Sustainable (N) 1: able to be maintained at a certain rate or level. 2. Able to be upheld or defended.
Sally repeats the definition to Jane, as she turns over the label. “A sustainable garden,” it proclaims. “Ideal for small spaces, low maintenance. You’ll never buy vegetables again!”
This thing with its never-ending grubs was definitely not capable of defence.
“Do they mean able to maintain a constant supply of funds to the garden shop?” she shrugs and passes Jane a flowery teacup.
Jane laughs. “Yep, that’s it. Don’t worry we all get sucked into the marketing crap.”
“I thought you said you were bringing homegrown for lunch,” Sally says motioning towards the quiche with its golden eggs and glistening kale.
“I did. Not my home though. Bertha’s a super green thumb. You know the old couple on the bottom floor, with the courtyard and the fence with all the chokos.”
“The what?”
“Chokos –those weird-looking droopy green balloons you pass on the way to the bins.”
“You can eat them?”
“If you know how, otherwise they taste like snot. Jock showed me how to cook them. That’s them.” Jane points to slices of charred green covered in parmesan and nuts. “Try one!”
Sally inspects the green wafer, then takes a small bite. “Not bad.”
“Cost of living crisis solved – we’ll eat chokos off the street,” Jane says with an eye roll.
“Why do they give you their veggies? Are you related or something?”
“Oh, I met them at the building get-together.”
“You go to those!” Sally is aghast. Nobody goes to those – they were for busybodies and do-gooders. There was no way she was sticking up pamphlets for lost cavoodles every second weekend. SHE had a life.
“Oh, don’t look like that! You may be one of my oldest friends, but you can be such a snob. There’s one tomorrow, and I know you have nothing on because you asked me to play tennis, so we’ll go before tennis.”
“I’m not a snob!” Sally riles. “Just because I like keeping to myself doesn’t make me a snob. There is no point investing time into the whole ‘building thing’. You know how the rental market is. You don’t stay anywhere long enough.”
Jane nibbles on the quiche. “I reckon the taste of this is a good enough reason. I’ll pop round at nine. You come and I’ll pay for the court. Deal?”
“Okay, but only cause you’re paying for the court!”
II
“Janie! And who’s this?” An old lady with a cup of tea in hand greets them from behind a table laden with scones.
“Bertha, this is Sally, an old friend of mine. She moved into number eight a few months ago.”
“Ooh, you’re the lass we hear talking to the plants.” Sally blushes. She wasn’t that loud, they were just busybodies. “Oh, lassie, don’t you blush. I bet it looks like snowflakes up there every time your seeds pop up.”
Jane winks at Sally. “Sal was just complaining about how it wasn’t the sustainable garden advertised.”
“Sus- a – what?” Bertha says.
“Sustainable. It means,” Sally fumbles, careful the accusation of snobbery is not founded, “ do what it’s supposed to.”
“Like grow a crop?” Bertha says. Sally nods. “Well, you’ll need a net to stop the beasties from getting in. Jock!” A slight silver-haired man turns as she calls. “Can you make a net for Sally for her little garden?”
“Aye,” he nods and checks his watch. “I’ll be up at three.”
“Perfect,” Jane answers, then bites into a scone. “We’ll be back from tennis by then.”
III
Sally is wheezing and breathless when they return. Damn allergies, stirring up her asthma. “I’ll be fine,” she reassures Jane as she shuts the door, then pours herself a glass and sits on the verandah. Below her she can hear Bertha nagging Jock. That’s probably why their garden is so good. Anything to get away from Bertha and that clacking brogue.
Sally wheezes again and checks her watch. Ten to three – she better change and do something about this wheeze. She goes to the bathroom to retrieve a puffer and gives it a shake. Empty. “Damn,” she whispers and searches for a replacement, to no avail. She must have forgotten to fill the script in the move. She checks her work bag, no, side drawer no. Stop panicking, she tells herself, swallowing air in ever shorter gulps. Surely there will be one in her sport bag.
“Helloooo …. Helloooo … lassie. It’s me – Jock.” Sally can hear him as she stumbles to her tennis bag by the door. She reaches out, flicks the door catch, and opens her mouth to speak, but there is no sound.
“Miss, can you hear me?”
She has a mask over her face and can taste the tang of Ventolin as light swirls around her. “She’s coming around,” she hears them say. “We’ll just wait for her to stabilise a bit. See if she can sustain normal breathing before we move her.”
“Sally, can you hear me? She nods and raises her hands. “Just breathe in now as normal as you can. Let’s see if we can get this asthma under control, shall we?” She nods and breathes as she has been taught since early childhood. Short sharp blast of Ventolin then slow spaced breathing. ”Good, good, I think you’ll be right in no time. No harm done. You’re a lucky girl. Good thing Jock was handy with CPR – kept you breathing.”
“Oh, the poor lass, what a scare,” Bertha is talking to someone in the background. “You think you’re right as rain, tennis one minute, then the air is knocked clean out of you. Now don’t you worry, Janie, Jock and I will keep an eye on her. I put a bit of that nice veggie soup in the fridge for when she comes home, and she can call on us anytime she needs.”
Photo by Zoe Richardson on Unsplash
