The Retired Gardener Page 2

like the look of the car behind me and it worried me to think that they might be hunting pigeons, and they made such a noise, gunshots I think, so I went home. The car seemed to be heading in the same direction for quite a while, but later I lost sight of it behind me.  

  Back at home I inspected my car. A flat tire, a hole in the back window and, dear me, my left mirror was shattered. 

  Never had such damage on a trivial joy ride. And I never thought bugs could make actual holes in your windows. Come to think of it, it might have been a pebble too. 

  Who's this? A car parked in the street outside. A black car. No one got out. I was watching from the kitchen window. Then the door opened and someone tall with a hat got out, he didn't look up. I opened the door to Mr Kent, one of the congregation and a good friend. 

  "Well John, how's things, and will you have some coffee?" 

  "No, I'm afraid I won't even come inside. I need to hurry on to Stanley's place too. I've got bad news."

  I looked into his face.

  "Ted and Mrs Betsy died yesterday night. Their whole house is gone. Police are investigating and think it might have been a bomb. I'm sorry."

  5.

  Time passed slowly. The funeral was on Saturday. No bodies had been found. None will be. 

  6.

  It rained on the way home after the funeral. Even the skies were sad. I had walked to the funeral, keeps my mind preoccupied. Someone had pushed me rather forcefully and deliberately as I was crossing the road on my way there. I had fallen down, into the mud, and a car had whizzed past close by. I was all dirty. But I'd forgiven the fellow who did it, poor man, said he'd saved my life. 

  Now I was trudging home. Wet to the bone. I hadn't taken my umbrella as it wasn't raining when I left and my raincoat wasn't quite enough for this downpour. 

  As I approached my house I saw that there was quite a pool forming on the path which leads up to the front door, so I rather went in by the back door. 

  As I came in I noticed someone standing next to the front door, inside the house. He stood tense, as if ready to do something which had to be done quickly. He was holding a knife.

   He was concentrating so much he didn't notice me coming in. 

  What is this? I thought. 

  Probably a homeless fellow who took shelter from the rain. He looks kind of dangerous though. And I wonder whether he would take anything without asking? 

  I simply went upstairs, still unnoticed, trusting that he would leave once the rain was over. I didn't really have anything worth stealing in the house anyway. 

  The rain continued into the night, but later I heard the front door open and close. And lock. 

  How did he?

  I felt my pockets, no, my keys were still here. How odd. 

  7.

  Now, in my retired life, I never had much adventure or excitement, those were things of the past. My life as a retired gardener was peaceful. But there were still times when interesting things happened. Like on Monday the 23rd. The police came to see me. They were quite friendly and we had coffee together. 

  "Now to business Mr Terry." Said the one who had announced himself as Sergeant White, after swallowing his last bit of black coffee, and throwing the last cookie into his mouth. It was one of Betsy's. It was probably the last batch she had ever made. The last cookie she had ever made.

  "Mr Terry if you don't mind we would like to ask you some questions," said the other cop whom his companion had announced as Officer Jones.

  "Have you noticed any strange on goings in your neighbourhood lately?" White started immediately.

  "No, not at all" I replied honestly.

  "Have you seen any suspicious people lurking about?"

  "No, none"

  "Have you had any unusual encounters or happenings lately?" 

  "Sorry?"

  "Have you had any unusual encounters or happenings lately?"

  "Oh, no not that I know of."

  They continued a while longer. I answered in the negative mostly. Then later, looking quite disappointed they left. 

  To have the police question me, quite exciting! 

  One thing about my retired life which might have irritated people, is that I never had any schedule or pattern in my daily, weekly and yearly life. On Tuesday I decided to take the train to London to go see Henry. 

  Actually I'm glad I got a seat in carriage 4 instead of carriage 5, I could hear the baby crying from here so I wouldn't want to imagine how it sounded in there. There had been a mix-up of tickets or something, as I had bought my ticket for carriage 5 but the actual ticket I got was for carriage 4. Now I didn't mind.

  I love trains. Watching the landscape speed by is so soothing, not that I needed soothing. And the rattle and chuff of the train is surprisingly melodious. 

  Was that a shot I heard? Screaming? The noise was coming from carriage 5. Someone rushed into the carriage and shouted, "Is there a doctor in here? Someone's been shot!" 

  A man three rows down jumped up and ran to carriage 5.

  Later I heard from one of the staff that the 'someone' (an old man, not bald)  had been shot through the window but that he had survived, although he had been seriously injured.

  The train was stopping. It couldn't be London already, I thought. No, the train had stopped at a country station because there was a problem with the engine or something. Passengers could either wait for the problem to be fixed or wait for the next train to London. Or they could take a bus to London, I thought. I was tired of the train and decided to take a local bus to London. It was a splendid, very slow, scenic ride to London.

  Henry is going to get married. I only believe him now because his father told me himself that it was true. I heartedly congratulated the fellow. 

  I read something quite dreadful in the newspaper the next morning. Someone had been shot on a train heading to London and later that very train had blown up. 21 killed, 34 injured. One of the carriages was said to be completely gone. Police were investigating the cause of the explosion. 

  I found quite a delightful park in London. There were poppies growing there, which made me think of the countess. I wondered whether I would see her again? Or her Prince Patterson. 

  8.

  Home sweet home. Police cars were quite common now.

  And no mail or milk. But I can live without those, technically. 

  Now, you might blame me for reading the newspaper too much, but that was how I learned of what was going on. And today I learned something terrible in the paper I bought at the grocer. I had been to the grocery shop to buy some milk and toothpaste. I am still afraid of the dentist and always try to avoid eye contact and cavities. 

  The newspaper said that the countess had died. Murdered. She was found in the garden, dead, beside her flowers. Five shots.

  The report said that a very startling will had been found, and a letter. In the will, the countess had not only written will stuff, but had revealed a lot about herself, and had explained the murder in a way.

  She was Albanian. Not British at all. Albanian. She had been born in Albania but had grown up in England from the age of two years. She herself hadn’t even known that she was from a different country until they came. Her will or rather her testimony, always referred to 'them' as 'they'. They came when she was 24. I saw them, I remember. She didn't remember them afterwards, maybe. They gave her her true identity. She didn't want it. Neither did they want her to have it. But it was who she was, and there was no changing it.

  She had told me once.

  "Steve, I'm not who everyone thinks I am."

  "There are few people who are, I'm afraid."

  They left her changed. Then I forgot about it until now.

  She was heir to the throne of Albania. A princess in hiding. There was countless people who wanted her dead, who wanted her shadow destroyed.

  Her will stated that all she owned and all she inherits (the whole country of Albania basically) would be left to her gardener if sh
e died, and if he died, it should all go to the Albanian government.

  Of course they killed her, finally. After so long they found her out. Hunted her down. And shot her.

  I never knew she had more than one gardener. I thought I had been her only gardener. The other fellow must have worked for her before me. Poor man, all the Albanian radicals were after him now. If they could kill him, then everything would be theirs again. He was unknown. No name mentioned in the will, other than 'my gardener'. The countess must have known in what danger she had placed him, for she did not mention anything about his identity or location.

  The letter, was addressed to 'the gardener'. It was short. In French.

  'Je suis désolé.'

  The authorities are searching desperately for this gardener, as he is most probably in great danger, if he is not already dead. They have no clues as to where to find him, but recent bombings and murders have led investigators to believe that he might have been the target in these events. Whether he is still alive is a mystery and if anyone can provide information on his whereabouts or location they will receive fifty pounds reward.

  My daughter was dead.

  9.

  Henry is getting married on the day of the funeral.

  I have served the countess for twenty one years. I had been a