I wrote the following little story for my gardening website a couple of years ago and thought it was a good time to share it again – the 80th anniversary of Rebecca. The good bits in the story are all Daphne Du Maurier. And if you need a gardener in Hampshire my daughter Ellen now runs the gardening business. I am a full time writer.

Agnes has a nightmare.
“Bertram! Bertram, where are you? I had a terrible dream.”
Bertram bustled into the bedroom.
“I was in the bathroom.”
“I dreamt I went…” Agnes paused and seemed to travel back into her dream. She started speaking again, as if from a long way away. “The drive wound away in front of me, twisting and turning as it has always done but… Nature had come into her own again… had encroached upon the drive with long, tenacious fingers… Oh Bertram it was terrible. Call the gardeners. Call Mike or Ellen at Greenspace Organic. This is terrible.”
“I think it’s a bit early to call them.”
“What time is it? 8 o’clock. No, that’s fine. Oh Bertram! The woods had triumphed… They crowded, dark and uncontrolled, to the borders of the drive. The beeches with white, naked limbs leant close to one another, their branches intermingled in a strange embrace… It was awful. I think we should ask Greenspace Organic to come every week.”
“Now I think that would be a good idea. Then we won’t have to worry.”
“Oh, yes please, Bertram.” Agnes said, and then she continued from a great distance. “The trees had thrown out low branches, making an impediment to progress; the gnarled roots looked like skeleton claws. Scattered here and again amongst this jungle growth I would recognize shrubs that had been landmarks… things of culture and grace, hydrangeas whose blue heads had once been famous. No hand had checked their progress, and they had gone native now, rearing to monster height without a bloom.”
“That’s why correct pruning is so important. I’ll call Greenspace now.”
“A lilac had mated with a copper beech, and to bind them yet more closely to one another the malevolent ivy, always an enemy to grace, had thrown her tendrils about the pair and made them prisoners. There was another plant too, some half-breed from the woods, whose seed had been scattered long ago beneath the trees and then forgotten, and now, marching in unison with the ivy, thrust its ugly form like a giant rhubarb towards the soft grass where the daffodils had blown. Oh Bertram. It was the most terrible dream.” Agnes went to the window to look out along the drive towards the gate in the distance.
“I don’t think it’s actually happened. But I will call the gardeners. It’s time for a winter tidy-up anyway.”
“Oh, but you will get them to come weekly. It’s so important to keep the garden in good order.” Agnes paused before continuing. “Nettles were everywhere, the vanguard of the army. They choked the terrace, they sprawled about the paths, they leant, vulgar and lanky, against the very windows of the house.”
“I’ll call them now. I’ll use the phone on your side of the bed.” Bertram strode manfully around the bed. He noticed a book on the bedside table. Rebecca by Daphne du Maurier. He picked it up. “Is this any good? Always meant to read it.”
“Oh, what? Yes. I don’t know. I had just started it when I fell asleep. Now do phone.”
Bertram put the book down. “Yes, yes. Doing it now.”