Page 7 of Putting Down Roots

“Not by a long way. Len—he’s the head of the parish council—and his husband, then boyfriend, moved in about forty years ago and the numbers have grown ever since. It’s a very accepting community. I think it’s that the old ladies on the Women’s Institue like having someone who appreciates their knitting, though many of the guys are great knitters too.”

Her attention swings back to me with a grin. “Your turn. Now you know all of our dirty secrets. Spill the beans.”

I take another swig of my beer. I’m not going to get away with it then, but I can keep it simple.

“It’s a usual enough tale. I lost my wife, I also lost my job. I wanted to start a new life, so I left.”

“And you came to Larchdown?”

“That wasn’t the plan. My van broke down.”

“Well, you might find what you’re looking for here.”

“I doubt that.”

“The world works in mysterious ways.” I’m about to comment that I think that’s bullshit when she disappears to call for last orders.

It’s Sunday evening,and I’ve been in Larchdown for two days. I’ve investigated most of it—the main street and shops, the riverbank, the church and graveyard, some of the woods, and the Abbey. I walked out as far as the large house, but the gates were shut and padlocked, so I didn’t go any further. There are still a couple of days until my van’s going to be ready and then I’m gonna be on my way. Somehow, though, the need to leave doesn’t feel so urgent, and I still have the problem of how to pay for my van.

As I enter the barroom, hoping to order some food for myself, I see Darla on her own and struggling.

“Can I help?” She shoots me a look of relief.

“If you could, that would be great. Can you just deliver these plates to table six please?”

I grab the plates and dutifully deliver them to the correct customers, only to be faced with another set of food, and then another. Then I’m put to clearing plates away and sending them back to the kitchen. In between, Darla shows me how to pull pints and work the till. I don’t even notice time passing until I’m stacking the dishwasher with glasses and realise the pub’s empty. Darla is propped up on a bar stool, looking frazzled.

“Phew, what a night. It usually gets busier on the run-up to the fete, but that was something else. Thank you so much forstepping in. Olivia called in sick and I was stuck. You were a real help.”

“It was nothing,” I reply, and in truth, I enjoyed myself. It felt good to actually be doing something. I’ve always worked hard—mostly physically, on gardens—so the last couple of days of inactivity have been hard for me.

“You know, I could really use your help for a few more days as well, if you’re free.” Darla’s direct—I can appreciate that about her. You know where you stand. “I don’t think Olivia will be well enough to return yet. I’ll pay you, of course,” she adds. “In fact, I’ll pay you for tonight as well.”

“Oh, no, that was me helping out,” I retort, though I could sorely use the money. “But for a few days, yes, that’d be fine. I’ll do it.” Darla looks wearily relieved. Then my stomach grumbles.

“Oh, sorry Jackson, I bet you came in for some food. Pop into the kitchen and see if Philip can get you something.”

Philip, the chef, and Alex, his son and assistant, are clearing away so there’s no chance of anything hot. But they’re kind enough to fix me a ham sandwich and at that moment, nothing had ever tasted better.

On Tuesday morning,I go over to the garage, to see how work on the old van is going.

“Coming on nicely. She’s not a bad old truck, is she? I often prefer the older vans. They’re simpler than the newer ones, full of electronics and computers and flashing up codes. Any mechanic who knows his job doesn’t need to look up a code, they just need to listen to the engine. They all have their own rhythm.”

Betsy has been mine for the last ten years. I bought her with a bit of money I saved up when I got my first job out of college. I’ve owned other vehicles, of course, ones Natasha thought were more appropriate for someone on the up—like a Mitsubishi L200 and some Mercedes thing she liked to drive around in—but Betsy was always there, waiting for me.

“Awful rust bucket,” was one of the nicer things my ex-wife had said about her—the rest are unrepeatable. I even parked her at my mother’s house for a few years when we moved into the larger house, because Natasha said it lowered the tone of the neighbourhood. She was the sort to complain when I came back dirty from a day at work. I’m a gardener—I’m not sure what she expected.

“David never gets all covered in dirt and compost,” she’d whine at me. No, that’s because David is the owner of the landscaping company. He just drives round in his Range Rover Sport and pays others to get their hands dirty.

Good riddance to the pair of them.

I ask Pete how much it will be. He runs his hand up the back of his head and gives it a scratch, an action I notice him doing when he’s thinking.

“I reckon it’ll be five hundred,” he says at length.Five hundred!I know he probably knocked a couple of hundred off that. Even so, it’s more than what I have left in my wallet.

“Ah, the thing is—“ He stops me with a hand on my arm.

“Pay me when you can, son.”

---