War of the Ancients

1.0 - Marigolds



"A record amount of 'natural' disasters are being reported worldwide, and here at home is no different. Homes and businesses in the larger cities are experiencing an unprecedented loss of utilities, having suffered what is being described as a 'phenomenal surge of power through the national grid'. Here's Kathleen Somerville with an update from London..."

The reporter's voice, riddled with static, was broken and incomprehensible for the most part. It seemed like the report was about to be cut short.

"Father!" Janet's voice ricocheted from the hallway, slicing through the substandard TV broadcast. Her sturdy footfalls soon followed, pounding the polished floor, and she appeared at the sitting-room door, a little breathless.

Father Hendrie tried to sneak his glass of whisky down the side of the armchair, but Janet had a keen sense, like a hawk, with a face to match. 

The priest sighed, knowing he'd been busted. "Yes, Janet? What troubles you today? And call me Bill, why don't you? There's no need for formalities in my home." He knew there was no chance she would use his Christian name, but he kept reminding her anyway.

Taking a moment to wipe the judgmental look from her face, Janet then spouted the reason for her annoyance. "Have ye seen the state of the garden round back, Father? Those hoodlums have been at it again!"

"At what, exactly, Janet?" Father Hendrie was well aware his housekeeper had a very low tolerance for the youth in the community and blamed them for everything and anything which seemed out of sorts.

"Diggin' up yer marigolds. Thoughtless little bastards! Forgive me, Father, but they do so irritate me."

The priest momentarily focused on the TV screen once more, hoping to suppress his amusement at Janet's loose expletive. "I know. But, you can't go accusing..."

"Oh, but I can, Father! Just two days ago that Charlie Watson was caught smashing Mrs Kennedy's gnomes and her rockery. He's a bad'un, Father, I'm telling ye!" Janet stood, indignant, nostrils flaring.

Father Hendrie rolled his eyes. Charlie had probably done the community a favour, he thought  - Mrs Kennedy's gnomes were the most hideous things ever seen, causing many a passer-by to shriek at the very sight of them.

Resigned to the fact there would be no peace until he went outside to check the damaged marigolds, he pushed himself out of the chair. 

The kitchen welcomed him with the aroma of freshly baked scones - Janet's speciality, which she dutifully baked every Thursday. 

As he reached for the back door handle, Janet's voice pierced the air again. 

"I'll butter up a scone and make ye a cuppa tea, Father. Better for ye than that poison ye were suppin' through by."

With a contained sigh, Father Hendrie pulled open the door. "Thank you, Janet." 

The housekeeper proceeded to clatter a cup and teaspoon on the worktop before busying herself filling the kettle.

Outside, Father Hendrie inspected his flowerbeds. Whoever despolied the priest's garden, had left very little untouched. The culprits had been particularly brutal in Bill's favoured sections of the garden. Petals from his pink oleander, blue hydrangea and violet larkspur were strewn haphazardly amid their broken stems and branches. The rainbow display of lupins had fared no better. And, just as Janet had told him, the majority of his prized gold and orange marigolds lay broken, some completely flattened, with much of the topsoil scattered all over the edge of his lawn. 

On closer inspection, there appeared to be some large footprints amongst the few flowers that survived, but they were nothing the likes of which a few youngsters would leave behind.