Always plant with a ‘R’ in the month they used to say. And I make a
big effort today to move out many of my little miniature plants – the
tiny leaves of the lupin, so exquisite – from the trays into smaller
pots. 3 oak trees that I planted from acorns some years ago are also
moved into much larger containers and fingers crossed that the
transfers wont have caused too much stress.

Small clusters of flowers appear in the driveway. A vibrant blue spray
of forget-me-nots just inside the gate is eye-catching, the blue of
its flower turning even deeper as the light fades. There is a healthy
growth of mint, and my first small bumble bees cling to the flamenco
skirts of the blue comfrey flowers and then move on to the dandelions.
A single pink tulip appears near the parsley and a little further
over, several black tulips begin pushing through the green haze of the
fennel. Dandelions and daisies spot the fields beyond in a colourful
cloth but the trees are still bare. Just beside the gable a huge clump
of rape seed has appeared suddenly and small striped bees or perhaps
wasps sup on the yellow flowers. Under the rose bush Mrs Naughten’s
bluebells have appeared.

Eleanor has come to ’sort’ my garden. In truth I don’t have a garden,
I have a natural, low maintenance, wildlife scantuary. However a few
years ago, I took back a small section for myself, consisting of a
lovely herb and vegetable patch outside my kitchen window, and two
long strips for a flower garden running along the driveway.

I am not a gardener, Eleanor is, quite a magnificent one and soon
after her arrival work begins on the driveway which even in a short
few weeks has become cluttered and overgrown.

Work in progress was quickly disrupted as Eleanor and I have quite
different ideas about gardening. I’m not too happy about certain weeds
being pulled, and while I can understand her logic that the place will
be over-run by certain ‘weeds’ to her, ‘wild flowers’ to me, I still
find it difficult pulling any little plants out of their snug beds and
tossing them into the barrow. So we compromise, some ‘weeds’ are left,
others discarded and slowly the strip takes shape and elegance, as
last years flowers are given room to expand and breathe in their newly
made beds of rich uncluttered clay.

Eleanor has brought me lots of plants from her own beautiful garden
and while I’m conscious of her generosity I’m wondering if there’ll be
any room left for my own zillions of tiny plants which have taken over
every inch of my glasshouse, my window sills, and every available
chair and bench in the lean-too and in the last few weeks occupied my
every waking moment. I should have taken heed of Kieran’s warning.

Like all good gardeners, Eleanor is a no- nonsense one. I am aghast at
the speed and casualness that she upturns potted plants and
unceremoniously plonks them into the clay: all done and dusted in
seconds whereas I would spend a good 20 minutes on each plant,
handling, smoothing, composting and watering with the greatest care
and consideration. When she decides to relocate some of mine, we
argue. ‘But will they grow?’ I whine, tension now hovering in the
driveway delighted with the possibility of a good punch-up, ‘Of course
they will’, she says her exasperation clear, and orders me off to get
more rocks for the border, more bamboo sticks for the sprouting sweet
pea and the barrow to gather the weeds.

Eleanor wants me to be at hand, to learn. And I do. I watch carefully,
discovering which ‘weeds’ can be put in the compost box and which ones
discarded. I learn the difference between regular grass and scotch
grass, and the importance of pulling up the entire root of the latter
and how this is achieved. I learn which ‘weeds’ will take over the
house and which can be left but need monitoring, and the plants that
will need thinning and separating, and those that will bloom and
blossom for just one cycle.

Eleanor’s motto is that one should never move round the garden without
having something in both hands. I can see the value of that but find
it impossible. I’m a sauntering-down-to-the-gate-hands-free type of
person, so as work progresses throughout the day and she draws my
attention continually to my empty left or right hand, I move off away
with my bundle of weeds to the compost, a sulky schoolgirl hoping to
get a quick quiet smoke in the shed on the way. But I’m recalled after
a short absence. ‘What’s keeping you? she calls, my guilt as obvious
as the smell of nicotine on the schoolgirls uniform, as I stand beside
her again, ‘You’ve been replanting some of those weeds haven’t you
over by the compost? Now its her turn to look aghast. Only those
lovely clods of daisies and a few knapweed plants, I explain not
meeting her eye.

We work on in silence as I watch her scoop out the rich clay to plant
some of those big oxeyed daisies. ‘Stop’ I gasp. And she did. There,
resting in a small circle on the unturned soil, are an entire family
of black beetles, probably having a bit of a siesta after their tea.
And not until they are all safely placed at another table across he
driveway, do we get the daisies snugly planted in their new, usurped
territory.

We’re sitting at the window seat just finished eating when I bespy a
startling trapped inside the net curtains in the house across the
road.

I dash across, bang on the door and getting no answer, rush down the
street to someone I’m sure will know where I can locate the owner. But
no help there, I return again to the cafe and alert Eva who’s sitting
at the next table and another woman whom I don’t know, to see if
either can tell me who owns the house. They both come back out with
me, the woman, who stresses that she doesn’t want to be involved, goes
off thinking she may in fact know someone who has a telephone number.
The house she tells me, has been empty for years.

I climb over the gates hoping perhaps that a rusty window at the back
of the house might yield access but no such luck, blasted double
glazing. The poor bird is frantic inside and I’m back outside when one
of the local lads comes walking up the street. He’s so cool looking -
just like Johnny Deppe and my frantic instinct is to hand him a 20
and tell him to go get a crowbar and break the door down. But sanity
kicks in and asks me if I really want to be visiting this young man in
Mountjoy for the next 3 years, loading my car every week with cheese
scones, ginger bread and muesli biscuits to help get him through a
difficult time for which I was entirely responsible.

Then the woman who doesn’t want to be involved come back – with a
number. She rings it and tells the tale. He’ll be there when he’s
ready he says – hours – that he has lots to do and when I suggest she
ring again and explain the bird doesn’t have hours, she says she
doesn’t want to be involved, and hands the phone to Eva. Eva rings
and tells the man, that she’d be willing to go over and help him out
so he could get over sooner to release the bird. He hangs up.

I ponder aloud if I should call down to the police station. The woman
who doesn’t want to be involved dismisses it, saying the cops wont be
there and even if they were, they couldn’t do anything. A few other
people stop and sympathize and even that is a small mercy and now the
bird thank god has extricated himself from the net curtain and is bacK
in the room. The woman who doesn’t want to be involved, disappears but
is back ten minutes later. Fair play. She did in fact walk down to the
cop station but no one was there. Then a man in a tractor pulls up and
hears the tale. God where are the men, who’d whack the door down and
release the damsel in distress. Don’t they exist anymore? The woman
now says she has to go. She stresses again she doesn’t want to be
involved. ‘But you are involved whether you want to be or not’, I
say, ‘and I’m so glad you got involved for at least now we know
someone does have a key and someone will eventually turn up and
eventually, hopefully that bird will get out.’.

And she walks away not feeling too badly, I’d say.

Eva and I wait around for a bit. No one turns up. I want to put a big
sign with a big black marker on the door saying: THIS HOUSE IS EMPTY.
THERE’S A BIRD TRAPPED INSIDE. GO IN AND GET HIM OUT. AND HAVE A SMOKE
AND A CUPPA AS YOU’RE AT IT. YOU DESERVE IT.

Why don’t we have a Minister for Trapped Birds in Empty Houses.

I’m fuming at not being able to do anything. There should be a swift,
simple solution. My next Course will be a lock picking one. No door
too strong, No lock too hard.

And then I drove back with Eleanor to start on my garden and to light
a candle to St Francis for the distressed starling.