Sarah's Garden

Our garden used to be perfect.

Each bush was artfully trimmed, every flower was flawless and beautiful, birds sang each morning. Sarah used to spend hours pruning leaves and digging in the soil. At lunchtime we’d sit in the shade of her apple tree with some elderflower cordial and a bowl of freshly harvested strawberries and watch the world go by. The birds would swoop and soar around the garden and she’d tell me stories about where they had come from and where they were going.

“That one over by the table is Mr Goldfinch, he’s back from a long, hard day in the park and is wondering when he’ll see his lovely wife – who is much too good for his rugged self, may I add.”

“Is that her over there?”

“Yes, look at how they dance with each other! Such beautiful noise, I think they love this garden as much as I do.”

“Impossible, love.”

 She planted that tree on our wedding day fifty years ago and lovingly tended to it each day since, rain or shine. I once found her in a raging storm, soaked to the bone, frantically tying the small sapling to it’s support stick. It would have been torn out of the ground if she hadn’t, she told me later shivering by the fire.

I was hanging my suit up in our wardrobe when I first spotted it through the window. A small bushy-tailed squirrel was crawling across the fence towards our birdfeeder, twitching and pausing every few seconds. Even with my failing eyes, I could see its dark intentions. 

I raced downstairs and out into the garden, as quick as my weak legs would allow, but I was too late. That beast had scared away the birds and was gleefully munching on their seeds!

“Shoo, shoo!” I shouted, waving my arms wildly. It stared at me, dark and hollow eyes roaming across my body, before leaping away into the branches of Sarah’s tree. 

The grass was a mess of seeds and a few scattered feathers. The birds were quiet. That thing was watching me from a distance, a small spot of darkness in her beautiful tree.

Each day since then, I have guarded that birdfeeder with my life. Still, it seems like that squirrel is a talented thief, always sneaking back in whenever my back is turned or whilst I am asleep. I wake up each morning and the garden is defiled again. Dreadful creature. 

I scream, yell and holler when I see it. Sometimes that works, but never for too long since it waits patiently in the tree for me to leave. I can see its beady eyes between the leaves, always watching, always waiting.

One day I found it rummaging in the hydrangeas, knocking its perfect petals to the ground as it searched for a spot to hide its stolen goods. I scared it off and looked around at my desecrated garden. This was the last straw.

--

“No luck with that squirrel then, Archie?” says a cheerful voice behind me. Its Pam, the shop keep who seems to be so full of happiness she can’t help but let it spill out of her mouth. Her and Sarah used to chat endlessly during our visits, I’ve never known two people to laugh and smile whilst surrounded by bags of soil and manure.

“Y’know I once read that squirrels are cleverer than pigs, can you imagine! They’re such inquisitive animals and bless their little fluffy-“

“This one’s a menace,” I mutter, shoving the birdfeeder back onto the shelf. Not enough wiring, that cheeky bugger would slip right in the second I hang it outside. Companies don’t care for quality these days. “Even you could see the devil in its heart, Pam.”

She makes an exaggerated gasp with a smile on her face and places her hands on her heart. “Nonsense, you grumpy old bag! You’ve the more devil than he does, he’s only a little creature.”

I huff and turn to leave. Maybe the Amazon will have what I’m looking for. Pam puts a gentle hand on my shoulder, stretching slightly to reach with her small stature, and points me towards another aisle.

“We’ve got some fancy-pancy bird feeders over there,” she says her eyes twinkling, “all plastic save the little slot that the birds use when they sit on the perch, perfect for your little thieving friend.”

I walk towards one, turn it over, shake it and inspect it carefully. Seems solid. Robust. Some sort of electrical mechanism that drops food out for birds. Pam smiles at me when I take it over to the counter and pay, gleeful as always.

“Should keep the rascal away for a little while.”

“It will, it’s the best in the whole shop! Nothing will be getting past this little miracle worker.” Pam grins. “Cash or card?”

--

I sit proudly in my garden chair, watching the birds fly around the garden.

A goldfinch lands on Sarah’s apple tree and titters, its mate joins it shortly after a quick feed from my new birdfeeder. They look good together, a strong pair without that squirrel causing a nuisance. 

The garden has been a peaceful place without him in it these past few days. I can feel the sun on my face, hear the birds sing and the gentle rustle of leaves. No scampering and chittering coming from the fence.

Finally, I am free. 

On Saturday, I find the feeder smashed on patio. There are claw marks on the flimsy plastic cap that had been shattered on the stone and the birdfeed has vanished. I stomp my feet and throw the feeder down again and again until the fancy feeding slot tumbles out. Damned thing. 

Breathing heavy, I sit with my head in my hands on the cold stone. A chitter comes form Sarah’s tree and I look up at the foul beast enjoying its plunder. It finishes its meal and skilfully climbs away into the branches, waiting to strike again.

I can’t even muster the energy to shake my fist at it. Its hopeless. I sit and stare at her tree, and realise that I’m crying. If Sarah was still here, if that damned sickness hadn’t come back and she hadn’t left me, maybe this garden would be perfect again.

I should have known better. 

Nature always wins.