The Greenhouse Effect

Published by Gentle Reader in 2006

Cissie spat out her chewing gum, aiming at a tuft of grass and banged her heels rhythmically on the rough surface of the wall, scuffing the backs of her shoes. Heat waves always oppressed her. She loved the lush greenness of a wet climate and noticed, with dismay, the frizzled, straw-like grass and dust across the path. Time, she thought, to go and see Mr. Malone.

Mr. Malone was a quiet man. Cissie had been drawn to his calm, unassuming ways and his garden, a vision of paradise to Cissie invading her being like balm, where she could escape the hustle and bustle of seven brothers and sisters, two dogs, a cramped house and small back yard, where nothing green grew.

Mr Malone liked ordered chaos in a garden and so did Cissie. He'd given her a plot of well-dug land at the back of his garden, to the right under the rose hedge, which trailed a mass of white, scented blooms. She'd examined Mr. Malone's seed catalogue with the fervour of one, who needs to exact a qualification at the end of it. Never one to shine at school, Cissie excelled when motivation dangled its fresh, new carrot under her nose.

"I've decided which plants I want to grow," she greeted Mr. Malone cheerfully, as she peered round the open door of the greenhouse. "Can I come in?" Mr. Malone smiled, as he drew on the dying embers of his pipe and puffed on it rapidly, a cloud of misty-blue smoke puthering round his head. It was warm and humid in the greenhouse, which emanated a soft, green glow all of its own and it smelt so earthy, so fresh, so full of emerging life.

"Oh, look at those begonias, Mr. Malone! I love the yellow, fluffy ones." Mr. Malone grew prize begonias and they were his favourite plants.

"You're sure then," said Mr. Malone. "Tell me which ones you want to grow and we'll send off for them. Then we'll set them in seed trays in potting compost from that bag over there and grow them in here. When they've grown enough we'll transplant them into your garden plot. That needs raking smooth, Cissie. First things first, you tell me the seeds you'd like."

He lowered himself into a candy-striped deckchair. She sat on the grass next to him. She noticed his hair was whiter, his eyes bluer, his face more tanned that she could remember. She pointed to particular pages enjoying speaking out their names.

"I've chosen nearly all perennials, Mr. Malone, so they come up year after year. Nine altogether. I've saved up enough pocket money. It comes to four pounds exactly."

"Don't you worry, Cissie. I'm buying them," interrupted Mr. Malone. "It'll be a belated birthday present."

"But me ma says I must pay for things."

"Don't you worry, Cissie," he repeated, then shut his eyes, sucked his pipe and listened to the sparrows dabbling in the birdbath.

The seeds arrived the next week. After school she'd run round eagerly to call on Mr. Malone.

"They came today. Have a look at the packets," said Mr. Malone. Butterflies hovered lazily over the blue catmint and purple sage flowers amongst the rhubarb and ruby-red peonies in front of the greenhouse. The packets fascinated Cissie; the pictures of fully-grown plants a miracle to be performed with dark, hard dots of seed together with sun, warmth and water.

Amidst begonias shaded against the hottest sun, Mr. Malone and Cissie set about the seed trays. After sowing she made labels from the packets for each tray. She couldn't describe the feeling she had, pure tranquillity relaxing her whole body. In three or four weeks it would be time to transplant the seedlings into her 'wild garden'.

The roses above her head lifted and sank, ruffled by the pleasant breeze, which stopped the heat burning her skin. It was mid-June. Mr. Malone was busy in the greenhouse. Cissie sighed. When she grew up she wanted a garden like this; the curve of the rockery under a bay window, the flower beds beyond full of colourful annuals laid out in splashes of height and colour, the herb patch interspersed with rhubarb and flowers, the apple trees and gooseberry bushes across the lawn. To the right the vegetable plot held neat troughs of cabbages, Brussels sprouts, carrots and onions and behind that a wild flower meadow framed by a dramatic waterfall of climbing roses. She'd finished planting the last of the seedlings. She wanted to tell Mr. Malone that her Auntie Megan and Uncle Sean were buying the house next door. She got up, dusted the dry earth from her hands and collected the tools and watering can.

"Can I come tomorrow?" she asked Mr. Malone.

"Of course, Cissie. You can come whenever you want. By the way, be taking some rhubarb with you. I've plenty for myself."

"Thank you. Do you want any help?" He was kneeling down, his slight frame bent over his plants ready to put in the bed in front of his bay window.

"You can if you want, but I've only a few more to do." Cissie smiled.

"I just wanted to say 'thank you' for my garden you've given me," she said, producing a white pelargonium wrapped in fancy florist's paper from behind her back.

"Well now, you shouldn't have."

"Do you like it? It's a pel-ar-go-ni-um."

"I do. It's lovely. I'm going to put it on the window sill in the front room."

"I'll be going now, Mr. Malone. 'Bye."

"Goodbye now, Cissie. Your garden will be a vision when all those plants get going."

On her way out she pulled an armful of rhubarb, marched down the covered passage separating the white-washed outhouse from the main house and out through the sunlit door at the end.

Throughout the summer, Cissie tended her garden and helped Mr. Malone with the rest of his. She watched the wild flowers thrive and spread, bees and butterflies attracted to this particular patch of wildness like children to sweets.

One day in early September, Cissie paid Mr. Malone one of her Sunday visits after Mass. She opened the passage door and walked in without knocking, as Mr. Malone had told her to do. The air was still very warm, full of the promise of fruit. School would be starting again soon. She tried to push that thought out of her mind and skipped up the steps. There was Mr. Malone sitting in his deckchair in the middle of his greenhouse surrounded by his begonias, smiling peacefully, his empty pipe resting on his shoulder, head turned to one side. Cissie began to speak, but the noise of her footsteps hadn't wakened Mr. Malone. She looked at the apple trees laden with plump fruit. Her garden was bursting with life and the whole garden shimmered like the dawn of creation before her.

"Mr. Malone, I wondered if…?" Cissie stopped. She felt her eyes fill with tears, which fell silently down her flushed cheeks. She knew he was dead. She trailed slowly down the passage and knocked on Auntie Megan's kitchen window next door.

"Mr. Malone's died. He's sitting in his deckchair in his greenhouse." She began to sob. She couldn't stop. Uncle Sean called for the doctor. Cissie couldn't help thinking it was a bit late for that.

It was a stroke. She went to his funeral at St Mary's and it was a beautiful service. She had contributed bouquets of wild flowers for the church and Father Donohue liked them so much he put them near the pulpit and the shiny, oak coffin, as it stood for people to pay their last respects. Cissie felt comforted that Mr. Malone would be going back into the earth he loved so much, that flowers would grow over and around him. Cissie made up her mind to visit his grave every Sunday and put fresh flowers there, at his headstone.

The new Secondary school was awful. She hated everything except biology and helping in the school garden. A new family moved into Mr. Malone's house two months after he died. They were a couple with three young children. The garden became overgrown and neglected. The husband took down the greenhouse, chopped away the rose hedge, cut down most of the apple trees, pulled up the gooseberry bushes and filled in the vegetable plot to make more lawn, more room for the ever-arguing children to play on. He didn't have a feel for the land; he didn't know what he was doing thought Cissie, as she stared out at the garden from Auntie Megan's bedroom window upstairs. She could see her 'wild meadow' at the back - it had really become wild. Now the weeds and grass threatened to choke the plants and the children hurled their bicycles and toys onto it, flattening and damaging the flowers. When she grew up, she would have a garden like Mr. Malone's with a greenhouse full of begonias.