Free The Square by Rosie Millard

Tracey.
    “Not too weird?” Tracey says, still worried.
    “No, no. It was fine. Why don’t you get in touch with Alan Makin, though. I dare you! You never know. He might have you on one of his shows. He could do a Makeover on you, and you could say all that stuff again, on TV. Apart from the Lottery bit, of course. But seriously, Tracey, he might help you out with your overdraft.”
    She thinks about it at night, lying in bed, surrounded by the evidence of her lucky, lucky win; the perfect house, the immaculate kitchen, a wardrobe full of shoes, quietly existing in the soft darkness all around her.

Chapter Seven Roberta
    She’s knows she is lucky to have an allotment. She got it under the Austerity Enterprise scheme from the local council. It used to belong to some woman who never used it. She did use it, actually, but not for vegetables. She just grew sunflowers on it. This was regarded as inessential. It was taken away from her. Now it belongs to the piano teacher who plants vegetables in it.
    Roberta’s back aches. This has got to be the last row. Please let it be the last row. She looks back at the small pots. How many are there? Fifteen? Twenty? Surely she can put these all in the same row, can’t she?
    Are leeks a less deserving enterprise than sunflowers? Is a beautiful flower, which manages to swivel round and look at the sun every day, less important than a leek? The council certainly judged so, and Roberta, whose name was first on the waiting list, was the beneficiary of that judgement. Food before art.
    She bends down stiffly and quickly picks up a little pot, holding it by its plastic rim. The ribbons of bright green in the centre of the pot wave encouragingly. Carefully, she tips the dome of soft compost into her gloved hand. It falls easily into her palm, the sandcastle shape contained by a web of thick white latticed roots leading to the fleshy cylindrical core. She dusts crumbs of soil from the long ribbons. Leeks.
    She pushes the raised line of soil askance with her toe, and puts the leek into it. Still crouching down, she picks up the next pot. Squatting now, she swiftly decants the baby leeks, pot after pot, into the open ground, each in its allotted place. After three, she stands up, stretches, walks along and squats down to plant three more in their places. Allotted, on the allotment. At last the job is completed.
    She stands up and walks along the row, treading down the rich black compost with her boot, walking carefully so the flat long emerald leaves aren’t imprinted with its muddy sole. The light is nondescript, the sun absent. She hears children shouting on their way home from school.
    They sprouted last year, tiny green hairs in miniature square containers made of card, their nursery the sunny, wind-free world of her kitchen table. A packet’s worth. Then, she pricked them out into larger pots. Now she’s planting them in the garden for the winter, a task as ancient as it is repetitive. She’ll have leeks all season long. Braised, stirred with olive oil over a gentle heat, simmered with melted cheese tempering the blackened edges.
    Hanon is repetitive too, considers Roberta. Repetitive exercises designed to strengthen the fingers and improve fluency. She’d rather play the piano than plant leeks. But this means a winter’s free vegetables.
    Eighteen months, for three rows of leeks. Does anyone ever think about this in Waitrose? Do they hell.
    Later, back at home, washing the soil off her hands, stretching her aching back, she feels content with her morning. She considers the small leeks now securely wrapped underground. Completely free, bar the 30p for the packet of seeds. She got the compost from Patrick, who gave her a whole bag of it. Fifty litres. Why do they always measure compost in terms of liquid?
    “Robs, old thing, we never use this, why don’t you take it?” he had said to her bluffly one day, after she had finished teaching and was bringing her cup into the kitchen