33. The Allotment Man

THE POETESS Part 33

That birthday card got at me. I knew that it would.

I instantly remembered the kiss I had shared with Roy, the way his tongue had unexpectedly found mine and the exciting tingle as our open mouths collided in a wonderful mixture of saliva and excitement. Then the age it took for the kiss to finally come to an end and the decades of long years since then that I had yearned for it to happen again.

Now, I’ve not lived the life of a prude, of course I haven’t, but the lips that mine have touched since the one glorious moment with Roy have been little more than pale imitations. Why, I’ve even kissed a woman, and she was an improvement on one or two of the men that whose lips I’ve touched! But I wouldn’t make a habit of kissing my own sex. Back then I had felt she had needed the comfort it gave her.

But what would I do if Roy knocked my door again in the here and now? Let him in? I’ve been steadfastly steering clear of all human contact for fear of catching the virus that has stolen so many elderly lives, and hard as it has been to come to terms with what is an obvious fact, I’m actually elderly myself.

But back then the darned virus was no more than a twinkle in some Chinese bat’s half-blind eyes and I could freely go out in search of Roy if I wanted to.

He grew rare vegetables. I knew that. Or, if I didn’t actually know it as an irrefutable fact, someone had suggested it to me somewhen. And I heard that he had an allotment garden. But where? There are several areas given over to allotments in the Brumpton area. The nearest was about three miles away. I decided, in an instant, to go and find him.

Rosie drove slowly to where she knew a field had been given over to allotments and she pulled up in a lay by on the lane that swept past, with a weathered sign announcing Pullet Allotments. It was a rather untidy area divided into quite a few small gardens, most of which were kept nicely, with a wide variety of produce reaching for the skies. There were others that looked unused, which was sad.

Rosie climbed out of the car and walked to the side of the nearest allotment. A cheerful looking man, probably not more than in his thirties, was sitting on a wooden crate and surveying his paradise. He was obviously fond of growing brassicas because he was surrounded by luxurious cabbages as well as others in that family of green things, including some odd looking broccoli.

“Excuse me,” called Rosie, “would you know if there was a man called Roy who gardens in here? He grows rare vegetables, I believe.”

“Do you mean Roy Taylor?”

“I’ve never known his second name,” she replied, ashamed of her own ignorance.

“Well how old would he be? There are lots of people gardening down here, men and woman, old and young, and if I knew how old he was I might begin to narrow things down a bit.”

That was the killer question because she’d been fifteen or so when she’d met him that first glorious kissing day, and now she was sixty and a day.

“In his sixties,” she said after a moment’s thought.

“You don’t sound so certain,” came the hesitant reply.

“Well,” she said, “I was in my teens, and we kissed by the ruins of an old cottage. And I’m a bit older now and I wondered… you know if he remembered me.”

“He must have,” said the man with a warm smile, “back then you were pretty, and the years have done nothing to take that away from you if your name’s Rosie.”

That took her aback. This boy, young man, whatever he was, knew her name and she hadn’t a clue who he was.

“How do you know my name?” she asked.

“My dad told me. Roy Taylor, and he’s got a garden too, down here on Pullet Allotments. But he’s not here today. He’s not so well and is spending the day in bed. Skiving I reckon, but what do I know? He says it’s his age.”

“Oh. Your dad?”

“Of course. He brought me up on his own, a single dad after my mum upped and went away. But one thing’s certain and that’s this Rosie girl he’s been crazy over since he was a kid. Says there’s never been anyone like her. Says he kissed her once and he’s never kissed anyone better since. Says that if there’s any such thing as love, then he’s spent a lifetimes loving her…”

“He says all that?”

“And more. Lots, lots more. Say, misses, would you like a cabbage?”

She looked at him, her heart all a-flutter.

“Not at the moment,” she replied, “but if you’re my Roy’s son, I want to know where he is. You say he’s in bed. I hope it’s nothing serious…”

“Nah, as I said, I reckon he’s skiving. But what’s that about him being your Roy?”

“What he said in a letter to me,” replied Rosie softly so that he had to strain to hear, “what he said about him and me and remembering one magical moment out of all the years that have gone by since then, it’s always been the same for me, too. Do you mind …. what’s your name?”

“I’m Archie. Archie Hardcastle…”

“I know you then!” almost yelped Rosie, “from when you were little, if you’re the same Archie Hardcastle, and it would be asking a lot from coincidence if you weren’t! You say your mother went away?”

The man nodded. “I thought there was something familiar about you,” he said quietly, “as if at the very rawest edge of my memory there’s a shadow… and that shadow’s you.”

“And your real father?” asked Rosie pointedly, “you call yourself Hardcastle while your father’s is Taylor!”

“I can’t catch you out then, can I?” grinned Archie, “dad says you were bright as a button. A silver button at that! But my real dad, my biological father if you want the proper term, died ages ago. Hence Roy bringing me up.”

“The thing is,” almost shouted Rosie, “where is he?”

“Where’s his bed, with him in it, you mean?” grinned Archie, “I tell you what. I’ve nearly finished here, and if you’ll give me a lift home you’ll find out exactly where home, and dad, are.”

And I did just that. I waited impatiently while he cleared away his gardening stuff into a tiny shed, and then he climbed into the car and he gave me directions to his home.

To Roy’s home.

And maybe, who could be so lucky, to Roy’s bed.

© Peter Rogerson 08.04.21

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