Page 12 of The Garden of Forgotten Wishes
‘Not at all – that seems very sensible.’
She took over the counter and Charlie soon had the contents of my car transferred to the flat and everything stacked in a corner of the living room. Then he hurtled precipitously back down the stairs to take over again from Elf and I was alone.
Faintly, through the floorboards, came the silvery celestial chime of the café doorbell – not noisy or disturbing at all but just gently welcoming.
5
Men Are from Mars
When I’d closed the door to the stairs behind Charlie I explored my little domain, which was simple, but just right. I thought there must originally have been two or three small rooms, which had been knocked into one to create the large living and kitchen area, and I’d certainly have plenty of space to bring over the rest of the things I’d stored at Treena’s and sort them out at my leisure. Assuming Ihadany leisure, that is, for I had no idea so far what my hours and days might be.
But Mum’s velvet-covered chair would look perfect by the hearth, and the small white bookshelf with my childhood favourites in it would fit against the wall next to it.
Someone – probably Elf – had thoughtfully stocked the fridge with milk, eggs, butter and cheese, and there was a fresh loaf of bread, a jar of honey and canisters of teabags and coffee. I loved good coffee and had a cafetière and a couple of bags of my favourite ground coffee in my luggage, but I made a cup of instant while I began to unpack my bags: my working clothes first, which was most of my wardrobe, my coats on the rack on the landing, with my boots and wellingtons underneath.
Then the box of favourite kitchen utensils, including my cafetière and a tea strainer in the shape of a slightly squat Eiffel Tower.
That would do for now: I’d enjoy arranging everything else later, putting my collection of French cookery and gardening books on the empty shelves and making a little display of the bits of old Quimper pottery I’d picked up at markets.
Already the flat looked like home, not just a temporary resting place. In fact, the moment I’d set foot in Jericho’s End, it had felt strangely welcoming, soft wings of familiarity folding around me.
Mum had said it was a special place and she was right – I knew already that I could bloom again here and reconnect, quite literally, with my native soil.
Perhaps I’d also be able to reconnect with Mum on some level? There were special places she’d mentioned in her stories, especially up by the Fairy Falls, even if there did seem to be some difference of opinion about the nature of their winged and elusive inhabitants. But they had been angels to Mum … and, I suspected, going by the paintings downstairs and the name of the café-gallery, to the as-yet unknown Myfanwy Price-Jones, too.
The sisters must be older than Mum would have been by now, but they surely had known her – and she had known the ice-cream parlour. It was an odd thought, a ripple in the fabric of time.
When I went downstairs to the café, Charlie was patiently explaining to a young family that no, they didn’t sell Coca-Cola or Dr Pepper, or anything like that, just home-made soft drinks. They seemed to be finding this concept difficult to grasp. He winked at me as I went past, then turned a serious, helpful expression back on his customers and said, ‘No, we don’t sell anything in bottles or cans that you can take away, just in glasses, to drink here …’
I tapped at the stable door, which was now closed, turned the handle and went in, finding myself on the threshold of a warm, large kitchen of the old-fashioned country variety, with an Aga, a long pine table with bunches of herbs and lavender hanging from a rack over it, shelves of jars and bottles … and anextremelylarge and hairy marmalade cat, staring at me from narrowed green eyes.
‘Do come in, Marnie,’ invited Elf, who was assembling what looked like Welsh rarebit at one end of the table. I hoped it was, because I’m very partial to it and it’s one of those things that doesn’t work properly with French cheese.
The cat also seemed keen on the idea, going by the way it switched its bright green glare back to the table.
‘This is my sister Myfanwy.’ Elf gestured with the butter knife at a tall woman, who was standing by a glowing electric grill, watching cheese melt. ‘Myfy, Marnie Ellwood.’
Myfanwy Price-Jones was a slender woman, perhaps in her mid-sixties, but it was hard to tell, because her face was unlined, even though her hair was purest shining silver and hung straight and loose to her waist. She had a long, dreamy face, a little like Virginia Woolf, but the same bright dark eyes as her sister. She was dressed in a bohemian fashion I rather liked, in a knee-length pink kurta tunic embroidered in a rainbow of colours, worn over black harem trousers. Round her neck hung two pairs of glasses on pearl chains and a long string of chunky oval amber beads. Her feet were bare.
‘Pleased,’ she said, a smile lifting one corner of her mouth attractively and taking away the slightly melancholy cast of countenance. ‘Marnie? Such a nice name – from the Hitchcock film, perhaps?’
‘It’s Marianne really, but Marnie was as close as I could get to it when I was a little girl.’
‘Well, Marnie, God knows we’re glad to see you, because we certainly need some extra help with the gardening,’ she said frankly. ‘Especially our nephew, Edward, who’s hoping to restore enough of the Grace Garden to open it to the paying public at Easter, and he can’t do that single-handedly.’
‘Edward – we call him Ned – issort ofour nephew, because his great-uncle Theo married our elder sister, Morwenna,’ explained Elf helpfully. ‘But he and Wen have both gone now and Ned’s inherited Old Grace Hall and the very overgrown gardens.’
Myfy deftly removed two slices of toast from the grill onto a plate and replaced them with the ones passed to her by Elf.
‘Do sit down and start your lunch,’ urged Elf, sliding the plate in front of an empty chair. ‘Welsh rarebit is one of those things you have to cook in relays, like omelettes. Mine’s next and then these last two are for Myfy, so dig in while it’s hot.’
I sat down and did, feeling slightly self-conscious. The cat, who was sitting bolt upright on the next chair, switched its attention to me and said something imperative.
‘Ignore Caspar: he’s on a special diet and isn’t allowed any,’ Myfy said. ‘We got him from a cat rescue place a couple of weeks ago, so we’re only just getting used to his little ways, and vice versa.’
‘I don’t think he’s really taken to us yet,’ Elf said. ‘We took pity on him when we saw him there, because he seemed such a quiet, elderly cat, who just wanted somewhere warm and quiet to spend his last few years in.’
‘Early days yet,’ Myfy said, ‘but it looks like he might wear us down and see us out.’
