Page 46 of The Garden of Forgotten Wishes
When he’d gone, dragging two bags of ivy behind him, I began jungle-hacking my way down the path on the other side of the garden, rather faster this time. I don’t know if that was impatience to get it done, so I could uncover the temple, or just my technique getting into its stride, but I made good progress.
At some point either Ned or Gertie must have come round the path behind me, because several full bags of clippings vanished from the clearing round the urn and a heap of empty ones had taken their place.
About half past one, James came to have a look at my discovery.
‘Gert’s already seen it,’ he said.
‘Oh, was it Gertie who took the full bags away? That was kind.’
‘It was, and she says you’ve just got time to come and eat something before Elf gets here.’
‘What’sElfcoming for?’
‘She’s going to teach me how to use the new electric till in the ticket office, isn’t she?’ he said, as if this should have been blindingly obvious. ‘And Steve, too, because he’s going to spell me in there. Ned said you and Gertie ought to know how to do it too, just in case.’
‘I’m the kiss of death to most electronic machinery,’ I said, putting down my secateurs and taking off the long leather gauntlets. I felt reluctant to leave the garden, but then I was ravenous!
‘So, what do you think about the folly I found?’
‘It’s a bit fancy for my taste and sitting on cold stone gives you piles,’ he observed, dourly, and stumped off again.
I don’t think he has a romantic soul.
In the Potting Shed was Gertie, who poured me a cup of tea and said she was off to join Ned, James and Steve in the ticket office, because Elf would be arriving any minute, and I was to join them as soon as I’d eaten.
So I wolfed down a sandwich – corned beef and bright yellow piccalilli – before following her.
The ticket office hatch was set in the end of a long outbuilding abutting the wall, next to the visitors’ gate.
There was a door to the courtyard, which stood open, and I followed the sound of voices inside and found myself in a long, narrow room with whitewashed walls.
The overhead lights looked newly installed and wooden shelves and racks stood ready to receive the contents of the boxes piled against one wall.
James was sitting behind a wooden counter in front of the closed hatch, with a new and shiny electric till in front of him. An open box of garden leaflets stood at the other end, as well as a small wire rack of faded and elderly looking postcards, presumably relics of the occasional opening days of previous summers.
He was arguing with Ned, who was saying, in the voice of sorely tried sweet reason, ‘No, we can’t sell these old postcards, even at reduced prices, James. But I’ve ordered new ones. They should be here any day.’
‘It’s a waste of money, just to throw them out,’ James said stubbornly.
Ned ran his hands through his mane of tawny hair and said, resignedly, ‘Well, if it’ll make you happy, you can put them in a box marked “Old Stock” and sell them for ten pence each, or something.’
James brightened and said, ‘Right you are, then.’
The portly elderly man I’d seen the previous day, with a round, rosy face, bunchy cheeks and a white beard suddenly bobbed up from behind the counter, a dusty box in his hands. He could have been FatherChristmas, but I’d guessed he was Gertie’s husband even before she introduced us.
‘Steve, this is Marnie, the new gardener.’
‘How do?’ he said, which didn’t really seem to need an answer.
‘What’s in the box?’ asked Gertie.
‘Old rolls of entrance tickets, but I think the mice have been at them.’
‘Some of them might be all right,’ began James, but Ned firmly removed the box outside and came back, rubbing the dust off his hands.
‘What are you going to sell in the shop?’ I asked Gertie.
‘Well … this rack is for packets of seeds … and then there’ll be gardening books on this shelf,’ she began.
