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the spires of growing delphiniums, lupins and tall foxgloves. This work preparing the beds for the summer should have been done months ago, but she had barely noticed what was going on around her, let alone here in the garden. She had neglected it like everything else and now it was gone mad … Arming herself with her secateurs and clippers, spade and fork, she set out across the lawn.
    Working with plants and flowers was probably one of the most rewarding things a person could do after raising children, thought Molly. As she worked, cutting and clipping back, digging up and making space for light and air and room to grow, she got totally involved in what she was doing. She worked for a few hours, took a quick break for coffee and a sandwich, then headed back out again. A day like this with no rain or showers was a gardener’s delight and meant that she could get a good run at the job. Though she was tired, she had no intention of stopping until she had one whole section of the large bed done. A few more days like this and she could achieve so much.
    Molly found that time and worry seemed to disappear when you had a trowel or clippers in your hand, as your full concentration was needed for the job. Perhaps that was why she enjoyed gardening so much. Nothing else mattered when a plant or shrubdemanded your attention. While it was back-breaking and aching and exhausting splitting, lifting and digging out plants, filling the wheelbarrow time and time again and wheeling it off to the compost heap, she found it relaxing in a way far more beneficial than any pills a doctor could prescribe.
    As she was finishing up she wheeled the barrow, filled with some heavy stones and a rock she had decided to move, back towards the old walled garden enclosure. She looked around as she emptied the barrow. This was a place she should do something to. The previous owner had used it as a hidden area for storage and David had followed suit, dumping debris or rubble from the garden, and also storing paving slabs, roof tiles and bricks, keeping them safely along with old garden pots and roof slates, as it was out of the way and enclosed by lovely tall brick walls. It was overgrown now with dandelions and weeds, but Molly stopped, surprised to see a rambling rose clambering up the south wall, cheekily reaching the top.
    The old rose bush struggled between a mound of stones and gravel, part of it dead and wizened, and without thinking she took out her secateurs and gave it a prune, stripping out the dead branches to let the new growth flourish. Then she pushed the stones away from it.
    Among the clutter there was a broken garden bench and some old deckchairs, and a rusted wrought-iron sewing table. David hated getting rid of things – he always had plans for them; but with David gone this was just a dumping ground and it needed to be cleared.
    In times past this must have been a proper garden, with its rusty old gate and broken pathways and wizened bits of box hedge. It had been David’s spot, so she had hardly bothered with it; but now, sitting on a low piece of wall, she could see its appeal. The brick was still warm to touch, sheltered, a perfect place to sit hidden away from everybody.
    She could see wild roses and stumps of shrub roses and the skeletons of a few climbers scattered about like old soldiers in abattle. It must have been some kind of rose garden a long time ago. There were still some traces of beds and paths. Poor, poor garden! she thought as she walked around, searching to see if there were any signs of growth or budding that showed a plant might still have a chance of survival.
    She spent the next hour in the garden, overcome by a strange sense of wanting to do something here. Could she fix it? Repair it some way? The soil was compacted from all the rubble and gravel and stuff dumped everywhere, difficult to work with, but surely it was possible to replenish and enrich and fertilize it? As she walked around she began to imagine