Mick Hartley

The elderly couple next door used to spend hours in their garden. Les in particular was mad about his climbing roses. Both are dead now – Edna first, then Les some years later. He was the old type of Londoner: had never been abroad; used to stand by his front gate chatting to passers-by. Everyone knew him. If you went away you could be sure he'd keep an eye on the place, feed the cat, draw the curtains.

The family that moved in don't care about gardening. "I hate bees", says the mother. Once a year her brother comes round with a strimmer and blasts away at the vegetation, but apart from that it's just left wild. Nice for the cats, of course.

I think of Les when I see his roses, still blooming every year: