Help Agatha with the Gardening

You skip lunch in the cafeteria and head home as soon as the last lesson of the morning is over. Agatha is in the garden, digging around the rose bush. She’s wearing a pair of denim shorts, held up by denim bracers, and an already grubby white t-shirt. She’s tied her dyed red hair into a ponytail. She pauses when she sees you.

“You here to help?”

“You’ve got it. But I’ll grab lunch first, change and then come out. You eaten yet?”

“I’ve got my own lunch. But I’ll join you in a moment.”

You head in, change into some old, cheap clothes, an old t-shirt you used to wear when on archaeology digs, plus some ripped jeans. When you return to the kitchen Agatha is sitting at the kitchen table, unwrapping some homemade cheese sandwiches from clingfilm wrap. You make your own ham sandwich from content in the fridge. You wash it down with a glass of apple juice. You offer Agatha a drink, she just takes a glass of water.

You sit opposite her as you eat.

After lunch the two of you return to the garden. Agatha’s cut back the bush, leaving only the thickest and toughest branches behind. Its volume has shrunk to a third, now exclusively composed of spiny, forbidding branches. Then she’s dug around the roots, isolating the thickest from the ground. She’s uncovered a sprawl that spreads across the flowerbed, under other flowers, under the lawn, and even revealed a cluster spreading beneath the fence and into Faye’s garden.

You start by trying to dig the rest out. Bad idea. The top level of soil is dry, but only a few centimetres down it grows heavy with retained water. This damp clay clings to the roots, parting unwillingly from the stems, that plunge deeper than you imagined. Both you and Agatha are soon smeared in mud and coated in sweat and panting in exhaustion.

Maybe you’ve dug deep enough? Maybe you can pull the rest out?

No. The thick stems are no longer held by the dirt. But off the thick stems are a web of thin, almost invisible threads, and they are equally confined. When you pull, they hold on. A million connections that refuse to budge. Nothing happens.

“Want some help?”

You want to be all manly and say no. But you aren’t getting anywhere. You know Agatha’s stronger than she looks. It can’t hurt for her to join in. She stands in front of you. Close enough that a stray hair from her ponytail can tickle your nose. You can smell the faint whiff of her natural perfume over the aroma of churned clay and ripped bush. You both reach down and grab the root. You count down to three. Then both of you pull together. Your muscles scream. There’s a rip, a tear, and suddenly the root stem pulls clear, showering dirt as it rips free, leaving a spiderweb of root behind. The change is sudden, from resistance to freedom. Both you and Agatha stumble backwards. Behind another, still trapped root, grabs your ankle. You tumble. Agatha tumbles on top of you, knocking your breath away. Then she bounces off and rolls in the dirt beside you.

You lie there panting. Not for long. There’s a root digging into your back. You roll off it and almost roll on top of Agatha. You only catch yourself at the last moment. But you pause, looking down at her, your eyes locking. Time stands still. Once more you’re aware of every curve of the women beneath you. Your dick stirs at lewd thoughts. Your brain begs you to lean down and kiss her yearning lips. Is that a similar desire visible in her brown eyes? Or are you just seeing what you want to see?

It’s getting awkward. Her lips are curling into a smile. Her eyes sparkle with mischief. When she starts to laugh, you know you’ve paused too long. You draw yourself away, and inside you chastise yourself for not claiming the moment.

“You look a mess,” she splutters through her laughter.

“And you don’t?”

Oh, she’s a mess. Her white t-shirt is a stain of black mud, that emphasises the twin peaks of her nipples pointing through, more obvious because of the studs through them. She really should have worn a bra. The smears carry on down her shorts and down her legs. There are splatters across her arms. Her face is freckled with spots of mud. Her hair is entangled with clumps.

You’re just the same. You flick mud off your hands. You push some of it off your jeans, off your t-shirt. Agatha carries on laughing as you try to brush the worst of it off.

“I’m used to being filthy.” The way she says that last word gets your trouser snake stirring. Is she flirting with you? Is she being suggestive?

You try and wipe some of the mud from your face. “You’re just making it worse,” Agatha declares. “Come on, let’s finish this off, and then you can get cleaned up.”

It’s another hour of dragging roots from the dirt, hacking away at those that won’t come, kneeling in mud, getting further coated. You push aside earthworms and creepy crawlies. You started off tentative. By the end you’re as nonchalant as Agatha. She’s in her element. She’s crawling through the worst of it, indifferent to her state. Although several times you catch her standing watching you, a smirk on her face, something deeper in her brown eyes.

Finally, the bush is free. Agatha had thrown a tarpaulin on the lawn. Onto this you and Agatha gather the chopped remnants. Then you fill in the hole left behind.

“You don’t mind if I leave that for the time being. It needs more chopping up, but I’ve already filled your garden waste bin.”

“Let’s just move it out of the way.”

You and her drag the tarpaulin to the bottom of the garden and leave it there. Then you pick up as much of the discarded twigs, branches and severed roots as you can, and throw them on top.

“You got plans for what to put in its place?” you ask as you take a brief rest.

“Oh yes.”

“What?”

“It’s a surprise.”

“A surprise? It’s my garden. I think I should get a say.”

“You told me, gardening’s not your thing. Well, it’s mine. And I know you’re going to like what I do.” You raise an eyebrow. “Ok, no details, but it’s a memorial to your mother.”

You can’t argue with that.

“Right, well if we’ve finished, I think I need a shower.” You look over at her. She looks as filthy as you feel. “You need one as well. You got a change of clothing?” She nods. “You can use the shower in the upstairs bathroom. I’ll use the one in the ensuite. I’ll get you a towel.”

You take off your shoes and carefully walk to the linen closet to pick out a large cream towel for her. You also check there’s soap in the upstairs bathroom, then head to your bedroom, where you unpeel your clothes, place them carefully to one side and head to the shower.