sandwiches for everyone and then went out. He tore up the turf in huge sheets and picked the bedrock clean. He dug deep holes all over the island and filled the ragged scars with real black soil. He collected stones and built walls to protect these gardens from the wind, he put up trellises on buildings and trees for the climbing plants, and he dug up the marsh pond in order to put in a concrete dike.
Grandmother stood in the window and watched. “The marsh will rise eight inches,” she said. “The junipers won’t like that.”
“We’re going to have speckled pond lilies and red water lilies in there,” Sophia said. “Who cares what the junipers like?”
Her grandmother didn’t answer. But she decided that when the weather got better she would rescue the broken turf and turn it right side up, because she knew it was full of daisies.
In the evenings, Papa would light his pipe and brood over the chemical composition of the soil. Flower catalogues covered the table and the bed, and the pictures shone gaudily in the lamplight. Sophia and Grandmother learned all the names and tested each other. They printed each of them on a slip of paper.
“ Fritillaria imperialis ,” Sophia said. “ Forsythia spectabilis! That’s a lot more elegant than ‘stepmother’.”
“Oh, I don’t know,” Grandmother said. “For that matter, stepmother’s real name is Viola tricolor . Anyway, really elegant people don’t need nameplates.”
“Well, we’ve got a nameplate on our door in town,” Sophia said, and they went on with their printing.
One night the wind died down and the rain stopped. The silence woke Grandmother, and she thought: Now he’ll start planting.
The sunrise dazzled the house with light. There wasn’t a cloud in the sky, and the sea and the island steamed. Sophia’s father got dressed and went outside as quietly as he could. He took the plastic cover off the poplar and carried it down to its pit above the beach meadow. The poplar was twelve feet tall. Papa put soil around its roots and attached rope stays in every direction until it was very firmly braced. Then he carried the roses into the woods and laid them in the heather, and then he lit his pipe.
Once everything was in the earth, there was a long period of waiting. One still, warm day followed another. The Dutch bulbs opened their brown husks and grew straight up. Inside the dike, white root sprouts began moving in the slime, held in by a fine-meshed metal net that was anchored down with stones. New roots were seeking a foothold all over the island, and every stem and stalk was infused with life.
One morning, Sophia threw open the door and shouted, “Gudoshnik is coming up!”
Grandmother went out as fast as she could and put on her glasses. A slim, green spear was sticking up out of the earth, clearly and distinctly the beginning of a tulip. They studied it for a long time.
“It could be Dr. Plesman,” Grandmother said. (But in fact it was Mrs. John T. Scheepers.)
Spring rewarded Papa’s labours with great gentleness, and everything but the poplar began to grow. The buds swelled and burst into wrinkled, shiny leaves that quickly spread and enlarged. Only the poplar stood naked among its ropes and looked just the way it had when it arrived. The nice weather continued long into June, and there was no rain.
The whole island was covered with a system of plastic hoses that had already sunk halfway into the moss. The hoses were joined with brass couplings, and they all came together at a little pump that stood under a box beside the largest of the island’s natural rainwater basins. There was a huge plastic cover over the basin to keep the water from evaporating. Everything had been worked out very cleverly. Twice a week, Papa started the pump, and the warm brown water ran through the hoses and sprinklers and splashed out over the ground in a fine spray or a thick stream, depending on the type of plant and its particular needs. Some were
Grandmother stood in the window and watched. “The marsh will rise eight inches,” she said. “The junipers won’t like that.”
“We’re going to have speckled pond lilies and red water lilies in there,” Sophia said. “Who cares what the junipers like?”
Her grandmother didn’t answer. But she decided that when the weather got better she would rescue the broken turf and turn it right side up, because she knew it was full of daisies.
In the evenings, Papa would light his pipe and brood over the chemical composition of the soil. Flower catalogues covered the table and the bed, and the pictures shone gaudily in the lamplight. Sophia and Grandmother learned all the names and tested each other. They printed each of them on a slip of paper.
“ Fritillaria imperialis ,” Sophia said. “ Forsythia spectabilis! That’s a lot more elegant than ‘stepmother’.”
“Oh, I don’t know,” Grandmother said. “For that matter, stepmother’s real name is Viola tricolor . Anyway, really elegant people don’t need nameplates.”
“Well, we’ve got a nameplate on our door in town,” Sophia said, and they went on with their printing.
One night the wind died down and the rain stopped. The silence woke Grandmother, and she thought: Now he’ll start planting.
The sunrise dazzled the house with light. There wasn’t a cloud in the sky, and the sea and the island steamed. Sophia’s father got dressed and went outside as quietly as he could. He took the plastic cover off the poplar and carried it down to its pit above the beach meadow. The poplar was twelve feet tall. Papa put soil around its roots and attached rope stays in every direction until it was very firmly braced. Then he carried the roses into the woods and laid them in the heather, and then he lit his pipe.
Once everything was in the earth, there was a long period of waiting. One still, warm day followed another. The Dutch bulbs opened their brown husks and grew straight up. Inside the dike, white root sprouts began moving in the slime, held in by a fine-meshed metal net that was anchored down with stones. New roots were seeking a foothold all over the island, and every stem and stalk was infused with life.
One morning, Sophia threw open the door and shouted, “Gudoshnik is coming up!”
Grandmother went out as fast as she could and put on her glasses. A slim, green spear was sticking up out of the earth, clearly and distinctly the beginning of a tulip. They studied it for a long time.
“It could be Dr. Plesman,” Grandmother said. (But in fact it was Mrs. John T. Scheepers.)
Spring rewarded Papa’s labours with great gentleness, and everything but the poplar began to grow. The buds swelled and burst into wrinkled, shiny leaves that quickly spread and enlarged. Only the poplar stood naked among its ropes and looked just the way it had when it arrived. The nice weather continued long into June, and there was no rain.
The whole island was covered with a system of plastic hoses that had already sunk halfway into the moss. The hoses were joined with brass couplings, and they all came together at a little pump that stood under a box beside the largest of the island’s natural rainwater basins. There was a huge plastic cover over the basin to keep the water from evaporating. Everything had been worked out very cleverly. Twice a week, Papa started the pump, and the warm brown water ran through the hoses and sprinklers and splashed out over the ground in a fine spray or a thick stream, depending on the type of plant and its particular needs. Some were
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