Page 6 of Rough Around the Hedges

“Okay, Mrs Graham,” I said, tucking my gardening gloves into my pocket. “Next time the wisteria needs pruning,pleasecall me first. Preferably before you get on the ladder and sprain your wrist.”

The old woman giggled like a schoolgirl. “I’m sorry, Rose. I thought you were too busy.”

“I’m never too busy. Your wisteria is well under control, so it never takes long. I’m always happy to stop by on the way home.”

“Thank you, dear. How much do I owe you?”

I waved my hand. “Part of your monthly fee. It’s basic maintenance.”

“But you came by especially.”

“I was passing by anyway,” I lied, putting my pruning shears into my bag. “I won’t take any money, but if you happen to have any strawberry jam jarred when I come by to cut your grass next week…”

Mrs Graham chuckled. “The first big batch of berries will be ready this weekend. I’m sure I can save a jar or two for you, dear.”

“You’re a woman after my heart. If you weren’t already married, I’d marry you myself.”

“You’d have to be at least thirty-five years older for that, Rose.”

I clutched my chest. “Do you hear that? It’s the sound of my heart breaking.”

She laughed and waved me away. “Go on, now. I know you weren’t really passing by, and you shouldn’t be late for your next job.”

“Ah, nothing gets past you.” I grinned, picking my bag up from her front wall. “Don’t forget about my jam.”

“I’ll save you two jars before Bertie makes off with it.”

I wiggled my finger. “Tell that husband of yours I’m keeping my eye on him.”

Mrs Graham laughed, and I waved goodbye as I got into Ramona, my lovingly-named canary yellow van.

Well, it was bold of me to call it yellow. That was its colour in theory, but what it actually was, was mud-coloured with splashes of yellow peeking through.

Such was the life of a gardener in the countryside.

I only washed it to keep up appearances. It never stayed clean long with the mucky, pothole-ridden roads of our little village in North Devon.

Not that I was complaining. I wouldn’t change it for the world.

Well.

Maybe the potholes.

There wasn’t a person in the world who wouldn’t unilaterally get rid of those car-wrecking little fucks.

My in-car concert was interrupted by the ringing of my phone through the van’s speakers, and I tapped the screen to accept the call. “What do you want?”

“Nice. Is that how you talk to your brother?” Jake’s scoff filled the van.

I thought that was me being nice, but whatever.

“It is when you call me in the middle of the day,” I replied. “Or just when you call in general.”

“Rose, you’re being a bitch.” He huffed, and the line crackled as the signal momentarily dropped. “Mum got a call from the Hanbury estate for you.”

“Hold on. Let me pull over.” I clenched my jaw as I scanned the road for a spot to pull in and tucked my van into a small layby. “What do those pompous pricks want?”

“She said they didn’t say exactly, but it looks like the new duke has finally moved in.”

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