Hilary Bonner - Friends to Die For

His perennial and biennial summer bedding plants, mostly pelargoniums and begonias, wintered in a glass frame in one sheltered corner. This year, in spite of persistent rain and the bitterly cold early spring, there had been little snow and ice and temperatures had only rarely dropped below zero. Somewhat surprisingly, as the climate had felt so miserable, the weather had remained temperate enough for even them to provide some ragged cheer.

Bob, carrying his favourite white china mug bearing in green the slogan ‘stop and smell the roses’, glanced up at the sky as he stepped onto the crazy paving he had laid himself many years previously. There was a break in the rain which had drenched the city over the last couple of weeks, and he was beginning to hope a fine spring might be on the way. Certainly this was a lovely morning. The sun shone with a still wintery brightness, and the sky was blue and clear, except for one fluffy white cloud just drifting past the Post Office Tower.

Bob prepared to savour that moment of satisfaction as he appreciated the little garden entirely of his own creation.

Unfortunately some of it was no longer there. The winter jasmine, and the other shrubs which climbed and were entangled with the fencing, the dormant vine, the tangled woody stems of the passion flower, the clematis and the honeysuckle remained, of course. But the majority of Bob’s garden grew in containers of varying sizes and shapes. Several had been removed. The small plastic pots of wintering pelargoniums that had been inside the glass frame were missing, as was the little fig tree which grew in a treasured blue ceramic pot that had been made by Bob’s son Daniel at pottery class.

Bob closed his eyes quickly then opened them again. Unfortunately his pelargoniums and the fig tree were still missing.

It was Tiny who found the note. Bob had been due to give Tiny and Billy’s terrace a clear-up that morning. Tiny had phoned Bob when he failed to arrive, and, upon hearing of his friend’s loss and realizing that Bob was more upset than he cared to let on, called round.

The note, encased in transparent plastic, had been stuck into the planter containing the winter jasmine, fastened to a spike the way florists attach cards to bouquets of flowers. The planter had fallen over, making it easy to miss.

‘Many thanks, love Alan Titchmarsh,’ read Tiny aloud.

He passed the note to Bob.

‘Well, that explains it then, doesn’t it,’ Tiny said.

Bob stared at the note. His expression was one of total bewilderment.

‘What’s Alan Titchmarsh got to do with anything, for God’s sake?’ he asked.

‘Not a lot, I shouldn’t think,’ said Tiny. ‘Though he does get everywhere nowadays.’

‘What?’ Bob looked even more bewildered.

‘Sorry,’ said Tiny. ‘Look, don’t you see?’

Bob shook his head.

‘It’s the same joker who nicked George’s clothes at the gym and pulled the Mr Tickle stunt. It must be.’

‘Do you think so?’

‘Sure I do,’ affirmed Tiny. ‘You both got spoof notes, didn’t you? Yours from Alan Titchmarsh and George’s from Mr Tickle. On form, your stuff will be returned to you, I reckon. Just don’t do anything if you hear a noise in the night.’

Bob pulled a face.

‘Come to think of it, it’s pretty extraordinary that you didn’t hear anything last night,’ Tiny went on.

He looked around the terrace.

‘I mean, whoever did this would have had to climb up here from the walkway at the front. The wall’s not very high, I know, but it’s not an easy thing to do, is it? There are the climbers to negotiate, for a start. Then they’d have had to pick up your plants, lower them down the other side of the wall and make off with them. Impossible to think that could be done without a bit of noise. Didn’t you hear anything at all?’

‘I’m deaf in one ear,’ said Bob. ‘And I always seem to sleep on my good side, so I hardly ever hear a thing in the night.’

‘Right. Who knows that? Amongst us lot, particularly.’

‘About my sleeping habits?’ said Bob. ‘None of you. Those days seem to be over for me.’

‘But what about the deaf ear?’ Tiny asked.

‘I thought you all knew,’ said Bob. ‘Don’t I always try to sit with my back to the wall at Johnny’s? And you must have heard me ask people to talk into my good ear?’

‘Oh yeah. Now you mention it, I suppose we do all know, though I didn’t think of it until you said.’

Tiny clapped a big arm around Bob.

‘Don’t worry,’ he said. ‘I’m sure it’s another prank, that’s all. Sleep tight tonight, mate, and I bet you’ll find your plants are back tomorrow morning.’

‘I shall try to believe that, Tiny. It’s just the fig tree’s in a pot Danny made at school. Reminds me of the good times we had together.’

Bob looked away. Tiny thought he could see a tear in his eye.

‘Trust me, I’m a bouncer,’ said Tiny.

Bob had two afternoon gardening appointments which he fulfilled. He didn’t mention what had happened to anyone. But Tiny, it seemed, had spread the word among the friends, and had obviously pointed out the sentimental value of Danny’s handmade pot. Ari and George both phoned during the day and left messages of concern. Bob avoided their calls and did not reply to their messages. He really didn’t want to talk about it. He couldn’t avoid Greg, who turned up unannounced on his doorstep just as he was arriving home that evening. Greg and Karen were his neighbours, their flat only a few doors away from his in Bishops Court.

‘Just came to see if there was anything I could do, mate,’ said Greg. ‘If you need to re-stock I know a bloke who’s got a load of spring bulbs going cheap — that any good for you?’

Bob found it irritating that Greg was his usual cheery self.

‘You plant spring bulbs in the autumn, Greg,’ he said.

‘Right.’ Greg looked confused.

Bob wasn’t surprised. Greg was no gardener. As far as Bob was aware, his neighbour’s terrace was devoted to the cultivation of children’s bicycles, a plastic paddling pool and assorted debris.

‘Well, if there’s anything I can help with, you just shout, do you hear?’ Greg commanded.

Bob promised that he would and dispatched Greg on his way as quickly as he could, without, he hoped, seeming too rude and ungrateful. But he feared he had probably been both.

Then, realizing he hadn’t eaten all day, he made himself a bacon sandwich, even though he didn’t have much appetite, and watched some mindless television. He was an old soldier, for God’s sake. He knew he shouldn’t be in a state about a plant pot, regardless of who had made it. But he was.

While he was preparing for bed, Tiny called to ask how he was doing.

‘I’m OK,’ Bob lied.

‘Everything will be fine, I told you. Trust me, I’m a bouncer,’ said Tiny again.

Bob took a glass of whisky and hot water to bed with him and tried not to think about anything while he sipped it. But his mind was in a whirl. He couldn’t sleep and, in spite of being quite sure his plants were not going to be returned, couldn’t help keeping his good ear pricked for any sort of sound from his terrace. Once he thought he heard something and peered out of the window. There didn’t seem to be anyone or anything out there. He mentally kicked himself for being so ridiculous. Towards dawn he dozed off for a while. He was woken by his phone ringing just before eight. The caller was Tiny.

‘Any news? Have you got your stuff back?’ he asked.

Obediently Bob shuffled out onto his terrace, taking the phone with him. It remained the same as the previous day.

‘Nothing’s changed, Tiny,’ he said. ‘No good fairy has visited me in the night.’