Page 87 of The Allotment on Willow Tree Lane

‘She is,’ Damon acknowledged. They already knew this, but they were hoping for a snippet more.

‘And a damned good one,’ Mrs Moxley’s strident voice from the back called. ‘She teaches horticulture – that’s to do with plants, if you’re wondering.’ She was standing with her arms folded and a stern expression on her face. ‘If you lot have finished sticking your noses in where they’re not wanted, you can bugger off. We’ve got allotment business to discuss.’

There was a bit of shuffling and some muttering from the five journalists, but they must have guessed they weren’t going to get more today, and they began to move off. Damon knew one or two might come back, but the others would have got what they came for.

Mrs Moxley glared at them until they returned to their vehicles and drove off, then she rounded on Damon. ‘Right, young fella-me-lad, what’s this rubbish I hear about you kicking us off our allotment?’

Damon had already guessed that was the reason the villagers were here. Mrs Moxley was accompanied by the vicar and his wife, plus Pen from Pen’s Pantry, Bernie Williams, and several others. Among them, he saw a woman with the same hair as his, and his stomach lurched as he recognised Rachel. She hadn’t changed a bit since they were kids.

‘Well?’ Mrs Moxley demanded.

‘Actually, I—’ he began.

But before he could say another word, Mrs Moxley interjected, ‘Your grandmother must be turning in her grave. She would be so disappointed in you. Anyway, that’s a moot point, because the allotment doesn’t belong to you.’

‘Er, it does,’ Damon said. ‘That field doesn’t belong to the church; it’s mine.’

‘It isn’t!’

‘I’m afraid it is.’

‘No, itisn’t,’ Mrs Moxley insisted. ‘It actually belongs tome.’

‘Excuse me?’ Damon’s mouth dropped open. There was a swell of noise as everyone gasped, then the villagers all started talking at once.

Mrs Moxley held up her hand for silence, not taking her eyes off him. ‘You heard. Your grandmother left the allotment tome.’

‘Pardon?’ Damon was confused. Why on earth did Mrs Moxley believe she owned the field?

Mrs Moxley tutted and said to Ceri, ‘He might be pretty to look at, but he’s not very quick on the uptake, is he?’

Ceri leant closer and whispered in his ear, ‘Could she be telling the truth?’

‘I don’t think so.’

‘Have you seen a copy of your grandmother’s will?’

‘No, Dad was the executor.’

Ceri frowned. ‘Then how could—?’

Mrs Moxley clapped her hands. ‘Stop whispering amongst yourselves, it’s rude.’ She drew herself up. ‘I’ve got proof.’

‘What sort of proof?’ Damon wanted to know.

‘Before your gran passed away, she said that when she died – assuming she went before me – there would be something in the garage for me. I always thought she meant that old car of hers. The one Victor bought her.’

Damon gaped at her, and he heard Ceri’s sharp intake of breath as he tried to regain his composure.

Mrs Moxley tittered. ‘You think I didn’t know about your gran and Victor? Of course I did! Victor told me everything. I don’t know why Hyacinth didn’t want anyone to know that she and him were half-brother and sister, but I think it had something to do with not wanting to besmirch her father’s memory. I can’t think why – Lloyd had done enough besmirching of his own. Of course, Hyacinth’s mother, your great-grandmother, would have been mortified if she knew, so there was that. Anyway…’ Mrs Moxley cleared her throat. ‘Hyacinth probably expected me to fetch that stupid motor as soon as she was in the ground, but she knew I couldn’t drive, so why she left it to me, I simply don’t know. I’d forgotten all about that car until you came back. But when I remembered, I thought I’d take a gander yesterday, being as you were off making a spectacle of yourself all over the interweb, and see if it was worth anything. Guess what I found?’ She waved a piece of paper in the air. ‘The deeds to the allotment!’ she cried. ‘She signed it over to me, and the bloody car. So, that allotment is mine and you can’t do a damn thing about it.’

Mrs Moxley’s look of astonishment when Damon began to laugh was a picture to behold.

Ceri didn’t want to go to work this morning, but this was the last day of term and considering Mark had sent her home yesterday, she felt she should. The impromptu press conference (if it could be called that) had already made her late, but as there weren’t any lessons today, she didn’t suppose it mattered.

There was another reason why it didn’t matter if she was late, and that reason was sitting safely in her bag.

After giving Damon a hurried kiss goodbye, she jumped in her car, laughing when “Dark Dimension” came on the radio. It seemed she couldn’t get away from Black Hyacinth; not that she wanted to – the band was a massive part of Damon and she vowed to listen to the new album when it came out. Damon had asked her to go to Rockfield Studios in South Wales with him next week, where he would be recording the rest of the album. They were going to call itMidnight Mystic,and Ceri hadn’t been in the least bit surprised to be told that this was another variety of black hyacinth. She made a promise that she would plant some bulbs on Hyacinth’s grave in the autumn. Damon’s grandmother would appreciate that.

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