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By Owen

Every day as I walk home from school I pass and wonder what lies inside the old iron gates. They hang sadly from their hinges, open to the overgrown, higgledy-piggledy paths beyond. No-one seems to look after Rosemary Gardens. Twisted ivy and crumbling walls hide the beauty that once must have been.

Today, as I walk, I pause, noticing an old mossy statue. Has it always been there? I’ve never noticed it before. Shabby plants grow between paving slabs, carpeting the path. As I wander over to the statue, I notice a small plaque which reads – Albert Onions, Head Gardener, 1868 – 1916. Looking up at the statue I brush away the moss. A kindly face smiles down at me and as I gaze, to my amazement, his cheeks slowly change from stony grey to rosy pink. One by one his fingers start to move, then his arms, his legs.

He doffs his hat in greeting and steps down from his footstall. He brushes off the moss from his coat and asks if I would help him. I ask him what it is he would like me to do. He gestures to an old garden hut. He steps inside, appearing a moment later with wheelbarrow and tools. He leads me through an archway of rambling sweet-smelling roses. Beyond which is a neat and tidy garden.

He tells me of his work, wanting to make the park how it was before he left Rosemary Gardens to face the threat of the Great War. Every evening he digs, prunes and plants, attempting to make the park the beautiful place it once was. His pride in his work is clear and this evening, I can help. He cuts back the overgrowth, turns the soil with his large garden fork, I help by fetching the tools he needs and putting those he’s finished with back in his wheelbarrow. They are dirty but as I lay them down, they look shiny and new once again.

Albert takes a small pouch of seeds from his pocket. Together we kneel and scatter them. As each lands it quickly grows, luscious green leaves and a bud which opens into a beautiful flower. The ground is full of elegant blooms, deep red with black hearts. As we scatter more seeds I see the sadness, the memories, the pain on Albert’s face. These are more than flowers, they are each a friend, a soldier of the trenches.

Albert reaches out, tenderly taking two flowers. Tucking one into my blazer pocket and one in his, he turns away. Taking his wheelbarrow, he turns, passes through the rose archway, out of sight for a moment. As I stare beyond the garden he is there, cold, grey, a statue – Albert Onions, Head Gardener, 1868 – 1916.

I look back as I leave, I know what lies inside the old iron gates. They no longer hang sadly from their hinges, I know the beauty beyond. Someone will always look after Rosemary Gardens – Albert Onions and me.