Free Mr Darwin's Gardener by Kristina Carlson Page B

Crassulaceae and Aizoaceae, and the genus
Angraecum
, are strange and off-putting, like foreigners whose language Thomas cannot understand. One can only serve them, whereas more mundane plants can be commanded, directed, divided, cut, pruned, grafted, trained.
    He has to arrange, bag and catalogue the seeds collected in autumn; also clean the pots that Mrs Darwin wants on the windowsills in spring. Then begonias, geraniumsand fuchsias will be carried out of the cellar where they spent the winter.
    Thomas lifts a box off the shelf. It contains the bags that are ready, arranged in alphabetical order.
Aquilegia bertolonii
, written in my handwriting. The black aquilegia seeds are smaller than a full stop on a piece of paper. In nature, they spread well by themselves. All these seeds have been collected for storing. There may be a gardener in some corner of the earth who needs this particular common variety.
    I could measure the test area in the snowy field today.
    Â 
    Waiting, waiting. In the waiting room are waiting: the chimney sweep’s little finger, Edwin’s knee, Sarah Hamilton’s God-knows-what. Someone is always waiting. Robert Kenny is hard pressed to hold his own head upright between his shoulders.
    Mary clears her throat behind the door. It is her fault I have the odd nip, and another one. I down spirits for professional purposes. It does not smell. I medicate myself since I was unable to cure Eleanor. I will not recover, I get drunk. Intoxicated, a man does not remember if he is well or ill. So what should be bad is actually good. I recommend a nip to all my patients.
    I also recommend prayer.
    Hear us, almighty and most merciful God and Saviour; extend thy accustomed goodness to this thy servant, who is grieved with sickness.
    If that does not work, at least the doctor is not to blame.
    Come in. Yes, you, chimney sweep. What narrow flue was it that caused you to break your finger? All right, all right, Miss Hamilton. Patience, your flue will be scrubbed forthwith!

II
    Oh, oh, Advent.
    Waiting makes for a rush. There is hardly a moment to draw breath and one has to sweep snow off the steps, heat the house, do the laundry, starch, iron, darn, sweep, wax, polish, dust, air, boil, crush, whisk, knead, roll, roast, ice, sew, go out for sugar, salt, flour, currants, cinnamon, almonds, soda, buttons, ribbons, candles; run to the shop and back, to the neighbour’s, the church, the chicken coop, the shed, and back into the kitchen before a burning smell comes from the oven.
    O Sapientia
, Sarah Hamilton sighs, though the coming Sunday is only the second of Advent.
    O Sapientia
is sung eight days before Christmas, but Sarah just cannot wait. She busies herself round the house – like a tea cosy on wheels, Hannah Hamilton thinks, peering over her glasses.
    She looks down again, applying stem stitches to linen. She uses green thread to create leaf skeletons. She employs satin stitches for the leaf blades and bird’s-eye stitches in red for flowers.
    So we waited last year, too, and the year before, and the one before that. The candles were lit in the wreath, first one, then another. Every year, we ascend to Christmas. But once we have reached the summit, the sickening descentbegins, as early as Epiphany. When the body is made to fast, and the soul too suffers, you fall more swiftly.
    Sarah has been waiting for a man, a miracle, Christmas, spring. She has been waiting. Pity that both French and Latin will end up as food for worms.
    Not yet, no.
    Hannah breaks the thread with her eye tooth. I’ll go first.
    Though Death’s records do not follow the human calendar, I want to see Sarah at my graveside in elegant new mourning clothes. She will lower a bouquet, wiping the corner of her eye with the handkerchief I embroidered with her initials the Christmas before last. She will incline her head to the vicar. Grief bestows dignity on some, making them a head taller. It will suit Sarah. Thomas Davies is