by Morgan Rouge
Love, Lust and Landscaping
By: Morgan Rouge
Copyright © 2013
All Rights Reserved
No part of this publication may be copied, reproduced in any format, electronic or otherwise, without prior consent from the copyright owner and publisher of this book
Disclaimer
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
Prologue
The garden was warm and quiet, her eyes closed, she could feel the breath of air from the wind playing with her hair. She had left the patio doors open so that she could hear the radio and gently through the tweet of the birds and the whisper of the trees, she could hear the BBC radio programme discussing top news stories.
‘...Well, perhaps there is a better way....’
‘...I have a question for MP David Phillips...’
‘...Yes, well, that is a problem but....’
‘...And the House of Lords....’
Slowly, in the glow of the afternoon sun she changed positions. It was difficult to be comfortable in these late stages, her weight never seemed to settle, always having to change position, constantly going to the toilet, watching what she ate, what she drank, taking her vitamins.... neither of them had had any idea that any of this would happen, that there would be this much work, they thought that would come after. She smiled. Not that they minded. In fact, they loved it, enjoyed it, took part in every second, excited, happy, glowing.
People spoke to them more, too. Old ladies and new mums, asking them about how it was going, how it was feeling, were they taking this, doing that... and of course, their mums, too. Her mum phoned every day, making sure they were okay, was there anything her or Bryony’s father could do? She was entirely appreciative of their support, of their love, of their commitment to the happy couple.
To think back when they had first discovered! The Joy, the happiness, the excitement. He’d been at work and had happened to come home early just after she had checked. Quietly coming through from the bathroom to his arrival, when he had called out anyone here? She had sneaked through, given him a hug and showed him the small test. Quite an intimate piece of test when you thought about it. And he had just looked from the test to her, inexpressible joy and happiness on his face.
She was happy of the life that they had created. She was still able to work obviously from home and he had been able to build his business and his work with the government for repeat offenders.
With her hand, she slowly slid it down and over her bump. She felt the warmth there, from the sun but also the warmth of life! Of promise! She smiled, she loved pregnancy. She loved the changes of her body, the burgeoning of her breasts, the growth of her stomach, the changes in her feelings and emotions. She noticed the changes in herself too, her sense of smell had increased and the obscene cravings for olives and avocado which she had developed. It was quite strange. And the feeling of kicks, the feeling of the tiny human growing inside her, communicating to her from in there.
Of course, she was a little terrified of childbirth. Extremely terrified. She had been to all the courses, both of them had, they had discussed what they had been feeling, what she had felt, what he had felt, what others had felt, what they should expect. It was exciting, but she was worried about the pain.
‘Maybe if there was something which could be done.... perhaps if we had a different way of defending repeat offenders...’ she heard from the radio in the kitchen ‘... maybe if there was different things which could be done... I agree with Rachel Lindon on this point.....’
She checked her watch. He would be home soon, home from work, calling to her, speaking to her, asking about her day and he his.
She struggled to stand up, slowly, supporting her weight with her arms and slowly moved towards the house. The sun was still warm and indeed would be present for quite a long time afterwards. She loved the long days of a Scottish summer: when it rained a little less and she could sit outside in the garden with her mac, writing and working and daydreaming.
She walked slowly to the kitchen and began to make dinner. Cutting onions, carrots in their large kitchen, she decided to make a summer soup, perhaps she could nip down to the shop to get some delicious organic bread which Cathy always made on Mondays? Mmmm, that would be delicious. Hmm, he should be home in five or ten minutes. Stick on the kettle, stick the tea bags in the cups, wait for the kettle to boil....
Suddenly she felt a small surge of pain from her lower stomach. She closed her eyes and moaned. Here it was.
Chapter One
How did I get here? She wondered as she looked around her: this day was not going well. She could feel the sweat rolling off her back and she knew it was slowly starting to seep through her t-shirt. Her black primark leggings were already ripped, covered in mud and sodden from the damp yet unforgivingly hard earth. Her knees already ached and she had already broken one of her acrylic nails, something she felt traumatised by. Although she couldn’t tell because she had had no time or opportunity to check a mirror (and indeed there wasn’t even one in the area), her long blonde hair was, at the very least, windswept, knotted and trying to make her as embarrassed about her appearance as it could. She felt exhausted, grumpy and close to tears, yet it was only ten in the morning. Therefore, as her watch painfully reminded her, it was only an hour since she started work. The minutes ticked by very slowly: lunch was a long time away.
Around her were Gerry, Steve and Star whom she had barely spoken to since they arrived at the roundabout this morning. A gruff nod from Gerry and Steve and a sleepy smile from Star had sufficed for introductions before Hamish had begun his long and arduous speech. Looking across now as they dug the cold and wintery earth, she thought I am never going to connect with those three people: I am scared of them all. Indeed, she had never even spoken to someone with any kind of criminal conviction: she saw few in her area of Glasgow and as such she felt immediately mistrustful and uncomfortable in their presence. Were they going to try a scam with her? Perhaps they were going to mug her on the way home?
They certainly don’t do themselves any favours with their appearance, she thought. Gerry was in his shoulders and, she considered, so solidly built with large shoulders and a slightly smaller stomach to match that he was probably the sturdiest person she had ever seen. Unusually, she had noted when they first arrived that he was wearing a leather jacket. Despite the sweat that she felt she was racking up, he had so far kept on his stiflingly hot jacket. Gerry had a couple of illegible tattoos around his neck and had a close-shaved head which she thought gave him the look of a neo-nazi.
Steve, meanwhile, was tall, extraordinarily thin and had what her mother would describe as a shifty look. For the last hour, she had noticed that he was always looking around, checking out the local area, what everyone else was doing and comparing it to his own work. He was dressed in man-about-town-clothes with a striped t-shirt and sand burst jeans. Around his thirties, he wore a belt with a buckle so big it reminded her of a cowboy. His hair was slicked into place and he hadn’t felt the need to bring a jacket or jumper in March.
Star, the only other woman there was older than Steve: one could guess she was about forty or so. With a small delicate frame, long silky hair and soft skin, she had the look of a woman who was once extremely beautiful. However, the ravages of time had not been kind and her now haggard face was hollow to her cheekbones, the area surrounding her eyes was dark and her lips had many wrinkles around them.
Meanwhile over her, and the three other criminals serving c
ommunity service, stood Hamish who was, as far as she could tell, the angriest man she had ever met. Although she couldn’t currently see him as she was down on the ground head bowed trying to vigorously dig the earth, she was aware of his shadow, which loomed over them, waiting it seemed for someone to put just one foot wrong.
What a fool she was to think that he was handsome when she first arrived! Walking from the bus to the roundabouts with the others that morning, she had not felt much hope for any beautiful men but, on arriving, she had instantly seen him from afar and her blood temperature had risen comfortably. I’ll enjoy working next to him she had smiled to herself as he had introduced himself. He was tall and had soft, gentle grey eyes, emphasised by delicate eyelashes. In addition to his kind and serene face his body was also something to appreciate aesthetically: after years of presumably being a landscape artist, digging the earth, carrying wheelbarrows and just generally doing heavy manual labour he had a suitably strong and muscular body. His muscles were toned but not too big and his legs were long and strong, thighs hard as rocks. This body which had been worked to perfection he had pulled off perfectly with outdoor gear which included a skin tight vest and khaki coloured shorts. That and his delicious tan had certainly made her look twice.
However, after a lecture on how no one in Britain looked favourably on criminals and how Hamish certainly wasn’t either, he had barked orders at them to take trowels, seeds and start marking out the pattern for the Welcome To Glasgow flower arrangement they were going to make on this lonely stretch of roundabout, miles from anywhere. She had been confused: why hadn’t anyone complained to Hamish, or laughed at him? Why hadn’t they told him they weren’t going to do it? And yet, they had all been quiet and had got on with the work which needed to be done. Although she wanted to start arguing with Hamish and tell him what she thought of his tone, she decided against it: if these hardened criminals didn’t feel it was appropriate, she didn’t feel kicking up a stir either. However, what ensued was, what she would consider to be, slave labour.
‘Gerry! Too slow! Star: pitiful! Put some welly into it! I have never seen such shoddy labour in my life!’ Hamish barked. Is this what a sergeant camp major is like? she thought, now I know what those juvenile criminals in America feel. She had once seen a programme all about how some underage criminals were given the opportunity to take part in a camp organised by the army in which they were repeatedly shouted at, humiliated and made to do thousands of press ups. She had not yet had to impeccably make her bed (just as well, she rused) but she felt it was imminent. If Hamish was angry, irritated and disappointed in her over her seedling arrangement, he definitely would be when he saw the state of her flat!
Oh, the flat she sighed. Pillows, duvets, sofas, coffee machine, kettle, shampoo, soap, toothbrush she began to list all the things about her flat she missed already TV, PlayStation, pink and fluffy dressing gown, hair dryer, hair straighteners, skirts, strappy tops, fluffy winter jumper, cool retro summer jumper, soft and silky scarves. Yep, she thought, I miss everything. And most of all of course, Pony.
Phillipa - or Pony as she was fondly called by her friends - had been friends with her for years. They had first met at University when they were both studying languages. Very soon they were both grabbing Starbuck’s coffees together before nine o’clock french classes. After a couple of years of shopping, having nails done together and going out clubbing around Glasgow they had both decided it was best they settle down and move in together. Two years of house parties and shopping later their house was now full of pretty clothes they had bought and soft and fluffy furnishings.
Pony it has to be said was largely responsible for the fluffy furnishings. She had originally had an obsession with cushions and all fabrics that were soft and busily patterned. Now, they had a large pink fluffy rug in the living room with purple cushions and thick dark pink curtains. Naturally, their flat was the cheapest student edition which they could find in the area. Therefore, these pink fabrics were beautifully offset by a number of brown sofas and cupboards which looked straight out of the eighties. They had bought pieces of fabric and had covered the sofas in pinks and purples but the orange, red and brown carpet was perhaps harder to hide.
When friends came around to the flat they were always bemused. Chris always commented on the fact it was like a little girl had been given lots of money and free range with the decor. Meanwhile, their friend Sally always giggled when she came in as she said it made her feel uncomfortable. Returning her thoughts briefly to her current situation, she dreaded to think what Hamish’s opinion of their flat might be. She checked her watch again. Ten fifteen. Only fifteen minutes! Bryony briefly stopped to have a break: maybe she would be allowed to drink the water in her bag?
‘Bryony! Get back to work!’ he shouted gruffly. She looked up. He was stood over her, an angry and unforgiving look on his face, eyebrows knitted together, long muscular hand pointed down at her in an accusatory
‘But, I need some...’
‘Don’t care! Get back to work!’
‘But, I...’
‘Don’t care! Bryony, when I saw you I thought: slacker! I can see I have an excellent first judgement!’’ And with that final judgment, he lowered his arm and looked at her catching to see if she would go against his severe opinion of her.
She glared at him, wanting to tell him where to stick his trowel, and desperate to have a drink of water. But the shame of giving him the opportunity to let him think he was right was just too overwhelming and overpowering. She knew that if she caved in at this early in the fortnight, there would be no going back in his opinion. She could dig and plant the entire garden in her spare time without any food and still he would believe she was a slacker. Thus, with every sinew wanting to argue and possibly hit him, she controlled her nerve, turned round onto her knees and began to dig.
She could feel his gaze on her as she dug: he wants to see if I put a foot wrong. His questioning gaze had encouraged Bryony to return to work but it had, if anything, given her internal monologue plenty of food. How dare he! she thought he doesn’t know anything about me! Who does he think he is? With his teacher voice shouting at me, telling me what to do, where to dig, I hate him! Why does he think it is acceptable to speak to people like that? It isn’t acceptable! Wait till I tell Pony: she is going to be incensed on my behalf! She will want to hurt Hamish, too!
She began to dig at the earth angrily. The injustice! What particularly irritated Bryony was the fact that the realisation she was coming to that she wouldn’t be able to say or do anything else that might give her the appearance of a slacker. If she did, all previous good work would have been wasted. If she was going to prove to Hamish that she wasn’t a slacker, it was going to have to take everything within her to dig the earth.
That’s it she thought, I will not say another complaint, I will work through anything I am given. I am strong and I will prove him that I can work hard. He thinks I am a slacker! Well, I will prove him wrong!
To take her mind off her irritating situation, between trowelling, she began to look slowly around her, at local details. What she saw was not enticing. They were sat on a roundabout which had two large pyramid shapes as, she presumed, decor. The roundabout was on a stretch of road which linked the north of Glasgow to more northern points of Scotland, such as Stirling and Perth. As it was a dual carriageway roundabout, the heavy traffic - a mixture of cars, white vans, buses and lorries, flew past, barely stopping for the traffic lights which kept a close watch on speeds. If the regular and somewhat monotonous and deafening whoosh! of vehicles driving past wasn’t irritating enough then the irregular beeping of aggressive and angry horns was. Every time she heard one, she gave a small start before she was able to return to her digging. Looking around, she could see row after row of small grey council flats built around the 1970’s. How could they bear to live here? With the constant drone and drum drum of traffic? With the fumes, the horns beeping and what about in rain? She shuddered to think it must be
like to be here when it was even greyer, the continual splash of wheels on water.
Catching glimpses of the north revitalised her with views of mountains and far away towns. Far away near mountain villages of Calander and Crianlarich she imagined, she could see the high mountains of the beginning of the highlands. As it was a clear day, she could pick out entire peaks and ridges and, as it was March, could still see the dustings of snow. Glances more easterly, gave her views of the rounder, gentler and greener hills of Stirlingshire which eventually led to Perth and beyond. She remembered long ago climbing these hills, walking in the highlands and northlands of Scotland, just her, her parents and her dog Trevor roaming remote and beautiful areas. She remembered one time coming across a dilapidated crofter’s cottage which over fifty or a hundred years of abuse from the weather and no love from people had all but fallen down. Her and her parents had talked about creating a house for them all to escape to on the weekends, but in the end they had returned home and never went back. It was funny to think of that cottage now when she was sat in the least idyllic spot in the whole of Scotland.
Suddenly, she felt a tap on her shoulder. She looked up and saw Hamish’s eyes, slightly in shadow. He held out water to her. She smiled and took it from him. Then, he jumped up and yelled.
