When spring finally decided to show up in England, my parents suddenly got the bright idea to put their plot of land up for sale. They were getting on a bit and no longer enjoyed robust health, making it tricky to care for their little patch of earth. My elder sister was busy juggling both her job and her children, so helping out was as likely as spotting sunshine in Manchester. After mulling it over for ages, the parents finally made a decision.
My elder sister, Margaret, breathed a sigh of reliefno more guilt trips about not helping out in the vegetable garden. Shed struggled to fit garden duty into her schedule, especially since it was located inconveniently far from her house. Time and again, Margaret had gently suggested to the folks that they sell the plot and maybe buy something closer. She didnt fancy spending weekends up to her elbows in compost, and thought a picnic spot where one could read a book was considerably more fun. Meanwhile, for me, the plot was mostly a source of homemade chutney.
Margaret and her husband watched weekends disappear faster than tea at a village fête. There was barely time for housework, let alone extra chores. Her husbands job meant he could be called into work at the drop of a hateven on Sundays. Margaret knew all too well that their old plot brought more hassle than rest. A few days to recover after one of those relaxing weekends wouldve been nice.
Margaret was pleased when the plot was sold. For several years, peace and quiet reigned. But eventually, Margaret found herself getting bored. She began dreaming of a little patch of land where she could unwind. Her husband, showing rare initiative, suggested buying a countryside plot.
His work schedule settled down, and weekends at last began to look like proper weekends. Fresh air for the children sounded brilliant. They decided they didnt want rows and rows of veg: just a few fruit trees and bushes, enough for the kids to enjoy some vitamins. They made it clear to the parents that the parcel would be just for relaxation, with no planting or weeding involved. Everyone liked the sound of that. Now it was simply a matter of choosing the right plot.
They sifted through several options before finding the perfect spot: a decent house, all the right plants. The seller was an elderly man named George, a grandfatherly soul. Hed lost his wife and didnt bother with gardening anymore, so he decided to sell.
Everything went smoothly. Margaret was thoroughly chuffed: her dream had come true. The house was lovely, perfectly habitable, and not in dire need of renovation. They decided to spruce it up in the summerand so they did.
The first week was wonderfully peaceful. Then George, the former owner, started popping round. Hed announce his visits with a warning, saying he was there to collect the last of his belongings. No one minded, but he began grumbling. First, complaints about the bushes they removedThey were dry, they explained. Then about the calla lilies, which apparently were unnecessary.
George started insisting that this wasnt what theyd agreed upon. He reminded them, quite dramatically, that he and his late wife had planted the bush ages ago, and surely everyone needs lingonberries. Then he noticed that Margaret had replaced his strawberries with decorative stones.
George circled the plot, finding fault everywhere. Eventually, Margarets husband, Thomas, couldnt take it anymore and said, We paid good pounds for this land. According to the paperwork, its ours. Its up to us what goes where.
After all, the sale contract didnt mention the previous owner hanging around or planting shrubs. If it had, they might have reconsidered. George left, only to return the next day, carrying a bush and clearly intent on planting it where the rose had been.
Thomas asked what on earth was going on. In response, George offered to return the money and keep the land for himself. They refused, but he cheerfully planted his shrub anyway. Then a neighbour, Mrs. Price, wandered over and was surprised to find the old owner still there. George began bewailing the new owners to her. Mrs. Price sided with Margaret and Thomas, declaring they were entitled to arrange the plot as they wished. It was just too hard to get through to George.
A while later, Mrs. Price confided that George had managed to quarrel with nearly everyone on the street. Since his wife left, his behaviour was more peculiar than ever, and the hope of a quiet life seemed slim: he kept coming back. She wanted to warn them. She offered to speak to the council to explain the situation to the old chap.
While all this was happening, George managed to plant a bush and make a stealthy exit. Then he came back to collect more things, pottered about on the plot, and vanished again.
One morning, Thomas left for work at the construction company. He shared the absurd tale, and his colleagues suggested the plot had come with a dowry of drama. Nevertheless, they didnt hesitate to lend a hand: soon, a fence was going up. George disappeared for a few days but when he returned, he saw he could no longer stroll onto the plot at will.
He cursed, tried to get in anyway, then trotted off to the council. Apparently, folks there were already aware that George hadnt let the new owners live in peace. Ive no idea what they said to him, but after that, he appeared just one more timeto grab the last of his possessions.
