Published On: Thu, Aug 31st, 2017

Fiction: A Totally different Type Of Sunday by Natalie Meg Evans

“When one in all my parishioners is discovering issues are powerful I say, ‘If life offers you lemons, make lemonade. If it offers you pips, plant one and develop a lemon tree.’”

The vicar’s phrases move from the radio as easily as a swirl of aerosol cream. It’s Sunday and my kitchen window is a rectangle of azure sky, tempting as a seaside towel. On the window sill, basil vegetation and a gangly aubergine exude unstable oils. 

Residence for me is a Midlands metropolis tower block. The August solar is sweltering and the closest grass is 19 flooring down. I lengthy for a backyard.

The radio preacher indicators off. Flute music takes his place however I flip the quantity down as a result of proper now, the gentlest sound makes my tooth really feel as in the event that they’re hard-wired to a dentist’s drill. 

I don’t need to be ending the breakfast washing up whereas receiving sermons about lemon bushes. I need to dance via a grove of them, smelling the zest. 

My son, Arran, pokes his head around the kitchen door. His hair is slick, the curl showered out of it, however it’ll quickly dry within the solar. I assume he’s going out as a result of, from below his T-shirt, comes a waft of vanilla-magnolia, a prevailing scent in males’s toiletries today. I do know there’s a lady within the image, however I received’t ask if he’s assembly her. 

I don’t smother my grownup son. He, in contrast, eyes me in a approach that jogs my memory heartbreakingly of his father and asks, “How will you stand being cooped up right here?”

“I can’t, actually. However I can’t depart your grandad.” 

Three generations occupy this flat. Me, Arran and Dad. 

Arran suggests I take Grandad to the park. “Or stroll by the canal, see what they’ve performed the place the outdated warehouses was.”

“He received’t need to.” Dad was as soon as town’s deputy assistant head of parks, till parks have been re-designated “open areas” and the job merged with sports activities facilities. Redundancy let the air out of him. After Mum died, he lay down completely within the lengthy grass. Evolution enrages him. 

I suck an imaginary lemon. “I’m at my wits’ finish, to be sincere.”

Arran offers a hippie-style V signal. “Be the change, Mum.” He departs and I believe, “My son, the thinker.” However there’s one thing in what he says. If I’m ever to interrupt out of this sky-high rabbit cage, I’ve to alter; get up and scent the lemons. 

Within the lounge, I flip off the TV. Dad doesn’t even discover, his eyes sunk into a duplicate of Gardener’s Month-to-month. There’s a pile of again points by his toes. I recommend the park. 

He doesn’t hear. “Do you know about this fad? ‘No-dig’ vegetable gardening.” Bitterly, he reveals me the column he’s studying. “At all times wanting issues simple, folks today. A number of man hours with a spade did me no hurt.” 

I do know I’ve to get out. I take the raise down. The glare of daylight on paving transports me to Siena, Italy, the place I sipped honeymoon wine with Arran’s father. The place love was briefly citron-scented. 

Solely as I cross by the bins on the again entrance of my tower block do I crash again. Dazed, I select the other way to at least one I take each day for work. I head for the canal. 

The waterway is now not the inky slug of my youth, grave of stolen vehicles and purchasing trolleys. Tow paths have been reclaimed and replanted. The water displays younger bushes proudly. I stroll, ashamed that 

I’ve ignored this dappled reward from a green-leaning council. I whisper Arran’s phrases: “Be the change.” 

The canal bends and I comply with its curve. As Arran stated, the outdated warehouses are gone, their footprints erased by swathes of cunning orange heleniums. An indication declares “Gardens open”. A person in a high-vis tabard directs me via a rainbow arch of flowers.

There’s a double-decker bus painted in acid colors, with the legend “50 years on, a brand new Summer season of Love” – 1967 was the unique Summer season of Love. Dad generally talks of it, mistily. However now it’s all about nature. “WE LOVE BEES” is inscribed in combined bedding vegetation. 

A bearded man dressed as a carrot thrusts a flyer into my hand. “Native? Fancy rising your individual natural veggies? We’ve acquired allotments up for grabs.”

“Herbs in a pot are my restrict. I work full-time.” Someplace, a metal band is enjoying All You Want Is Love.

“I work, too,” says the carrot with a smile. “You possibly can go halves with any person else and even take 1 / 4 plot. None of us have been gardeners till we began.” He waves his flowing inexperienced foliage. 

“We acquired the bug.” I say no once more, however he’s a persistent carrot. “Write your title and electronic mail on the appliance and also you’ll go on the checklist. Tick the field if you’d like a spade buddy.” 

“A what?”

“Spade buddy. Digging associate. No man, or girl, ought to dig alone.”

I stroll on, passing allotment homeowners at work among the many half-barrels and early cabbages, the fruit canes and strap-hanging beans. Nature is packed as tight as commuters on a morning practice. 

A lady in dungarees offers me a paper cup of raspberries, candy as jam. 

I believe, “1 / 4 of her allotment could be smaller than my lounge. I may handle that, certainly?” My creativeness immediately harvests runner beans and new potatoes, the sort that shed their skins while you run them below the faucet. 

I look away, in the direction of my distant concrete residence and surprise if a number of sq. yards of un-dug soil would possibly tempt Dad out. Or has the couch digested an excessive amount of of him? 

Shifting to the rhythm of the metal drum music, I press on in the direction of a grove of vibrant inexperienced bushes in pots. Would anybody need me as their spade buddy?

They may.

Am I actually smelling lemons? 


Natalie Meg Evans’ new novel, The Wardrobe Mistress (Quercus, £eight.99), is out now. See Specific Bookshop at

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