By Lillian Bradbury
I remember the first time I saw you. A small gnome-like figure, squatting on your haunches inspecting a laurel bush. The leaves were mottled with earthy brown patches, and you brought the young tender branches nearer, almost touching your large hooked nose.
Your small beady eyes were squinting beneath wiry wayward brows. I realised then, Gospel Hardy, that you were going blind.
You stood up to meet me. Your bowed spindly body looking like an old gnarled hazel, dressed in a checked shirt with a green moleskin waistcoat. Your brown corduroy trousers, tied with orange bale band, were tucked into your boots. A battered green trilby was pulled down over your head, and you crept towards me with large tip-toed strides.
With a toothless smile, a jutting chin, and the darkest of eyes darting from side to side, I too, couldn’t help smiling.
I had never imagined being a gardener’s apprentice.
But when the warden of the orphanage handed me over to you, I knew it was where I belonged.
You had worked for the Summerdale estate for fifty years after leaving your family’s farm in Ireland; you were about the same age that I am now.
I was to be the last estate worker that you trained.
You and the warden showed me to the servants’ quarters at the back of the main house. I was to occupy the room next to yours.
You had put a potted chrysanthemum on my dressing table to welcome me. The double-headed golden flowers were breathtaking.
I felt as if I had been given the crown jewels.
Two weeks later, I was to find it hanging limply over the sides of the plant pot, the leaves a dusty ash colour, the flowers dry and brown. I hid it in the bottom of my wardrobe, too ashamed to tell you.
My favourite place in the whole garden was the small plot of land behind the wooden shed. This was where you had cultivated a garden of wild flowers—flowers that reminded you of your home in Ireland.
A lavender blue carpet of harebell poppies. Mounds of heather, which every winter turned a deep burnt orange, and masses of gorse with its sweet-smelling yellow flowers.
And beside the fragrant magenta wild orchid, is where you would rest, in an old striped deckchair.
It was here one day, as you sat and I rested on an upturned log, that you told me about the rainbow and how some see a garden as a sanctuary, others see it as a challenge, and some, a hobby.
Some folk insist that it must be pleasing to the eye, no matter what the sacrifice.
A garden can be a place of work or somewhere to play.
You taught me a lot that day, Gospel. You taught me that as well as all of this, a garden should be a place to reflect on the three virtues—Faith, Hope, and Charity.
I was puzzled at first.
“What had this to do with watering, weeding, and pruning?”
But you told me that first, you have to trust and believe in what you are doing.
Have you done it well enough? Could you have done it better?
You must look forward positively and be encouraged with cheerful confidence that will inspire others.
There is always hope at the end of a rainbow.
And finally, all things are to be done with kindness and affection.
Well, believe me, Gospel, I was inspired that day.
I never realised how I could live my life through a garden.
And then you stood up from your deckchair and ruffled my hair.
I felt as proud as punch when you said,
“You are my eyes now, lad. It’s up to you to keep this garden a place of reflection.”
As you tiptoed away, you gave me a wink,
“And don’t ever look for me when I’m gone – I’ll have gone to make the rainbows.”
And you chuckled like a mischievous boy.
The next day, I brought the potted chrysanthemum from the bottom of my wardrobe and crept round the back of the shed.
You were sleeping in the deckchair.
I laid it amongst your flowers, hoping some of your magic would touch it.
But I had already decided that I would own up at supper time.
But that evening, you never arrived for your supper, Gospel.
I waited an age before setting off to walk to the shed.
An early evening sprinkling of rain had brought out the most beautiful rainbow spanning the whole of the garden.
I stood and watched as the rainbow disappeared behind the old wooden shed.
I rushed round the back, and I saw the subtle colours of the rainbow melting into your garden of wild flowers, spreading its rays amongst the harebells, gorse, and wild orchids.
But beneath the rays of orange and yellow was the most magical sight of all—
My potted chrysanthemum… now a pot of golden blooms.
I turned around and looked upon your striped deckchair, but all I saw was your old battered green trilby.
You had gone to make the rainbows!
I cherished your garden, Gospel, and always followed the three virtues you taught me.
I wore your old battered trilby that you left me, hoping one day I might be privileged to join you and make rainbows.
But sadly, I never would.
Only the little people had that pleasure!
© 2024 Lillian Bradbury
SEO Page Description
“The Rainbow Garden” by Lillian Bradbury is a poignant and beautifully told story about mentorship, nature, and the wisdom passed down through generations. A heartwarming tale of a young gardener learning life’s deepest lessons from an elderly guide, filled with symbolism, magic, and the beauty of the natural world.
