Gnomes and Gardens (Short Story)
24th February 2019
In: Short Stories
I only married Wilber because Mother remarked caustically that I was unlikely to get a better offer. Envisaging an endless and probably joyless spinsterhood, I conceded she had a point. When Wilber produced a modest diamond solitaire at the village Gardening Club’s annual dinner, I accepted, more or less gracefully, and hoped for the best.
We had booked the wedding for April when Mother, inconsiderate to the last, took ill with influenza and died mid-March. Instead, we had her funeral and Wilber showed surprising sensitivity. I would need time, he said, to get over the shock.
Mother had left me the house and a small income from some long-term investments Father had made. I was, I discovered, a woman of independent means. Wary that he might now regard me simply as a potential meal ticket, I didn’t tell Wilber about my improved financial circumstances.
Having allowed me a suitable period of mourning, he resumed his formal courtship. Bunches of dahlias from his allotment appeared on my doorstep, affectionate notes tucked between their damp stems. Then an invitation to dinner at the Black Bull. I was amazed and vaguely touched.
He turned up looking very dapper in his cricket club blazer and spotted grey silk cravat. I caught a strong waft of cedarwood cologne. When we got to the pub, our table was waiting with candles lit and champagne on ice. It was, I realized later, a stage set for seduction.
Next morning, I woke and found him beside me. Shakily, I got out of bed. “Too much champers, darling?” He smiled and looked faintly smug. I nodded. Inside, I was raging. Half the sodding village would know Wilber had spent the night. His lime green hatchback was squatting like an advert on my drive. Now I’d have to marry him or be labelled a harlot by the moral guardians of our small community.
We were married in the October. A quiet affair in the local church followed by a finger buffet at the Women's Institute hall. Wilber had wanted a sit down at the Black Bull but I feigned a limited budget.
Marriage to Wilber produced the inevitable conflict I’d anticipated. He wanted a pond and some decking and announced plans to dig up the rockery and evict Mother’s gnomes. I’d grown up with those gnomes and dug my heels in. “But they’re hideous!” he shouted before slamming out. Next thing, the Police arrived. He’d jumped a red light, hit a lorry and died at the scene.
He wasn’t insured so I had to fork out for the funeral. I went for a cremation. No point in wasting money and, as I told Mr. Godwin our local and still eligible undertaker, I already had a container for Wilber’s ashes. I handed over a hollow, faded plastic garden gnome and explained. “It seems fitting — he so loved being out in the garden.” I dabbed my eyes while Mr. Godwin consolingly patted my shoulder.
We had booked the wedding for April when Mother, inconsiderate to the last, took ill with influenza and died mid-March. Instead, we had her funeral and Wilber showed surprising sensitivity. I would need time, he said, to get over the shock.
Mother had left me the house and a small income from some long-term investments Father had made. I was, I discovered, a woman of independent means. Wary that he might now regard me simply as a potential meal ticket, I didn’t tell Wilber about my improved financial circumstances.
Having allowed me a suitable period of mourning, he resumed his formal courtship. Bunches of dahlias from his allotment appeared on my doorstep, affectionate notes tucked between their damp stems. Then an invitation to dinner at the Black Bull. I was amazed and vaguely touched.
He turned up looking very dapper in his cricket club blazer and spotted grey silk cravat. I caught a strong waft of cedarwood cologne. When we got to the pub, our table was waiting with candles lit and champagne on ice. It was, I realized later, a stage set for seduction.
Next morning, I woke and found him beside me. Shakily, I got out of bed. “Too much champers, darling?” He smiled and looked faintly smug. I nodded. Inside, I was raging. Half the sodding village would know Wilber had spent the night. His lime green hatchback was squatting like an advert on my drive. Now I’d have to marry him or be labelled a harlot by the moral guardians of our small community.
We were married in the October. A quiet affair in the local church followed by a finger buffet at the Women's Institute hall. Wilber had wanted a sit down at the Black Bull but I feigned a limited budget.
Marriage to Wilber produced the inevitable conflict I’d anticipated. He wanted a pond and some decking and announced plans to dig up the rockery and evict Mother’s gnomes. I’d grown up with those gnomes and dug my heels in. “But they’re hideous!” he shouted before slamming out. Next thing, the Police arrived. He’d jumped a red light, hit a lorry and died at the scene.
He wasn’t insured so I had to fork out for the funeral. I went for a cremation. No point in wasting money and, as I told Mr. Godwin our local and still eligible undertaker, I already had a container for Wilber’s ashes. I handed over a hollow, faded plastic garden gnome and explained. “It seems fitting — he so loved being out in the garden.” I dabbed my eyes while Mr. Godwin consolingly patted my shoulder.