Page 53 of The Allotment on Willow Tree Lane

‘What am I?’

Damon struggled to answer.

‘A friend with benefits?’ Ceri asked archly.

‘No!’ Did she really think that? ‘You are far more to me than a friend.’ He reached out a hand to brush a strand of hair away from her face. ‘Far, far more,’ he murmured.

She gazed deeply into his eyes and he stared back, willing her to believe him. Oh, God, it was going to be so hard when the time came for him to leave, and he feared that the more time he spent with her, the harder it was going to be.

But what was the alternative – end it now?

He couldn’t even contemplate it.

A strident voice made him flinch, breaking the mood and he looked up to see an old lady bearing down on their table. His heart sank as he recognised her. It was Mrs Moxley, an old friend of his grandmother’s, and he prayed she didn’t recognise him.

‘Ooh, look at them curls,’ she cried, and it took a second for Damon to realise she was speaking to him. ‘Our Rachel’s got hair just like that, but hers is more frizz and less curl. Is it natural?’ The woman put out a hand to stroke his hair.

Damon jerked back in alarm. He caught Ceri’s eye and saw her trying not to laugh.

Mrs Moxley said, ‘Aw, don’t be a spoilsport. Let me have a feel. It looks well lush, as our Rachel would say. She’s my granddaughter.’

‘Well lush?’

‘Thick and shiny,’ the old lady said.

She was staring at him expectantly, so in the hope that once she got what she wanted she would leave him in peace, he said, ‘Go on then, but I don’t let just anyone touch my hair.’

‘A bit of a prima donna, are you?’ she chortled, grasping a handful of curls.

‘Not at all.’ He was the least prima donna-ish member of the band. Aiden had been the most. He swallowed hard, enduring her touch as she stroked his hair.

‘Ooh, it’s so soft!’ she cried. ‘Have you felt it?’ This was aimed at Ceri.

Ceri shot him an amused look, before saying, ‘Yes, I have.’

Damon’s expression was pained. He was sorely tempted to cut it all off.

‘What do you use on it?’ Mrs Moxley asked.

‘Er, nothing special.’

‘Don’t let our Rachel hear you say that – she spends a fortune on hers. Aren’t you going to introduce me?’ she demanded. She had asked Ceri the question, but her gaze was trained on him.

Damon’s heart sank.

Ceri was happy to oblige, and she was smiling as she said, ‘This is Damon, Hyacinth’s grandson.’

‘Well, I never!’ she exclaimed. ‘I knew you when you was a boy. Remember me? I’m Mrs Moxley. I used to dangle you on my knee once upon a time. So…’ She fixed him with a beady-eyed stare. ‘You’ve moved back to Foxmore, have you? I must say, it’s about time. Your gran would be pleased, God rest her soul, although she probably wouldn’t recognise you. I certainly didn’t. He’s changed a fair bit, has Damon.’ She directed this last comment to Ceri, then turned back to Damon. ‘Come here, let me give you a hug.’ She held her arms open, lurched forward and almost fell into his lap in her eagerness.

When Mrs Moxley eventually straightened up, she said, ‘Hyacinth was so proud of you. By the way, how is that band of yours doing?’ She said to Ceri, ‘He was always playing his guitar when he was a nipper, and Hyacinth told me that he and some of his friends were in a band.’ She switched her attention back to Damon, whose heart was in his mouth. ‘I expect you’ve grown out of all that by now, so what do you do with yourself these days?’ She looked at him expectantly.

He inhaled slowly, trying to stay calm, and berated himself for his stupidity in thinking he could remain anonymous in a place like Foxmore. He should have anticipated that people would expect to be introduced to him. He should never have come out this evening; he should have stayed at home and ordered a takeaway if Ceri was fed up with his cooking.

‘Excuse me.’ He got to his feet and stumbled in the direction of the gents’ toilets, and when he reached them he leant against one of the wash hand basins and stared at his reflection in dismay. How did Mrs Moxley know about the band? Black Hyacinth had only formed a short while before his gran died, and he’d mentioned it to her just a handful of times. He had been in his final year of university and about to start work for an insurance company on their graduate fast-track programme, and the band had been more of a hobby and a pipedream than a real possibility. He’d got the impression that Gran had been more pleased with the prospect of him having steady employment than listening to him chuntering on about music. She’d passed away before Black Hyacinth had signed their first record deal, when the only things the band had been known for were YouTube videos and the occasional gig in a sticky-floored pub or a student union bar. It had hardly been the big time.

Tears prickled as he replayed Mrs Moxley’s words in his head.Gran had been proud of him. He wished with all his heart that she could have seen him in concert. She would have complained bitterly about the noise, would have griped about the lack of lighting (Black Hyacinth’s sets weredark) and she wouldn’t have approved of the tattoos, either – but she would have been thrilled, nevertheless.

Angrily, he brushed away the moisture from his eyes. The last place he wanted to cry was in the toilets of a pub. Pulling himself together, Damon splashed water on his face, dabbed his cheeks dry with a paper towel, and straightened his shoulders.

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