Page 35 of The Allotment on Willow Tree Lane

He shouldn’t have been surprised. His parents had never been particularly interested in him. Their passion was archaeology. Digging around in the past had always taken precedence over the present and their son.

Thank God for his grandmother: she had loved him so very fiercely.

Brushing away thoughts of his parents, along with the dust he brushed off his T-shirt and jeans, Damon squinted into the gloom of the garage.

He had been expecting to see an empty space, containing little more than dust motes and spiders; he hadn’t expected to see a car.

And not justanycar. This was Hyacinth’s beloved Austin Morris 1100.

Damon grabbed the doorframe for support. He’d assumed that she had got rid of it years ago, but here it was, rather the worse for wear, covered in grime and sitting on at least two flat tyres. It had once been a thing of beauty, but not any longer.

He stood there for a while, staring at it, wondering whether this might be the same car she had referred to in her journals, the same one that V had bought her, which she had wanted to return. Then he slowly closed the garage doors, knowing that he didn’t have the heart to get rid of it, but neither did he have the heart to restore it. Maybe one day…

With the garage no longer a viable option, Damon would have to park whatever vehicle he bought on the drive, which was also not looking its best. The whole of the front garden had been gravelled many years ago, the individual chippings firmly embedded in the ground. But now weeds were growing through it with determined abandon, and the trees, bushes and shrubs that enclosed the space were threatening to overrun it completely.

There should be enough room to park half a dozen cars comfortably, but in its current state Damon would be reluctant to park even one. There was the bindweed to deal with for a start, plus he was concerned that some of the larger trees might need a branch or two lopping off. That wasn’t something he could do himself; it would need a tree surgeon with the right equipment and a good head for heights.

He was about to search for ‘tree surgeons near me’ on his phone, when he wondered whether Ceri could recommend one. She was bound to know someone who could take a look at his trees for him.

And at the same time, he would ask her if she wanted any compost.

Damon left it until the afternoon had eased into evening to call on Ceri, feeling oddly nervous and excited about seeing her again.

As he approached the end of the lane and turned towards Rosehip Cottage, his steps slowed as he drew near. Her house was double-fronted with climbers growing around the door, and the tiny garden at the front, which was little more than a bailey, was full of pots. The scent of flowers carried on the breeze and he sniffed appreciatively, wondering if there was any sweet rocket contributing to the fragrance.

He knocked, and when she answered she seemed surprised to see him but quickly rallied.

‘Have you come to pick my brains?’ She raised an eyebrow.

‘I have, and to ask whether you could make use of any compost.’

‘You know the way to a gardener’s heart. Come in.’

The thought popped into his head that he wished hedidknow the way to her heart, and it made him hesitate as he suddenly realised that he would like to get to know her better. A great deal better.

Pushing the unexpected thought away, he stepped over the threshold and looked around curiously.

Rosehip Cottage was small; the whole of the downstairs living space could fit into his parlour, but it was quaint. There was an open-plan living and dining area, with a set of stairs directly opposite the front door, separating the two distinct spaces, and it had a cosy, lived-in vibe, making him feel instantly at home. A squishy sofa was to his right, sitting atop wooden floorboards, and two of the main walls in the living area were exposed stone. A wood burner was recessed into one of them and shelves lined the walls on both sides of the chimney breast. A TV was propped on an artist’s easel in one corner, and there was a log store in another.

Damon took all this in with a glance as Ceri led him through the dining area, which contained an old scarred table and a typical Welsh dresser at the far end, and into the kitchen.

He didn’t know why he had expected something modern, but the butler sink and the cupboards were totally original, possibly unchanged since the cottage was built, and he guessed the house would have been constructed well over a hundred years ago, if not two. His grandmother would have felt very much at home here.

Ceri snagged a glass from a shelf and carried on walking into a brightly lit garden, where he was immediately hit by a wall of colour.

‘Park your backside,’ she instructed, sitting at a bistro-style table on which a bottle of wine and a half-full glass of red liquid sat. She poured another measure as he dropped down into a chair and handed it to him.

‘Thanks.’ He took a sip, and the smoky, fruitiness of the Malbec exploded on his tongue. It was a nice wine, and he drank some more, rolling it around his mouth before swallowing.

She took a deep draught of hers, closing her eyes for a moment, and he noticed that her face looked pinched and there was a worry line etched between her brows. It didn’t detract from her beauty, but he wished he could make whatever was troubling her go away.

Opening her eyes, she stared back at him and he wondered whether he should ask if she was all right.

Before he could, she said, ‘You wanted to pick my brains?’ and the moment was lost.

‘I think I need a tree surgeon and I was hoping you could recommend someone.’

‘Unfortunately, I can’t. I’m quite new to the area – but I know a man who might be able to. Which tree is it?’

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