Page 34 of The Allotment on Willow Tree Lane

He breathed deeply, letting the memories flow, peace embracing him in sepia-tinted arms.

This place was timeless. No matter what went on in the outside world, his gran’s potting shed had remained unchanged, and being there immediately took him back to his boyhood and the simpler pleasures of chasing butterflies and grubbing for worms in the rich soft earth.

Hyacinth’s presence was still here in the now-silent radio, and the dried-out tub of potting mixture, and in the chair in the corner with her scruffy old jacket slung over the back.

‘Oh, Gran,’ he murmured, wishing he had spent more time with her, wishing he had told her he loved her more often. He would give anything to feel her arms around him again, to hear her gentle voice soothing his cares away. He could almost feel her dirt-creased hand on his shoulder, and he placed his own hand over where hers had so often rested.

Feeling closer to her than he had since she’d passed away, he reached for the journals, then sat in his gran’s chair and balanced them on his knees.

They were in chronological order, the topmost one being the most recent, and he decided to leave that until last. He wanted to start at the beginning of his gran’s journey, the way Hyacinth herself had begun, and he was soon lost in the pages of her elegant, cursive handwriting – pages that brought her back to life, that spoke of a woman whose past he hadn’t truly known.

‘Ceri Morgan?’ A woman was standing in the doorway of the classroom, her head tilted to one side and a frown creasing her forehead. Her face suggested she might be in her early forties, but her dress sense suggested someone much younger. Ceri had no idea who she was, but assumed she must be a member of staff.

Smiling she said, ‘That’s me. Can I help you?’ She was about to nip to the staffroom for some lunch, and she was hoping this woman wouldn’t delay her for long. The lesson she’d just taught had been particularly gruelling, and she was desperate for a coffee.

She’d hoped that with the youngsters no longer being in formal education and having chosen to be on the course, that they wouldwantto learn. Today they had been based in the classroom, which was rare because most of her work with them was hands-on in the polytunnels or the beds. However, despite the practical side of the course, there was still an element of written work to be done, so a couple of sessions per week were spent in the classroom, catching up on their notes and making sure their coursework was up to date. She was very aware that there was only a month to go until the end of term, at which time she would have to assess and grade their work. It wasn’t something she was looking forward to, having had no experience of this kind of thing – she didn’t think that being on the other side of the desk when she was a student herself counted.

She’d discovered that she much preferred the hands-on practical lessons to the theory classroom-based ones, and was very aware that her delivery and presentation of these lessons needed some work. As did her classroom management, because she had a suspicion the teenagers were running rings around her.

It felt like she was the one who had a lot to learn, because she had spent most of the two-hour session today trying to persuade them to complete the task she’d set them. They, on the other hand (and by ‘they’ she didn’t mean all of them, but it was a significant number), seemed to have had other ideas.

The woman drew herself up and pursed her lips. ‘Portia told me I’d find you here. I’m her mother.’

‘Oh, um, nice to meet you, Mrs Selway.’ Ceri was nonplussed. Portia hadn’t been in college for the past three days and she hoped there wasn’t anything wrong.

‘I wish I could say the same. And the name is Mrs Drake. I’ve remarried.’

‘Oh… right. Is Portia OK?’

‘She is, no thanks to you.’

‘Excuse me?’

‘You made her eatdirt.’ Mrs Drake’s mouth twisted in disgust.

Ceri was taken aback, and it took her a second to realise what the woman meant. The very first session she had taught seemed a long time ago. ‘I didn’t, I—’

‘Don’t lie to me. I’ve got video evidence.’ Mrs Drake shook a mobile phone at her.

Ceri’s mouth dropped open. Someone had been videoing her,without her consent?‘Did Portia—?’ she began but she was cut off.

‘Never mind where I got it from. I’ll be taking this to the authorities. I just wanted to tell you that you can’t get away with treating kids like animals. Disgusting, that’s what it is. People like you shouldn’t be teachers.’

Shaking with shock, Ceri watched the woman waltz out of the room and listened to her heels clip-clopping along the corridor, before sinking into her chair. Tears welled and she gulped them back, biting her lip with the effort as her chin wobbled.

She couldn’t believe what had just happened. Half of her wanted to sob, and the other half wanted to confront Portia and demand an explanation.

Ceri forced herself to calm down and think back to that first day. She could see the students in her mind’s eye, gathered around the wooden bench with the fake soil in a small tub behind her, and she squinted as she tried to recall who, if anyone, had been messing around with their phone.

It hadn’t been Portia. Ceri was certain of it. Although Portia had her phone out at the start, Ceri was convinced the girl had slipped it into the back pocket of her jeans before the ‘soil-eating’ incident. So it had to be one of the others. But who?

Argh! Did it matter who filmed it? The damage was done and it was probably all over the college by now.

Shakily, she got to her feet and went to find Mark. He needed to know about this – if he didn’t already.

Damon wrestled the garage doors open, coughing as dust rose in a cloud, threatening to choke him. The doors were old and wooden, and would need replacing if he intended to keep a car in there. It would also need a good clean out.

Living in London, he hadn’t bothered owning a vehicle, but if he was intending to pop back to Foxmore more regularly (he would have to, if he wanted to keep an eye on the garden), he should invest in a car of some description. His flat in London had an underground garage, so he could store it there when he was in the capital, and it would also come in handy if he decided to pay his parents a visit. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen them. Certainly not since Aiden had died. They’d sent flowers, of course, and he had spoken to them, to tell them he would be living in Willow Tree House for a while. They had made all the right noises, but he could tell that they hadn’t been overly interested.

---