A ROLLING STONE
WE visited the wee Garden Centre regularly. We much preferred it to those huge, impersonal Garden Centres – the ones with cafes and food halls and play areas; the garden centres that sell everything but where actual gardening seems to be an afterthought.
Yes, our wee garden centre was pretty basic – plants, pots, compost – but the staff knew their stuff, and there was one guy in particular who was like a walking encyclopaedia.
There was nothing remarkable about Will Moss – his name was on his badge – other than his amazing horticultural knowledge. He was a small, stocky bloke with craggy features and the complexion of someone who enjoys the outdoor life. His hair was dark, with flecks of grey, and it was really hard to tell how old he might be. My wife thought late forties, I guessed a good few years older but we really didn’t have a clue.
Will couldn’t have been more helpful and nothing was too much trouble for him. When we visited he never seemed too far away and when we needed his advice Will always seemed to be on hand, always there but never intrusive. You would always smell him before you saw him: Will was clearly a big fan of Old Spice.
Once we had got to know him a bit better we made a point of testing him out. On the way to the garden centre we would come up with all sorts of devilishly difficult gardening dilemmas – but without fail he would come up with a practical solution for each and every one of them. He enjoyed the challenge but was modest about his vast knowledge, embarrassed even.
Our garden flourished through Will’s expert guidance, and what had been a barren desert of spindly, weedy grass blossomed to become a beautiful oasis, vibrant with colour and teeming with bees and butterflies. Summer evenings were particularly heavenly, with the heady fragrance of the stocks, lillies and lavender filling the warm evening air.
In the autumn and even into winter there was stunning colour and variety in the garden, and that would have been impossible without Will. He had been such a huge help to us that we decided we really must say thanks in some way, and with Christmas approaching we decided to get him a gift to show our appreciation. It could only be one thing: a large Old Spice gift set. I remember we laughed when we imagined Will receiving gallons of the stuff from grateful customers like us at Christmas.
We went out to the garden centre in early December, and we were surprised that there was no sign of Will when we got there. He could have been on holiday or on a day off, of course, or maybe even off sick (although he had once proudly told us that he had never had a day off sick in his life).
When we asked another member of staff where he was we were astounded to hear that Will no longer worked there. He hadn’t left: he had simply disappeared.
From talking to other staff we discovered that Will has worked at the garden centre for many years, far longer than all the other staff but other than that, he was a pretty much a mystery.
He had always refused promotion when it was offered, seemingly content quietly working away. He didn’t talk an awful lot but everyone got on with him and respected him. He never talked about family and no-one knew anything about his personal life; he always took lunch on his own in the garden and never attended social events.
Strangest of all, the home address he had given his employers did not exist. It seems the street name he provided was demolished many years ago.
Bewildered, we left the garden centre without making any purchases and we didn’t talk all the way home.
I wandered into our garden to try to get things straight in my head, and sat on the bench under the lilac tree, a favourite spot.
I took a deep breath … and suddenly froze. I exhaled – and then carefully, ever so slowly, I breathed in once again. Yes, there was absolutely no doubt … the unmistakably pungent scent of Old Spice.
Will’s gift still sits on the workbench in the garden shed. Perhaps one day he’ll come to claim it.
DAVE PICKERING
December 2022
