Diary fragment · 3 min read ·
The Night Shift Diary of the Glasshouse
A night gardener at the public glasshouses keeps a diary of the orchids, which bloom only in the hours after midnight, and of the figure who waters them in the same order each night and leaves a single white flower in the gardener's pocket.
- dated: From the first frost to the spring planting
- narrator: Edwin Kirk, night gardener
- reliability: reliable
October 2. First frost on the glass. Took the night shift at the public glasshouses in place of Mr Tate, who has the flu. Four houses, the palm house, the cactus house, the fern house, and the orchid house at the far end, with its old iron frame and its blue glass.
October 9. The orchids in the orchid house bloom only after midnight. The gardeners' notes from the 1930s say so. Each plant has a card with the hour of its flowering written in pencil. I watered the rows, as instructed, starting at the front and working toward the back.
October 16. Someone had watered the orchids before me. The soil was damp, the pots were full, the labels turned neatly to face the path. I did not see anyone come in. The door was locked. I checked it twice.
October 23. Watched the orchids closely tonight. At twelve, a faint scent rose from the rows, sweet and cool, like rain on cut grass. The flowers opened one by one, pale and waxy, in a slow wave from the back of the house to the front. Then, very softly, I heard footsteps on the gravel. Someone walking the rows with a can, pausing at each plant.
I did not look up. I kept my eyes on the labels.
November 3. Found a white flower in my coat pocket this morning. An orchid bloom, perfectly formed, its petals still moist. I have never had a flower in my pocket before. I do not know how it got there. I put it in a jar of water on my desk and it is still open.
November 14. The figure came again. Tonight I stayed at the back of the house, by the door, and watched the watering. A woman, tall, in a grey work apron, with her sleeves rolled to the elbow and her hair tied up in a cloth. She moved slowly along the rows, lifting each pot to feel its weight, touching each flower gently with two fingers, as a nurse checks a pulse. She did not look at me. But when she reached the last pot, she stopped, and turned, and held out a white bloom, very carefully, the way you might offer a sweet to a child.
I took it. Her hand was cool.
December 1. Mr Tate is back. He says the orchid house was always watered by the day man, Mr Lane, who retired in 1968 and died the following spring. He says he never knew who did the night watering, but that he has always been careful to leave the door unlocked on the nights the orchids bloom.
March 20. Last frost. The orchids are finished for the year. Tonight the woman came for the last time, and walked the rows, and stopped at the door. She said, quite clearly, in a voice I knew from somewhere, that I had kept her flowers well. Then she unlocked the door, and went out into the dark, and I did not follow, and in the morning the orchid house was empty, and every label had been turned to face the path, and in my pocket was a single bloom, closed tight, waiting to open at midnight.