The Gardener - by Rory O’Driscoll, age 15

I tug harder on the worn edges of the fabric, wrapping myself further in my torn, patchwork coat in a desperate bid to warm myself. A fine mist spills out in front of me at every breath. The city is silent now. All the street vendors have packed up their stalls, all the busy shoppers have returned home, and the once full car parks stand still and empty. The streets are desolate, apart from the odd drunk shambling home, or a stray dog poking its nose into an upturned bin. As I make my way slowly down the street, I feel desperately alone, despite the fact that behind those windows and walls and doors are hundreds of thousands of people. But I am not like them.

By day, men in suits turn their noses at the sight of me, people cross the street to avoid me and tired mothers drag their children away from me. I am an outcast. It is my own fault, they say.

I am too lazy to get a job, or I spend all my money on alcohol and drugs. I am a bad person, they might say. Better on the streets than working in our schools and homes and businesses.

I bring my cupped hands to my face and blow in the hopes of preventing the dull numb feeling that is creeping through the fingers. My boots are still wet from the rain earlier and there is slight squelch as I walk. I have given up hope of keeping my feet from going numb, and simply hope I will still be able to walk at a manageable speed.

How did I get here?

It was not the highest paying of jobs, I will admit, but it was a job. It was enough for me. I could afford a little apartment and I had enough left over for dinners. I had liked it too. I was good at gardening. I had never been good at maths or writing or languages, but gardening, now that was something I was good at it! I could grow the brightest roses and I knew the best anti-weed techniques. I knew which flowers best complimented violets and where to get the best seeds, but a gardener is just not all that important a job.

He had been nice about it, and I knew he didn’t want to let me go. He had given me three weeks’ wages, which was much more than he was required to, which was very kind of him. He had tried to explain that he didn’t want to do it.

But with the economy and the petrol prices and everything, he couldn’t afford to keep me on and do the tulips and how they really were lovely tulips but he just had to make some cuts and all that. It was okay, I didn’t blame him. I could find more work, I told him.

I couldn’t.

I was able to keep the apartment for a few more weeks, paying rent with what I’d got left. I didn’t have much in the bank. It was November when I had to give up the apartment. It had been hard, seeing it go. I had spent a long time in that apartment. I grew my own tomatoes on the windowsill. It had been a small, slightly smelly little place, but I had loved it all the same. I went easily. I had taken my gardening boots, my wallet, my old watch, a pair of gloves, a change of clothes, my hat and of course, my coat. The nice man who owned the apartment had let me take my time, say goodbye to the old place. We had shaken hands and gone our separate ways.

That first November was the worst month. I didn’t know what to do. I had been foolish enough to spend most of my money staying in a hotel until I could find another job, and within a week I had run out of money. It had surprised even me how utterly unprepared I was. I spent the first two days just wandering the city hoping for a miracle, a job application that fell from the sky with double my old wages. When I slipped on ice and almost broken my knee I had wizened up. I spent a day trying to find a good place, and I eventually settled on a pedestrian bridge over the river where lots of people pass by. So, I had sat down, wrapped my coat around myself and placed my hat down in front of me. I collected €8 and 37 cent that day.

It’s January now, and things aren’t any better. I had gotten a little bit more money over Christmas, when everybody was a lot more generous. One nice young man had given me €30. But now, the magic of the holidays was gone and replaced with a cold bitterness. People don’t have time for me. They are focused on their jobs and their cars and the newspapers, and that’s okay. If I was still gardening I know I’d be the same. I didn’t judge anybody. It would solve nothing.

I had failed in keeping my hands warm, and they’re red and throbbing. I plunge them deeper into my pockets. It’s much colder tonight and my legs feel like they don’t belong to me.

My walking is wobbly and shaky. I know I can’t go any further, so I cross the road to where there are arches in the doorways.

That will shelter me, at least somewhat. I am having trouble keeping my eyes open, and I’ve just noticed I’m shaking. I crouch down in the cover of the arch and make myself as compact as I can with my back the way it is. I blow on my fingers again and wrap my coat further around myself, but I do not feel the cold anymore. I do not really feel much of anything anymore, although I am still shaking. There’s no point in worrying about it now. There’s no way I could walk anywhere else even if I tried. I close my eyes.