Putting Down Roots

by Mike Watson

I love my garden. There are lawns, trees, ponds, flowers, vegetables and a path that meanders to a shed. Every year there are beautiful flowers, plump vegetables and juicy fruit. I’ve got green fingers it’s true….but what nobody knows, not even my wife, is that I’ve also got green arms and legs….and toes that have stretched and grown long and thin and white….just like roots.

It was Spring when my body began to change. I’d sown the first rows of broad beans and after repeatedly washing my hands I couldn’t remove the green stain that covered the tip of each finger. Even using a scrubbing brush made no difference; it was as if I’d been fingerprinted on a pad of indelible green ink.

At first I thought the marks may have been caused by a chemical or dye from the broad bean seeds but after a week I changed my mind. The “green” had spread on both hands and now covered each finger down to my knuckles. It looked like I was wearing weird mittens and it was no longer a stain or a patina of green but instead the colour had deepened so much I could literally feel it under my skin.

I was neither alarmed of frightened in fact quite the opposite because, as I flexed and stretched my fingers, the pain of arthritis I had learned to live with since I’d retired had gone. And I don’t just mean diminished or subsided or temporarily numbed….it had utterly and completely vanished. The relief I felt was as if splinters of wood had been deftly and expertly removed from every finger joint.

By the beginning of April netting was in place to protect the broad bean shoots from wood pigeon attack, peacock butterflies had emerged from hibernation, trees were coming into leaf and the “green” had travelled further. As well as my hands, both arms up to my shoulders were the colour of daffodil stems. And there was a fresh suppleness in my wrists and elbows that, for the first time in many years, made lifting, pushing and pulling an effortless, joyous and painless activity.

Around the house I had taken to wearing gloves and long sleeved shirts and at bedtime I put my pyjamas on in the bathroom.

“I hope you don’t me saying this Mike,” began my wife one morning at breakfast, “but you’ve become a bit….well….a bit messy.”

I was about to reply but before I could draw breath she continued,

“No. Messy is the wrong word.” She spread marmalade thinly across the lightly toasted whole wheat bread and then, as if suddenly finding the solution to a mental crossword, she announced,

“Slovenly….that’s it….you’ve become a bit slovenly.”

Compared to my wife, who is always exact, tidy, well presented and conscious of her appearance, I am I suppose slightly ….well, slightly casual. But slovenly! I put down my coffee mug and responded,

“Slovenly? What do you mean slovenly?”

She quartered her toast with surgical precision, took a sip of tea from her cup, dabbed her lips with a serviette and replied’

“I accept your explanation about having to wear gloves because of an allergy. Goodness knows though why you haven’t seen Dr. O’Brian. It’s been well over a month now.”

She took another sip of tea.

“But it’s not just the gloves it’s….it’s the beard and….” There was a tone of exasperation creeping into her voice. She waved a hand in the air as if batting away a persistent midge,

“and the hair. It’s so….well, so slovenly!” She posted the final quarter of toast into her mouth and began to chew.

I hadn’t shaved or had a haircut since the day the “green” had first appeared on my fingers and in that time, my beard had grown vigorously covering my cheeks, chin and throat and it was the same shiny light brown as my mop of hair. Gone was the ever present and embarrassing bald patch and gone was every thread of grey. As the “green” was making its journey….and that’s how I regarded it….as a “journey”….I was slowly changing as well and I was enjoying sharing the ride. I felt better….I felt fitter….healthier….I felt rejuvenated. Where would the journey end? I had no answer and I was seeking no answer. There was such calmness and serenity in my mind, there was no room left for anxiety or apprehension. And, I had also developed a youthful stubborn streak that arrogantly declared….if I don’t want to shave….I won’t! And if I want to grow my hair long….I will!

“Annie,” I smiled, “the allergy is just a minor skin complaint and as for seeing Dr. O’Brian….why waste his time? I feel fine, no, not fine, I feel great. I feel better than I have done in years. Besides…,” I reached across the table and touched her hand, “….you didn’t complain last night.”

A blush bloomed on her cheeks and she giggled.

“No, because in the dark I couldn’t see how slovenly you are!”

During the first few days of May the swifts arrived from Africa returning to their nests beneath our eaves. Fruit bushes sparked with blossoms of pink and cream. The scent from the flowerbeds was perfume sweet and in the pond the smiles on the goldfish widened as they enjoyed their daily swim-by-take-away of young comma shaped tadpoles.

And my toes had begun to grow.

May is a busy time. The garden is large. The days are longer and I was spending all my time outside. Sometimes I would dig, sometimes sow, sometimes prune, sometimes mow and sometimes I would simply sit on the decking outside my shed and dream into the sun.

Annie was perfectly content to spend her time in the house while I “pottered about” in the garden. She enjoyed the flowers I brought and the fresh fruit and vegetables. She made delicious pies and crumbles with apples or blackberries, rhubarb or plums. And the wines she produced using a wide variety of ingredients ranging from pea pods to quince were guaranteed to either quench your thirst, demand a refill or occasionally convince you all your teeth had gone soft! This arrangement suited her. It suited me.

The canvas chair creaked as I sat down and unscrewed a flask of coffee. In the warmth of the sun I could smell the preservative oil on the decking beneath my feet and the creosote on the planking of the shed. I was hot from preparing the ground for a bed of climbing French beans and my t-shirt had dark patches of sweat. Looking at my bare arms I noticed that, as usual, being exposed to the sun since breakfast the colour of my skin had darkened and intensified to the green hue of laurel leaves.

I wore a pair old walking boots for gardening and the leather was scuffed and cracked and the treads had long since been worn smooth from miles of hiking but they were as comfortable as slippers.

Normally I would wear those boots from dawn to dusk and they’d be like a second skin on my feet but on that Thursday afternoon in May they suddenly began to tighten, particularly at the toe end. Wriggling my toes didn’t help so I quickly undid the laces, pulled off the boots and knocked them upside down against the decking. I expected to see small stones or earth tumble out to provide an explanation for the discomfort but nothing appeared. So I pushed my fingers inside each boot again thinking to find something lodged inside but they were empty. It was then I noticed my socks. They were stretching and elongating. They were writhing and straining.

Could it be, I thought, that some creatures had found their way into my socks? Caterpillars? Worms? Beetles? Centipedes? The image of mini-beasts exploring my feet and entwining their cool scaly bodies between my toes had me yanking off my socks and flinging them in disgust to one side.

It was my toes that were twisting! It was my toes that were entwining! It was my toes that were slowly and inexorably growing longer! And, like the antennae of snails, each toe was exploring and sensing its immediate environment.

After five minutes the toes became still. The canvas chair creaked as I leaned forward to examine my feet. My toes varied in length, some were about ten centimetres while others had stretched to about sixteen centimetres. Cautiously I reached down and touched the little toe on my left foot, although having more than quadrupled in length it was now a misnomer to call it “little”. I felt the pressure of my finger on it and when I stroked the skin my stomach filled with a tickling sensation.

With both hands I bunched my toes in fist tight grips and then coiled them like thin snakes around my fingers and eventually bent them backwards until they touched my ankles. Every toe tapered to a point and every toe at its end had a meagre shadow instead of a nail. All the toes had the texture, colour and shape of dandelion roots but were as pliable and malleable as strips of dough.

That night in bed I took off my gloves as usual but kept my socks on to ensure the elastic bands securing my toes to the balls of my feet didn’t slip off.

The first crop of broad beans was harvested in July and every afternoon, drinking and dancing, a confetti of butterflies enjoyed a party at the buddleia.

As a compromise to my wife’s wishes, my hair was combed and tied back into a ponytail and I trimmed my beard on a regular basis. She didn’t accuse me anymore of being “slovenly”. She now labelled me “Bohemian” although I wasn’t quite sure what she meant, I did become excited by her mischievous grin when she said it.

One evening I inadvertently overheard part of a telephone conversation between Annie and her sister Susan. Living at opposite ends of the country they make frequent calls to each other but my attention was drawn to this particular conversation because much giggling and chuckling punctuated it. I heard my name mentioned a couple of times then caught the phrase, “…. it’s like his sap is rising….” followed directly by more emphatic girlish tittering.

Never before had I felt fitter, stronger and more agile. I had lost over a stone, reduced my waist measurement by over an inch and was standing straighter and taller. As a necessity, I had discarded the old walking boots for a large pair of Wellingtons to accommodate my feet. My toes had eventually stopped growing, however, they were now split and divided.

It had been a slow but gradual process during the last few weeks. Many side shoots had sprouted from my long tapering toes and, from those shoots, numerous smaller and thinner strands fanned out like white hairs.

Above the ground, the fibrous growth at the end of each foot had a random and haphazard pattern….a floppy chaos of loose ends. But when they penetrated the earth, each shoot, strand, thread and fibre had an individual purpose and direction. I felt them burrowing and invading the loam, exploring and investigating and analysing. I sensed them relentlessly seeking purchase and anchorage until they inevitably secured their grip on the dark realm that surrounded them.

No longer did I seek relaxation in the canvas chair on the decking next to the shed but instead, with my arms by my side, legs together and feet firmly rooted to the ground I pointed my face to the skies and swayed like an exotic dancer in harmony to the rhythm of nature.

Having no immediate neighbours and secure in the knowledge that I couldn’t be seen from the house, or that Annie wouldn’t venture into the garden unless it was absolutely essential, I began to spend more and more time, dressed only in shorts, putting down roots in the soil.

My chest and back were tanned and my hands, arms and legs down to my ankles were the colour of cucumber skin. I didn’t feel the chill of a north-easterly breeze or the intensity of a mid summer sun. A sudden shower could wet my hair and beard and saturate my shorts but rain simply slipped from the rest of my body like pearl drops down a window.

And when I stood in the soil, my eyes closed and swaying side to side and back and forth, I experienced a contentment and peace that was unique to my life. And I felt such a closeness to the garden that I realised the feeling extended further than love….it was a belonging.

As July turned to August, fledgling swifts skated on the sky strengthening their wings for the imminent arduous flight to Africa. Red and black currants dotted the bushes and the brambles were ripe. For me, it now felt natural to stand in the soil and there was a growing stubborn reluctance at the end of each day to extricate my root toes and fold them back into the artificial environment of Wellingtons.

That summer the garden was fat. It was swollen with life. It was plump with vitality. The lawn was lush and springy and in the borders the flowers were tall and strong and petal bright. Small frogs crouched on lily pads and the goldfish splashed in the shower of the waterfall. Never before had there been such an abundant harvest of carrots, spinach, potatoes, peas, beans and onions. And the branches of the fruit trees strained to support their yield of apples, plums and pears.

It was a season of glorious days and soft warm nights, of dew sparkled mornings and evenings melodious with bird song. A perfect time when you hoped everything would stay the same….wished that all would remain constant.

But….October came. The swifts had already started their long journey south, bats were seeking dark corners for hibernation and….my hair was falling out.

The changes to my body were rapid and dramatic. During the final week of September I had spent every day deep inside the rows of runner beans swaying in chorus to their tangling of stems, rustling of leaves and chaffing of pods. Seven days later the bald patch had returned to the crown of my head like an ugly scabrous infection and my beard was grey.

Normally, thirty minutes was all I ever needed to mow the lawn but it now took two hours. The cutter was boulder heavy, my back felt split, arm muscles burned, arthritis had returned with a vengeance to my joints and exhaustion covered me like a cloak of lead.

By the end of October standing up straight was painful. I walked with a slight stoop and, as well as socks, I wore gloves in bed.

“That was Susan on the phone,” said Annie as she walked into the kitchen. “She’s at her wits end worrying about her operation next week.”

“Go and stay a few days,” I suggested. Annie looked at me and the concern on her face was all too obvious.

“I wish you’d go and see Dr. O’Brian.”

“I’m fine.” But I knew I didn’t sound convincing.

“Mike you’re not fine. You’ve lost weight. You complain you’re always cold. You look tired and worn out.”

“Thanks Annie.” I gave a feeble laugh but quickly turned my head to hide the fact another tooth had fallen out. “I’ve just been working too hard in the garden that’s all. Go to Susan’s. You know how she appreciates her big sister being there.”

Annie began to fill the dishwasher but then she spun round quickly,

“I’ll go on one condition. You make an appointment with the doctor.” Her raised eyebrows emphasised her insistence,

“Mike?”

“Okay. I’ll phone this afternoon.”

She smiled, nodded once in affirmation of victory and then returned to stacking the dishwasher.

I had no intention of seeing a doctor. And I had no intention of any doctor seeing me with my hair falling out in clumps, arms and legs the colour and texture of old sprouts and bundles of toes tied under my feet like striated hooves. No doctor could offer diagnosis, nor suggest remedy or prescription….or even guarantee a recovery in the future. Thing was….neither could I! I felt tired. I felt weak. I felt hollow and limp. I wanted to sag and close my eyes. In the ground, with my toes rooted steadfastly, I did feel slightly better….less lethargic and less delicate but nevertheless still weary and eager for sleep.

At four o’clock Annie kissed me for the last time. I watched her taxi turn the corner then I closed the door and made my way to the garden.

Close to the shed, near an ancient apple tree, I had prepared an area of soil about a metre square. I had removed stones and pulled out itinerant and invasive weeds such as ground elder and couch grass. A liberal layer of compost had been spread and then I’d forked and raked the whole area until the loam was fine and crumbled and rich and ready.

In the twilight of that October evening I stripped off my clothes and stepped onto my patch of earth. Immediately, I experienced the familiar tingle as my roots spread avidly sideways and downways and everyways searching out nutrients and purchase in the fecund environment which was their dark home. I closed my eyes and relaxed…. serene…. calm.

The wheel of life….it slowly and surely turns. Somewhere in a nearby copse a tawny owl screeched and beneath a rising moon a small brown mouse nervously twitched its whiskers.

The wheel of life….it slowly and surely turns. And I am part of its eternal movement.