elm tree.
No longer struck by the wonder of friendship and with no preamble, I take my tea and haughtily return to my own side of the party wall!
Always You, Edina, by VG Lee, is published by Ward Wood Publishing, priced £9.99.