She shows me a flower and says a name I can’t make any sense of. I stand in front of the sign scrutinising the letters. Latin. Definitely Latin. She tells me the origin of the plant and shows me which stems to cut back so that it will grew back better this summer. It’s all very fascinating for her. I cut back a few of the stems, before opening a thermos of tea. I take a stroll through the flowerbeds looking for one I might like. She’s pointing at more of them, telling me their history, their breeding. I ignore her, inventing my own story for the plants and colours around me.
And then I spot a yellow blue purple. That’s what I call it. I run my hands through each of the flowers, zoning out her voice, as she recalls the something-something. I can hear a bee buzzing. She’s still talking but I can’t hear her.
PHILIPPA MANNION 