Jill Churchill: Mulch Ado About Nothing

“This isn't getting off to a good start," Jane whispered to Shelley.

“Probably more interesting than a 'lecture,' though," Shelley replied just as quietly. "This looks like a man who could bore us to sleep in five minutes or less.”

Another man entered the room and aborted any reply the professor might have made by asking, "Is this the botany class?" He was around forty years old and looked as if his slacks and shirt, as well as his thinning hair, had just been starched and ironed a moment ago. He had a round, shining clean face, eyeglasses that gleamed, and highly polished shoes.

Stefan Eckert said, "It is. But our scheduled instructor has been injured and we have a wonderful substitute who has graciously volunteered to fill in. Time is getting away from us, folks. I suggest we start and if anyone else joins us, they can just slip in and catch up. I want to introduce our guest speaker and then each of you will give your name and a brief explanation of why you're interested in this course.”

The well-groomed newcomer took a chair at the front of the room and found himself next to Martha Winstead. "Miss Winstead!" he exclaimed. "I never expected to find you here."

“Why is that, Mr. Jones?" she asked curtly. Jane noticed that the woman's hands tightened on the handle of her purse.

He looked confused for a moment as to how to reply, then said, "Well, your gardening is so… so haphazard… I just thought you wouldn't really be interested.”

Miss Martha Winstead gave him a smile that could have frozen over a volcano and said, "Haphazard. How very interesting."

“If you wish to take notes, I have a few spiral notebooks here that the local nursery contributed," Stefan said in a shaky voice. "And some pens from my father's office supply store," he added with desperate good cheer.

Four

Stefan took a protective stance behind the desk ': at the front of the room and read off an introduction to the speaker. It was a long list, obviously prepared by the professor himself, of incomprehensible degrees and honors, initials of presumably high-status organizations Dr. Stewart Eastman belonged to or founded or served as president of, and awards Jane had never heard of. Stefan must have pronounced a number of them incorrectly, because every now and then Dr. Eastman, standing next to the desk, cringed ever so slightly.

When Stefan stepped aside with a little bow, Dr. Eastman took his place, saying, "Since Mr. Eckert suggested introductions, we might as well proceed with them. Tell us who you are and why you signed on for this class. You first," he said, pointing to Jane.

She gave her name and added, somewhat idiotically in her own view, "I've spent most of my adult life raising children and pets, but as a once‑ upon-a-time child of a member of the diplomatic corps, I lived my childhood all over the world and saw many gardens and have always thought I'd like very much to have one of my own. So far I've only taken the slightest stab at it and want to learn more.”

Shelley was next. "My adult life has been much like Jane's, but my children are growing older and more independent, giving me time to develop other interests. Gardening is high on my list of priorities. I'm Jane's next-door neighbor.”

Jane smiled to herself. This was a surprisingly meek self-description of Shelley. Shelley had finally been caught out in something she knew very little about and couldn't even fake the dominant role that normally suited and served her so very well. Shelley made a tiny shoulder movement like a shrug or shiver, as if she were reading Jane's mind.

Charles Jones, the terribly neat, clean, freshly pressed man, was next. He stood up like a good student and explained that he was a computer programmer and spent his leisure time in botanical pursuits and hoped they all lived close enough to form car pools and take a look at each other's gardens this week as a part of their studies.

There was a low mumble of agreement. Jane, however, was horrified. Her yard was very nearly a blank canvas. Every spring she swore she'd plant some gardens and fertilize the lawn. She never quite got around to it soon enough. She'dhave to get Mike to clean up after Willard since she hadn't been outside with the pooper-scooper lately, and she'd have to bring in a bunch of potted annuals to look as if she had actually made an attempt at gardening this year. Mike could help her plant a few things since his summer job was at a plant nursery.

“… and," Charles added, "I happen to be a next-door neighbor of Miss Winstead. I think you'd find our gardens an interesting contrast." He sounded smug and sat down neatly, tucking his trousers up at the knees to keep the knife edge.

Miss Winstead spoke in turn. She didn't stand. "I spent a great deal of my life as a professional librarian, and by a fortunate and unexpected circumstance of an inheritance from my great-aunt, was able to continue my librarian work as a volunteer and spend more time on my lifelong interest in gardening. Mr. Jones is quite correct in saying that our gardens are a contrast. I hope we adopt his suggestion." She smiled icily again at Jones.

The older man who'd been reading a magazine when Jane and Shelley arrived finally got up and spoke. "My name is Arnold Waring. My friends call me Arnie and I wish the rest of you would." He cleared his throat. "My late wife, Darlene, was a real gardener and she fixed up our house and yard just perfect. You should have seen her out in the backyard, pulling up weeds and tending her precious posies with a smile and a song.”

Jane knew she was meant to feel touched, but had the urge to laugh. There was something so Victorian — or maybe vaudevillian — about that speech. It sounded for all the world like something from a Monty Python sketch.

“She's been gone a while now," Arnie went on. "And I've tried to keep everything just like she had it as a tribute to her memory. But I'm not very good at it, so I thought…?" His voice trailed off and he sat down quickly, folding his beefy arms as if to protect himself.

“What a dear story, Arnie. And how good it was of you to share it with us," Ursula said. She stood up and said, "I'm here because I'm part of the cosmos. We're all living, breathing, nurture-seeking beings, and gardens must be part of our nature. They are nature in their finest refinement.”

Two paper clips fell from her and tinkled to the floor.

“And I'm interested, as I'm sure we all are," she added, looking around at everyone for possible early signs of disagreement, "in what part the government has in this area. They have their greedy fingers in every other aspect of our lives.”

She smiled and sat down on a fork that had fallen out of one of her bags. "Oops," she giggled, stuffing it back into her enormous purse.

Dr. Eastman looked around the room for anyone he'd missed, and Stefan said, "I'm a student, too, sir. I would have been here even if Julie hadn't—" He started over. "I want to put in a little pool in my yard and I'm confused about plantsand fish and snails and how much you have to have of each and what will live over the winter." He smiled. "I'm from the South and haven't gotten used to Chicago winters yet. Don't know that I ever will.”

There was a tap on the door and Stefan, now having drifted to the back of the room to take a seat, turned to open it. Somebody gasped. The woman who entered looked a great deal like Julie Jackson.

She glanced around, unsure of herself. "I'm Geneva Jackson. Julie Jackson's sister. I'm sorry to interrupt, but thought you might like a report on how she's doing since you might have read about her being attacked.”

To a polite chorus of yeses, she replied, "She's still in intensive care and is almost conscious part of the time. Enough to move her hands and make sounds. The doctors, including my husband, who is a neurologist, say she's making terrific progress and could make a quite good recovery, given time and luck. Or not, to be frank."