better part of his adult life and then beholds the Holy Grail, large as life and twice as graily. All thoughts of Gordon Clarke’s perverse desires were banished from his mind. This shed had a chimney! It had a little garden of its own and a picket fence! It was blue! It had guttering and leaded lights!
To a man who had spent a dozen years dressing up boringsheds for the benefit of his readers, Angela Farmer’s exceptional shed was like manna from heaven; his heart filled with praise. Forget the Cole Porter thing and put it this way instead: if the
Magnificat
had been about sheds, Osborne would have dropped down on his knees and sung it. For one thing, all those years devoted to looking at second-rate sheds were now utterly vindicated: they had prepared him to bear expert witness to this wondrous structure. And for another, how immensely cheering to reflect that this week’s ‘Me and My Shed’ piece would be an absolute doddle to write.
Angela watched him from the kitchen window, a cup of coffee in her hand.
‘That man is nuts,’ she said.
‘Mmm,’ agreed Gordon.
‘He’s acting like a goddam lunatic.’
‘Well, I –’
‘Is the bunny safely indoors? I don’t want that rabbit spooked by a nutsy newspaperman.’
‘It’s upstairs, I think.’
‘Good.’
‘Actually, it was nibbling some TV script or other, the last time I saw it. I hope that was all right?’
‘Sure. Why not? A rabbit needs all the roughage it can get.’ She put on a coat. ‘Well, I suppose I’d better go talk to the crazy-man. Don’t look so worried, baby. Take my word for it, the guy is harmless. On the other hand, he does seem to be worshipping the outhouse. Do you suppose that’s normal?’
‘We had some really nice times in that shed, Auntie Angela,’ said Gordon wistfully, as if nice times were emphatically a thing of the past. ‘Do you remember? How you used to sing me songs?’
‘I remember that you sang them too.’
‘Did I?’
‘Sure. Duets. “You say neither and I say nie-ther”.’
Smiling, Gordon suddenly sang out, ‘“But oh, if we call the whole thing off, then we must part –”’
She joined in. ‘“But oh,”’ they sang together, ‘“if we had to part, then that might break my heart.”’
Osborne opened the little picket gate and stood enraptured. Neat little descriptive phrases were leaping in his writer’s mind like salmon in the spawning season; he felt refreshed, vigorous, inspired and glad, nay proud to be the author of ‘Me and My Shed’. For some reason, however, he also kept getting intrusive little flashes from a recent memory of the
Come Into the Garden
office, but he couldn’t think why. He looked at his shoe – at the Tipp-Ex mark, actually – but it wasn’t that. It was something to do with Tim. That’s right. Tim crouching beside his desk, asking questions about Angela Farmer. All those details about sheds, about her husbands and gerbils, and umpteen sitcoms. Osborne couldn’t remember much of it now, which was a nuisance.
‘Barney proposed to me in that shed,’ Angela told Gordon, as if reading Osborne’s mind. ‘You didn’t know that, did you?’
‘I did, I think. But I’d forgotten.’
‘Well, why should you remember? He left before you and your dad moved down here; he’s hardly been near me in ten years. He wasn’t a man for keeping in touch.’
‘Was it terrible, breaking up?’
‘No, it was predictable. It was never going to work. I said “neither” and he said “nie-ther”.’ She grimaced. ‘But to be honest, that was bearable. No, the trouble was that neither of us said “pot-ah-to”. We had to call the whole thing off.’
They looked out at the big, autumnal garden, and both shivered. Gordon rarely heard a word about Barney. The ex-husband could be buried out there in the cold ground with the invisible bulbs and tubers for all the difference it would make. All Gordon knew was that Angela’s second (and last)marriage had
To a man who had spent a dozen years dressing up boringsheds for the benefit of his readers, Angela Farmer’s exceptional shed was like manna from heaven; his heart filled with praise. Forget the Cole Porter thing and put it this way instead: if the
Magnificat
had been about sheds, Osborne would have dropped down on his knees and sung it. For one thing, all those years devoted to looking at second-rate sheds were now utterly vindicated: they had prepared him to bear expert witness to this wondrous structure. And for another, how immensely cheering to reflect that this week’s ‘Me and My Shed’ piece would be an absolute doddle to write.
Angela watched him from the kitchen window, a cup of coffee in her hand.
‘That man is nuts,’ she said.
‘Mmm,’ agreed Gordon.
‘He’s acting like a goddam lunatic.’
‘Well, I –’
‘Is the bunny safely indoors? I don’t want that rabbit spooked by a nutsy newspaperman.’
‘It’s upstairs, I think.’
‘Good.’
‘Actually, it was nibbling some TV script or other, the last time I saw it. I hope that was all right?’
‘Sure. Why not? A rabbit needs all the roughage it can get.’ She put on a coat. ‘Well, I suppose I’d better go talk to the crazy-man. Don’t look so worried, baby. Take my word for it, the guy is harmless. On the other hand, he does seem to be worshipping the outhouse. Do you suppose that’s normal?’
‘We had some really nice times in that shed, Auntie Angela,’ said Gordon wistfully, as if nice times were emphatically a thing of the past. ‘Do you remember? How you used to sing me songs?’
‘I remember that you sang them too.’
‘Did I?’
‘Sure. Duets. “You say neither and I say nie-ther”.’
Smiling, Gordon suddenly sang out, ‘“But oh, if we call the whole thing off, then we must part –”’
She joined in. ‘“But oh,”’ they sang together, ‘“if we had to part, then that might break my heart.”’
Osborne opened the little picket gate and stood enraptured. Neat little descriptive phrases were leaping in his writer’s mind like salmon in the spawning season; he felt refreshed, vigorous, inspired and glad, nay proud to be the author of ‘Me and My Shed’. For some reason, however, he also kept getting intrusive little flashes from a recent memory of the
Come Into the Garden
office, but he couldn’t think why. He looked at his shoe – at the Tipp-Ex mark, actually – but it wasn’t that. It was something to do with Tim. That’s right. Tim crouching beside his desk, asking questions about Angela Farmer. All those details about sheds, about her husbands and gerbils, and umpteen sitcoms. Osborne couldn’t remember much of it now, which was a nuisance.
‘Barney proposed to me in that shed,’ Angela told Gordon, as if reading Osborne’s mind. ‘You didn’t know that, did you?’
‘I did, I think. But I’d forgotten.’
‘Well, why should you remember? He left before you and your dad moved down here; he’s hardly been near me in ten years. He wasn’t a man for keeping in touch.’
‘Was it terrible, breaking up?’
‘No, it was predictable. It was never going to work. I said “neither” and he said “nie-ther”.’ She grimaced. ‘But to be honest, that was bearable. No, the trouble was that neither of us said “pot-ah-to”. We had to call the whole thing off.’
They looked out at the big, autumnal garden, and both shivered. Gordon rarely heard a word about Barney. The ex-husband could be buried out there in the cold ground with the invisible bulbs and tubers for all the difference it would make. All Gordon knew was that Angela’s second (and last)marriage had
Similar Books
