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The lady with the secateurs

John Farquhar Young

    Babs, a recently retired schoolteacher, tall, slim, good looking though sternly prim in appearance - ever critical of the local council’s efforts to maintain the shrubs in public areas - pauses to frown at the ragged buddleia which is beginning to exceed its proper place in the border of a nearby carpark. A small grey curly haired dog of indeterminate breed strains at its lead as Babs reaches into her coat pocket to extract the secateurs which she always carries with her. In a moment of canine exuberance, the dog tugs free of Babs’ restraining grasp and dashes towards a nearby busy road, the lead flicking along the ground behind it.
    “Donny, Donny come here!” Babs commands in a voice which in previous times would rapidly have brought wayward school pupils to order. Still brandishing her secateurs, she follows the dog in an agitated and ineffectual pursuit.
    A fair headed, lightly bearded man of similar age to herself steps forward, easily intercepts the dog and holds the lead until Babs now slightly breathless reaches them.

    “Ah, the lady with the secateurs,” he says, as she is about to thank him for his efforts. “I’ve seen you in action several times. You could be charged if the police see you attacking the shrubs.”
    Babs notes the pleasant twinkle in his eye and laughs. “I don’t take the branches home. That would be theft, wouldn’t it? But I like things neat and well ordered.”
    The man nods. “Neat and well ordered,” he repeats. “My shrubs are not neat and well ordered.” He looks sad for a moment. “I have let things slip a bit since my wife passed away. She supervised the gardening. I’ll have to hire a gardener, I think.” He turns to go and then pauses. “Anyway ... don’t get arrested.”
    A few moments later a silver Mercedes whispers past then stops. The driver’s window opens. “I had a thought,” the man begins awkwardly. “If you like pruning and want a job...like I said I have lots of shrubs.” He hands her a business card. “Stay safe.”
    She watches the car glide away then glances at the card. “Dr Desmond Bragg,” the card reads. An address, home and mobile telephone numbers follow.
    She recalls how, in her English literature classes, her adolescent students employed the brutal vernacular of the young to describe a male character’s romantic overtures to ladies. “He’s hitting on her, isn’t he?”
“Hmmm,” She looks at Donny the dog who thinks that he is being addressed in affectionate terms and responds by wagging his disproportionately long tail. She chuckles. “Have I just been hit upon? Rather nice at my age.”
    As she re-enters her flat her thoughts return to Dr Desmond Bragg. Pleasant man, she thinks. She will mention him in passing in conversation with her friends at their weekly coffee get-together. Perhaps they know something about him.

Occasionally since retiring, and now once again, she allows herself to question whether her satisfaction with the solid predictability of her days is not rather forced; whether her self-contentment may, over time, lead to the loss of what she can only describe as her ‘edge’ - the exhilarating alertness and pulse of energy which she experiences when faced with real-life challenges.
    “Pruning Dr Bragg’s shrubs?” she murmurs. Not much of a challenge there. But as projects go it evokes an interesting sense of opportunity. A start, an experiment? she begins to think. Ideas of a small part time occupation tidying gardens, even as a volunteer, begin to flit across her mind.
    Desmond Bragg’s phone rings several times, before a woman answers. “I’m afraid that my brother has suffered a heart attack.” she says gravely. “He’s in hospital.”
    “I’m very sorry to hear that. Would you pass on my best wishes for a quick recovery.”
    She gives her name. “But,” she adds, “he only knows me as the lady with the secateurs.” As she replaces the receiver, she begins to think about the years left to her and the awful fragility of life.
    And then, with fierce resolve, she turns her mind to thoughts about her budding project, to practicalities, to plans and possibilities.

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