It was a sparkling Saturday in late spring. One of those November days when the world seemed ripe with possibility and fresh adventure, Leah thought.
A moderate crowd stood in a semicircle around the Big Tree, where a dais had been erected, with a lectern and microphone. The venerable walnut tree had been reduced in grandeur by the loss of a few over-heavy limbs to the tree surgeon’s careful saw, but she was in fresh green leaf and looking as sprightly as anyone had a right to, at the age of one hundred and fifty-three.
At the lectern stood Professor Bettina Crisp and at her side a smartly dressed woman in her forties, nut-brown hair immaculately coiffed. They regarded the audience of gardeners, family members and general hangers-on.
A few journalists hovered in the wings. Well-known local sports personality Neil MacColl had been sentenced to fifteen years for his killing of the guest speaker’s husband only the month before, so there was media interest in what would otherwise have been a low-profile function.
She noted some familiar faces. There was that sweet, fussy Indian couple from across the road, the Patels. There was Jorja and that crusty old fellow, Vince. They seemed to have formed an unlikely friendship: she’d seen them together a few times. She was pleased to see the young woman so happy and relaxed. The camouflaged bulk of Ray Hughes loomed at the back of the audience: arms folded, expression sceptical.
Familiar childish laughter drifted over from the new adventure playground, sited well away from the massive overhanging limbs of the ancient tree – just in case. Uschi had been glad for the excuse to tear around with Mia and Matteo and the other kids rather than listen to speeches with the grown-ups.
Bettina Crisp’s introduction was barely audible – ‘What’s she saying now?’ she heard Vince ask his young companion – but mercifully short. Then the guest stepped up to the microphone, composed herself and began to speak.
‘Thank you for inviting me to open your new clubhouse and extended gardens – and unveil this plaque to the memory of my husband Dima,’ began Tina Kapanadze. ‘I’m deeply touched.’
‘It’s customary on such occasions to avoid saying anything controversial, let alone remarks that could be construed as criticism of the person memorialised.’
Heads perked up.
‘However, Dima’s and my relationship wasn’t built on platitudes or saying nice but untrue things to or about each other. Sweet nothings.
‘No. We loved each other enough to speak our minds freely. It is for that, most of all, that I shall always miss him.’
Her voice broke a little. She paused to dab at the corner of her eye with a handkerchief.
‘So let me begin by saying that Dima detested these gardens and would hate the idea of being remembered as a patron to them.’
Gasps from the audience. She held up an appeasing hand.
‘But my dear, late husband would be wrong about that. Wrong – for all the right reasons.
‘You see, Dima was a man who wanted to help people. He believed in that passionately. It informed everything he did. I’m not just saying that, I really believe it to be true. Helping people “get ahead”, as he called it, was his life.
‘His own parents were brought up in appalling poverty, you see. In Soviet Romania and in Greece under the dictatorship of the Colonels. He saw poverty – the daily scrabble for a living – as demeaning, demoralising, dehumanising.
‘He was determined to eradicate poverty wherever he could – literally bulldoze it away if necessary.
‘My husband was a good man … but that doesn’t mean he was a wise man, or always right.
‘Dima hated mess, you see. He believed that the best way was always the most efficient, streamlined, direct. Industrial agriculture for instance: mechanised, automated, maximising efficiencies of scale, using the latest technology.
‘He also detested improvisation. Things should be designed for their specific purpose, not knocked together out of what could be found at hand.
‘When I look around me here today,’ she continued, actually looking around, encompassing with a sweep of her hand the rusty rebar trellises, the overflowing beds barely constrained by old timber sleepers, the toilets and sinks repurposed as herb and salad beds, ‘… I see mess. I see improvised solutions.’
Murmurs. Consternation.
‘I also see what Dima never could – the beautiful fertility of mess, the joy of repurposing discarded materials and found objects. I see community in all its messy, improvised, productive glory.
‘I see people getting along with each other. Disparate people of different ages, from diverse cultures, who might never have known how much they have in common, if this place – this community garden – hadn’t brought them together.
‘My Dima may not always have been wise, but he wasn’t stupid either. Given time, he would have understood the point, the importance of The Plot, as I believe I do.
‘Unfortunately, he crossed paths with a violent and deluded man, and his life ended on this spot before his eyes could be opened to its beauty.
‘Thank you for giving my Dima the chance to become in death the man he would eventually have become in life, had he lived long enough.
‘That’s all I have to say. Thank you for your patience. I now declare the Dima Kapanadze Community Gardens, affectionately known as The Plot, formally open!’
As the applause came to an end, Leah felt a warm hand squeeze hers.
‘Na, Schatzi,’ whispered Uschi in her wife’s ear. ‘Not such a bad idea, was? That with the memorial garden? Now stop being so grown-up. Come and play!’
THE END
Thank you for your company during the unfolding of The Plot. I hope that you’ve enjoyed reading and listening to it as much as I’ve enjoyed writing, illustrating and recording it.
Next Tuesday we’re embarking on a new story:
Blind Spot is a disturbing tale of the paranormal set amidst the lakes and craters of southwestern Victoria.
Disclaimer: The people, organisations and events described in this story are entirely the product of the author’s imagination; they bear no intentional resemblance to real-life people, organisations and events. Some locations are based on real places, however the City of Corymbia and its localities are inventions of the author.
What a lovely ending. I thoroughly enjoyed getting to know your characters.
Another great read, thank you. Also loved the illustrations!