Page 7 of The Allotment on Willow Tree Lane

Several people were sitting on the grass, but she didn’t feel like joining them, wanting a quiet moment to herself. Instead, she headed for the empty corners of the field and any solitude she could find. She could still feel the smile on her cheeks. It had been there all day and her face was aching, but in a good way – and her voice was hoarse from talking and laughing so much. It had been a bloody good party. One of the best she had ever been to, made even more special because it was celebrating her brother’s marriage.

She had also enjoyed spending time with their parents, and for once the pressure had been off Ceri, as her mum had concentrated her yearning to be a grandmother on her gorgeous new granddaughter, Nia. Ceri knew she wasn’t entirely off the hook, but maybe now that Huw was married, their mother would nag him instead. He was, after all, the better prospect, and Ceri knew that he and Rowena had discussed having more children at some point in the future.

The haunting melody of “Nights in White Satin” faded into “Visiting Hours”, the music following Ceri as she headed towards the furthest corner of the field, but it didn’t hide the rustling from the hedgerow or the tweet of a bird settling down for the night.

Dusk was rapidly descending, that strange transition between day and night when it was still light enough to see but deep shadows were beginning to form. Being outdoors in the dark didn’t scare Ceri. She relished it.

The scent of warm grass filled her nose, and she breathed deeply, her bare toes digging into the rough stems as she walked further from the tent.

Even as twilight deepened, Ceri could still make out the carpet of buttercups, daisies and dandelions, with the orange-yellow flowers of the Welsh poppy dotted amongst them. As she peered owlishly at the hedge, she recognised the creamy white blossoms and scent of hawthorn, and spotted the familiar spiked forms of foxgloves, as well as the feathery leaves of the common yarrow, whose white blooms reminded her of florets of cauliflower. The unmistakable scent of honeysuckle hung in the air, and she breathed deeply, closing her eyes briefly in delight, letting the perfume swirl through her.

Opening them again, she took a few steps further, keen to discover what other secrets the field might hold, and she had only ventured a couple more steps when she saw something else that made her smile.

It was a small weathered gate, almost completely obscured by foliage, and she put out a hand to run her fingers along the wood. So quintessentially English cottage garden, it fitted into its surroundings perfectly and she wondered what lay beyond it. Maybe she would come back in daylight and take a look.

Aw, there was nomaybeabout it. She definitely would. Foxmore was her home now and she intended to get to know every centimetre of it, especially the parts that involved secret gardens and plants. And when she realised the song had changed again and the DJ was now playing Simon and Garfunkel’s “Scarborough Fair”, she began to dance, dipping and spinning, her arms outstretched as she softly sang along, with joy filling her heart.

Damon used his sleeve to wipe his damp face, then took his suit jacket off, hooked his finger through the loop of fabric at the back of the neck and slung it over his shoulder. He had already removed his tie, having taken it off the moment he had got in the car, and he checked that it was still in his pocket. He didn’t know why he was concerned; he had bought it especially for the funeral and would never wear it again.

He was about to step onto the columned porch and unlock the front door, when he had second thoughts. Although he was tired, he was too strung up to sleep (besides, it wasn’t even ten thirty – far too early to think about going to bed), so he allowed the music to lure him around the side of the house and into the garden.

To his shame, even in the dark he could see how terribly overgrown it was. Gran must be turning in her grave. This garden used to be her pride and joy. He really should tidy it up at least. But his heart wasn’t in it. He couldn’t summon either the energy or the enthusiasm.

A tool shed loomed into view, partly obscured by a sprawling rhododendron, and a few more steps led him past the greenhouse. He hadn’t ventured this far into the garden for years, and he was dismayed to see so many broken panes of glass. Guilt flooded him as he left the garden behind and walked through the neglected, overgrown orchard. Even this needed a significant amount of TLC and he vowed to take a proper look in the morning to assess the damage. But, for now, “Nights in White Satin” drew him onwards, and his feet moved closer to the source, almost without his consent.

He reached the hedge separating his grandmother’s property from the field beyond. The hedge was also wildly overgrown, with hawthorn, hazel, rowan and dogwood encroaching into the orchard with eager branches. It was scary how fast nature reclaimed her own. Take the field on the other side of the hedge, for instance. When he was younger, it used to be an allotment. In daylight, when the sun was in the right position and there was no marquee to hide it, it was just possible to make out the outlines of the former beds. But it was now a meadow, the brambles and other fast-growing shrubbery probably only kept at bay by regular mowing. Last week, Damon had seen a chap, who he thought he recognised as the vicar, trawling up and down it on a sit-on mower.

His gran used to love working there, planning where the peas and the runner beans were to go, the best place to plant the onion sets, and which part of her plot would hold the tomatoes. And she hadn’t been on her own. Many villagers also had plots, and Damon remembered the pride and the gentle competition to produce the straightest carrots and the biggest marrows.

He couldn’t recall when exactly the old allotment had fallen into disrepair. It had been a gradual thing, but he had only truly noticed after his gran had passed away. It seemed his grandmother’s death had also been the death knell for the allotment.

Damon paused by the little wooden gate, remembering his gran holding it open for him, her wheeling a small cart with the implements of her trade slung in the back – spade, rake, trowel, seedlings – and him carrying an empty trug, ready for all the produce she would harvest.

He rested a hand on the top, feeling the warmth of the day trapped in the wood as he gazed across the old allotment, intending to listen for a while as Ed Sheeran was replaced by the gentle notes of “Scarborough Fair”.

A movement caught his eye and he jumped, his heart leaping into his throat when he saw a pale figure wafting through the grass. For a second, he imagined it was his gran, and that his reminiscing had brought her back to ghostly life. Then common sense kicked in and he realised the woman must be one of the wedding guests.

Damon had heard the term ‘dance as though no one was watching’, but he had never witnessed it before, and he gazed at her, entranced. Graceful and ethereal, the woman dipped and spun, her arms outstretched, her face raised to the heavens.

Even from here he could see how lovely she was. The dress she wore clung to her waist, sliding over her hips to flare a little at the knees, the hem of the skirt skimming through the grass and making her appear as though she was floating. Her hair, gathered loosely at the nape of her neck, was dark, and strands of it curled around her face. She had a beatific expression, her eyes partially closed, her generous mouth parted as she sang along with the chorus.

He opened the gate and slipped through it, careful not to make a noise, and all the while his gaze lingered on her… her carefree dancing and her silvery voice lifting his heart. This was what music should be about – not sales figures and the number of units shifted.Thiswas why he wrote, to elicit reactions such as the one in front of him, and for the first time since Aiden’s accident, his fingers itched to pick up his guitar.

Inching forward, Damon moved nearer, the fairy-like dancing drawing him in the way a mermaid’s siren song drew unwitting sailors. Mesmerised, he couldn’t drag his gaze away, and before he knew it he was almost close enough to touch her.

As the song faded into another, she fell silent and her movements slowed, and Damon sighed as the mood was broken.

Then she realised she wasn’t alone, and as their eyes met she let out a startled gasp.

Something inside him lurched, and Damon had the strangest feeling that nothing would ever be the same again.

How long had that man been standing there, Ceri wondered, her heart hammering. It had scared the bejeezus out of her when she realised someone else was lurking in her corner of the field when she’d assumed she was alone.

She hoped he had enjoyed the impromptu dance show. At least he hadn’t laughed, although there was still time for him to hold up a score card, she thought, giggling softly to herself.

Turning away to head back to the reception, his quiet ‘Hi,’ made her pause, and she looked over her shoulder.

‘Hi.’

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