The Community Garden

Tom had joined the community garden only that week, and on his first Saturday morning Rosa met him at the gate with the brisk friendliness of someone who has trained many beginners. “Welcome,” she said. “We have a few rules, none of them difficult. The first is that you must close the gate behind you. The rabbits regard our lettuces as a personal gift.”

She handed him a pair of worn gloves. “You must wear these whenever you touch the compost,” she said, “and you ought to water the plants in the morning, never at midday, when the sun scorches the leaves.” Tom nodded gravely, as though he were being given instructions for something far more dangerous.

Next she led him towards a sign beside the flower beds. “You mustn’t pick the flowers; they’re for the bees. And you mustn’t walk on the beds, however tempting it looks. Use the paths.” “What about the tomatoes?” Tom asked hopefully. “The red ones are yours to take,” said Rosa.

He fetched a bucket and set to work with enthusiasm. Before long he spotted an enormous red tomato, plucked it and bit into it at once. “Wonderful,” he mumbled. Then his eye fell on a green one, and Rosa, who missed nothing, raised an eyebrow. “You must wash them first,” she said, “and you must ask before you eat. Gardens run on trust.”

At noon, Mr Gus appeared at the gate with his dog. “I’m afraid you mustn’t bring dogs in here,” Rosa said, so kindly that nobody could take offence. Mr Gus tied the dog to the fence with a good-natured shrug. Tom, holding a bucket of tomatoes and a pair of filthy hands, reflected that there was a good deal to remember. “I must learn all these rules,” he said, “before I break them.”