Page 8 of Putting Down Roots

“How do you know?”

“You wouldn’t have taken a job at the pub if you had enough money to get you through these few days waiting for your truck.” Well, that’s true.

“I can leave the van here so you know I’ll pay you.”

“You’ll pay me, but I reckon you’re in need of your van.” I frown. “For the plants in the back. I don’t know much about plants—I only know vehicles—but I know enough to know that they don’t grow well in the backs of trucks.” That’s true enough.

“How do you know I won’t take off and you’ll never see me again?”

“You won’t.” He’s direct and to the point, I’ll give him that.

“Thank you Pete. I don’t know what to say.”

“Nothin’ to say. Come back in a couple of hours. She’ll be all done then.”

I cannot believe his trust and generosity, and I say as much to Darla later.

“And will you be driving off and leaving without paying?” She asks.

“No,” is my derisive snort.

“There you go then. Pete’s an excellent judge of character.” There it is again—a recurring theme for the village—the absolute faith in people to be decent and kind human beings. It’s both comforting and highly disconcerting. But it feels safe, like you don’t have to watch your back to see who’s stabbing you in it. It’s a strange little village, and it looks like I’m going to be staying a bit longer, at least until I pay my debt to Pete.

My more immediate problem is to try and find a place to put the seedlings. They need a couple more weeks in a greenhouse until I can harden them off, and I’m counting on them to start me off in my own business. I ask Darla, and a couple of the villagers who come into the pub, but no one has any greenhouses, or even greenhouse space, for them. I need to try and find somewhere to rent. I collect the van from Pete. I don’t know what he did, but Betsy sounds better than she has for many years. I drive out of the village—not back towards the motorway, but in the direction of the hills—I’m sure there’s another town along there somewhere. I pass the gates to the big house. They’re still firmly padlocked, but as I travel along a rise in the road, I can just see some greenhouses not too far inside the gardens. And further along the wall is another gate, smaller than the main ones—just a pedestrian gate—but again, I can see the greenhouses. I stop the van. What if . . . what if they’re empty? Surely no one would mind if I borrow them for a little while, just until I pay off the van, then I’ll be on my way. Not having to rent greenhouses would mean I could pay it off sooner. I drum my hands on the steering wheel. I’ll just go and see if there’s anyone home first, I reason with myself and, making a U-turn, I drive back to the main gate.

“Hello! Hello,” I call into the overgrown drive, and give the gates a good rattle. They move slightly, pushing last autumn’s leaves in their wake. Looks like they haven’t been opened in a long time.

Okay. I blow out a large breath.I’ll see if the smaller gate opens. If it doesn’t, then I’ll carry onto the next town.Breaking and entering isn’t on the list of things I’m comfortable with—just entering then.I push the thought away. I’ll cross that bridge when I come to it.

I park Betsy again, at the small gate, and look it over. It isn’t chained and padlocked like the main one, though it does have a piece of wire holding it shut.Damn. I look again at the greenhouses—they really would be perfect.Okay. I start to untwist the wire when it falls into two parts.Shit, is it breaking? Oh well, it just fell apart in my hands. I might as well make use of the situation.

The latch is stiff, but it does work, and within a few seconds I’m inside the walls. I can see the greenhouses about a hundred yards away, and although the paths are overgrown, I manage to push enough of the branches and bits of hedges away to make my way to them. There are two. Both very old-fashioned, possibly cast iron, maybe Edwardian or even Victorian—they’re beautiful. Sadly, several panes of glass are broken in one of them, but the other looks mostly intact, and thankfully, the door opens. Well, it opens and then won’t close again, but it’ll be enough for my seedlings.

It’s another half an hour’s work to transfer all the plants from the van to the greenhouses. By that time, I’ve managed to walk a path through the undergrowth, which makes it easier each time. I’ve located a couple of water butts that were fed from the greenhouse roofs, and although they hadn’t been cleaned in years, they weren’t close enough to the trees to get clogged up with leaves and dead matter. The one that acts as an overflow is relatively clean—clean enough anyhow. After giving the plants some water, I head back to the van, carefully latch the gate, and make it back to the pub in time for work.

CHAPTER 4

Luca

I standon the spot where the taxi from the station dropped me, unable to move for a few minutes. The front gates of Larchdown House are impressive. They’ve rusted over time but are still solid enough—a heavy chain and padlock bind them. Beyond, I can see the long and rather overgrown drive up to the house, which looks dark and gloomy like unoccupied houses do. It looks familiar—like the house I remember—and yet also strange, as if it has an air of sadness. It suits my mood. I hope one of the keys I have on the bunch given to me by the solicitor fits the padlock, or it’ll be a long trip home. Though, I remember there is at least one other entrance to the grounds.

There is a suitable key and, with a bit of persuasion because of the rust, the padlock falls open. I leave it and the chain on the ground. I don’t dare lock it back up in case it never opens again, and make a mental note to get some oil, or maybe another padlock.

If I need to lock it again, that is.The thought that I might not lock it is a surprise to me.Surely I’ll go back home at some point.I’m only here to see what to do with the house, and to lie low until the press move on to some other scandal.

It’s not like I have anything to go back to.Another unbidden thought.

Yes I do!There’s Anna, and there is . . . Anna. That’s it. I don’t have any other friends—none who aren’t connected to Claude, anyway.Ah. The studio. But then I have no career, no art.

So no, nothing to go back for.A wave of panic threatens to engulf me, and I can feel the dizziness rising. I will not let this beat me. I hold onto the gates until I feel it pass, willing myself to take the first step up the drive. And then the next, and then the next. As I walk, the tension in my shoulders begins to ease, despite the two bags of things I’ve brought with me. The overgrown drive greets me, and I notice the grounds resemble a jungle. I can hear nothing—no, that isn’t true—I can hear birds, and the breeze in the trees. What I can’t hear is traffic, people, aeroplanes, machinery, and all the other cacophony of noise that you hear in London twenty-four hours a day. No one’s shouting, no horns beeping, no children playing. It feels good—really good. I let out a big breath. Then inhale one, smelling the woody, earthy, clean air. I smile, something I haven’t done for days. The drive opens out into a large circle that goes right round, past the steps of the house. There’s a statue erupting from an overgrown lawn in the centre of the circle. I stand at the edge and stare up at the house. It’s red brick and three stories high, with a slate roof and several tall chimneys. It’s not a massive country house with wings, where you can rattle around for days seeing no one else, but it is too large to be called a cottage. A plant, which must haveonce tastefully grown up the walls has run wild, and I can see a couple of windows covered by it.

Beep!

Fuck. I spin round and see a van behind me on the drive. I’m standing directly in its path. A guy hangs his head out of the window.

“This Larchdown House?”

“Err, yes.”

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