Something in the local paper caught Olive’s eye. "Have you read this?" she asked her husband.
     "Read what?" said Gordon, not taking his eyes off the television.
     "This!" She rustled the newspaper against his ear. "Here in the paper."
     "We’ve scored." Gordon cheered. "Did you see that goal? It was a beauty." But his expression of delight changed to dismay when Olive turned off the television. "What’re you doing? I’m watching that," he uttered.
     Olive thrust the paper under his nose. "Read this."
     Gordon sighed. He had wanted to watch the football match in peace. "We are pleased to announce the date of our yearly Prettiest Garden Competition," he read out loud. He shrugged. "So! What about it?"
     "I think you should enter." Olive folded her arms.
     "Why? I’ve heard it’s a foregone conclusion; Councillor Quigley wins every year."
     Handing the paper back to Olive, he switched on the television to find the commentator going hysterical over another goal scored by the home team.  "We’ve scored again and I missed it," he said.
     But Olive wasn’t going to be put off so easily. "Have you seen what the first prize is?" She knew he hadn’t; he had only glanced at the headline.
     "No. But I’m sure you’ll tell me."
     "It’s a brand new, state of the art, no expense spared, fully-fitted greenhouse." Olive spoke slowly; determined to get her husband’s undivided attention. "It says here, it retails at about £2,000."
     "What?" Gordon leapt to his feet. "Show me."
     Olive pointed to the picture. "You’ve been talking about getting a greenhouse. You could win this one."
     Gordon sat down and read the details. "I have to admit, it’s a fine greenhouse," he muttered. He glanced at Olive "However I gather Councillor Quigley is a keen gardener and..."
    "Forget about Ian Quigley." Olive interrupted. "You’re a keen gardener, too. At our last house you always had a splendid show of flowers, and now you’re retired, you have even more time."
    Being new to the village, neither had actually seen the councillor’s garden. Nevertheless, both had heard a great deal about it.
    Olive recalled how only last week Laura had mentioned it when she called in for coffee. "Joyce Quigley will be giving her yearly illustrated talk at the Women’s Guild next week," she had said. "She does it every summer; just in case we’ve forgotten her husband won the trophy the year before. It would be wonderful if someone else won this year."
     "Alright, I’ll put my name down for the competition." Gordon’s voice interrupted her thoughts.
     Delighted, Olive picked up her notepad and pencil. "I’ll help you to make a plan," she said.
     "You don’t mean now?" Gordon sounded exasperated. "Can’t it wait until after the match?" He turned back to the television; a roar from the crowd told him another goal had been scored – but by which team? "Look! Now I’ve missed another goal."
     Olive sighed. She knew when she was beaten. Perhaps they could discuss it when the football match was over. In the meantime, she would make herself a nice cup of tea and write down the names of some colourful flowers.
     However, as their daughter and grandchildren called, the competition was forgotten. But the next morning Gordon was up bright and early.
     "Come on Olive; time to get up."
     "What time is it?" she asked. Had they overslept?
     "Six o’clock. I thought we might go into the garden and make a few plans."
     Olive groaned and pulled the covers over her head. "It’s too early," she complained. "Couldn’t we wait another couple of hours?"
     "Councillor Quigley won’t be waiting for another couple of hours," said Gordon, pulling on his socks.
     "I doubt very much that Joyce Quigley has got out of her lovely warm bed at six in the morning, just to plan the garden," grumbled Olive, as she dragged herself out of bed.
     "That’s the spirit, Olive. I have a few ideas I want to run past you."
     Once outside, Gordon demonstrated what he had in mind for the garden. His plan was to divide it into various shapes, such as stars and diamonds and fill them with suitable flowers.
     "It’s going to look like one of those gardens we saw on holiday last year," said Olive, happily. "Our garden will be a mass of colour."
     "Yes, but will it win?" Gordon suddenly didn’t sound very confident.
     "We have as much chance as anyone else," said Olive. "Our last garden was admired by everyone for miles around."
     "But our last garden was much bigger than this one." Gordon said thoughtfully. "I can’t plant as many flower beds here."
     "True, but I’m sure you’ll get the best out of what you have." Olive didn’t want to hear this defeatist talk. She hadn’t got up at the crack of dawn to hear Gordon give up before he had even started. She decided to attend the Women’s Guild when Joyce gave her talk. It might give her an idea of what the judges were looking for.
      At the guild, Olive found herself sitting next to Laura.
     "Joyce is going to be on top form tonight." Laura laughed. "She’s brought hundreds of photographs of her husband’s garden."
     "Good! I’ll take a look at some of those," said Olive. "I’ve persuaded Gordon to enter the competition this year."
     "That’s wonderful!" Laura’s eyes widened. "I hope he does well. We entered two years running, but didn’t come anywhere." She looked down to the front of the hall; Joyce was spreading out her photographs. "Between you and me, I think Ian Quigley spends more time on his garden than he does on his council work." She nudged Olive. "Oops, here we go, Joyce is on. Mark my words; once she starts talking about her husband’s garden, she can talk for England."
     Laura was right; Joyce droned on for over an hour. She would have talked even longer if the chairlady hadn’t intervened saying that tea and biscuits were being served
     Joyce didn’t seem too happy at the interruption. She began to say that she would continue later. But her voice was drowned by the scraping of chairs as everyone leapt to their feet.
     As Olive began to look at the photos on the table, Joyce moved closer.
     "Good aren’t they?" she purred. "Let me tell you about this one." She picked up one of the pictures and handed it to Olive. "Last year the judge was absolutely cock-o-hoop about this part of the garden. He had never seen anything like it."
     Olive tactfully admired the photo, but knew Gordon could do better. "My husband is entering the competition this year," she said.
     "Good at gardening, is he?" Joyce enquired, cautiously.
     "Well, he’s always been keen on gardening, but..."
     "But he’s not very good," Joyce interrupted. "I understand. In that case, my dear, tell him not to bother. This competition is meant for experienced gardeners." She patted Olive’s hand. "Best take my advice; talk him out of it."
     Olive was furious; she hadn’t been going to say that at all. She pulled her hand away. "I don’t think so," she said. "Besides, once Gordon gets something into his mind, he won’t let it go. Anyway, the competition is open to everyone."
     "Well don’t say I didn’t warn you," said Joyce. "But perhaps my husband and I could call and take a look at your garden. Together we might convince your husband that he’s wasting his time."
     "Of course you’re welcome to come anytime," said Olive, coldly. "But you won’t deter Gordon from entering the competition." She thrust the photo back at Joyce. "I think I’ll go for some tea."
     At home, she told Gordon all that had transpired. "I think Joyce is worried. After all, we’re newcomers; they haven’t yet seen what you’re capable of. It strikes me that she’s desperate for her husband to win the competition again and is determined to put you off."
     The very next morning, Olive opened the door to find Joyce on the doorstep. Her husband was standing behind her.
     "We were in the area and thought we might take at look at your garden." Joyce breezed into the hall without waiting to be asked. "By the way, this is my husband, Ian." She waved a well manicured hand in the direction of her husband.
     Olive showed the couple into the lounge.
     "How quaint," said Joyce. "Of course ours is much bigger."
     "Of course," muttered Olive, sarcastically.
     "Perhaps we could take a look at your garden before we have coffee." Joyce suggested. "We could then sit and discuss it."
     "Take a look by all means," said Gordon, suddenly appearing from the kitchen. "But there’s nothing to discuss." He led the couple into the garden.
     "Call this a garden?" Joyce sniffed. She looked over to her husband and laughed. "You have nothing to worry about, dear. This is too small to be a real contender."
     Ian smiled. "You’re right. There’s no contest."
     Joyce turned to Gordon. "I’m sorry, but I really think you’re wasting your time." She paused. "Look, why don’t you both come to our house tomorrow and we’ll show you what a real garden looks like."
     Though neither was keen to go, Olive and Gordon found themselves at Councillor Quigley’s house the next day.
     "Now this is what I call a real garden," said Ian, proudly. He stood back allowing them to take in the full extent of his garden. "You have to agree, your garden doesn’t compare with this."
     Olive gulped. It certainly was a large garden; more the size of a small field to be exact and it was well laid out. At the far end, the upward slope had been terraced and planted with small trees and bushes.
     "Come; let me show you what I’m going to do this year." Ian took Gordon’s arm and hurried him down the garden. Glancing back at Olive, he urged her to come too
     Ian told them how he intended to plant some really tall flowers. "Dahlias and the like; you know the sort of thing."
     "But won’t they get..." Gordon began.
     "I know what you’re thinking," Ian interrupted. "And I agree; they can get blown around a little in the wind. Anyone else would have a problem, but my garden is sheltered by the slope. I won’t even need to stake them. I think the judges will be impressed."
     "My husband knows all about gardening," Joyce said, grandly. "That’s what makes him a winner."
     "I think it’s time we went home." Olive was fed up with listening to Joyce and Ian crowing about their garden.
     "I hope he didn’t put you off entering the competition." Olive said as she got into the car.
     "No. Of course not; we’ll go ahead as planned."
     During the weeks leading up to the competition, Ian and Joyce called several times to see how Gordon’s garden was progressing.
      "It’s pretty enough," said Ian one day as the competition drew near. "But I really think you need more height. Now take my garden; my Dahlias look splendid. They’re standing tall and straight and the blooms are magnificent."
      Joyce leaned across to Gordon. "You must be overwhelmed by all of this, but it’s not too late to back out."
      "On the contrary, let me tell you, I’m as keen as ever." Gordon sounded annoyed.
      The night before the judging, there were strong winds. Neither Gordon nor Olive got much sleep, fearing the garden would be destroyed. They looked out of the window several times, but it was too dark to see anything.
      The next morning, both were relieved to find the damage was minimal, Gordon having discreetly staked some of the taller shrubs. By the time the judges called, the winds had dropped to a gentle breeze causing the colourful flowers to shimmer in the morning sun. The occasional planter and shrub in just the right place enhanced the scene. Though the judges didn’t say anything, Olive could tell they were impressed.
       It was customary for the contestants to follow the judges as they called at each garden; the councillor was last on the list. As they approached, Olive saw Joyce standing at the front gate.
       "The judging should be postponed. The winds have wrecked everything," she wailed. But the judges were unmoved, saying that the gales had affected all the contestants.
       Everyone could only stand in silence when they saw Ian’s garden. The winds had destroyed most of his tall flowers – especially the Dahlias. The stems were broken and the large blooms had blown all over the garden.
       The judges had a huddled discussion before the spokesman stepped forward. "This year, the winner of the competition is Gordon..." Cheering drowned his voice.
       "No! That’s not right, our garden was ruined." Joyce was hysterical. He shouldn’t have won... " But no one heard; everyone was congratulating Gordon.
       Ian could only listen, as a judge told him he had been too ambitious.
       Hiding a smile, a delighted Olive joined Joyce. "Call that a garden?" she said. She patted Joyce’s hand. "Never mind dear, if you would like to come for tea, we’d be happy to show you what a real garden looks like."