Page 33 of The Allotment on Willow Tree Lane

‘I remember,’ Rowena said. ‘Hyacinth Rogers, a friend of Mrs Moxley’s, used to oversee it. She lived in that big house at the end of the lane, but when she died, the allotment died with her.’ Rowena tapped her chin, thoughtfully. ‘Maybe Sero could sell any excess veggies? We’ve been looking for a local supplier.’

‘It’ll be a while yet,’ Ceri warned. ‘The plots haven’t even been allocated. The allotment isn’t going to produce much this year.’

Ceri’s eyes widened as a thought struck her – the allotment mightn’t, but theorchardwould. And Damon had told her she could help herself. As she’d said to him, it would be a shame for all that fruit to go to waste.

When she had mentioned the possibility of Damon selling some fruit to Sero, he hadn’t seemed keen, but maybe that was because he didn’t want to go to all the hassle of picking it himself, especially since the rest of his property was in dire need of some TLC.

She would wait until the fruit had ripened and broach the subject with him again.

The fact that it would be an excuse to see him again was irrelevant, but Ceri couldn’t help feeling excited at the thought. He was the only man she had felt so strongly attracted to.

No one else had even come close.

Chapter 9

Damon smiled sadly when he saw the photo Sadie had sent him. It was one of her and Aiden when they were kids. Aiden had a guitar in his hand and a goofy grin on his face, and Sadie was clutching a violin.

Just like her brother, Sadie had always been musical, starting with learning the piano, then having a go at the violin, before settling on classical guitar when Aiden had discovered he had a talent for playing bass. Aiden had been able to sing too, which had been handy, because it meant that Damon didn’t have to carry the vocals on his own.

But Sadie was an even better singer. Her vocal range was exceptional. Her voice was remarkably like Stevie Nicks’ in Fleetwood Mac, and Damon often wondered why she hadn’t gone into the music business alongside her brother. When Black Hyacinth had first formed back when they were in university, Sadie sometimes used to join them for rehearsals, and at one point Damon thought she might have become the band’s fourth member.

He was just about to send her a message, saying ‘Nice pic,’ when he decided to phone her instead. He loved Sadie like a sister, and speaking to her would tell him more about how she was coping, than swapping messages ever would. Seeing her in person would be better again, but he’d settle for a phone call.

‘How are you?’ he asked softly, when she picked up.

‘I’m—’ she hesitated, ‘—getting there.’

‘Good, I…’ Damon pressed his lips together, not knowing what to say, remembering the funeral and her grief-stricken expression, the desperation in her eyes, and the way she had clung to him, sobs wracking her too-thin body.

He swallowed down the memory, not wanting to cry. It was six weeks since Aiden had been killed. It felt like yesterday.

She sniffed, ‘Yeah, I know. There’s nothing anyone can say, is there?’

‘How is your mum?’

‘Not good. She tries to hide it, but I can tell. Dad’s bumbling along, keeping busy, but I don’t think it’s sunk in yet for any of us. I think I’m finding it harder to come to terms with it because Aiden was away such a lot. I still keep expecting to get a stupid meme from him or a drunken text. It might be different if we’d lived in each other’s pockets, but I only saw him a couple of times a year and my parents didn’t see much more of him. Black Hyacinth was always on the road…’

Damon heard the tears in her voice, and he blinked away tears of his own. ‘Are you going to join Luke in India?’ A holiday would do her good.

‘Probably not.’

Pity, he thought. She needed to get away for a bit, just like he and Luke had done. ‘Why don’t you come here?’ he blurted, the suggestion popping into his head. Warming to his theme, he said, ‘Even if it’s only for a couple of days, it’ll give you a break.’

‘I don’t know…’

‘Think about it, yeah? But come soon, because I don’t know how much longer I’ll be here.’

‘I did hear that Frank wants the band to finish laying down the new album.’

‘He’s not wasting any time.’ Damon’s tone was bitter. He was about to say more, but his heart began to thump wildly and a familiar roaring, screeching noise filled his head.

Gasping, his vision turning inwards as the memory drew him in, he stammered out a mumbled, ‘Gotta go, love you,’ and heard her echo ‘Love you, too,’ before he abruptly ended the call as the flashback took hold.

Afterwards, drained and troubled, he stumbled outside, needing the solace of nature to calm him, and he inhaled deeply as his heart rate slowly returned to normal.

The garden was warm and perfumed, full of birdsong and the hum of insects, and when Damon found himself near the potting shed, he immediately knew what had drawn him there.

Inside was hot and stuffy, the air full of dust motes that circled lazily when he opened the door. Leaving it ajar, he gazed around, memories of his grandmother invading his mind. He could see her standing at the bench, the radio on as she pricked out seedlings, a cup of coffee lying forgotten beside her, smoke curling from the illicit cigarettes she used to smoke when she thought no one was watching.

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