Hobley Rd. Nursery Supplies

Widely spanned drops of rain fell languidly upon the hedge-lined main street of Hobley Road; usually bustling shops lying restful in the early dawn-light.
Dotted and personable, the Cafés of this street became illuminated, setting their al fresco milk crates and tables upon the pavement; an easterly wind rustling the newspapers left upon doorstep and chasing across the stillness of the silent morning. The day had a feeling of fledgling change as the nearby traffic lights cycled through their motions for an otherwise empty intersection.      

Shaking the droplets from their umbrella, Mr Alfred Stoat crossed the road towards his shop and wondered what all the commotion could be. Alfred, who was as familiar to commotion as dust to a puddle, regarded the line to be composed of beatniks and slouching demeanour and was suddenly shocked to realise that they had congregated at the first step of his shop.
‘What’s all this?’ He coughed at the crowd, feeling that something was out of sorts and therefore, by natural association, no longer civil. ‘Loitering then? Frittering away on an innocent doorstep. The tobacconist is down the road.’  Using the full breadth of each vowel, Mr Stoat fumbled with his keys as he tried to unlock his door but was unable to still the tremble of his hands enough to settle on the correct key.

‘Can I help at all?’ A cheery-faced member of the line asked much to the sufferance of Alfred. She was a tall girl, who’s crocheted bag and woolly knit hat gave clear indication of troubled hands.

‘Madam, I am capable.’ He said, trying to hide his discomfort.
Finally locating the correct key, Mr Stoat pushed into his shop and then deadbolted the door behind him, stealing one last glower at the smiling line of youths.

Closing his eyes, Alfred captured his calm and thought for a moment. What had he done to deserve this? He was temperate, he was a member of the Bowral league of bird lovers, and he abstained from unnecessary mathematics. What would so many unpleasant looking, pre-post-grad, jean and cardigan wearing never-minders want with his nursery. Had he advertised poorly? Snatching yesterday’s paper from the wrapping basket, he flicked through the pages until landing on his regular ad on its regular page, type set in Times New Roman as all advertisements should rightly be.

Hobley Rd. Nursery Supplies, 124 Hobley Road.
Flowers, Seeds, and Instrumentation.     

Not a miss-advertisement then. No invitation out to slang speaking youths whose very idea of horticulture was lacking in both horti (derived from the Latin hortus meaning garden) and culture. Wondering if the group outside could even afford a garden, Alfred imagined a box shaped apartment block littered with pots of wilting ferns and forlorn aspidistras. ‘Not suitable for even the cactus,’ he posited towards a display of succulents that were arranged by the window, dreaming of the outside sky.
Beginning the routine of watering, Mr. Stoat caught the sight of the line and bemoaned to see that it had grown. Seven, Eight, people now waited for him to open.
The shakes returning to his hands and he had to fight himself calm, placing down the watering can lest it spill.
‘They must be mistaken.’ He said to the empty store in efforts to find reason in this terrible circumstance.

Donning his apron so that the authority of a uniform may shield his waning confidence somewhat, Alfred tip-toed to his front door and opened it slowly, ensuring that the chain latch was still firm so that the crowd may not bullrush past as he had heard that this generation was wont to do.
He composed himself enough to be firm.
‘May I ask what you are doing?’ he said as pointedly as he could, hoping that the simple question may frighten some of the crowd away.

‘Would you be opening today? It’s near to half-nine.’ The cheery-faced girl replied, an apparent ringleader of this sordid bunch. Behind her, two more people had joined the line, and by judging the dress of another three that were approaching from the bus stop, the line was yet to grow again.   

‘We’re not a parlour.’ Alfred snapped.

‘You’re a nursery, aren’t you? I was hoping to buy some begonias or a peace lily.’

‘I was after some seaside daisies.’ Another piped up from scraggle of messy hair and slouching posture. Questions began to be thrown at Alfred as each member of the line asked for a particular plant or sought advice.
‘Was there an easy way to balance soil Ph?’, ‘Do you have any broadleaf ferns?’, ’Does holly pot well?’     

Pushing backward, Alfred struggled the door closed before the mob could overrun him with their enquiries.
‘The world’s gone mad.’ He said reaching into his pocket for the small flask of brandy that he kept handy for when he felt a cold coming on. His nerves were untangled, some bout of mass hysteria had no doubt overtaken the youth of the town and he was the innocent victim. It was an epidemic, he decided. A green-thumbed mania that came from too much record listening and not enough fresh air. What could he do? The shop had no back door and in time they would grow impatient. There’d be a riot, anarchy, looting. The crazed lot would smash through his window and tear every one of his plants from their pots. Fistfuls of dirt would be hurled; steaks would be swung with the intention of violence.
Lost in thoughts of the destruction of his store, a small chime sounded from his desk that awoke Alfred from his nadir. The alarm rang again, telling him that it was nine-thirty, telling him that it was time to open the shop.
‘Pull together now, Alfred.’ He said to himself pushing back from the door and unbolting the chain lock, ‘No point baulking from the line.’

Opening his door, Alfred Stoat spun his sign to read Open and stepped aside, gesturing for the crowd to wrack whatever ruin they may.
To his surprise, they entered slowly, almost unsure of themselves as if driving a vehicle for the first time. They were polite, asking questions and taking the time to listen. Stuttering at first, Alfred felt an odd delight in guiding the questions of a novice; his regular customers didn’t have the patience for questions, they haggled, speaking down the quality of his own care for the plants. “Shouldn’t bloom this early”, they would say, “You’ve overwatered this one”.

The girl with the cheery face brought a plant that had been hung on display for some months, a tangle heart almost dust covered and wanting of a new outlook.
‘Is this for sale?’ she asked holding it tenderly as though it were wilting fragile.

‘Why yes,’ Alfred replied with genuine surprise, ‘That plant has been so often discounted in both senses that I’m almost sad to be rid of it. Hanging bowls have fallen out of fashion somewhat.’  

~

It was bought. A tidy number of varying plants had all been bought that morning and Alfred felt exhausted by the time he closed for the day. He checked the receipts one by one and found that not one petal had been stolen and remembered that a strange lad had even gifted him a pen.
The day was good, pleasant even, and he decided to order some more hanging plants in celebration.               

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J. McCray
2025