Page 63 of The Allotment on Willow Tree Lane

He said, ‘You can’t wait to get planting, can you?’

‘It’s in my genes.’

‘It was in my gran’s, too.’ He sighed and sat up. ‘I’ll fetch my spade.’

She got out of bed and picked up her scattered clothing, pulling her knickers up over her thighs and stepping into her jeans, dancing out of the way as he reached for her. ‘Oh, no, you don’t.’

‘Spoilsport.’

Ceri sniffed haughtily. ‘You’ll enjoy it all the more if you have to wait for it.’

‘You’re a tease,’ he grumbled, pulling his jeans on. His T-shirt was dangling from the end of the brass bedstead, and he drew it towards him.

If he thought that was teasing, she’d show him what teasing really was. Licking her lips, she tilted her head to the side as she slowly and deliberately scanned his body from head to toe.

Damon groaned. ‘Stop it, unless you want me to pin you down on the bed and…’ He smirked suggestively.

‘You wouldn’t dare.’

The look in his eyes told her that he would, and with a squeal, she yanked her top over her head, then whirled around and dashed out of the bedroom. She managed to get down the stairs, out of the kitchen door and halfway down the garden path before he caught her, and they collapsed in a heap on the ground, giggling, until he stifled her laughter with a kiss.

‘Go fetch a couple of shovels and a wheelbarrow,’ she instructed, after he finally released her, and whilst she waited for him to return she strolled over to the allotment and studied the plot she had chosen.

It was the one nearest to the gate that separated Damon’s garden from the allotment, but that wasn’t the sole reason she had picked it. The plot was at the top of the field and received a substantial amount of sunlight, unshaded by the surrounding hedgerows. It was also the furthest away from the main gate, which meant less footfall around her veggies, but it did mean it was one of the furthest from the standpipe. She would have to see if she could source an old bath or a water trough to put next to the one already there, because one wouldn’t be enough until the water butts were established, and she took out her phone and made a note before she forgot.

‘Where do you want to start?’ Damon asked, handing her a spade and taking the opportunity to nibble the back of her neck.

‘We’ll do a bit at a time,’ she said, squirming in delight. ‘Start at this end and work our way down. The best thing to do is to cut into the sod like this.’ She demonstrated what she meant, digging the spade vertically into the grass on four sides to make a square cut. ‘Then you slide the spade under and lift. If you do it right and go deep enough, you should get a good proportion of the roots out. Then pop the turves in the wheelbarrow, and once we’ve got a load we’ll dump them over there.’ She pointed to a spot next to the mound of compost. ‘They need to be stacked so the grass is on the bottom and the soil is on the top. In about a year, the grass and roots will have died, and we’ll have loads more lovely compost.’

Damon set to work, and Ceri watched him – not to check that he was doing it right, but because she liked seeing the ripple and bunch of the muscles in his back and shoulders, and she imagined caressing them later.

Pulling herself together, she hefted her spade and joined him, soon developing a smooth, satisfying rhythm of dig, slide, lift, and by the time the clock struck six, the plot was nearly half dug.

‘I’m starving,’ Damon declared. ‘How about I make us some dinner while you put everything away?’

‘Deal!’ She much preferred cleaning the tools off and stowing them away to cooking.

He tossed his spade into the wheelbarrow and together they strolled through the little wooden gate, parting ways when the path forked, Ceri heading towards the shed and Damon heading to the house.

As the barrow bounced over the old cobbled path, Ceri thought that his grandmother’s garden, even in its current state, was one of the loveliest she’d ever seen. Hyacinth had devoted her life to it and it showed. Ceri was under no illusion that it would take a gargantuan effort to bring it back to where it was, but it could be done with time and effort. Some new plants wouldn’t go amiss, either. A garden like this would eat money though, and you could buy a hundred plants and make only the smallest of dents.

Damon had done more work on it, mostly chopping and cutting back, and as the overgrown shrubs, climbers and bushes were gradually being tamed, other smaller plants were coming into focus. Ceri was thrilled to see so many different varieties of annuals and perennials showing their flowery little faces. Many of them had spread or self-seeded, and quite a few were in the wrong place, although they seemed to be growing happily enough.

When Ceri arrived at the engine room of many a garden – the potting shed – she remembered Hyacinth’s journals. Curiously she stepped inside and saw that the tin containing them was still on the shelf, so she picked it up and prised the lid off.

Intending to only have a quick glance through them, before long she was immersed in Hyacinth’s description of a tulip bed and the new variety she had bought, and she lost track of time until Damon appeared in the doorway, blocking the light.

‘What are you doing in here?’

‘Being nosy. Have you read any of these?’

He came to stand next to her and gently took the journal out of her hand. Feeling guilty that he’d caught her reading it without asking permission, she hoped he didn’t think she was invading his privacy.

‘One or two,’ he said. ‘She’s got such a wonderful way with words. I love how she describes the garden.’

To Ceri’s relief he didn’t seem at all bothered.

She said, ‘I’ve only had a quick glance at a couple of pages, but from the descriptions, I think in its heyday it might have been as lovely as many of today’s show gardens.’ Her eyes widened as an idea occurred to her. ‘How do you fancy a day out tomorrow?’

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