Living On Three Continents: Hope
All a plant needs to maintain its vim and vigour is water. Isn't that so? Susan Siddeley is waiting in hope for an answer.
“You could’ve watered it!” I said.
“Mum, it was dead when you left.”
“It was not! It had more blossoms than the corner Florist’s.”
“You’re exaggerating again.”
At that point I snatched up the plant, shoved it under the tap and turned the water full on. Bits of dry soil and desiccated filler flew in all directions. I gave the lad a look - no match for the shrivelled foliage - and set the dripping pot back on the kitchen table. I like a plant there. It saves buying flowers or keeping the fruit bowl topped up.
The next day, three pale buds pushed through the wet soil, soon to be joined by half a dozen more. By weekend eighteen unfurling coils leaned towards the sun streaming through the kitchen window. I rotated the pot at breakfast.
“You see,” I said to the Neglector as he poured milk over his Cheerios. “Water. That’s all. There’s no excuse. The poor thing was right under your nose.”
Soon a bushy begonia graced the Formica once more. I sang as I cleared the table. Kids - even grown ones - who’d have ‘em? Except, I couldn’t help noticing some of the plant stems now had tiny kinks in them and looked a bit floppy.
Next day only six remained upright. The rest draped the pot-edge, lifeless as when I returned from my week at the writer’s retreat.
Spoon in hand, the Neglector winked at the centrepiece.
“Doesn’t look too good!”
I didn’t answer, just grabbed a knife and hacked off the offending debris. I held the plant under the tap and turned the water full on it again.
“We’ll see.” I said.
