Page 29 of Last Letter Home
Paul had explained before that the head gardener who supervised him was muttering about retirement, and that apart from himself as under-gardener there was only a boy from the village called Sam who was being trained. But the gardens were not extensive and the family rarely in residence outside the summer months, though a box of fruit and vegetables in season was sent up to their London residence on the train twice a week. Major Richards supervised other estate workers to manage the woodland.
‘It’s a lovely place, this garden. It feels so quiet and safe. And very old. What’s this rose?’ Sarah was examining a plant that rambled over the wall above the flower beds.
‘It grows beautiful cream flowers with pink edges, but I don’t know what it’s called. I think you have them at Flint Cottage, too. Perhaps they’re a local speciality.’ Paul smiled and returned to his lettuces, spraying the ones he’d planted with the handpump.
‘Oh, I forgot,’ Sarah said and went to forage in her basket. ‘I bought these biscuits for your mother – and for you of course.’
‘Thank you! Best to leave them by the steps there, then I won’t squash them by accident.’
She laid down the box, then more hesitantly picked up the envelope. ‘There’s a letter I want to show you later. I’d like to ask your advice.’
‘My advice? I’d be honoured. I’ll finish planting first or the old man will wonder what I’ve been doing this morning.’
‘I’ll help, really. I like this kind of planting, the rhythm of it.’
‘If you insist, then thank you.’
While she pulled on her gloves, he fetched a bit of old carpet for her to kneel on. She set about making deft holes with her forefinger, into which she dropped the delicate plants, and gently pressed the earth round them.
When they’d finished, Paul doused the lines of plants with more water, then tucked his gloves under his arm and took the letter she handed him.
‘What is Radley?’ he said, looking up from his reading, eyes puzzled.
‘It’s a college in Kent for women gardeners.’
‘Ah.’
‘They say they might be able to offer me a place for the autumn. I wrote to them a week ago, but I didn’t expect to hear back so soon.’
‘You seem uncertain.’
‘Yes. I mean it sounds possible that I could start there. It’s a shock. My letter was . . . speculative, I suppose. I would have to find the fees, but Mummy gave me some money to remember Daddy by. It’s simply . . . it would mean leaving her and Diane.’
‘And you don’t want to do that.’
‘I do want to study. I need something to occupy me, you see, and I love the idea of designing gardens. Of course, I haven’t a clue about the techniques, so this would enable me to get started.’
She stopped, seeing that his attention had shifted, and turned, following his gaze. In the doorway to the garden a man had appeared, an older man who stood stiffly and leaned on a stick. It was Major Richards. He touched his hat to Sarah and glanced quickly around, his shrewd eyes taking in the half-dug beds, the wheelbarrow, the array of tools lying on a tarpaulin on the path. ‘Keeping busy, are we, Hartmann?’ he said. ‘I’m sure Lady Kelling wouldn’t like to think time was being wasted.’
‘I’m very aware of that, Major.’ Paul passed the letter back to Sarah and slowly, very slowly, grasped the handle of the spade and tugged it from the earth.
‘Good afternoon, Sarah. Your mother is well, I hope?’
‘Very well, thank you.’
He nodded, and shooting Paul one final admonishing glare, he turned awkwardly and went on his way.
‘I cannot advise you, Miss Bailey,’ Paul murmured, setting both hands on the spade. ‘It is a decision for you alone.’
He sank the spade into a patch of hard earth and with it plunged Sarah’s spirits. There was a remoteness about his expression that confused her, made her wonder whether he was a different person to the one she’d imagined. Was it merely anger at Major Richards’ interference?
‘I know it’s my decision. It’s simply there isn’t anyone else I can ask. I used to speak to Daddy about these things.’
‘Then you must make your own judgement. It is your life.’
‘Yes, of course.’ She spoke unhappily. There was no point asking Mummy or Diane. Mummy would think she was mad and Diane would be upset. She folded the letter up and slid it back inside the envelope.
Sarah had read about horticultural colleges in a gardening magazine and written to Radley, which she’d liked the sound of, to find out more. The letter offering her an interview for a place had jolted her out of her dreaming. The thought that she really could pursue a career was both invigorating and alarming. She would need all her strength to leave her mother and Diane. She could imagine the conversations, Diane’s pleading eyes, her mother’s cold silence and her own guilt for putting her needs above her family’s. What would her father say if he was looking down on them? The thought gave her heart, because in fact she believed he’d have been sympathetic to her. ‘That’s my Molly,’ he’d always said in response to her success – Molly was his pet name for her. He’d been puffed out with pride by her final school results. Tears pricked her eyes at the memory and she blinked fiercely.
