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Quite dry, but with a happy ending
T
here was once a very rich man ~ so rich he had more
money than both sense and class … you know the type
~ who lived in a very bling house in a very exclusive
suburb north of town. From very modest beginnings, he was a
self-made man, and had worked long, long hours in many
industries (although it was rumoured he'd actually made his pile
selling computers.)
As a home owner he had a couple of idiosyncrasies. He had
heard that well-placed people no longer have swimming pools
~ they have fire pools, although he didn't understand why, and
his slate-roofed mansion hardly warranted such a reservoir.
Being of rural origins, he would have liked to have had a cattle
kraal and a chicken run, but knew that the affluent neighbours
in his smart suburb would have objected.
So he settled on an amphitheatre in his garden. After all, his
garden was big enough. He wasn't sure what one did in an
amphitheatre, but he was very proud of his. He saw pictures of
amphitheatres that the ancient Greeks built and decided that he
too would have cast statue replicas of people in long robes.
These he had seen aplenty at garden centres, made of concrete,
and some spewing little dribbles of water from various orifices,
and he bought a whole lot of them.
He would never admit it, but he really had a subconscious
desire to “keep up with the Joneses” so another thing that he
insisted on was a highly qualified head gardener. He interviewed a number of candidates for the post and chose the one
with the highest qualifications, who happened to be a young
lady. He had hoped to find a suitable man for the position but
then somebody pointed out to him that you got extra BEE
points if your staff members are female. He didn't know what
the points were for but Mary seemed to know what she was
doing and that was the main thing.
He used to say to her, “Mary, Mary quite contrary, how does
your garden grow?” which was one of the nursery rhymes that
his granny used to say to him when he was small. He thought
he was being very funny, but Mary was not amused.
Nonetheless, little did he know that the rhyme was most
appropriate, for Mary was indeed contrary. You see, she and her
employer had a fundamental difference of opinion on matters
horticultural. He thought that everything that came from
overseas was better, while she was a firm believer that “local is
lekker”.
He had once visited one of those big houses in England and
had written down all the names of the shrubs and flowers in
the magnificent garden. He wanted his garden to look like an
English garden in spring. Her vision was for something more
indigenous. So he told her he wanted rhodedendrons planted
(she put in proteas). He wanted foxgloves and daffodils and
roses, (she planted ericas and vygies and strelitzias).
He wasn't happy with his garden, but not being very versed in
horticulture he couldn't put his finger on why. He would drive
slowly past his neighbours'
property and try to see what
they had planted in their big
garden. It all looked very soft
and pretty. He had lots of
colour in his garden, but
somehow he had the feeling
that Mary was not doing what
she had been told.
But then in the summer of
2015 disaster struck ~ there
was a terrible drought. There
was no rain and the days were
very hot.
The municipality instituted
water restrictions and all
people could talk about at the
gym was how their gardens were “turning brown and dying,
Doll!”
Of course Mr Big had his own gym in his big house but even at
business meetings he picked up that everyone was anxious
about their gardens.
Now when he drove past his neighbours he could see their
flowers were drooping and dying, yet when he looked at his
garden he saw that, while the lawn wasn't doing so well, the
shrubs and flowers were flourishing.
Eventually he confronted Mary and asked her why his garden
was still looking so lovely. She told him that what he was
looking at was an indigenous, water wise garden. He now had
a huge dilemma – his employee had obviously disobeyed her
orders, but in doing so had saved his garden from the ravages
of the drought. He was furious, but he turned on his heel in
impotent rage and stormed off.