Rising sap by Jackie Penticost
Darling,
I know we’ll never get over this, and I know that I have betrayed you in the worst way. We’ve had forty years of happiness, and you have to believe me when I say I never meant this to happen or anticipated it.
When you found us in the potting shed, I knew then that this was the end, and doubly so, because I know he was your soulmate as much as mine.
But I was having a mid-life crisis, and feeling old and spent, when he came into our lives. It was the first time we’d had a gardener, and I had never felt such an affinity with someone before. We shared a love of flowers, and I began to listen for his step on the gravel path so I could share my latest discoveries in the garden with him. We’d pore over the seed catalogues in rainy weather and plan the new beds.
I know you loved him for his wildlife knowledge, and he taught you to make bee hotels and compost heaps. We both looked forward to his visits. But you had many other interests, whereas for me, Bernard became my world.
One day, as we planted zinnias, our hands met over a seed tray and his lingered a little too long. I looked down at his brown, gnarled hand and felt an intensity of joy that I had not felt for many years, and I fell in love at that point.
It took time to acknowledge those feelings, even to myself, but once they were clear to me my passion was unstoppable. He looked like a bearded Monty Don. He was standing in the dahlia bed, wearing only dungarees and holding his dibber. Our eyes met and I went to him.
We tried to deny our feelings, but as Spring and Summer arrived and the garden needed more weeding and hoeing, you increased Bernard’s visits to twice a week, and then three. I was constantly in the beds with him, while you worked on garden design on the computer, and so we were thrown together.
Bernard was showing me how to pinch out a fruit tree so as not to bruise my plums, when the end came off the hose and soaked us both. We hadn’t intended to be in the shed, but Bernard needed to take off his wet dungarees and I ran to the guest bathroom for some towels to help him out. It felt natural to rub down the bits he couldn’t reach, and as he was drying I thought it would help his poor joints to rub in liniment. He turned and we kissed, and then you walked in.
I know that sorry isn’t enough, and the life that we led is now over. But we’ve been careful with our pensions and can lead independent lives. We can put the house up for sale, and, let’s face it, the lawns have never looked so good. And now I need to explore a side of myself that has been buried for many years. Bernard and I plan to tour the great gardens of Europe.
Please be assured, Margaret, that I will always love you in my way. But sometimes ploughing a straight furrow just isn’t enough.
Yours, J xxxx
From Simon: This is a neat piece of writing and shows the confidence you can feel when you know you’re building up to a good punch-line. The misdirection of the reader is skilful, the information is fed out in just the right order. I also enjoyed the piece’s mischievousness. There are lines and phrases here which sound like innuendo – ‘wearing only dungarees and holding his dibber’, ‘so as not to bruise my plums’, ‘to rub down the bits he couldn’t reach’, ‘ploughing a straight furrow’ – and yet in the context they’re perfectly innocent. They leave the reader feeling a little guilty for having such a dirty mind, and yet they do at the same time add to the sexually charged atmosphere. I liked the irony that the writer’s spouse unwittingly contributes to the betrayal, by increasing the gardener’s visits ‘to twice a week, and then three.’ After that, we build neatly to the pay-off, as the letter-writer needs to ‘explore a side of myself that has been buried for many years.’ And I love the final joke, that ‘the lawns have never looked so good’, just before the reveal of the identity of the letter’s recipient. A subtle, well-controlled piece of humorous writing.