The Hummingbird Garden

Alone, Marguerite sits in the cool shade of the cherry tree, pondering today’s problem. Above her, glass vases brim with nectar; they are garlanded with bright red ribbons. The perfect temptation for hummingbirds. Yet they do not come.

Frowning, she considers this conundrum.

Marguerite knows she is perfect. Her slight frame ageing, yet scalpel-thin, her apple cheeks Botox-plump and rosy, skin tucks no more noticeable than paper-cut scars. She has starved herself to be every man’s wish, an example to her failing, fat friends in the WI whom she secretly pities. Shifting slightly in the warming afternoon, she remains puzzled as to where the elusive hummingbirds could be hiding. She has provided everything they could possibly want: sugary, syrupy goodness, bright colours, the perfect quiet of an English garden. She has seen the photographs; back home in Ecuador her dull little friend Daniela has them visiting in swarms, and look at the state of her! Surely if she can attract these rare beauties, Marguerite should have no problem. No problem at all. Perhaps she needs to add some more scarlet ribbons to the swags now knotted to the tree branches above her head. In Marguerite’s experience, if you want something badly enough, you get it. After all, that mantra has always worked when it comes to attracting the opposite sex. Youth and beauty is all, and she has paid hard cash to her surgeon to ensure, absolutely, that she will always be young and beautiful. She squints up through the dappled sunshine at the glass bowls; she knows she has filled them with just the right proportions of sugar and water. She has peppered the cherry tree with every scrap of red ribbon she could find – raided from Christmas decorations, her sewing box and dressing table. She will have the biggest, the most colourful and the best hummingbird garden of anyone she knows. As soon as she saw those photographs, those delicate, brightly-coloured Sunangels (Sun angels! how perfect!) she just knew it was her job to attract the brightest and the most. Feigning interest in poor, dowdy Daniela’s achievement, she had gleaned the knowledge that hummingbirds love a strong sugar solution, and the colour red. So, naturally, the cherry tree with its under planting of crimson camellias was the perfect spot to attract attention. Marguerite has positioned herself here, on the love seat under the cherry tree, every morning for the past week, and willed those beautiful, delicate creatures to come to her. No larger than bees, apparently, though bees were the only creatures that seemed to be attracted so far, and their numbers were growing. They buzzed incessantly just a few feet above her head, and Marguerite wondered vaguely if that was the reason the birds were keeping away.

The afternoon is growing much warmer now, and Marguerite begins to feel drowsy. She takes a sip from the wine glass on the table beside her, absentmindedly shooing away an inquisitive bee with a flick of her hand. The lack of avian attention is beginning to trouble her; she doesn’t like being ignored, either by men or animals. It makes her snippy.

Rummaging in the carpet bag she brought with her from the house, she pulls out a few more reels of scarlet ribbon. Carefully, she winds them around her wrists and neck, the blood-red streamers rising gently in the afternoon breeze. She garlands yet more around her head, tying makeshift bows in her carefully-coloured blonde hair. She knows she looks magnificent; no bird would be capable of resisting. Why, they might even come and land on her hands; if she could tempt them to drink from her fingers that would be a definite one-up on her loser friends!

Grabbing her phone, she takes a quick selfie ‘Me in my Hummingbird Garden!’ and posts it on Instagram. ‘That’ll show them’ she sniggers to herself. ‘I’m the one with the rich husband and the good looks. I’ll prove who’s best at attracting attention.’ Setting her phone to record, she positions it on the table so that it will capture what she does next. Standing on tiptoe, Marguerite grasps the bottom of one of the glass bowls above her head, tilts it gently and lets the cool, sweetened water run over her face and arms, giggling in delight as she does so. Now she is a living, breathing, hummingbird feeder! Giving what she considers her most adorable pout to the camera, she raises her glass to the lens and polishes off the last of the Merlot. Arranging herself delicately on the grass beneath the tree, in what she hopes is a pose attractive to wildlife, and to the camera silently recording her every move, she turns her face to the sun and lets her eyes close, just for a few minutes. Then, at last, she hears it. A distinct hum, growing louder, filling her ears and hovering around her head. Keeping her eyes closed, she can feel their gentle caresses on her skin, tickling her arms and hands as they kiss her beautiful unlined skin. A smirk of deep satisfaction on her expensively-tucked face, she drifts off into a self-satisfied slumber just as the first of the swarm of worker bees lands on her mouth.

 

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