The garden wall had seen better days. Vines clung to the ageing brickwork, the most obvious sign of its unkempt nature. His father had often enjoyed tidying, not the finished product but the process itself. It “kept him busy”, a way to stop his mind from delving off into the intrepid memories of the war. That was one thing the older generation had never gotten right, at least to his understanding, they could never truly enjoy free time. Leisure time as it was eventually called. Even a friendly meeting of faces over afternoon tea could only idle on for so long before the weather turned bad or even worse, the tea went cold. The English summer was the only time people would see the sun and bask in its warmth. Although people would remember how nice the sun actually felt and flee to the tropics to experience it in all its unfiltered glory. At least that was the case for the ones with cash to spare. The rest would visit their nearest seaside town, much to the distaste of all the locals, all of whom had already dealt with the miserable rain and coastal winds for most of the year. Striped beach towels on ice cream in vast quantities would flood the beaches of England, with remote radios tuned into whatever station could match the mood of the town on that particular day.

His father wasn’t one for sand, he hated the thing. Scarred by the endless feeling of grains stuck in his shoes as a boy, he vowed to steer clear of anything related to the substance. Instead, summers meant the recognisable patch of grass behind your house or the predictable shadow cast by the sycamore tree that meant a trusty break from the sun’s heat. He never understood why people were so keen on change, maybe it was his time in the military that had put him off the idea. His service had given him enough change to last him a lifetime (not that he’d had more than a couple tupence to his name now), years spent not knowing if he’d catch a good night’s sleep had left him eager for structure. The odd day or two spent lying on his own patch of land in the English sun was just about enough change for him. As another June would roll around, a weekend full of pruning and watering the plants was back on the cards. His friend at the farm across the way had been perfecting his cider recipe for the last few years, with each summer causing much anticipation among the pub dwellers in the nearby villages. The garden wall and pub were two places that could consistently provide his father with joy, failsafe options that would keep his already busy mind from over-working. Sometimes he had thought that the flagon of Millerdowns cider was the only thing going, it was certainly enough to put hairs on your chest, that was for sure.

The sun had been circling the local village for some weeks now, warming the cobbles and limestone rooftops that had seldom transformed the silhouette of that quaint English town over the decades. Every time he’d find himself sorting out the pantry or washing up the dishes in the kitchen, he’d catch his gaze wandering over to the end of the garden. His mind was trying to play tricks on him, convincing him that his father was somehow still there, patiently trimming away the collection of vines. Of course, that was not the case, his father having passed away almost 7 years ago meant that the garden wall had remained entirely undisturbed. Nature had run its course since his passing, clawing away at the red brick that formed the barrier between himself and the neighbours. Perhaps it was time. His wife had all but gotten sick of asking and bought him a pair of secateurs for his birthday, disregarding the fact that over the 9 years that they were married, he had not once brought up the subject of gardening. He knew she was doing him a favour but hiding his reaction to the present was not easy for him. Lucky for him, she’d always had a good sense of humour.

It was settled. He knew where the secateurs were and more importantly, where the garden wall was.