Page 23 of The Garden of Forgotten Wishes
It was now after eight, so I went downstairs, where there was no sound beyond the scullery door, and let myself out into the cottage garden.
It was a still, clear morning, though up in the trees a wood pigeon was giving it some welly.
The rambling crazy-paving path was damp with dew and the overgrown lavender and rosemary bushes sprinkled me with water as I brushed against them – they were more than ready for a good pruning.
I couldn’t see much beyond the high stone walls except trees, but I could just hear the sound of water rushing under the nearby humpbacked bridge and thundering down into the pool below, the Devil’s Cauldron, that Elf had told me had given its name to the pub.
I inhaled deeply as I walked slowly down the path: the air was cold and crisp and smelled of leaf mould as rich and delicious as plum cake.
Further along, the spiders had spread great jewelled webs between the bushes and from both sides of the steep, wooded valley more wood pigeons had woken and joined in with the first. Small, pale beams ofsunshine lightly gilded the top of the greenhouse and, despite my mission, my heart suddenly lifted and I felt again a connection with this enchanting valley, and that I had come home.
‘Into each life, a little sunshine must fall,’ I said aloud, changing the trite saying to suit myself, since I’d already had the rain, not to mention the thunder, lightning and hailstones. Then I selected the rose garden key from the big ring, which Myfy had helpfully labelled.
I made straight for the gate to the Grace Garden on the other side of the pond: I might love old roses, but this was no time to linger, though as I skirted the dark pool, my weird imagination provided me with the image of a hand rising from the depths, brandishing aloft, Excalibur-like, a gilded garden rake.
That would certainly bring in the paying visitors! I was grinning as I left the overgrown and gloomy tunnel of roses for the light and tranquillity of the apothecary garden.
The early sun was burnishing the ancient bricks of the high, sheltering walls, and this time I noticed at the further end of the garden to my left, beyond the low beds bordered by hedges of lavender, what looked like a tall, black, metal cage.
This was intriguing, but then, so was the whole garden, because from this point I couldn’t really see much of it, what with the rising ground and the specimen trees and banks of tall shrubs.
It seemed entirely deserted, except for a pheasant, who was ambling aimlessly away down the path directly ahead of me, in the manner of his kind, and though I knew I should head to the path to the right, behind the Alchemist rose, where the entrance to the courtyard apparently lay, I instead impulsively followed the pheasant.
My path joined a wider one that curved away on either side, seeming to circle the central beds, which I now saw were planted with mid-height herbs and shrubs. I began to note the signs of recent activity – the paths all newly gravelled and neatly edged, to trace the pattern of what was once there. But there was also evidence of years of neglect.
If the lower half of the garden had been totally let go, then it would take a lot of effort to restore it to what it once was – the repository ofhealing and useful plants, gathered together in one place: the so-called apothecary, or physic garden. A little Eden … which reminded me of my purpose.
Instead of going in search of the heart of the garden, I took the next right turn that skirted the tall bed of trees and shrubs and went through the wide arch at the top of it, into a paved courtyard. A sign on one of the buildings opposite proclaimed:
Little Edens Garden Design
Small Plots, Big Ideas
The pheasant, who must have followed me in, had now been joined by a slightly bedraggled-looking peacock and his mate, but I barely took them in, for my attention was all focused on the task ahead.
A glimmer of light shone through the slatted blinds over the windows, so I knew Ned was there, and I knocked firmly on the door. And of course, the moment I’d done it, the short, carefully prepared and entirely reasonable explanation of how I’d come to leave my Heritage Homes Trust job flew straight out of my head like a flock of startled starlings and scattered to the four winds.
That was a pity, because it had to be admitted that my naturally slightly acerbic tongue had sharpened somewhat over the last few years, so that I wasn’t always able to stop the slings and arrows of outrageous comment from shooting forth at entirely the wrong moment.
Without the script to stick to, I’d have to try to curb that a bit, so I came across as sensible, quiet, totally non-neurotic and unthreatening.
Added to that, I needed to keep a lid on the bubble of resentment that I felt that he’d accepted the gossip he’d heard about me at face value, while he, as much as anyone, should know not to believe everything he heard.
I mean, it might have been a long time ago since we’d been students at Honeywood Horticultural College, butIhadn’t forgotten whathewas like: that we’d laughed together, exchanged heated opinions on gardening matters in the pub over pints of Gillyflower’s Best Bitterand both been in the same team at the end-of-term quiz, winning the coveted Honeywood Cup and a set of chocolate gardening tools. I’d got the trowel.
These things ought to have lingered in his memory, as they had in mine. He should have known me better.
I remembered now how amused he’d been when, after offering him the chance to front his own TV series, having spotted him in that documentary, the company had approached me to be one of the team, and I’d turned it down flat.
Ned had known how much I’d hated being in that documentary and, naturally, I’d got snappy when the director kept insisting I turn round and face the cameras … and even gave melinesto say.
But evidently the viewers had liked that and the clincher had been the bit where they’d asked Ned to call me over while I was trying to finish weeding the rockery and I told him to get lost in no uncertain terms, not realizing it was caught on camera. They kept it in, and it went down a storm.
Sammie Nelson had been furious when they offered the job to me and not her, after all her efforts with the presenter, though, of course,hewasn’t with the company making the new series, so she was out of luck there.
Yes, I thought bitterly as I stood on the doorstep, Nedshouldhave known me better than to believe the rumours – and at that moment, the door swung open.
The old, gangling, good-natured student Ned I’d been remembering morphed into the current version: nearly six and a half feet of ruggedly attractive, broad-shouldered and well-muscled masculinity, wearing slightly muddy jeans, a blue checked lumberjack shirt and a deeply distrustful expression.
