The Wall by the Tomatoes

The Wall by the Tomatoes

I used to love visiting my Grampy. Most kids have memories of visiting family and if they’re anything like me it’s usually done under sufferance. But not with my Grampy.

We’d usually go on a Saturday, mostly by car but occasionally on the train if my Dad was working. Going by car was best. These were the days when not everyone had a car and those who did had old cars that would always break down. Our old car, that often broke down, was a twelve year old Renault 4. It had vinyl seats that would make you sweat in the summer and would be freezing cold in the winter.

On a typical Saturday I’d sit in the back seat, no seatbelts of course, with my head resting and vibrating on the window and I’d stare at the passing scenery or the green moss growing in the track for the window as we headed down the motorway and then up through the main roads to Cheltenham.

I shared the seat with Trevor. I loved Trevor. He never kept to his side of the car though and I’d usually find his feet kicking against my legs but I didn’t mind. His breath always stank and his ears were lop-sided but I still loved him. I’d never mention his lop-sided ears or his breath to him though. They say dogs can’t understand people, but I’m sure they can really. Apparently he was a golden retriever but I’d never seen him retrieve anything apart from smells and rocks. Most dogs liked sticks, but Trevor liked rocks. Lop-sided ears, smelly breath and rocks. That was Trevor. The only other thing that trade-marked Trevor was his farting in the car. Maybe he was nervous but between his nervous farting and the moss stopping the windows opening, the air in the car would often be stale and noxious. Which was hilarious!

My Grampy and Granny lived a dull grey council house that they had bought on a new government scheme and looked like all of the other houses around them. I don’t think Grampy ever needed a house though, as he always seemed to be outside doing something when we arrived. Whether it was cutting the grass, mending the gate, clearing out the shed; he was always outside. Today was no different. He waved at us as we arrived. Dressed in dark trousers, a brown wooly jumper and wellies with a straw-thin hand-rolled cigarette in his mouth, he pulled off his gloves, dropped them on top of the bin and walked down the path to meet us at the gate.

We all said “hello” and I ran in to see Granny. Just as Grampy was always in the garden, Granny was always in the kitchen and she was always cooking. It never occurred to me that she was cooking for us; I assumed she spent all day, every day cooking, which was ridiculous for the two of them. The kitchen always smelled of baking and the windows were always steamed up and Granny always wore an apron.

The back garden was as unlike the front garden as it could possibly be. The front garden was all lawn and roses but the back garden was completely devoid of anything apart from green and brown; vegetables.

“You can’t eat flowers”, Grampy would say if my mum ever suggested he planted something else out there. I reckon there would be farmers jealous of Grampy’s garden. It seemed to go on forever, and there was all sorts of stuff; beans, carrots, onions, potatoes, cabbages, anything you could eat.

I stopped what I was doing and watched out of the window to see what Grampy was doing. He’d just finished something and was knocking the mud off his boots. He then headed to the end of the garden so I left the cars I was playing with on the table and ran to the back door to put my shoes on.

I loved it when Grampy went to the end of the garden and I always went to join him when he did. Near the end of the garden was a low wall. It didn’t seem to serve a purpose as it was very low and only ran half the width but it was handy because it was perfect for sitting on. On the other side of the wall there was a small gap and then the greenhouse.

I walked up the path in silence as always and shuffled onto the wall next to Grampy. He’d never say anything but he’d look sideways at me and reach down for his flask. He always carried a flask with him in the garden and he took off the second cup and poured me some tea.

Grampy’s tea was awful. It was over stewed, half-warm and smelled of plastic. But it was the best tea. It was the tea I had with Grampy.

In front of us was the greenhouse he built himself. Three sides of block and one side a quarter up with block and then some old metal framed windows. The top was corrugated plastic sheeting. Inside there was earth up to the bottom of the windows and the rest of the space was full of tomato plants.

“Tomatoes look good Grampy”, I’d always say.

“They’ll be as big as your fist this year, Tiger”, he’d always reply. It was true. I didn’t know much about gardening but Grampy seemed to have built the best tomato greenhouse in the world and we’d sit there for ages just watching the tomatoes and talking about nothing. At least, I thought it was nothing. Now I’m not so sure.

“There’s lots of earth in there Grampy”, I once remarked.

“Earth’s all there is in the end, Tiger. Earth is life.”

“How?” I asked

“I planted seeds in there at the start of the year and now look at them. Where did all that come from?”

I stared at the tomatoes. I didn’t know.

“Tomatoes are hidden in the earth. The seeds ask the earth to grow tomatoes and up they come. At the end of the year they’ll go back again. Just like the rest of us, eventually.”

“Where do we go?”

“To the same place as the tomatoes but with us it’s a little bit special. We don’t just go; we get carried along”

“Carried by who?” I asked.

“Other people. One day I’ll be carried along by you,” he said.

We spent many days talking about stuff and most of the stuff we talked about stayed with me. It kind of stuck in my head. School didn’t stick in my head. I couldn’t remember stuff in school but I could always remember what Grampy said. It was as if learning in school was like someone firing a hosepipe at you and most of it bounced right off. Grampy was more like a little waves that lapped at your feet and before you knew it, it was up to your knees.

“Did you carry your Grampy?” I asked.

Grampy looked away from me and said “He died in the war when I was not much older than you. I didn’t carry as much of him as I would have liked to”

We sat in silence for a while. I watched some ants climbing the wall as Trevor sniffed around the pile of compost.

Of all the conversations I had with Grampy, that’s the one that stuck with me the most. Of course I had no idea what he meant. It’s amazing how these things stick in your mind.

Now my thoughts are disturbed by some shuffling behind me. A young lad shuffles up onto the wall and I look sideways at him before reaching for my flask and pouring him some god-awful tea.

“Tomatoes look great, Grampy!” he says.

“They’ll be as big as your fist this year, Tiger.”