Page 23 of The Allotment on Willow Tree Lane

Late evening was the perfect time to visit Gran’s grave. The encroaching night and the peace of the churchyard made him feel more connected to her. Also, there were fewer people around to witness him slipping through the lychgate, and no one at all in the graveyard. Only a daft idiot like him would want to hang around headstones after dark.

Damon made his way towards a far corner, stepping around snaggle-toothed headstones and careful not to walk over the graves they marked. He had no idea how old this church was, but he suspected it had been here for at least five hundred years, if not longer.

When he was a boy, he used to attend the Sunday service with his gran and whilst she chatted to friends and neighbours afterwards, he would explore the graveyard, tracing his fingers across the writing on the weathered stones, and try to imagine the lives that those people had lived.

Some of the graves dated back three hundred years, and some were older still, the names and the dates eaten away by rain and time. His gran was one of the last people to be laid to rest here, and when he reached her grave he sank to his knees.

The grass was warm and fragrant, dotted with poppies and cornflowers growing wild inside the churchyard walls. He could hear the rustle of a small mammal, possibly a mouse, and a hedgehog snuffled its way between the graves, ignoring him completely.

Sounds of human activity could still be heard, but they were faint, even though The Jolly Fox was only a few hundred yards away, and the rumble of an occasional vehicle passing along the main road through the village was also muted.

‘Hi, Gran, it’s me, Damon,’ he began. ‘I’ve brought your favourite, black hyacinths. I found them growing by the back door. Remember when you used to have pots of them on the kitchen table? Goodness knows why you loved them so much, but I’m glad you did.’

He had told her during a recent visit that the band had been named after both her and the flowers. He hoped she would have approved. It was such a pity she hadn’t lived long enough to see his dream become a reality.

‘I’m sorry it’s taken so long, but I’ve finally made a start on your garden.’ He uttered a soft laugh as he dug out a plug of turf ready to receive the plant. ‘I’d forgotten how much hard work gardening is. Yeah, yeah,’ he chuckled as though she had spoken, ‘I know I’ve gotten soft.’

Even though he took care of himself physically and was a regular at the private gym located in the basement of his flat block, gardening used an entirely different set of muscles, and didn’t he know it. He ached in places he hadn’t ached before.

‘I’m sorry I let it get in such a state,’ he said, dropping a hyacinth in the small hole and firming it in.

After he had planted the rest and had given them a drink from the bottle of water, he crumpled the empty bag into his pocket, then leaned his shoulder on the headstone and rested his cheek against it. The marble was smooth, hard and unyielding, and he would have given anything to feel his grandmother’s arms around him once more. She had been more of a mother to him than his own had ever been, and it was to Gran that he had turned whenever he needed comfort or advice.

He could sorely do with both right now.

Closing his eyes, he let the peace creep into his soul. He could see her now, leaning on a spade, her silvery hair in a bun, wearing baggy jeans and green wellies, and he wondered what advice she would give him. Huffing softly, he didn’t need to wonder – heknew. She would tell him that he couldn’t hide away in Foxmore forever like a modern-day hermit, that he needed to get his act together and—

What was that?

His eyes shot open, and he sat up, scanning the graveyard.

A shadow moved along the side of the church and he froze. How long had they been there? Had they heard him talking to himself?

It grew closer, and as it did so the streetlights from the road beyond brought it into focus.

It was a woman… one he recognised.

Ceri!

A figure was crouching beside one of the headstones and Ceri’s stomach clenched in fear. Who was it, and what were they doing there?

Mind you, she thought, they might be asking the same questions about her.

The man (she was sure it was a man, despite the figure being little more than a shadow) didn’t move, and she was tempted to turn on her heel and hurry off, but something made her take another step closer. And another.

Then the man moved, and she saw the pale disc of his face as he scrambled to his feet.

Her tummy clenched again, but this time it wasn’t fear that caused it: it was recognition.

Ceri felt a sudden urge to sit down as her pulse leapt and a spike of desire caught her unawares. ‘Damon?’ Her voice was barely above a whisper, but he heard.

‘Yesss…’ He drew out the sound, the sibilance sending a shiver down her back and raising the tiny hairs on her arms.

What was he doing in a graveyard? And why at night? She might have imagined it, but she could have sworn he looked furtive when he saw her, and she wondered what he had been up to.

Ceri had to ask. ‘What are you doing here?’

‘I like graveyards.’ He took a step away from the headstone.

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