The small group assembled in the café beside the cactus garden, near the pond. In spring, the air would have been full of the sound of frogs striking up their loud mating songs. This autumnal day, however, there was no such noise. The group, all adults, waited, some in quiet conversation, others thinking about the man they’d come to honour: José, the head gardener of the cactus garden, for more than thirty years. His team of gardeners in their cream and green uniforms, his friends and his family – all were gathered, waiting for his daughter Maria to come with her father’s ashes, which she was to scatter amongst the plants he had tended for so many years.
As Maria entered the café with her husband Tomaz, conversations stopped, and all eyes turned towards the couple in the doorway. Maria, in her plain black dress with a white scarf over her dark hair, held on tightly to an ornate box. Tomaz stood beside her, suave and tall.
‘Bom dia, good morning,’ was whispered round the room.
A side door gave access to the garden, a vast site of colourful Madeiran flowers, bushes and trees. It was famed for, and named after, its monumental cacti. Amongst the palm trees, they rocketed into the vivid blue sky. Alone, they would have been like a desert landscape in the hot sun, an arid place, albeit one of stark beauty. But over the years, José had skilfully interplanted these monsters with bushes of exotic pink bougainvillaea and hibiscus that attracted bright orange butterflies and bees. Lower still, the ground was covered by salvias, snapdragons, marigolds of all hues, and creeping plants that cunningly hid the irrigation pipes that zigzagged across the dry soil. José had always delighted in pointing out the different plants to the many tourists who came to walk in his garden throughout the year. He had overseen all this splendour. He had made it what it was.
Maria and Tomaz led the group along a path, tessellated with white stones. They followed its sinuous route deeper into the garden. No one stopped to admire the flowers. Brown lizards rustled in the foliage as they passed or darted in front of them as the group walked quietly to the central gazebo. A table had been set out beneath the thatched roof. This thickly timbered open-sided structure was a contemplative space in the garden where visitors usually sat to appreciate the garden’s sights, sounds and smells.
A blackbird sang nearby as the mourners grouped themselves around Maria. She put the box on the table. Heads bowed and tears were shed as she spoke of her father’s life and of his deep love for the plants around them. The smell of jasmine filled the air and the blackbird continued his song. Finally, the time came for José’s ashes to be scattered underneath a towering palm tree, its fan-like leaves spread against the sky like angel’s wings.
‘My father will be forever in the place he loved,’ Maria said as she handed the empty box to Tomaz. Then, arm in arm, they led the group back down the path. Maria smiled weakly and gave silent thanks that the parting had been sweet.
