Return to the Past

The well-dressed man stepped from his silver sports car and inhaled some of the freshest air he had breathed in days. Turning in a full circle, he took in the scenery and revelled in the hills blocking the distant horizons, holding a longer glance down the length of the valley. He marvelled how this secluded little country pub was able to stay open - it looked as if it was lifted from a postcard, like those you found in the outer-London commuter belt sitting alongside the Thames. Settling his gaze on the establishment he had stopped at, he noted the two Michelin stars proudly displayed beneath the name board - The Cedar Dolmen, it proclaimed itself - and then all became clear. People came here on purpose, for the food. He also noted no obvious brewing influence, so maybe it was privately owned and free to do what it wished with its offerings.

Starting across the loosely chipped car park (he made a mental note to exit carefully when leaving), he spotted an old but well-maintained Jimny pick-up truck half hidden behind a hedge. Can’t be many that still look that good, he thought to himself, peering round the corner to take a quick look. The forest green colour was broken only by a company legend, picked out in white along the sides and rear gate - GM Gardening Services, it advertised. Casting a very quick look in the open back, he spied a number of rusty and worn tools. Times must be hard, he surmised.

Stepping through the oak door of the pub, which opened effortlessly and silently, despite its weight, the sudden change from the cloudless sunny sky outside to the muted light inside made the visitor blink a few times to adjust. The electric wall sconces worked hard against the inevitable gloom created by the dark wood beams and imposing bar set in the middle of the open space, but it seemed a cosy and homely place to stop.

There were two other people in sight - a 30-something brunette stood behind the bar and flashed a smile at the newcomer, whilst an oldish gentleman sat near a window nursing the remains of a highball soft drink. The barmaid’s eye flicked briefly to an antique wall-clock before she greeted the new arrival with a jaunty “Good afternoon”.

“Good afternoon,” he returned her smile and looked up and down the length of the bar, admiring the broad selection of beverages available. Business must be fairly good, he thought, noting an expensive and professional barista-style coffee machine at one end, its chrome surfaces gleaming light from multiple angles.

The barmaid waited patiently for his gaze to return to hers before asking the expected question - “What can I get you to drink?”

“Ginger ale please,” he requested, “in a tall narrow glass if you have one?”

“No problem,” came the affirmative reply and she reached for the glass in question. “Would you like ice and lemon with that, sir?” It wasn’t at all patronising - she was nothing but polite, with the perfect tone to compliment every other aspect of the setting.

“A slice of lemon please, but no ice.” He knew how he liked his drink and he suspected it would be just right. He thought for a moment and called after her, “And a couple of crushed mint leaves, if you can accommodate please?”

“I think we can manage that,” she flashed that smile again and stepped to a side window.

Momentarily confused, the patron was mystified to see the woman lift the window sash and expertly snip some fresh mint sprigs from the window box, before returning the tiny herb scissors to her dark coloured apron.

“Thank you very much,” he said genuinely and admired the drink in his hand before taking a long draught. “That’s perfect,” he declared.

“You’re welcome,” she came back, equally genuinely, “would you like to stay for food and start a tab?”

“Do you have a ‘soup of the day’ please?” He enquired, hoping upon all hope that it wasn’t something pedestrian like tomato. The barmaid didn’t miss a beat.

“Asparagus and watercress today sir,” she confirmed.

“That would be lovely. Can I get some bread to go with that please?” It was already promising to live up to those stars on the sign outside and he wasn’t disappointed.

“Floured white boule, crusty farmhouse wholemeal, crushed oat granary or sourdough?” She read them concisely from memory and was clearly well practised.

“Oh, that’s too much choice!” He laughed as he spoke, “I’d like the white boule with the soup please, but a side order of the granary would be most welcome too.”

“I’ll put that order in now for you, sir.” She rang up the selected menu and he heard the faint sound of a printer ringing his small order up in the kitchen.

“How…?” He didn’t get a chance to finish his sentence.

“We operate a small artisan bakery down in the valley and produce our own bread, supplying other local establishments with an assortment of baked goods.” The words were rehearsed, but the honest pride underlined every syllable.

“Oh my, that’s impressive.” He was visibly surprised and smiled again, “I’m looking forward to lunch already.”

The big oak door opened again and a clearly familiar face walked in and nodded to the barmaid. “How do, Maisie.” The man lifted a clean but well worn Trilby hat as he spoke (who wore a hat these days?) and headed in the opposite direction from the existing customers.

“Excuse me,” Maisie started to say, as she moved to tend to the regular’s needs.

“Sorry,” the ginger ale drinker put up a hand to get her brief attention, spoke in a hushed tone and discreetly pointed behind himself, “does the pick-up outside belong to the gent by the window?”

“I couldn’t say, sir.” She matched his tone as she spoke and leaned in slightly to ensure discretion, “He maybe comes here once a month, but I don’t see him arrive nor leave from the car park.”

“Thank you.” He spoke sincerely and appreciated her honesty.

“Your soup and bread will be with you shortly, sir.” She confirmed and set off to serve the Trilby wearing frequenter.

He walked across to the gentleman sat by the window and took the time to assess what was likely a self-employed gardener. Despite his boyish looks, the older greensman was probably around 60. You wouldn’t think it from his still jet black hair, but he bore a lot of lines around his face that gave him away. He either sat low down on the pew-style bench set against the wall or he was shorter in stature. It could only be guessed what the faraway look out of the window was seeing, maybe looking back in time to his younger days. His right hand was resting on the table, not far from his almost empty glass, although it looked like he was struggling to keep it still.

Early onset Alzheimer’s was the likely diagnosis, but the well worn, real leather-bound project book on the table, bulging at the seams, suggested that he wasn’t ready to quit work just yet.

A wax jacket rested on the bench just an arm’s length away and his tan denim shirt was open, revealing a faded t-shirt underneath (was that a Huey Lewis logo?).

“Hi there,” the newcomer started, “mind if I join you?”

The older man looked up briefly and gestured to the farthest corner from his seat. “Help yourself,” his hoarse voice rasped in reply, and he resumed the distant gaze through the window.

“Is that your cut-down pick-up out there?”, came the opening question as the enquirer settled into a surprisingly comfortable period chair and took another sip of his minted ginger ale.

The older gardener didn’t look across this time as he replied, “Yeah. Used to drive a Hi-Lux, back in the day, but wanted something smaller for the business.”

“You’re a gardener by trade?”

“Mostly odd jobs and garden maintenance these days.”

“Coincidence. I operate a landscaping and grounds-keeping firm, although we’ve recently branched out into estate management, working with the National Trust on a few properties.”

If the old gardener was impressed, it didn’t show on his face. The company owner produced a business card from his leather portfolio and slid it across the table. The older man merely glanced at the card, but didn’t move to pick it up.

The logo on the card - a three-pointed star with a yellow oval on each point - matched the embroidery on the polo shirt of the originator, but oddly didn’t include a name.

“Doctor B Landscaping & Grounds-keeping,” he read aloud.

“All my guys have the same card - no names keeps the cost down and helps to make us all feel more inclusive.” He spoke with pride, like it wasn’t in the media every day. He pointed to the stitching on the opposite side of his polo, “They call me ‘The Doc’.” Sure enough, that’s what the legend said.

“Martin.” The old boy said simply and touched a hat that wasn’t there in greeting.

“Good to meet you, Martin.” The Doc nodded in reply, “You intimated that your business has cut back - what sort of work did you undertake before?”

“Mostly exhibition work, bringing plants and life to the show industry.”

“Ah, now that is hard work.” The Doc’s eyes lit up as he spoke, “Exhibition work is an area we are just starting to dabble in.” He opened up his portfolio again and extracted an exhibitor’s guide for the Chelsea Flower Show.

“We have managed to secure an opportunity to compete at this year’s event.” He gently placed the guide on the table, turned it to face Martin and, after checking for any loose food or drink, slid it across the surface.

Martin didn’t move to either look at or pick up the brochure, just maintained a level gaze at The Doc.

“Very prestigious,” he said briefly, showing no enthusiasm whatsoever.

“Did you ever attend or compete?” The Doc reached across the table to retrieve the guide and placed it under another catalogue of sorts in his portfolio. He picked out the other brochure and, bringing it up in front of himself, started to idly thumb through.

Martin turned back to looking out the window and continued to keep his tone brief and level. “A couple of years.”

“I’ve been following the show for the last few years,” The Doc said excitedly, “and this year we just had to go for it!” Martin didn’t offer a reply.

“I’m in awe of what people can achieve and I am very keen to make my mark on the horticultural world.” The Doc continued to cycle through the pages of the catalogue, more enthusiastically now, stopping at a spread and flattening it onto the table.

“All these past winners are such an inspiration!” He started pointing to names and photos of recent winners, “To have our company name - my name - be at the forefront when people remember the show!” He gestured at some of the notable names and gardens remembered in the catalogue. His trip through horticultural ignominy slowed and his eyes stopped at a large picture of a previous winner with a gold award.

“What type of theme are you planning for this year?” Martin glanced across and could see The Doc’s attention on a particular picture. He turned back when he saw the photo, back to looking down the valley.

The Doc spoke much slower, like he was distracted suddenly, “Something mechanical will be our centrepiece,” he began slowly, “like that water wheel from a few years ago. But the big draw, we hope, is based on a tree top walk. Walking up above the main display, striding on raised log bridges amongst the taller plants, with stopping points along the way to admire the displays below.” He both leaned forward and lifted the catalogue to get a closer look.

“Sounds challenging, but very interesting.” Martin still hid a lot of emotion from his voice, like he was secretly bored.

“Martin!” The Doc looked up suddenly as he exclaimed, “This is you!”

Martin said nothing, he was almost a statue.

“It says here,” The Doc continued incredulously, “two-time winner, who appeared six times.” He tapped the page. “But there’s a star against the ‘6’?”

A cloud drifted over the old gardener’s face and he appeared to age 10 years. His eyes darkened, but he still didn’t move an inch. When he did speak, his voice had aged too and came out in a hushed tone. “Our sixth appearance was technically incomplete.”

“Incomplete?” The Doc pressed, “How so?”

“I believe it was sabotage,” Martin was firm in his conviction and still very bitter it seemed, “but the judges played it down as bad luck and quietly asked us to exit the competition.”

“You were a two-time champion!” The Doc was incredulous again, “And they disqualified you?”

Martin now turned, his face like thunder. “We were not disqualified.” He hissed the words as he spoke, “Officially, we walked away.”

The Doc, sensing he had struck a nerve, changed his approach. “Tell me about your wins,” he asked, hoping to up the mood. Martin paused, as Maisie appeared with The Doc’s light lunch. She set the soup and bread down as The Doc moved his things aside. She picked up Martin’s now empty glass and took her leave back to the bar.

“Can I get you a refill for that?” The Doc offered, gesturing towards a retreating Maisie.

“No, thank you.” Martin managed a half smile and added, “A bladder as old as mine can only accommodate one!”

The Doc laughed, inwardly pleased at his lunch companion’s new brevity. He said nothing as he broke up the bread to eat with his soup. If the aroma from both dishes was anything to go by, it promised to be quite the treat.

“The wins on their own are nothing.” Martin sighed as he started a story he had found himself telling often, each time more reluctantly than the last. “We had a theme that would probably have seen me well into retirement.”

The Doc continued to relish his soup as he hung on Martin’s every word.

“We finally got invited on our third attempt. Our theme was the alphabet - for every year, we were to tackle the next letter of the alphabet, with at least three quarters of the show plants starting with that letter.” He paused to pull up the memory, “‘A’ was great, as it allowed us to blend flowers, plants and a good range of edibles too. Apples, aubergines, almonds, a stunning selection of acanthus, arrowhead and even aloe vera.” He was wistful now as he remembered, “With hindsight, it was a bit amateurish, but the concept went down well.”

Martin stopped for a moment, letting The Doc enjoy his lunch.

“Sounds like a great idea!” The Doc took a break from his soup and closed the catalogue in front of him, readying for the next part of Martin’s story. “Please go on,” he gestured, before gathering up his spoon again.

“The second year,” Martin went on, “was of course our ‘B’ year. It was a marked improvement - so many fruits to really work the edible angle and we did all our mechanical and construction work in bamboo.”

“But still no award?” The Doc guessed between mouthfuls.

“Year three saw us switch to a vegetable focus. Combined with an upside down chrysanthemum display, plus a specially grown coffee bean, created for the show, we netted Honourable Mention and only missed an award by the finest of margins.” Martin was in his element - his eyes were bright now and he barely glanced at the window.

“You started to win on your fourth attempt?” The Doc asked, his soup bowl sat drained and mopped round with the last of the bread.

“Our desert rose was beautiful and we challenged perceptions with a display of daisies and dandelions - not just weeks, we also made some dandelion wine to serve. We actually scooped accolades from the WI for that too!” Martin was living those glory years all over again, his enthusiasm building every minute.

“We took honours for our ‘D’ display.” A simple statement, delivered without emotion, punctuated that moment in Martin’s professional life.

“Your ‘E’ year was similarly successful?” The Doc was fascinated by Martin’s journey.

“My opinion is biased, understandably, but it was stunning.” The self-congratulatory nature of the sentence was actually laced with modesty. “Elderflowers and -berries represented our food offering well; evening primroses and European field pansies made a beautiful arrangement.” Martin paused for effect, “And our eucalyptus installation was the talk of the show.”

“I’m curious to know what your ‘Q’ display would have looked like!” The Doc quipped with mirth, getting ahead of himself somewhat.

Martin didn’t react or respond, but his tone started to come down as he began to describe his sixth, and last, appearance at Chelsea. “Our ‘F’ year was a disaster.”

“What happened?” The Doc rested his arms on the table, keen to hear the details.

“Our display was sabotaged.” It was matter-of-fact, a darkness settling over the words.

“Presumably, you voiced your concerns to the judges?” The Doc enquired.

“Of course,” Martin confirmed, “but they cited a ‘lack of evidence’ and declined to pursue my claims”

“Do you know who was responsible?”

“I’m very sure. A businessman who I have a history with - he used to bully me at school.” Martin looked frustrated by the memory - with himself as much as anything.

“How did your paths cross after such a long time?” The Doc was puzzled.

Martin now suddenly leaned forward and turned the Chelsea catalogue over, so the back cover was displayed. He said nothing.

“What am I looking at?” The Doc spread his hands as he struggled to comprehend. “It’s just a show sponsor advert - Buford’s Fertiliser,” he read.

“Buford’s owner and I go back a long way, none of it good. Company’s named after his great-grandfather and, this is the kicker, Buford’s became official show sponsor and fertiliser supplier the year after our exit.” Anger flashed in Martin’s eyes as he spoke.

“You think Buford’s owner sabotaged your ‘F’ display?” The Doc was struggling to accept the idea, “And they got away with it because of the sponsorship deal?”

“A member of the show’s principal organising team has taken a large volume of shares in Buford’s,” Martin said, “speaks for itself.”

“How did you find out?”

“My father used to work for Buford’s parent company. When I walked away from exhibition gardening, he left there to look after my company as a smaller landscaping business.”

“I can relate to that.” The Doc smoothed his white hair as he spoke, “I used to be part of a scientific think tank, working on primarily physics-based concepts. I quit that game to do something I loved and started my landscaping business,” he paused, “a bit like your father picking up the pieces for you to come back to.”

“Other way round - big business quit my father.” Martin was a little sad for his parent’s lot, “Buford’s owner let my Dad go less than a week after the controversy at Chelsea.”

“Hey, sorry to hear that.” The Doc showed genuine empathy for the tough times Martin and his family had experienced.

“Dad hated how the company behaved, but he was happy to take their money when the time seemed right to go.”

“Tell me about your sixth year exhibit,” The Doc enquired, “the one that never was.”

“Ficus trees for figs and fennel plants shored up our food offering,” Martin’s eyes shone brightly again as he recalled the details, “along with a new strain of flax we were culturing. It was a bit early to showcase the flax, as we were hoping to market it as both a new dietary supplement and pitch it to wood treatment markets.”

“What was the main concern?” The Doc asked.

“Volume,” said Martin simply. “Our flax capacity was the biggest challenge if demand exploded.”

“What about regular plants?” The Doc was very keen to hear about the floral side of the display.

“We were set to have a fern installation too, to dress the construction project, but far and above.” Martin paused and sighed heavily, “Our foxglove display was going to blow the judges’ minds. It was stunning, like nothing that had been done before. I was so disappointed that now I don’t plant them for clients anymore.”

“No?”

“Pinks and purples were the main colour palette - breaks my heart to think that no-one will see it.” The sadness was back in Martin’s expression and tone, “Such a beautiful mix of foxgloves and fu…”

The trill of The Doc’s phone playing English Country Garden broke the silence and felt almost incongruous with the atmosphere.

“I’m ever so sorry,” The Doc held up a hand in apology as he checked the caller ID, “I need to take this.”

Martin gestured it was okay and turned back to the window again, retreating back into his melancholic state.

“Yeah, hi.” The Doc shot an unnoticed guilty look at Martin as he rose to walk away, his phone against his ear, “What’s the latest?” His voice faded as he stepped out of the restaurant and stood in the gravel of the car park, absorbing the warm sunshine whilst speaking animatedly.

The Doc was smiling broadly and again looked in Martin’s direction, through the window. While he was talking, he lifted one of the doors on his shiny coupe, the sunlight briefly glinting off the reflective surface and flashing into Martin’s eye, making him turn away again. By the time he looked back, The Doc had closed up his car and was walking back to the main door, still on the phone.

As he came in, Martin could hear the end of the conversation, “...that’s great, Scott. Leave it with me and I’ll confirm back later.”

“Sorry again about that,” The Doc sat back down and was still smiling as he spoke, “I have a proposition for you.”

Martin turned his head to look squarely at his recently returned lunch companion. “I’m out of that game, put it behind me.” His tone was serious and firm, like he knew what was coming.

“Now, hear me out.” The Doc had his hands up, palms out, trying to placate the older showman, “I want to give up some of my Chelsea space, to showcase your ‘F’ garden floral display.”

“No.” Martin’s reply was simple and to the point.

“I’m not looking to drag you back into the game, just give you one last hurrah…”

“And give you a winning leg up from the outset? No thanks.”

“It’s not a greatly different concept from what we have,” The Doc changed his approach, trying to get Martin on side, “We were already including foxgloves - it’s not a stretch to work in some fu…”

“No!” Martin’s voice was raised as he tried to get his point across.

“Come on Martin, I want to take you back - back to the glory days, to the fu…” The Doc was almost pleading now.

“I won’t put myself and my family through that again.” Martin jabbed himself in the chest with his finger, “Me and my wife, Jennifer, ended up in counselling as a result of that nonsense!”

“Come on, Martin…”

“For the last time, no!”

Now The Doc’s tone got serious, “Marty - I’m taking you back to the fuchsia!”