Short Story – Marriage Guidance

violin and bows

[This short story is based on a true incident that took place a number of years ago now. I called it Marriage Guidance originally because I felt the relationship between myself and my violin was like that of a couple who no longer communicate properly and have drifted apart. Sadly in the end I did sell the violin, to a concert violinist in the USA who was going to have it professionally restored. I hope she did. I hope it made her and everyone who heard the sound of it very, very happy. Maybe it’s still out there somewhere – I do hope so!

Somewhere in the filing cabinet I’ve got the original story I wrote in a notebook, and that has all the details he gave me about the violin – it’s age, it’s manufacture. it was German, nineteenth century, a forgery of an 18th century instrument but beautiful craftsmanship, a wonderful tone, and very fine, dainty lines making most people think it was a child’s violin. Inside, there had been a tattered piece of paper glued with the name – but I can’t remember the name now. No, it wasn’t Stradivari! But, yes, I really did cry all the way home, feeling like a reunion of sorts had taken place. ]

It wasn’t my fault! The relief was enormous! The failure of this relationship was not my fault! The breakdown of communication between us was a sad but inevitable result of the situation we were in. No one was to blame. The man we went to see had explained everything.

It was raining when we arrived – one of those sudden tropical downpours which takes everyone by surprise in spite of the preceding humidity – and my mascara had run all down my face. I should have worn the waterproof one, but I was somewhat preoccupied with the coming appointment when I was getting ready and hadn’t paid much attention to my make-up. I just knew I had to put some gunk on my face as armour for this, not a confrontation exactly, but it would certainly be a frank, possibly an emotional discussion in which there would be no place for holding back. All my secrets, my hopes and fears would be laid bare.

His house seemed innocuous enough – no daunting concrete edifice, just an ordinary Queenslander in a quiet tree-lined street on the outskirts of Logan. We stepped up to the door and I took a deep breath before twisting the little knob that rang the bell. A brass plaque displayed his name and profession.

He opened the door to us himself, no polished secretary or glamorous assistant with an alarming professional manner sneering down her nose at us. He was well past retirement age, yet was young with the rejuvenating quality of a man who has got his priorities right. He smiled reassuringly and stepped back for us to enter. He showed us into a tiny lounge-room on the right.

On the wall there hung a golden-framed reproduction of Fra Angelico’s exquisite ‘Annunciation‘. On top of a corner cabinet stood a beautiful old lute, mellow-wooded and much played. In another corner an elderly didgeridoo was held in place on the wall, white painted markings shone against the blackened wood, and above it was a dreamtime painting, all swirls and waves.

Our host didn’t shake my hand, or offer me coffee, or invite me to sit. He didn’t comment on my bedraggled appearance or the sudden change in the weather. Social niceties took second place to the business in hand. We got straight on with it. I laid my violin on the centre table already loaded with other instruments. My fingers fumbled with the rusted catches of the case, with the covering, my late grandmother’s old silk headscarf. I drew forth my violin and he took it, almost snatched it from my trembling hand.

A minute ticked by. Then another. Unnerved by the silence and laden with guilt, I blurted out, “I’m afraid it’s not in very good condition. I hope you’re not disappointed. I don’t want to waste your time.”

I think he had forgotten me, for he looked up in surprise. But his smile set me at ease again. I was not totally ‘de trop’.

“Considering the age, I’d say it was in quite reasonable condition. I’ve seen far worse at auctions.” He was still turning it over and over, tilting it this way and that to catch the light. “Tell me about it,” He suggested. I was still standing in the doorway. Raindrops dripped off my hair and shirt collar, down my neck. And it was getting hotter. But clearly humans came second here and I didn’t mind.

“It belonged to my grandmother. She’d had it for about fifty years. I don’t know where she got it, and my father doesn’t remember. She was ninety when she died five years ago. She gave it to me when I was about thirteen, she was going to teach me to play it. That was about twenty-five years ago.” No polite flattery here, as I was used to. No comment such as, ‘you don’t look that old’ or ‘you don’t look a day over twenty-five’. The sort of things people often said to me. He said nothing.

“I tried to learn to play it but I wasn’t very good. She and I didn’t really get on and I soon lost interest. You know what teenagers can be like. It’s been packed away ever since. But when we moved up here from Newcastle a few months ago I came across it again. And now…” I didn’t know how to finish, so I just stopped talking.

“And now you’re thinking of selling it and you want me to tell you how much it’s worth.” He didn’t look at me, for which I was grateful. My face felt hot and red.

“Well, possibly. I – I’m just not sure. I don’t really want to, but…” I hesitated, but I had to justify myself. “It’s a beautiful instrument. I do really like it, except I can’t play it. But my husband wants to sell it to buy an electronic keyboard, which would be better for the children too…” My voice trailed away again. In mentioning the words ‘electronic’ and ‘keyboard’ I felt as if I’d said something obscene. There was an uncomfortable silence.

“Perhaps you’ll be able to afford a keyboard without selling the violin.” He was trying to be diplomatic. “Then you and your husband can play duets together.” He gave me a tolerant smile. “You say your grandmother taught you to play? Was she a music teacher?”

“No. She played in an orchestra. And we didn’t keep it up for long. I wasn’t any good.”

He nodded, looking at the violin again. “Well, you see, it’s one thing to play, but quite another thing to teach. I’ll just go and get my eyeglass, and a book I want to show you. Back in a sec.” He put my violin on the table again, placing it in possibly the only unoccupied spot in the whole room, next to a pile of others: larger, more modern-looking instruments, all needing repairs.

I looked around me. What was it about this room which gave it that restful air? The family snapshots? The painting? The lute? The earth-coloured aboriginal work? The mellow browns and golds of the walls, the polished wood floor? Here it felt as if time itself had stopped at the front door. I was able to relax. Something I didn’t do very often. There weren’t enough hours in my day usually.

He returned. “Read that. It tells you about the maker of your instrument.” He shoved a heavy book at me which I only just managed to catch before it fell on the floor. I began to read the place he indicated, smelling the musty old-book smell whilst he turned again to my violin. He had a tape measure, and was talking to himself.

“Yes. It is a full-size one. 14 1/16 of an inch to be exact. I thought it might possibly be a three-quarter size, it’s so delicate, but no, it’s a full-size.”

“It says here he was noted for the delicate lines of his instruments.” I eagerly showed him the extract. He smiled at me, as at an apt student who has learned her lesson well. But something else I had read surprised me. “Can it really be that old?”

“Oh yes, about a hundred and fifty years. That’s what I wanted the eyeglass for, to check the name and mark inside. See?” He showed me the faded writing inside the body of the instrument, tilting it towards the window to catch the light. He nodded to himself again. “A beautiful piece. See the difference?” He held up one of the modern, lurid tan-coloured violins from his table. I did see the difference. Hideous colour aside, next to mine the modern one looked simply huge.

“So subtle.” He murmured, turning my instrument over in his hands. “So delicate. Not like this modern rubbish. How’s the tone?”

“I beg your pardon?” I had gone back to reading.

“The tone. What does it sound like?”

“It’s nice. At least, I like it. Quite mellow, you know. Warm.” I said what I thought, but was I right? After all, what did I know about these things? How was I supposed to know what answer he was looking for? However, he nodded, apparently satisfied.

“Hmm. Typical of this make. Very well known for the tonal quality.” As he moved about the room, showing me this item and that on the other instruments, comparing them with my own, he had to keep stepping over a ‘cello which lay in its case in the middle of the floor. He caught me smiling as I saw him step over again.

“I’m very busy at the moment.” He apologised. “I’m afraid I haven’t much room here. Now then…”

He began to show me all the things on my violin which needed attention. He gave me a rough estimate of the cost to replace or repair, as necessary. It was a modest sum, really, compared to what he now revealed to me was the probable value of the instrument, but it was more than I could possibly afford. And the value took my breath away.

“If you do decide to sell it, I’m afraid I can’t personally make you an offer, although I’d like to. But we already have about a hundred violins in our shop. Now if it was a viola you’d brought to me, then it would be a different matter. We’ve got very few of those. I suppose you could try advertising in the papers.” But there was a note in his voice that sounded a bit like an accusation. Obviously he was biassed.

“I don’t know if I want to sell it or not. I had no idea it was so old or so valuable. What I really need is some marriage guidance for me and my violin. We’ve kind of – stopped talking.” I told him, trying to laugh, to keep my tone light. But he saw the tears in my eyes and was not fooled.

“You really love it, don’t you?” He asked, softly. I nodded, I didn’t trust myself to speak. A clock ticked loudly in the corner.

“Well, I’m not surprised you’re not talking at the moment,” he said briskly. “You couldn’t possibly play it, because, quite simply, it’s not in a playable condition.”

“I thought it was me…” I couldn’t finish. Frantically I tried to pull myself together.

“No. It’s not your fault. Even a professional couldn’t get a decent tune out of this. As I say, get this work done on the bridge, a proper tail, adjusters on the strings, which will help you with the tuning. And these cracks need repairing, before they get any worse, the bow needs straightening and re-stringing too. I can do the repairs for you, a bit at a time if need be, as finances permit. Then I’d advise you to have a few lessons. You’ll find that the two of you begin to develop your relationship again in no time. And it really will be worth the effort. Believe me, it’s very rewarding. When you’re old like me, you’ll be grateful for something to give you pleasure and help you pass the time.” He waved a hand at the room around us. “If it wasn’t for all this, I don’t know what I’d do.”

He could see I was torn. My family wanted one thing and I wanted another. The violin was worth far more in hard cash than I had imagined. What we could do with that money! Yet my grandmother had given it to me. It was mine. I couldn’t play it properly, but the bond was still there. He didn’t press me further.

“My advice is free.” He told me. I thanked him, unable to express sufficiently my gratitude. I could have hugged him.

It was still raining when I went home. I dashed down the road hugging the case to me, like a beloved one, tears and mascara running down my face, but no one could tell they were tears not raindrops.

At home, I and my violin sat on the sofa with a cup of coffee. Tears dried away now, I made promises which I hoped I’d be able to keep. The mellow wood gleamed. We’d been together for twenty-five years, we couldn’t split up now. The man’s last words came back to me.

In the doorway I had stopped and blurted out my final worry.

“I just don’t have time. I’m so busy at the moment. I have three small children and I’ve just enrolled on a course at TAFE. I just don’t have time…”

He had just smiled. “You’ll have time one day. And when you do, it’ll still be there.”

 

Neolithic Village imagined

HIF 2010 178 (1)

The corridors linking the houses are dark, black-dark, and yet the children run back and forth giggling and jostling as children have always done.  They barely pause in their running with the narrows and curves of the corridors.  They laugh in and out of the houses, running amongst the groups, tribes, families.  Outside, beyond the houses, the sea and the wind roar, and strange creatures prowl the earth.  But not in here.

In the houses themselves, the central hearth is the main light and although bright enough to prepare the food by, the illumination doesn’t reach to the farthest parts of the room where the animals are safely housed against thick stone walls.  Their soft noises and comfortable smells lull the elders who sit by the fire to prod the embers or stir the cooking-pot by turns.

Soon the eye becomes accustomed to the dimness and it is possible to see not just vague shadows but the bodies of the cattle in their pens, or the shapes of the drawings in the sand of the fireside floor, the simple outlines that accompany the story that is being told.  A half-grown child, listening to the stories with wide eyes, is given instructions and items of interest are brought from the dresser to the one who speaks, who holds each thing up for all to see and recounts all that is known, the history of the item, the way it happened to be found or created, all that makes it special is told now to those who are gathered.  They’ve heard it before.  Even last night. But still they all look and a discussion takes place, even the child speaks.  He will be a fine man one day soon.  They look on him with pride.  One day, he will be the teller of stories.

The food is passed round, grain and meat and fish and coarse bread, flat and hot from the stones by the fire.  Everyone eats and a strange hush falls over the house for a time.  There is a ritual about eating.  There is a ritual about being in the safety of a warm and solid home with the cattle and the fire.  To be with the kinfolk and listen to the stories. This is what it means to be at home.

It is evening, the day has drawn to its close and everyone is gathered in the safe warmth of the roundhouse. Nearby, there are other houses, with other people gathered, and the children are the running link between them.  More stories are told, more conversation and discussion over the nature of the stars and their brightness, of the tides of the sea, of the path of the moon who guides the hunters and blesses the crops.

And nearby, in another such house, the bones of the ancestors are keeping watch over the living. The ancestors listen to the old stories and smile as the brightness of the moon creeps in at the doorway of their resting chamber.

New short story – Spiraea

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Spiraea

Prologue

The spiraea shoot had taken, Henry knew it from the little green buds, emerging here and there up the length of the cut cane and now just beginning to unfurl.  This would change his life.

Five years later

Henry Jenkins stood in the dock of the court.  He answered the clerk’s questions as to his name and date of birth and his abode.  His voice quavered a little and he cleared his throat to continue.  He had never been in a court before.  He’d never been accused of anything before.

The clerk of the court told him to remain standing as everyone else took their seats.  He felt overtall, naked as all eyes turned on him.  His cheeks burned with shame as the judge read out the charge.

“The plaintiff, his lordship the Lord Branchley, states that you have built an independent and thriving concern upon the theft of plants from his lordship’s grounds, where you worked as an under-gardener until five years ago when you began working on your own account.  How do you plead?”

Henry licked his lips.  He pleated and unpleated the hem of his old tweed jacket as he stammered his response.  The grandeur of the setting was overwhelming and he was finding it difficult to think straight, to take in what was being said to him.  Then he had to repeat himself in order that everyone could hear him.

“Not – not guilty, your worship – um – your  – um, sir.”

“Hmm.”  Responded the judge somewhat doubtfully.  He peered over his glasses at Henry and fixed him with a hard look.  “So noted.”  And he made a mark on the paper in front of him with his fountain-pen.

And so it began.  Henry was permitted to take his seat and he was glad to do so, his head was swimming with nerves.  At erudite length the prosecution set forth their case, that the accused had stolen plants from the eminent philanthropist Lord Branchley, and had thus set himself as a market-gardener.  That he had traded on knowledge he had gained during his employment by his lordship and turned it to his advantage.  There was more but these were the key points upon which their case hinged.  His lordship himself was in court and stood with his attorney before the judge to outline his hurts once again and demand such full redress as the law permitted.

Henry felt as though it was all washing over him, covering his head, leaching away his confidence, his pride, everything he knew.  When at last the judge declared a break for lunch, Henry was already wondering if it was too late to change his plea.

Relief filled him as he reached the cool solitude of his cell.  Lunch was a pot of small beer and some bread and cheese.  But Henry didn’t feel much like eating.  He took a little of the cheese, and perhaps half of the beer.  He thought about his case.

If he changed his plea to guilty, he would lose everything – his business, his new-found livelihood, his little home and in all probability, his family.  Hetty had married him, very much against her parents’ advice, on the understanding that he was finally in a position to support a family.

But what would happen if that was no longer the case?  What if he lost everything and had to return to his old room at Mrs Clark’s?  Hetty would not go with him, he was certain of that, and why should she bring the two babes to live in such a crowd?  No, she would go home to her mother, and if that happened he would never see her again.  And with his lordship like to win the action, henry thought it was not likely he’d get a good job again even if he, by some marvel, escaped a gaol sentence.

Henry dashed away a tear with an angry hand.

At that moment, his defence attorney arrived.  The man was beaming.  Henry repressed an urge to punch him on the nose.

“Well, Jenkins, I feel it’s going very well, very well indeed, young sir.  We’ll soon have you out of here, don’t you worry about that.”  He paused, clearly waiting for Henry to thank him.  On receiving nothing from him, the attorney continued with a slight frown.  “Now, now, young fellow, chin up.  No cause to be down in the dumps, you know.“

“They seem to have all the right with them.”  Henry said.  The attorney inclined his head.  “I thought there would be a jury?”

“No indeed, it isn’t that kind of trial.  It will be his honour who will make the judgment based on the evidence.”

“Just that one judge?  We may as well give up now.  I have no chance of success.”

“Well it may seem so now, but we will not give in!  No, we must cling to our beliefs and hope for the best.  Now once we resume after luncheon, I will have the opportunity to put your side of the story, and then we shall see, eh?  What do you think to that?”

Henry said, “I think I shall go to prison.  I shall never see my children again.”

The attorney frowned at him again.  He chucked him on the shoulder.

“Come, come, man, there’s no need for such talk.  We’ll have you back with your family in no time.  Right!  Now, I’m just off for a bit of lunch and I will see you in court!”

The cell seemed emptier after the attorney left, but all the same Henry was glad he was gone.

After lunch the prosecution called two witnesses, the head-gardener and another under-gardener.   It was established by each that they had each seen the defendant remove plant material from the compost heap for unknown purposes and without the authorisation of the head-gardener or his lordship himself.  That seemed to satisfy the prosecutor, and he resumed his seat with a grave look and pursed lips.

Henry’s defence attorney stood to pose a couple of questions.  “Have you ever seen the defendant removing plants or any other items from anywhere other than the compost heap?”

The head-gardener, an aged gentleman with weak eyes, sat turning his hat round and round in his hand and avoiding Henry’s eye, and finally he said he had not.

“And can you elucidate for the officers of this court, the function of this compost heap?”

“Er, beg pardon?”  The head-gardener leaned forward, looking puzzled.

“Yes, of course.”  Said the defence attorney with a broad smile for the court.  He turned back to the witness with a matey grin.  “Er – what’s it for?”

“The compost heap?  Well, it’s a kind of rubbish tip for all unwanted bits and bobs and it mulches it all down to make compost you can put back on the garden.  Very good stuff it makes.  Very good for roses and …”

“That is sufficient information, thank you, Mr Duffy.”  Said the judge.

“Sir, sorry sir.”  Said Duffy and he seemed surprised by the laughter that filled the court.  The judge rapped his gavel and the amusement was silenced.

“And was it his lordship who asked you to create this compost heap?”

“Well no, not as such.  His lordship leaves the day to day running of the grounds to me, and I always has a compost heap, it makes very good …”

“Quite so.”  Said the defence attorney hastily.  “So really the creation of a compost heap is part of your normal gardening practice, which experience has taught you is beneficial?”

“Er, yes, it has, it is, I mean.  Yes.”

Again a ripple of laughter was heard but quickly died away under the judge’s frowning looks.  The defence attorney gathered his papers.  He directed a nod to the judge.

“No more questions, your honour.”

The prosecution attorney immediately leap to his feet and asked to put a further question.

“Is it true to say the accused has learned all his skills from the employment his lordship has granted?”

The head-gardener was struggling to fathom the sentence, his old forehead even more crinkled than usual with the effort.  The prosecution attorney obligingly clarified his meaning.

“The job of under-gardener gives many opportunities to learn new skills and to gain experience?”

The head-gardener wavered.  “Well it does and it doesn’t.”

The prosecution attorney hid his annoyance at the man’s density.  His chance to prove the case based on this witnesses testimony would dwindle if he couldn’t get him to say the right things.

“I see.  But I imagine that when Mr Jenkins left his lordship’s employ, he knew a lot more than he did when he first started?”

“It’s possible,” conceded the old man.  “He had such an enquiring nature.  He was always bringing in books and such and telling me all his high-falutin’ ideas about this and that.  Never one to be content with doing things the way them’d always been done.  Always wanting to try summat new.  He fair drove me wild at times.”

Seeing that continuing with the witness was likely to actually harm his case, the prosecutor decided to take his seat with a crisp, “no further questions, your honour.”

The defence called Matthew Styles, under-gardener.

Matthew Styles took the stand, saying his oath loudly with relish and looking around smiling.  He was going to enjoy this unique experience to the utmost.  After a few background questions as to his age and experience and his employment, the defence attorney asked, “have you ever seen anyone else removing items from the compost heap or anywhere else?”

“Including me?”  Styles asked, eagerly.

The defence attorney, a little surprised, nodded.  “Yes, Mr Styles, including yourself.”

“We all ‘ave.”

“All?”

“Yes, indeed.  And even his lordship’s butler, he’s very fond of sweet peas, you know, so even he, when they’re there, he comes down and cops ‘em off Mr Duffy.  Then there’s …”

“Excuse me, Mr Styles.  I’m sorry to interrupt you.  Am I correct in thinking that other servants than those who work in the gardens also avail themselves …?”

“Oh yes, Mr Stephens, now as I says, he likes his sweet peas, so at the end of the season, when they is dug out and on the heap, he comes down for the pods to get the seeds, so then he has his own sweet peas in his own garden.  Won a prize, he did, last year at the village show.  Very good he is with sweet peas, Mr Stephens.  And then there’s Clarice.  She works in the kitchen.  She takes the flowers from the summer pruning for her mother’s grave.  They’re not actually dead.  The flowers I mean,” Styles explained to the tittering audience, provoking a further outburst with, “her mother’s dead right enough, God rest her, but the flowers is just a bit past their best, still quite nice looking.”

The judge banged his gavel six times and stunned everyone to silence.  “I think we’ve heard quite enough to consider the question answered.”

The defence attorney inclined himself in a stiff bow.  “Of course your honour.”  He turned back to the witness.  “And so, it seems acceptable and indeed common for employees to remove items from the compost heap, as it is clear that anything placed thereupon is unwanted, is that the case?”

“It is.”  Styles agreed.  The defence attorney resumed his seat.  The prosecution attorney stood and said,

“It appears as though there is wholesale theft going on within his lordship’s premises.  It almost sounds as though every servant is cheating his lordship.  No questions for this witness, your honour.”

Styles was dismissed.  The prosecution rested, but with an acute sense of his hands having been tied by his client and of having failed to produce sufficient evidence to enable a favourable outcome.  With a lowering sense in his stomach, the prosecution heard the defence attorney call the accused to the stand.

“How long had you been employed by his lordship as an undergardener before you left to pursue your own business?”

“A little over six months, sir.  I think it was about eight months.”

“Really?”  The defence attorney infused his voice with surprise.  “From the testimony we have heard today, I had thought it had been a much longer period than that.”

“No sir.  I worked for my father from the age of fourteen until he passed away when I was twenty three.”

“And then you went to work for Lord Branchley?”

“Yes sir.”

“What line of work was your father in?”

“He was a market-gardener, sir.”

“Indeed.  How interesting.  But one imagines that you had far greater opportunity to learn your trade in your employment at Lord Branchley’s?”

“I learned a great deal about digging, sir.  And about cutting grass.  That was about all Mr Duffy would allow me to do.”

“I see.  And I make no doubt these skills were useful to you when you set up your own market garden?”

The judge silenced the few sniggers around the courtroom with a single look.  Henry Jenkins hesitated then said, “well sir, I don’t cut grass in my market garden, you see I don’t have a lot of room for grass.  But I do occasionally dig.”

“Thank you, Mr Jenkins.  And what was the reason you did not continue in your father’s market garden but instead came to take a position with Lord Branchley?”

Henry bowed his head.  Those in the court could see him biting his lip.  The judge spoke.

“Mr Jenkins, I must urge you to answer the question.”

Henry’s head came up.  “Yes sir, your – um.  It was just – I hadn’t wanted to say, but it was because of his business being sold to pay for my brother’s debts. There was no money left and so I was forced to find myself a position with the family livelihood gone.”

“Thank you, Mr Jenkins, I do appreciate that this is not easy for you.  And is your brother still in debt?”

“No sir.”  Henry said.  He looked down at the floor.  Only the few people at the front of the court heard his voice as he said, “my brother was hung last year on account of killing a man in a brawl.”

The judge tsked and shook his head.  He made another note on his paper.  Henry felt a sense of despair but on glancing up, met sympathy in the judge’s eyes.

The defence attorney continued.  “I am very sorry to hear of your troubles.  We will turn away from all that.  Perhaps I could ask you to explain just how you came to provide yourself with the means to set yourself up in your business?”

This was easier ground for Henry after the previous question.  He relaxed a little and his voice was clear.

“Well sir, I took a few things form the compost heap, as you know.  There was a few canes from his lordship’s spiraea in the shrubbery.  Now, my father used to grow spiraea and the cuttings, like long canes they are, they root really easy.  So I took a couple of them and I rooted them.  When his lordship was in the grounds, sir, taking a bit of a look around with the head-gardener, I approached him and said to him, would he like to have more of the spiraea in the shrubbery as it was dead easy to root and it would make a nice display of pinky red flowers when it came out.”

“And what did he say?”

“He said, ‘who is the ridiculous oik, Duffy?’  And Mr Duffy, he looked daggers at me and said to his lordship as I was one of the under-gardeners.  ‘Not any more’, said his lordship, ‘give him a week’s notice and get rid of the young upstart, I’ll not be so addressed in my own demesnes’. ”

“He sacked you?”

“He sacked me, sir, yes.”

“Then what happened?”

“Then his lordship, he turned to Mr Duffy, and asked him what I was on about.  So Mr Duffy showed him the spiraea and said as I was suggesting having more of them.”

“And did his lordship comment at all on this?”

“He said, ‘I hate the bloody things,’ begging your pardon but that is the very words his lordship used.  ‘Rip them all out.  Can’t stand them.  Get rid of them all.’   That’s what he said.”

“So now, you found yourself out of work and you had the spiraea canes.  What happened next?”

“Well sir, I had me week’s notice to work.  And there were a lot of nice bits on the compost heap.  Strawberry creepers and whatnot.  I came away with no reference but with a tidy sum of little plants and cuttings and things.  And I was walking out with Hetty Miller, maid from the Dower House.  But I couldn’t marry as I didn’t have no job.  But Hetty she says, you can sell them when they’re rooted up.  She said I could earn enough to rent a nice little cottage, that way I could start my market garden up gradual.  So that’s what I done.  And then me and Hetty got married, and now there’s the two babes too.”  At this point Henry turned to the judge, “Sir, begging your pardon, but if I goes to prison I will never see Hetty nor my children again as her mother took against me.  My Hetty means everything to me.  If I’d have known how his lordship felt, I’d have willingly paid for the stuff I took, but I thought it would be all right because all of us was doing it and in any case his lordship said to get rid of them.”

There was a half-formed protest from the prosecution, but the judge waved it away with a weary hand.

“Mr Jenkins, what would you say the original items you took were worth?  If one had to purchase them from a market garden, for example.”

“You don’t buy things like that, sir, your worship, they are just …”

“Just thrown away on a compost heap?  Quite so.  Very well, you may stand down.”

The judge made some more notes. He sat back and addressed the court.

“I have made my decision.  The defendant will rise.”

Henry stood, trembling, to hear the words that would decide his future.

“I find in favour of the plaintiff.  I order that the defendant shall pay damages in the amount of one penny for the – er – spiraea – and the same amount for the strawberry creepers.”

For a moment Henry couldn’t understand what was happening.  The prosecution attorney and his client Lord Branchley were outraged and already demanding that his honour should review the evidence.  The defence attorney was pumping Henry’s arm up and down and slapping him on the shoulder.

“A triumph, my boy, a triumph!”

The judge, ignoring the commotion, said to Henry, “you are to be commended for your ingenuity and your skilful grasp of your own trade.  The court commiserates with you over the difficulties that have beset you in the past, and hopes that your market garden will continue to thrive.  And if you will leave your particulars with my clerk, I believe my good lady will be interested in what you have in the line of roses, as she is contemplating some improvements to our grounds at home.  Court is adjourned.”

The judge stood and left the court, his gown billowing.

Henry turned to look across the courtroom.  There was Hetty, making her way towards him, dashing away tears and smiling.

“We won!”  He said.  He still couldn’t believe it.  She laughed.

“Silly!  Of course we did!”

*