Page 22 of The Garden of Forgotten Wishes
My memories definitely didn’t include any of Ned getting her pregnant, socking her in the eye and then dumping her and I’d have been prepared to go into a court and swear it! All the students in my year would know the truth of what happened and the whole class was there when Sammie gave herself that black eye, by standing on the end of a rake. I even remembered Sammie joking at the time that it looked as if Ned had been beating her up, except everyone knew he was so soft he wouldn’t even hurt a fly.
But then, since it was all only implied, I don’t suppose Ned could have sued them for slander, or libel or whichever it was.
It all died down fairly quickly, but so many people are ready to believe anything they read, especially on Twitter.
I felt profoundly sorry for Ned, who hadn’t deserved any of this. He’d been so popular too, since he was very open and good-natured, with a genuine enthusiasm for gardening.
I could see that clearing his name, and proving it was all untrue, was one thing, but the taint lingered and I understood why he felt he had had enough and retreated to Jericho’s End.
The jealous vindictiveness of Ned’s ex-partner had disturbing echoes of Mike’s behaviour towards me. He’d certainly blackened my name with the Heritage Homes Trust … and now it seemed with everyone else on the gardening grapevine.
Therehadbeen a new series ofThis Small Plot, though with a different garden designer presenting it every week, but the ratings had sunk like a stone and, though it was still going, it was now put out on daytime TV.
I was sorry for Ned, and understood what he’d gone through, but still, it rather irked me that while I’d immediately felt he was innocent of any wrongdoing meriting what had happened to him, he hadn’t seemed to have had the same faith in me. But I suppose while I knew for a fact that Sammie’s allegations were all untrue, Ned only had his recollections of me to go on. How much would I have to tell him about my relationship with Mike, which wasn’t something I was exactly proud of, before he believed me?Ifhe did, of course. I wasn’t looking forward to the interview.
I switched off the laptop, the internet connection vanishing with a grateful whine, and got ready for bed.
I was just about to get under that inviting duvet after my long day, when I heard a sort of scratching noise from the direction of the landing and went to investigate: if that was a mouse, then Elf and Myfy had serious problems.
But when I switched on the landing light the scratching stopped and was replaced by a sudden loud meowing that came from the other side of the door to Lavender Cottage.
Then there was a thud and the handle on my side moved, though of course it didn’t open, because the bolt was across.
Caspar! I stood undecidedly as the yowl and the thud came again – and after a moment, I cautiously slid the bolt back and the door banged against my legs as a huge marmalade shape barged through.
‘Come in, why don’t you?’ I said sarcastically, then turned to see if the rumpus had woken anyone in the cottage: but the landing beyond the door stretched away into quiet darkness.
‘Pfft!’ Caspar said disagreeably, disappearing into my living room, where I found him making himself comfortable on the sofa.
‘Look,’ I said, ‘you can’t stay here! I mean, I haven’t got a cat tray or anything, and anyway, you aren’t my cat. Where do you usually sleep?’
He narrowed his eyes at me. I determinedly picked him up and he made himself totally limp and twice as heavy as you’d expect. Then he twisted and leaped down, this time heading for the bedroom. He did turn back once and look at me.
His expression said he wasn’t going anywhere without a fight. I hesitated, then opened the door onto my small landing a fraction, and then the one through into Lavender Cottage. I thought he might get bored and go back where he belonged or, if not, and nature called, find his way back to his usual haunts.
Five minutes after I’d got into bed and put out my light, a huge and heavy shape thumped down next to me.
I didn’t know cats snored. He sounded like one of those hubble-bubble pipes, but without any Eastern promise.
8
Poison
Apart from the fact that there was a large dent on the duvet and a generous sprinkling of long marmalade hairs, I might have thought Caspar’s visit the previous night was just a dream, brought on by tiredness and tension and, perhaps, the need for company.
It was still very early. I’d drawn back the curtains last night and through the window I could see an expanse of dusky, duck-egg-blue sky, warmed by a faint and spreading amber glow. It looked like it might be a brighter and less changeable day.
I got dressed and then looked for Caspar, but he’d vanished back into his own part of the cottage again and someone had closed the door. I didn’t bolt it again: there didn’t seem much point if Elf and Myfy weren’t bothered about locking it from their side, which showed a surprising trust in a total stranger, especially since I assumed Myfy had shared what she’d learned about my resignation from the Heritage Homes Trust with her sister.
I was sure Myfy had believed my version, but Ned might be a different prospect.
In my cafetière I made some of the coffee I’d brought with me, though it tasted quite different here, probably due to the water, which had a distinctly peaty tang. Perhaps it would turn my insides to leather over time, like Tollund Man and all those other people they’d found buried in bogs. I expected I’d get used to the taste in time, though.
My breakfast while in France (unless one of my employers had had avisitor bearing a gift of British streaky bacon and chunky marmalade) had usually been a croissant and a couple of big cups of coffee, so it felt luxurious to be spreading butter and jam (a jar of home-made strawberry, which proclaimed itself on the handwritten label to be of Elf’s making) onto wholemeal toast.
To have a day off before I’d even started seemed a trifle odd … but then, if I couldn’t sort things out with Ned, I’d only have half a job at most, and half a salary to go with it, unless I could get other gardening work locally. But there was no point worrying about that until I’d bearded the lion in his den.
I’d put on my best jeans and a cotton jersey tunic in a dark shade of turquoise, patterned with green willow leaves, a bit William Morris. I added dark grey eyeliner and ruby-tinted lip balm, brushed out the tangles in my hair and examined myself in the full-length mirror set in a bleached wooden frame, which was fixed to the wall at the end of the landing. I thought I looked entirely sane and sensible: nothing there to frighten Ned.
