Page 47 of The Allotment on Willow Tree Lane

‘No, but—’

‘Then it isn’t relevant. You can carry on your discussion in your own time.’

Sullenly the two girls stalked off. Ceri could still hear them arguing, but at least they were making some attempt to get back on task, so she left them to it. As long as they handed in a decent assignment, she didn’t care what they were squabbling about. Knowing teenage girls, it would quickly blow over and soon be forgotten.

Damon hung back for a moment to admire his latest purchase.

The car, a Volkswagen, wasn’t new – it was four years old – but he’d just picked it up from the dealer and it was all shiny and polished, gleaming in the afternoon sun. He’d gone for reliability and the four-wheel drive function, because he remembered being snowed in when he was younger, Foxmore’s roads having been impassable for most vehicles. It was hardly a rock star car, but it suited him just fine.

He had parked it in one of the spaces on the road encircling the green, feeling immensely pleased with himself.He had wheels!He should have bought it weeks ago; it would have made life so much easier.

Grinning, he slung his purchases on the backseat. He had treated himself to a freshly baked loaf of seeded bread from the bakery on the high street, and several slices of smoked bacon and a wedge of caramelised onion quiche from the deli. The salad that he had bought from the convenience shop wasn’t the best though, the lettuce being rather limp and sorry-looking, and the tomatoes were on the squishy side, but it was all they had, and would be fine to go in the BLT that he had planned for his late lunch.

As he pulled out of his parking space and drove around the green, he mused that Foxmore hadn’t changed much since he was a child, when his gran used to send him to the shops for bread and milk, packets of seeds and bottles of cherry pop. Some things were different, though. The cafe was now called Pen’s Pantry, when it had once been called Draper’s and had been owned by an elderly couple of the same name, and the antique shop was new, as was the estate agent and the shop on the corner that had once sold shoes but was now a zero waste shop.

But other things had stayed the same. The church still had a rickety lived-in look, which he supposed was only to be expected since it was goodness knows how many hundreds of years old, and apart from the whitewash on The Jolly Fox and the addition of planters bursting with pretty spring blooms, the pub was as he remembered.

Thinking of the pub got him pondering where to take Ceri for dinner. Somewhere nice, but not too far away, as he didn’t want to spend half the evening driving.

Still thinking and singing along to one of the tracks on his eclectic playlist as he drove, his good mood soured when he turned into Willow Tree Lane and saw a load of people in the field next to his house.

Don’t tell me work has already started on the allotment, he thought with dismay. He knew it was only a matter of time, but he had hoped for another couple of weeks of solitude before he went back to London. The villagers could work on it as much as they liked after that, because he wouldn’t be around to see it.

Slowing as he passed the gate, he spotted a minibus just inside the field and noticed that the people were teenagers. When he caught sight of Ceri, he realised they must be her students and were on the field trip she had told him about. The knowledge didn’t make him feel any better; he still wasn’t keen on having strangers so close to his property. But what choice did he have? He’d just have to put up with it and hope the allotment didn’t affect him too much. It shouldn’t, he told himself, considering he wouldn’t be here more than a few times a year, and when he was at the house, growing vegetables was hardly going to lead to raucous behaviour. He had known his gran to be rather lively on occasion, though!

Making a mental note to fit a padlock to the little wooden gate, he swung his car into the drive and cut the engine.

The front of the house looked so much better after his and Ceri’s hard work, and the car sat nicely on the drive, although it did look rather new and shiny in contrast. Maybe, in time, he would get the old Austin running again, which would be far more in keeping with the age and condition of the house, and he grinned as he imagined him and Ceri pootling along the lanes around Foxmore in it.

Pootling, indeed! That was something his gran would have said.

Then his face fell as he remembered that he wouldn’t be in Foxmore for much longer and that by the time he returned, Ceri might have found someone else to have dinner with.

Unless… he came clean and told her who was and what he did for a living?

But even then, would it make any difference? He could hardly expect her to wait around for him. Despite vowing to return as often as he could, it might be another eight years before he stepped foot in Foxmore again.

Chapter 13

‘Nice car,’ Ceri said. ‘Is it yours?’ She had just stepped out of her cottage having seen Damon pull up and was feeling excited about having dinner with him, yet inexplicably nervous, too. She wanted this evening to go well, and she also really hoped that this meal wasn’t just about expressing his gratitude. She hoped he would kiss her at the end of it.

Damon halted in the act of emerging from the vehicle, the driver’s door open, his head appearing above the roof. ‘I bought it yesterday,’ he said, waiting for her to get in.

She clicked her seatbelt on and settled back as she scanned the interior. ‘I’m surprised you didn’t go for something a little flashier,’ she teased.

He started the engine, shooting her a quick look. ‘Why do you say that?’

She could hear tension in his voice and she hoped she hadn’t hit a nerve. ‘Look at you,’ she said lightly. ‘Long hair, tattoos… A Volkswagen is very—’ she hunted for the right word ‘—respectable.’

‘Are you saying I’m not respectable? I’m hurt.’ He put on a wounded expression, and she giggled.

‘Sorry, I take it back. You lookveryrespectable.’ What he actually looked was delectable. He was wearing jeans as usual, but these were black, without a tear or a rip in sight. Topped with a simple white shirt, the sleeves rolled up to reveal his inked forearms, he looked good enough to eat, and she tried not to drool.

‘Where are we going?’ she asked.

‘The Pen y Graig. It’s a gastro pub, a twenty-minute drive away. It has some really good reviews. Let’s hope it lives up to them.’

‘I’m sure it will. Apart from going to work and back, I’ve hardly been out of Foxmore, so I’m looking forward to it.’

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