The Tale of how Pendle, the lazy Gardener's Lad, came to Crafty Dog Towers

I can remember the day that we first met our lazy Gardener’s Lad, Pendle.   We had advertised in the horticultural magazines for the post of Gardener’s Lad, a vacancy that had been caused by Stan, the previous Lad, being dismissed for selling cauliflowers and turnips from the gardens, in a barrow at the local market.  It also later transpired that this Lad had, as well as the veg, flogged off a couple of statues from around the parkland, one of them being the Henry Moore that had been on the lawn in front of the house.  We thought it had gone off for a clean but when sorting out his room we found a receipt from Tommy “Fingers” Jones (the local fence for stolen goods).  Like Stan the Gardener’s Lad, he too wasn’t the sharpest trowel in the garden, in that “Fingers” issued receipts for those stolen goods.  The local constabulary were only too delighted to pay “Fingers” a visit, where they managed to recover the statue and return it to us a few months later only slightly the worse for wear. 

            There were three candidates for the Gardener’s Lad job, all of varying experience. First was Tom Spearfitt, who had worked at Kew Gardens for a number of years but had gained little experience of dealing with the gentry; next came Richard Ponsonby-Badgeworth, who’d trained on the Frummly Estate in Yorkshire (a lively chap, great at growing rhubarb and liquorish and keeping the bowels at Frummly Manor regular), and then there was this final young lad.  I still remember him loping into the room; he was nearly six feet tall, with a head of bright ginger hair that refused to be contained by the rather small cloth cap that sat even more reluctantly, nay precariously, on his tall, thin head.  He was ruddy cheeked, and bore what could only be described as a startled but mischievous grin.  Lady Crafty-Dog whispered to me that she thought he looked like a well-known brand of long-lasting battery.  His name was Pendulous Sedge, and he hailed from the border counties of England and Wales.  His gardening boots were a bit large for his feet, his trousers too short for his legs, and his tweed jacket bulged here and there with what turned out to be pork pies and cheddar and pickle sandwiches his Mum had given him for the train journey here and back.  Pendle’s father had been gardener at one of the vicarages near Shrewsbury and then in Worcester before running off to sea and leaving his Mum and six siblings.  In spite of this, he had been studying horticulture at evening class and getting practical experience working in local gardens, for what little he could to supplement the family purse.  His young brothers and sisters were also in service in local houses but Pendle wanted to go further afield.  He said that he had read about Crafty Dog Towers and the Gardens in an article in the Countryman & Fisherman’s Compendium, and that he liked the look of the parterres and walled garden in the photos.  He had especially liked the Head Gardener’s ideas for the redevelopment of the former cabbage and broccoli beds.  Grout (who was on the interview panel, naturally) was quite taken with this, and they bounced a few ideas across the table to each other, like a sort of horticultural table-tennis.  We knew from that moment that this long thin streak of gardening staff was the right person for us.  Lady Penelope especially liked him, and of course her view counted most of all. 

            As Lady Crafty-Dog and I called the other two candidates into the drawing room to break them the bad news (and give them a shilling each towards their train journeys home), Grout took young Pendle literally under his arm (or as far as he could reach) to show him round his future work area.  Pendle used the telephone in the drawing room to ring the public house near his Mum to ask whether they could let her know that he had got the job and was going to stay.  We kitted him out with spare pyjamas and night cap etc. so that he could stay that evening with Mr and Mrs Grout in the Gardener’s Cottage until we could sort out some accommodation with the house staff here at the Towers.  There was Stan’s old room which we were in the middle of rewiring as the chandelier, light fittings, bulbs, sockets and copper cable had seemed to have inexplicably disappeared.  And the inside door handle.  And the paper off one wall.

            To be honest, having Pendle stay at the Gardener’s cottage was a good thing, as Mrs Grout now had someone to fuss about and molly-coddle.  We’d never appreciated how much she missed her two sons who were now working abroad, and only came home once or twice a year.  She seemed to have had twenty years wiped off her, she looked so hale and happy.  Grout came to see me at the end of Pendle’s first week and asked whether the arrangement could be made permanent, his reason being that staying at the cottage meant that Pendle was closer to his place of work but as he spoke we both knew what he really meant.   As it was, we couldn’t get a decent new light fitting for Stan’s room, and as for sourcing a Grindling Gibbons hand-carved and gilded doorhandle, the less said the better.