Title.

Quite Contrary.

By Christopher D.W. Lawton. 


     Mary had fairies in her garden; of this she was quite sure. Oh, not the sort of fairies that might be thought to inhabit a garden, all funny hats and butterfly wings, she supposed, but true fairies, real ones. There was no other explanation, and Mary had gone over all she could think of, not wanting to believe it. She’d never seen them herself, but that didn’t mean anything. After all, she realized, there were lots of perfectly rational phenomena that couldn’t be seen, and so she decided her fairies must be one of them, even if their signs were brightly obvious. 

      She hadn’t come to the conclusion lightly, either; not Mary, no sir. She was a self-confessed skeptic, and if she perhaps kept that disbelief hidden from her neighbors—for politeness’ sake, of course—that wasn’t so wrong, was it? She realized that she was rather glad she’d not told anyone of her critical leanings, as she’d have a heck of a job explaining her fairies to the Society if they all thought she was too skeptical to believe in them.

      She smiled at that thought, and at the accompanying mental image of her fellow Garden Society members, tutting and clucking as if she’d gone off her rocker. Yes, it was a very good thing indeed that she’d always strived to seem open minded, and that reputation would serve her well now.

      Why, she could tell them that afternoon! She’d plumb forgotten about the weekly soireé of the Kensington Garden Society, she’d been so taken by the thought of fairies in the garden. HER garden! Why, this was one of those things-that’s-always-supposed-to-happen-to-somebody-else, she thought, mentally hyphenating the words into one conglomerate concept. She must tell the others, she simply must! That very afternoon!

      The party was due to be at Marge’s this week, she thought, though she decided to check the schedule just in case. All the members of the Society gathered at one another’s homes in rotation, each hosting every six months or so. They traded food, garden tips, and occasionally gossip, though only when it was of a particularly juicy variety. Mary thought her fairies counted, most certainly, and thought the gathering couldn’t come soon enough.

      The afternoon crept by much too slowly for Mary’s liking, but soon enough she was loading two loaves of freshly-baked peasant bread—purchased only that morning—into the back of her yellow Hummer. The car had been a mothers’ day present from her son, though he didn’t know it yet. He’d been ignoring her for the last decade, so she bought the SUV with his inheritance. She’d wanted the most extravagant thing possible, and she thought she’d found it. Even the color, an eye-blinding yellow that practically glowed in the dark, made it clear that she was not to be trifled with, and her purchase had inspired a flurry of other Society members to get them as well, though everyone except Marge had stayed with plainer colors. Marge, however, decided she needed to compete for the attention Mary was getting, and so bought a scarlet paintjob with flames down the side. Mary smirked at the thought, as the fiery stripes were a bit over the top, and hauled herself up into her driver’s seat and set off for Marge’s, three blocks away.

      Mary greeted the usual crowd. All three Master Gardeners in the Society were there, of course, and Mary noted with some approval that the crowd also included the two largest busybodies in the organization, Zoe Westinghaus and Emily Price, both Gardeners of Note, the second-highest rank in the Society. Mary herself was a Worthy Gardener, lacking only one more contest win for perennials and ornamental annuals before moving to Gardener of Note. Zoe and Emily had been coaching her, and if it hadn’t been for the Japanese Beetle infestation she’d had the previous summer, Mary would have been their rank by the June Induction Ceremony. Zoe and Emily had been living in a Boston marriage for decades, and had seemingly long since passed the point of having anything to do beyond keeping close tabs on everyone else’s business, as they had no interest in the regimen of contests and papers required for Master Gardener. Though that lack of drive was unfathomable to Mary, she knew that any announcement she made would proliferate through them to the rest of the Society in a matter of days, if not hours, and so was partially glad they had nothing better to do.

      Many of the Society members were missing, spending their one excused absence for the year. It was important enough for the Society to meet on a regular basis that members could only miss once every dues cycle, or the dues tripled the next go ‘round. The founders of the Society had deemed this the best system for keeping an involved membership, such as was key to winning the regional competitions with the Friedmont Garden Club, the Kensington Society’s bitter rival in all things.

      Mary continued to poke around Marge’s house, seeing who else was present. She reintroduced herself to Cathy Snyder, a wonderfully nice woman they had recently managed to woo away from Friedmont. Take that, Friedmont Fools! she thought, while making small talk with Cathy regarding their trumpet vines. Mary’s vines had lost only to Cathy’s at the previous year’s competition, so now that Cathy was with them, they had the contest cinched.

      She continued wandering, finding the Husband’s Auxiliary hiding in the kitchen, nibbling on Susan’s famous rum cake. She nestled her bread between Cathy’s salad and Marge’s tuna casserole, and turned to pull the plate of cake away from the husbands. Honestly, she didn’t think the Auxiliary has a reason to exist, as the collected spouses served only as arm candy, and ate the food meant for the Society members. She covered the cake and tucked it on a shelf out of reach, and strode out of the room without a word to the husbands.

      She walked out onto Marge’s patio, and couldn’t help a sneer as she saw the newest society members, Eve and Lisa. The two had evidently been college roommates, and now rented an apartment together with a sizable garden attached. Mary hadn’t gotten to know them, however, as she felt quite strongly that they did not deserve the membership in the Society they had been granted. Why, they only gardened as a hobby! Mary didn’t approve, and felt that anyone who was not willing to give everything to the art of raising a garden shouldn’t be permitted to take part in the Society. She’d nearly died of mortification—for them, of course, since they had dared to ask someone of a station so far above theirs—when they’d asked for a tour of her garden, and only the bounds of good taste had prevented her from refusing outright. But what a visit it had been! At every turn, she had tried to enlighten the pair of juniors as to just why their gardens could never meet the high standards set by Mary herself. The had smiled, nodded, and, in the most infuriating dismissal Mary had ever received, told her outright that they were planning to take the titles of Master Gardener before the year was out. Mary had smirked, and told the pair in no uncertain terms that the Society awarded the Master Gardener title only to those who displayed the greatest merit, and that she highly doubted their ability to show it, when so little of their time was devoted to their garden. Why, the trio of papers alone stopped most of the members from going for Master Gardener.  Accompanying the application had to be three research papers, one each on Annuals, Perennials, and Shrubbery, with a particular focus in their use in gardens of the exact climate of Kensington, each evaluating the best species and planting positions, levels of sun, and water required. Every observation had to be made with objective data, and fully supported by the current research as well, with at least thirty pages as a minimum. The papers, as well as the contest requirement (three won in each category at least) prevented many people from even bothering, as even Gardener of Note was a difficult rank to obtain. The society had only three Master Gardeners, with Paula Hixon and Nancy O’Neill each doing very little besides gardening, a pattern they’d both maintained for the greater part of the last decade.

      Not to be forgotten, of course, was Marge Hedera, the third Master Gardener. Matriarch of the Society, she had served as President of the Board three separate times since the Society’s inception nearly twenty years earlier, and was perennially proud of the fact that she was a founding member. Still just as spunky as she’d been in her youth, the woman of “multitudinous seasons,” as she described herself, was moving through the crowd on the patio with ease.

      And it was Marge who soon called the crowd to order, herding the ladies inside and easing them into a contented silence, bringing the remainder of their hors d’oeuvres to the rough circle of chairs and sofas that had been set up in Marge’s living room. There was a feeling of comfort that settled over the crowd, as Marge’s wood-paneled living room was warm and inviting even in the coldest months. The leather couches were burnished from long use, and her coffee table was covered in stains from the many times the society had used it as a potting bench.

      This was where the most important work of the Society was accomplished, the trading of tips and tricks, success stories and grand failures, all so that the members of the Society might have the best gardens in Kensington, or, barring that, better gardens then most of the neighbors, at the least. The members took it in turn to enlighten each other to new discoveries, the latest technologies, and in turn to discuss them, perhaps even awarding the Society’s Seal of Approval to those things deemed particularly invaluable by the Master Gardeners.

      Mary patiently waited her turn, and soon enough the discussions had turned from the most appropriate fertilizer for bulbs; manure. Cow, if possible, according to Nancy, though Paula had a fondness for mink. “Hard to obtain, but the nitrous material works wonders!”  –  to a general quiet. When Marge asked if anyone else had a point they wished to raise, Mary stood.

      “I’ve got one,” she said, rather smugly, truth be told, and all eyes shifted in her direction. It was a heady feeling, to have the entire Society, or at least those few in it that mattered, giving her all the attention they could muster. She smiled, took a deep breath, and said, clearly and slowly,

      “I have fairies in my garden.”

      Marge smiled broadly, and said, “Why, that’s wonderful! The resin kind we discussed last week, or something even better? I remember a few years ago we gave the Seal to a glassblower-fellow who was making gnomes and witching balls. Has he switched designs?”

      Mary swallowed hard, as that was not at all the response she’d predicted, and thought to try a different tack.

      “No, I really do have fairies in my garden. Real fairies.”

      A murmuring broke out from the assembly, though it stilled when Cathy spoke.

      “Real…fairies? In the garden? It’s a lovely thought, dear, but you’ll forgive us all for being skeptical.”

      “Oh, certainly,” said Mary. “If I hadn’t seen it myself I’d be just as skeptical as you are.”

      Emily was the next to speak, saying, “Well I, for one, don’t believe it, and I’ve heard just about everything in my lifetime. What a load of hooey!”

      A storm of protests arose at this, with the membership divided seemingly down the middle on the question of fairies. They were soon stilled by Marge, who said, “I’m still not sure if I believe it. However, no one will be able to say that Marge Hedera was close-minded after I’m gone. Have you brought us proof?”

      “Well, no. But I AM telling the truth. Come to my gardens and see for yourself!” 
 Marge seemed to weigh that for a moment, and the other members of the society were clearly looking to her for a decision. After ruminating a minute more, Marge said, “Very well. Field trip, ladies!”

      With a few cries of, “Field trip! Field trip!” the assembled body of the Society piled out of Marge’s house and into their waiting SUV’s. “Lead the way, Mary!” ordered Marge, before climbing into her crimson beast, and then they were off!

      A moment later they’d reached Mary’s home, and she led the parade through her house and to the sliding glass doors that led to her gardens. She walked outside, followed by a stream of gardeners.

      “There!” she said, “There! Look!”

The collected Society looked, carefully but saw nothing out of the ordinary. Mary, on the other hand, knew the changes that had been made.

      Somehow, in the night, her garden had switched colors. Her prize-winning white tea roses were a brilliant red now, her pink irises were tinged in blue, and even the tulips had shifted, from the yellow-gold she’d planted to a midnight black, beautiful in its understatement. The shade garden, usually full of muted greens and pale yellows, was a fire-burst of red-gold, with some of the blues only found in the hottest forges. Every single bud and blossom in her garden had been touched. There was no other explanation, she rationalized, it had to be fairies.

      This was what she tried to explain to the Society, but it was to no avail. One by one, they left her house, disappointment written on their every feature. Zoe was one of the last to go, and the look she gave Mary as she waltzed out the door promised multiple phone calls to the absent Society members at the first opportunity. After Zoe had turned and gone out the door, only Marge remained, but her parting words were perhaps the most painful.

            “I don’t know what you were trying to pull, Mary, but you haven’t fooled a one of us. You don’t have fairies in your garden, you simply painted the flowers yourself! Why, I’d suggest that this was grounds for dismissal from the Society if not for the laugh you’ve given us all. Still, what were you thinking, if you’re trying to get Gardener of Note this year?” And she had chuckled, and walked away.

      Mary was crushed. Her flowers were beautiful, and she liked the effect of the new colors, but she hadn’t touched them. The new arrangements were daring, and she wouldn’t have dreamed of juxtaposing some of the colors the fairies had. She was despondent, though when she looked around she felt marginally better. She stared at the roses, her favorite, and smiled. For now, she knew what had actually happened, and she could convince the society later. 


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      “Did you see the look on her face?!” Eve laughed, harder even than her companion, Lisa, who was bent double with the hilarity of it.

      “She looked so lost!” returned Lisa, “as if she didn’t understand why they didn’t believe her!”

      “I KNOW!” screamed Eve, and the two of them were beyond the point of talking until the paroxysms of laughter had subsided.

      “That was completely worth the trouble.” Lisa finally stated. “Oh, and I meant to congratulate you on your roses. How did you manage to avoid dripping paint on the bush?”

      “Years of practice, and inordinate talent!” said Eve, puffing herself up in a decent imitation of Mary herself. “No, really, it wasn’t that hard. Just a small paintbrush, a steady hand, and watered-down paint—it covers better. It took forever, though, so I meant to thank you for dealing with the irises. And how did you get the tulips that color?”

      “Spray paint. Really—it works wonders on bulbs. And did you get a picture of the shade garden today? Seeing it in daylight was awesome…”

      The two women continued to discuss the grand success of their scheme. Both were completely delighted with the reactions of Mary and the rest of the Society, and resolved that while their revenge was complete, Mary needed a decent teasing the next time they saw her, simply because they knew how much it would kill her. Lisa summed it up the best, ending the conversation with, “Amateur gardeners with lives: 1, Crazy-obsessed Society matron: 0! Take that, Mary!” 

      They laughed until they couldn’t speak for the second time that day.