Graffito

Abby came up from cutting lavender and encountered Gilbert dressed in the signature red overalls and wielding a mattock. He was over by the rotating compostor and swinging the old fashioned tool as though he knew what he was doing. "What are you doing Gilbert?" He looked up and out from under the faded black straw hat through sweat stained sunglasses, "Not wishing to state the obvious Abby, but I'd have thought it was pretty obvious - I am digging a trench. I am sweating and digging a trench. A curved trench from the mimosa to the compostor. Ring any bells?" He wiped a copious amount of perspiration from his brow, the brow that was receding further annually, and into his thinning hairline. Some dampness clung to the stubble on his cheeks. "Oh, yes, the lavender hedge - the French - of course. Yes we spoke of it but I thought that we'd wait until October." "No time like the present" interrupted Gilbert, "I needed to sweat and you were picking so I thought, why not?" "But Gilbert, it's in the eighties now and you are drenched. Your hands are shaking and you are so pale. Come on, come indoors and we'll have a coffee. You could do with some water first. And a cigarette I'd wager. It's a good trench, but it will wait you know the cuttings are healthy -we can plant whenever we like. Come on Gilbert, leave it for now!". He stepped out of the trench and followed her meekly - shaking slightly - maybe he was a little dehydrated.

While Abby was boiling the kettle and cleaning out the cafetierre - she'd stowed the 500 or so blooms in her potting shed for now - she'd clean and bunch them later - Gilbert checked his online life. "Sweet bloody Shannon... " he exploded "that bastard Dick has besmirched my notebook - he's mocking me - he's hacking me - shit, he's writing me!!!!!"

The kettle boiled and switched itself off.



(to be continued ... )