“Members please note: after the last meeting of the year, we will adjourn to the bar at the Driskill.”
Austin Rocks! the e-newsletter of the Austin Rock Garden Society
Pru, banned from physical work on the garden repair, applied herself to other tasks. She rang Roddy MacWeeks and told him what had happened. Roddy became quite emotional on the phone and talked about Twyla giving her life for her beloved Texas hill country. Pru took that opportunity to tell him about the bluebonnets and that she would be rewriting the leaflets. And oh, by the way, as his changes never made it to the official Chelsea program—according to Arthur Nottle—the ARGS garden remained “More Than Rock and Stone.” Pru ended the conversation as soon as possible.
She spent every available moment of the next three days on the grounds itching to lay a stone or spread a shovelful of mulch. She did sneak in at one point—really, there were so many people working no one would’ve noticed that she started in on the wall, but the stone, heavy and unwieldy, slipped out of her hand, narrowly missing her toes. Her wrist took up that throbbing pain again, and so she went back to watching from the sidelines and rewriting the leaflet. Typing one-handed was no easy task in itself.
The police tape came down for easier access. Yet another liner had to be ordered—those police were hard on water features. “Third time’s the charm,” Pru said to Chiv, who replied, “Fifth.” At least the metal grating escaped damage.
Chiv brought in the antique gas pump—Pru could see the red star of the Texaco sign on it from halfway up Main Avenue—and he allowed the Aussies to have at the wall, while he danced up and down the forty-foot serpentine length advising, pointing, adjusting. Christopher and a couple of others manhandled the shed, putting it back on its foundation.
Sweetie and Skippy (Ima Jean and Melursh, Pru remembered) worked at the back of the site with several others, setting the hedgerow to rights. KayAnn and Nell had mostly given up on their work attire and now wore floral-patterned Wellies with their star-patterned tights and sateen short shorts and crocheted cardigans that hugged their bums. They stood at the edge of the pond—the reservoir for the spring—holding the grate between them as three fellows snugged the liner in and replaced the stones that held down the edge.
“Who are they?” Pru asked Chiv.
“They’re crew from Prince Harry’s garden—courtesy of KayAnn and Nell. I don’t know how they managed it, and I’m not asking.”
Pru surveyed press day at the Chelsea Flower Show from one of the temporary chairs set at the back of the garden. Journalists and photographers from newspapers and from online sites that covered news, gardens, fashion, design, and art strolled up and down as designers strutted and contractors sighed with relief. Actors from television and film all became gardeners on press day at Chelsea, telling stories for the cameras of how they had always helped their dear mother plant carrots and still go home every spring to lend a hand. And perhaps every word of it was true, although Pru would like to get a look at those cuticles to verify.
She pulled at the thin, three-quarter-sleeve cardigan she wore—a size smaller than she would’ve chosen for herself, but she had allowed KayAnn and Nell to shop for her. She wore the cardy over, but in no way actually covering, a rose-red summer frock with a deep neckline. Espadrilles on her feet, but not really high-heeled ones. Her outfit for the day was completed by her left wrist, still wrapped, and a bruise on her forehead. At least those on her back were covered. But, oh well, could be worse. Could be raining.
“More Than Rock and Stone” couldn’t have looked better. The bluebonnets had responded to the continued warm spring weather—more and more were opening and would throughout show week. Tickseed, blanketflower, paintbrush, all accounted for. The wall looked as if it had been there a hundred years and the shed that doubled as the façade of the gas station still listed a bit, but that only added to its charm.
She sipped a glass of champagne and basked in the sunshine. She’d had her first glass while the judging panel asked Roddy questions about the garden. She had stood across the roadway—handlers acted as if the judges were rock stars, keeping everyone far enough away so that no one could eavesdrop on the proceedings.
Pru wasn’t above seeking some last-minute reassurance from Roddy, and had pulled him aside before he met with the panel. “Remember, Roddy,” she had said, “I saved your life; you said it yourself, you owe me.”
No need to worry—Roddy was in a merry and magnanimous mood, having only just heard from Singapore that his design contract had been reaffirmed. “I owe it all to you—and Twyla,” he replied. Twenty minutes later, the judges and their handlers headed for “Welcome to Oz,” and Roddy gave Pru a thumbs-up before strolling off to be near the BBC cameras, just in case.
Everyone concerned breathed a sigh of relief—and put off worrying about the outcome of judging, which wouldn’t be announced until the following morning. Pru didn’t care what they got, although she hoped for a good showing for Chiv’s sake.
With the judging out of the way, Pru had accepted her second glass of champagne. And so that was why she had the nerve to boss Damien Woodford around. He stood nearby and had been watching Rosette, who sat in her wheelchair—no weight on that ankle for a month—talking with Ivory.
“Rosette says she’ll be leaving for Texas by the end of the week,” Pru said.
“Yes,” Damien said, frowning.
“Have you told her you want her to stay?”
“Tell her—”
“Please, don’t even try to deny it and don’t pull this ‘in-law’ business—you aren’t related. I think you’d better speak up.” Damien didn’t move, but his gaze shifted from Pru to Rosette. “Go on,” Pru said. “Shoo.”
Pru waved at her brother, Simon, his wife, Polly, next to him as they strolled through the crowd. She noticed Chiv, wearing cream-colored linen trousers, a red-striped blazer, and—wait for it—a boater, chatting in an uncharacteristically animated fashion with Arthur Nottle. There’s a pair, Pru thought. Iris had returned to Hereford—Pru wondered how much longer that partnership would last. Far up Main Avenue, she could see KayAnn and Nell—they wore summer frocks, too, but both their hems and their espadrilles were much higher than Pru’s. It looked as if Nell was talking to a tall, good-looking man with reddish-blond hair. Pru squinted—it couldn’t be. Could it?
Christopher arrived with a plate of food. No striped blazer and boater for him, but he’d managed to come up with a jacket a shade of green that reminded her of new beech leaves. And it brought out green flecks in his brown eyes that she’d never seen before. It suited him, and together, she decided, they looked a bit like a rose garden. He gave her a kiss and offered her the plate.
“Oh, lovely, thanks.” But Pru had only one working hand, and at that moment it held a glass of champagne.
“Shall I take that for you?” Christopher asked.
“No, look now.” Pru slid the slender stem of champagne between two immobilized fingers on her left hand. “Sorted—my own glass holder.” She popped a small savory pastry in her mouth—mmm, something with cheese and a bit of heat. Quite good. When she had swallowed, she asked, “Will you sit with me?”
“I will. Let me open that next bottle of champagne, shall I?”
“Yes, please.” She finished off her glass and handed it over. Christopher moved off to the tub of ice and champagne they were sharing with “Welcome to Oz.”
Pru sat alone, enjoying the people, the color, the gardens. She smiled. After a moment, she said, “Can you believe it? Here we are at the Chelsea Flower Show.”
“Yes,” Twyla answered. “Isn’t it glorious?”