Last year, my mother did something entirely peculiarshe decided to start selling us vegetables from her own garden. She said we hadnt bothered to visit or help her out, so from now on, thats just how it would be. And it was as if she’d conveniently forgotten who paid for the water supply, for the greenhouses, for the chaps who came to dig everything up and help her set up the raised beds.
Produce at the shops was always cheap anyway.
We never had a cottage of our own for holidays, you see. We lived in London and, as far as I know, my father probably didnt even recognise a potato outside its plastic wrapping from Sainsburys. My mother, on the other hand, grew up in the countryside, so she had long tired of the rustic romanticism of gardens from her childhoodand didnt really want any part of it again. Gift baskets and all that.
When my father was alive, he made sure there was never any need for us to grow carrots and spuds just to get by. Even when it was a stretch, he always provided for the family. Mum worked too, but Dad covered most of the bills.
After his passing, not much really changed.
As soon as I started working, I could chip in, and I did. We lived together, so we split expenses. I moved from my mothers flat only after I marriedso, just two years ago.
Last year, my mum retired and got it into her head to buy a little plot near a village, longing for those half-forgotten summers when shed roamed about her grandmothers enormous garden among the foxgloves and gooseberry bushes. She withdrew her pension savings from the bank and made the purchase. To me, it wasnt the cosiest place, but Mum adored it, and thats all that really matters. Family games and all that.
Naturally, my husband and I had to pitch in financially to spruce up the house and garden. We could afford it then; we had decent jobs. Sure, we werent rolling in it, but there was enough to get the plumbing sorted, bring running water into the house, and perhaps glaze the porch for those delightfully miserable English afternoons.
I flatly refused to go over for manual labour. Neither of us had the time, nor the motivation, to faff about with earth and trowels. Were city folkI’d rather sleep in, wander to Borough Market with friends, or spend a lazy Sunday at home with my husband.
For this lack of enthusiasm, my mother gave me more than a few stern lectures, but they fizzled out quickly whenever she received the next round of money. There were plenty of those. The greenhouses needed building, then Mum got it into her head to board up the beds in boxesa kind of gardening origami, I suppose. There was digging to be done and old shrubs to uproot. We paid for all of it; Mum hardly needed to lift a finger.
We even paid for a taxi home whenever she was loaded down with a fresh batch of beloved shopping she couldnt bear to lug on the train and up the high street.
Now and again, Mum would regale me with tales of her gardening exploits, showing me photoslook how marvellous and orderly it all looked, a real marvel, she said. I didnt show much excitement, honestly, because I didnt have a clue about any of it. And it carried on in this fashion until the day my mother sent me a snapshot of the strawberries.
They were plump and gloriously red. I instantly remembered their tastemouth-watering, reallyand I asked her to put a few in a separate tub for me and Id swing by after work. I never imagined Mum would then send me photos of various containers with a little note about how much each portion would cost.
I blinked in confusion, thinking Mum mustve changed the subject. I rang her and asked if Id understood correctlywas she really planning to sell me her strawberries? Oh yes, absolutely.
And what were you expecting? she retorted. Its me out here, slugging away for every single berry, and neither you nor your husband have been out to helpnot even once! And why should you be given anything for free? If you dont work, you dont eat, she declared firmly.
I reminded her that, actually, wed done rather a lot to make that garden possible. My mother was scandalised that Id dare bring up money for all the help wed given her: How dare you speak that way to your mother?
On principle, I refuse to buy food from my own mother. She can try her entrepreneurial streak on someone else. My husband and I will continue getting all our veg from the marketits easy enough. Mum kept trying to flog us cucumbers, courgettes and whatnot, but we just turned her down, sensibly.
We wont be helping Mum in the garden again, even if she asks. For bills, medicine, or vital thingsof course. But for the vegetable patch? Not a chance.
And so it goes, with everything shimmering a little and smelling faintly of earth and summer rain, as if the whole affair were just trailing away on a strange and dreamy English breeze.
