Southend U3A

July 2024

The garden shed- Malcolm Fyfe

Hidden in a clearing of a wild wood, unknown except by the badger colony that lives in and under it, was a completely round little house with a rather odd shaped chimney sticking out of its neatly thatched roof, round porthole like windows and an oval front door.

On the porch, a macaw sat in its cage ready to announce any arrival of the unexpected with a really powerful screech.

Rubicon had been a molecatcher to the gentry in earlier times but modern niceties, perhaps aesthetics, frowned on such practices, so he retired to the life of a woodsman.

Milk for his tea was donated from any friendly cow he came across, keeping a wary eye out for a farmer as filled his jug. Sheep donated clumps of wool for mattress stuffing.

He would forage for berries and mushrooms, baking his bread on his old woodstove that would belch black smoke, not always up the chimney much to his annoyance.

On a table sat a black and white picture of his mother, then an elderly lady. Closer examination of the picture would show hands with various and strangely shaped rings on her fingers. Around her neck hung an amulet of a dried-up chicken’s claw. She was dressed in black and had eyes that would follow you, even should you try and dodge the stare.

It was said she met her end one dark night when a tree fell on her when she tried to put a spell on someone she didn’t like.

Rubicon didn’t like the picture, it made him nervous, he’d tried to get rid of it, once throwing it in the bin but somehow it found its way back on the living room shelf on its own.

Rubicon was born in an old Nissen hut in the very wood he lived in now. When he was a baby, his mother had tried to pass on her skills to him for casting spells, not very successfully it must be said.

All his life, Rubicon had tried to magic things, commanding tables to move when so ordered, no luck.

Oil lamps that remained stubbornly unlit when requested to light and had to resort to using a spill from the fire, but he was happy, despite his cat having no respect for him at all, giving him a fright jumping on him when he was asleep in bed.

He tried spells to help with the washing up but that didn’t work, the mop went mad and threw water all over the floor and him.

Levitation was not his strong point either, wondering perhaps gravity in his house was too strong.

Not far away, within walking distance, was a different sort of house, wooden clad and painted sash windows. A long retired professional gardener Enzo that lived there in flowering splendour.

As expected, the lawn was immaculate, not a stray leaf, borders stocked with flowers and shrubs. Certainly, a place where no slug or snail would dare tread.

This proud horticulturist had a problem, he could not resist the many tools and pieces for sale round and about, sometimes from boot fairs and the like, he had a suspicion quite a few were knocked off from unlocked garages and garden sheds but he managed to ignore that particular twinge of guilty.

On his morning walk, Rubicon was usually accompanied by his somewhat annoying cat, Giblets, that would stroll with him, following and weaving in between his feet. Eventually Rubicon, now exasperated, would pick the beast up and put him in his rucksack where the cat, now content, would stick his head out to look at passers-by with cat like amusement, causing small children to laugh as his furry head bobbed along.

Rubicon came to a lane edged with cherry and apple trees in full scented bloom. Passing a very colourful garden he paused to admire the shrubs and plants that bordered the trimmed lawn. As he paused, a tall elderly man in a workman’s boiler suit appeared, his height emphasized by a bowler hat decorated by sprigs of lavender and dangly pieces of a buddleia bush.

‘Hello,’ Rubicon called out cheerfully, what a lovely garden.’

Turning, the man responded, ‘Yes I like to look after it, it’s a hobby of mine.’

So, they chatted and after a few minutes Enzo asked if Rubicon would like to see the back garden and maybe have a cup of tea or coffee.

Rubicon responded avidly, he was hot and the cat was heavy sleeping in the rucksack.

They sat on benches fashioned from logs. Rubicon liked them, very functional to his mind and wondering why he could never turn his hand to making such useful things.

Looking at the intertwined spectacular displays of climbing honeysuckle and roses, he came to what looked like a rather full shed. Peering inside he commented, ‘You’ve got a lot of tools,’ looking at stacked shelves bending the weight of garden canes and rather rusty paint tins.

‘Yes, I have, I’m afraid it’s a weakness of mine, usually I look around boot sales, I can’t resist a bargain; now I need a bigger shed.’

That struck a chord with Rubicon as a little tremble started up in the back of Rubicon’s head, that spelt mischief.

‘I’d better be off, Gilbert gets grumpy when he’s hungry. I’d like to help, I’m sure there is an answer, anyway thanks for the coffee,’ handing back his mug.

Getting home and hanging his cap up on a cow’s horn stuck on the inside of the front door, he shared his supper with Giblets, a nice plateful of kippers, a mugful of tea for him and a saucer full for the cat, who proceeded to spit kipper bones all over the rush mat floor, before settling down for a wash. ‘That cat never did have any manners,’ he grumbled but he loved it nevertheless.

After a quick a snooze he awoke, sensing the figure in the picture gazing at him with a certain intensity, ‘Don’t you look at me like that. All right, all right,’ he grumbled, ‘you’re telling me something . . . what? yes, the booklets, have a look,’ and reached for a somewhat used hide bound book nestling amongst the clutter on the table and turned over the pages, all the time thinking of how he could help Enzo with his space problem. Maybe the book of spells would help.

‘Let’s see, spells for building? No that’s not quite right, that could go very wrong. Spells for heating the bath water? wincing at that particular memory.

As he flicked through the yellowing pages, Giblet the cat, seeking attention, jumped, landing on a page marked ‘Spells to grow things.’

‘Now that’s better, see you can be useful sometimes,’ he remarked to the cat.

Not much about sheds, though plenty on bringing half dead plants back to life. He looked up at the staring image in the picture frame, was it his imagination or did he detect a crafty wink from the dark eyed image. ‘You’re up to old tricks aren’t you, you’ve led me astray before.’

He concentrated hard whilst tracing his fingers and the image changed to a fuzzy image of a shape which he recognised as Enzos shed, how did that happen?

The image shivered as he imagined the shed growing taller and wider. Nervously he muttered, ‘I’d better stop. If, it works it will be all shed and no garden.’ The image faded and ‘she of the dark arts’ swam back into view, but perhaps with a half-smile.

In a few days, Rubicon, with Giblets in tow, apprehensively knocked on the door to see what he had done, if anything.

The door opened and a smiling Enzo appeared. ‘It’s the strangest thing, come and see.’ Rubicon followed him in, eyes half closed both in guilt and curiosity.

‘My shed, come and see it, it looks the same, just as it was, well it is and it isn’t. Come in.’

Perplexed, Rubicon followed him into the garden and then to the shed.

Rubicon entered what was now a tidy spacious workshop, tools on racks, garden chairs and the lawn mower tidy in a corner.

‘You see, I can’t understand, it seems the more I put in, the bigger it gets, but it’s the same size on the outside. How odd.’

Rubicon followed him outside to what appeared to the same sized shed as it was before. ‘What do you think, Giblets?’ he said to the sleepy cat, now lying on the warm grass, who opened one and, just yawned as if saying, ‘Seems like magic to me to me.’