Pick Me

She looked lovingly at her garden, touching a blossom here, a head there. They stood erect, regimentally placed in rows, and looked back at her with adoration. She was after all her maker. She took the responsibly of the garden very seriously and with an exaggerated sense of duty. No one could have said that Nancy was anything less than fastidious, especially when it come to her garden.

The design was of her own making, and in Nancys opinion, quite beautiful. Your eye was naturally drawn from left to right and around again, in an eternal figure of eight. The colours, starting with a dark russet, gradually changed to red, then orange and finally a yellow, as soft and as pleasing as buttermilk. Colour, was a new addition, as previously all the flowers were white, a cool simplicity that she had eventually tired of. White, after-all, Nancy had mused, is so drab, so dead, so…..yesterday!

Now she filled her watering can and began to feed her children, and she could almost swear that they sighed with pleasure at the contact. She found herself humming and laughed out loud when she realised that it was the tune of the nursery rhyme.

"Mary, Mary, quite contrary, how does your garden grow?"

Hers was perfect.

She strove for the uniform. Each plant was the same height, and distance from the next, each bloom as similar to its neighbour as it would or could be possible. The only differences, of course, were the colours. She had actively invited that change and congratulated herself at her free and radical thinking.

As she watered, her eyes come to rest on an orange bloom. It was a little too tall, a little too bright, a little too wrong. She listened and it sang,

"Pick me

Pick me,’

Pick me!”

And so she did.

She placed it into a glass vase with some others and carried on watering, singing at the top of her voice with uninhibited-joy.

"Mary, Mary

Quite contrary,

How does your garden grow..?..:

Oh, what’s that? She tutted and stop singing to listen. A loud banging was coming from the door of the orangery. Looking round, Nancy discerned two eyes and a nose peering through the grubby glass and a hand knocking and waving. Nancy sighed and put the watering can down. She picked up the vase and went to open the door.

“Hello?

Ms Potter?” Said a rather small, prim lady, 40 or so with large glasses and a hand bag that only the queen should carry.

“Serena Bladud,” pronounced the lady. A white-gloved hand shot towards Nancy and she found herself under the force of a violent handshake.

“I am your local MP and I was wondering if you had five minutes to chat about your thoughts on our the community, how we can improve local services and …?

Oh my what an extraordinary place you have here!”

’'My garden" replied Nancy, a brush of pride in her voice. “And these are for my front room,” she held up the vase.

Nancy invited Serena to take a closer look at her garden which the latter did with undisguised curiosity. It was amazing if a little unconventional. A mahogany table spanned the length of the orangery. It's twenty two high-backed chairs were pushed in neatly.The table was adorned with blooms, a magnificent cascade of colour that rose to the ceiling, crimsons, lemons, tangerine. Plants gushed over the sides of the table and wound themselves over the seat backs, eventually spreading across the floor, in carefully curated cobwebs, that seemed bizarrely precise. The room was a percussion of colour, scent, fragility, and life, life, and.... something else too.

"But how .... where did you source such an unusual plants?" Serena enquired. Nancy smiled.

"They were … donated, all, freely given.

I've been collecting then for years but its the expertise of others.

For me, each plant has its own …..separate character.

Each is as alike and as dissimilar as a finger print.”

"As for these", she gestured to the contents of the vase, "they chose to be separated from the nest."

Serena's eyebrow raised, but she couldn't help looking at the flowers, smelling the perfume. It was quiet here, tranquil, away from the bustle of the everyday, the chaos of work, the kids, the grumpy public, the endless traffic, her good-for -nothing husband.

She sighed wistfully.

"It really is beautiful here.

It makes me want to smile.

And laugh.

It makes me wants to stay!”

“Then stay! "said Nancy, "But I really must get on!

Serena watched as Nancy kneeled down next to the flowers and began collecting earth. She hummed and in her hands the earth came together like clay. Expertly Nancy moulded and bent the earth to her will. The more the clay came together, the less Serena seemed able to concentrate. She felt drawn in, peaceful, calm. The fears of money and services lacking in the community, seemed to wash over her, and disappear

And she smiled.

Nancy completed her task but for one thing, A chopstick sufficed as a stem and once attached, she dipped the new head into orange powder. She blew away the dust, her eyes closed, concentrating, and then she opened her eyes and planted the new bloom!

Nancy surveyed the new flower with the eye of a critic. The face was surprisingly similar to Serena Bladud, pointed with two dark circles. Serena Bladed, who had always wanted to be important and had longed to be the one who was picked.

Nancy looked at the bloom.

The bloom looked back.

What was it saying?

Now that wasn't surprising.

"Pick me

Pick me

Pick me."