Page 24 of The Allotment on Willow Tree Lane

OK, now that was weird. ‘Do you live nearby?’ she asked.

‘Not far.’

‘I thought you lived in London.’ He had definitely given her that impression.

He shrugged. ‘I thought you lived in Cardiff.’

It was her turn to shrug.

‘What areyoudoing here?’ he countered, jerking his chin to indicate the graveyard.

‘I was looking for sweet rocket.’

‘In the dark?’

‘The fragrance is more pronounced at night,’ she explained, mildly surprised that he didn’t ask her what sweet rocket was. She moved closer until she was standing next to the headstone he had been slowly inching away from. ‘I want to dig some up to put in my garden.’

‘Ah.’

Was that a judgemental ‘ah’? ‘I’ll make sure not to take too much,’ she assured him. ‘But it does spread easily, so digging a bit up shouldn’t affect it.’

‘Good.’ He backed away another step. ‘I’ll… er… leave you to it.’

‘Oh, OK.’ Should she say that it was nice seeing him again? Or that she would see him around?

But as she hunted for a witty retort, he turned and strode off. Then she heard the clang of the lychgate, and he was gone.

Ceri let out a slow breath. That had been awkward. She had gone from being wary of a strange figure lurking amongst the graves, to feeling an unexpected bolt of desire, and finally to wondering what she had done wrong.

Damon hadn’t seemed at all pleased to see her, and she guessed she must have meant nothing to him but a quick snog with a total stranger; one who he had assumed he would never see again.

Ceri was about to resume her task of hunting down a clump of sweet rocket, when she remembered his strange behaviour. He had been sitting or crouching on a grave, and when she looked down, she noticed that he had left an empty water bottle next to it.

Shaking her head in annoyance (she hated litterbugs), she popped it into her basket. She would take it home with her and put it in the recycling bin. She had a good mind to go after him and tell him to dispose of his own litter, but her attention was caught by a cluster of plants at the base of the headstone.

They didn’t look particularly well established, and the ground around them had been recently disturbed. It also looked damp.

Ceri bent down and touched the exposed soil. It had recently been watered. And those plants had not long been put in the ground, so she shone the flashlight on them.

Hyacinths, dark purple or black, by the look of them, although it was difficult to make out their exact shade. The colour was unusual for a graveside flower, but maybe it held special meaning for the person who had planted it, or for the person whose grave this was. She might be wrong, but she suspected Damon had just planted them himself.

Shining the light on the headstone, Ceri read the name of the person buried there, and realised the choice of flower made sense.

Here lies Hyacinth Rogers, aged eighty-six, sowing seeds in God’s own garden.

Chapter 7

Although she lamented that the field on Willow Tree Lane wouldn’t be hers to do with as she wished, Ceri was nevertheless grateful to Terry and eager to get started. Her original dream of owning a nursery would have to go on the backburner; right now, she had an allotment to create, a space where people could grow their own fruit, vegetables and flowers, a place where the villagers could swap produce, share tips and work together.

She even had a fledgling idea that any surplus could be sold through Sero. Rowena was forever complaining about the lack of a greengrocer in Foxmore, and where better to sell fresh local produce than the zero waste shop in the heart of the village? Ceri knew that even a small plot would provide more food than she could use herself, even if she did freeze, preserve or pickle as much of it as she could.

But she was getting ahead of herself. The ground had to be broken first, and the soil prepared. The infrastructure – such as sheds, water butts and compost heaps – should also ideally be in situ, before any serious planting took place. However, those things would be down to the individual plot owners, and the sooner she got started, the sooner she could plant something. Just a small patch of cleared ground could produce a surprising amount of food, even if the growing season was already well underway.

First though, she wanted to nip along to the house at the end of Willow Tree Lane to enquire about the orchard. It would be such a shame for all that lovely fruit to go to waste if it was, in fact, part of the old allotment.

With that in mind, Ceri hastily completed her Saturday morning chores, and when the last load of washing had been pegged on the line, she shoved her feet into her trainers and set off.

June was in full bloom and the hedgerows bordering the lane were alive with birds. Chattering, darting sparrows flitted from branch to branch in search of food, and at the top of a tall silver birch a blackbird perched, singing for all he was worth. Ceri stopped to listen for a moment, until the bird realised he was being watched and fell silent, eyeing her beadily. As soon as she moved away, he resumed his singing, and was joined by the distant call of a cuckoo and the nearby jackhammering of a woodpecker. She would have liked to have tried to spot them, but both birds could be elusive and she wanted to get on.

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