by Jane Linfoot
‘Our garden?’ Of course he’d say that. ‘You went in?’ More fool me for pretending it belonged to Fred and me.
For a second Kip’s smile falters, then it’s back. ‘The guys came to cut the grass. I was showing them which bits to mow when I found it.’ He’s already round the desk, and over by the door. ‘Aren’t you coming to see?’
His strides are so long as he speeds across the gravel, I have to run to keep up. By the time I go through the door into the walled garden I’m gasping, and he’s already down by the apple trees.
When I finally catch up with him he’s standing by one of the big borders where we – or rather I – sowed the mixed seed.
‘This is the sunniest corner, which is why it’s come out here first. Isn’t it amazing?’ He’s pointing down at a tiny pink scrap of a bloom, with straggly petals, all of two centimetres across.
‘It’s fabulous.’ I stagger backwards, smacking my hand into his as a high five comes out of nowhere and knocks me off balance. And at the same time, it isn’t fab. Because the flower’s so small, I’d have needed a step ladder and binoculars to have noticed it from across the garden where I planted out my seedlings. I’m actually ashamed to admit, Fred’s the one who’s been watering this part.
Kip’s almost as breathless as me even though he’s only been walking. ‘It’s the start of our crop. Better still, it means your mum’s going to get her homegrown bouquet.’ His beam couldn’t be broader, and he’s looking scarily as if he’d like to hug someone.
To me that sounds like wild optimism. I edge back, putting the corner of the border between us. ‘I hope so.’ Just like with weddings, gardening needs patience, and a long-term view. ‘Everything’s still very small.’ Worryingly so from where I’m standing. There’s a long way to go from one tiny flower to a whole bouquet.
The skin on Kip’s arm is dark beside mine, as he gives me a gentle bump with his shoulder. ‘Trust me on this. The next couple of weeks is the time of year when the garden goes whoosh.’
Excuse me? He comes into the garden for the first time in weeks, and suddenly he knows it all? If there’s one certainty in Rose Hill, it’s that Kip is the last guy to be trusted. Even on something as insignificant as gardening bullshit. Although when I think hard, I can still hear my dad and his mates from the allotment club laughing about June, busting out all over. ‘Going whoosh’ is the up-market, Penryn view of that early summer growth rush that astonishes me every time. I just hope it happens again this year.
I give a sniff. ‘One bunch of flowers is all I need from here. Anything else is a bonus.’ I’m not being deliberately downbeat, or tetchy. I’m being realistic. Even though the plants are mostly ankle high, they’re nothing like the bloom studded internet pictures on the site Kip ordered the seed from. It will be just my luck if this is the one time in his life when a Penryn gets taken for a ride. As for the way he’s swooped in and taken ownership, that’s what I feared all along. This garden comes with strings, and I need to keep that in mind as much as I need to remember Nicole’s trailing diamonds.
He’s laughing now. ‘Relax, Water Lily. Who knows, by September you might even start to enjoy yourself.’ Which just goes to show it’s true what they say about laughter being good for you, even if it is sarcastic. Because the tension lines have gone from his face, and for once he’s lost the gaunt shadows under his cheekbones.
I back away down the path. ‘Trust me on this – I won’t ever have a great time anywhere that makes my muscles ache as much as this particular garden.’ It’s only when I reach the door I find I’m laughing too.
Chapter 30
Tuesday, 27th June
At Huntley and Handsome Wines: Ice buckets and passing trade
‘Coming to a complimentary wine event, and refusing to drink, Lily?’ Drinks are being served by the glass, by waiters in pristine white shirts with dark red Huntley and Handsome logo aprons, weaving skilfully among the guests. But Jess is storming across the stone cobbles a champers bucket in each hand. ‘Quick, grab us some more glasses.’
The wine merchant trades out of a range of converted barns half a mile along the coast from St Aidan. The doors from the showrooms have been opened up, and guests are spilling out into the courtyard, where there’s a fabulous view across the beach, to the ocean beyond. We’ve been catching the last of the sun as it slides down towards the horizon. Jess gets through gallons of Prosecco entertaining brides, so she’s one of the local wine merchant’s most consistent customers outside the restaurant trade. And if I was under the impression this was a tasting event where drinks would be sipped and savoured I couldn’t be more wrong. From the way guests are throwing down the alcohol, it seems more like they’re trying to drink the place dry.
I do as I’m told, and lift some flutes off a passing tray. ‘Nicole’s in at nine to finalise favours, so I’ll need a clear head for that. She’s going for the monogrammed solid silver key fobs after all.’ Given I’m here as Jess’s plus one, supposedly to spread the word about Brides by the Sea’s new department, I reckon my excuse is watertight. I’m also so knackered after an early start, if I drink too much I’m liable to end up in a heap.
Jess props the bottles on our cafe table, knocks back the contents of both glasses, pops a cork, and pours. ‘Special delivery, all for us. Moet first, then a spot of Bolly to compare.’ She tips my orange juice into a potted palm, and rams the bubbly into my hand. ‘There’s no such thing as a champagne hangover, remember.’
‘Is Fred coming this evening?’ I’d sworn I wouldn’t ask. And since Heavenly Heights went up for sale, even though he’s been watering plants like it’s going out of fashion, bless his cotton socks, I’ve barely set eyes on him in person. But if it’s a choice between saying his name, or drinking my own weight in champagne, I’ll risk Jess jumping in to match make every time.
Jess sends me a knowing smile. ‘He was invited, but a Rock Quay viewing came up at short notice.’ She couldn’t have better information on the whereabouts of eligible Y chromosomes, if she looked after their personal diaries. ‘If he’s close to a bite, he’ll be wining them and dining them to close the deal.’
Dammit. On the excess alcohol front, not the romance front obviously. I scan the throng of summer dresses and chinos trying to locate Poppy and Rafe instead, so they can come over and help us out here. The best Poppy can offer for now is an eyebrow wiggle and a wave of a handful of cards from the edge of a very involved discussion. The cards she’s giving out are Daisy Hill’s fight back to Kip’s latest forward surge. Jules the photographer took some amazing pictures of a bride and groom in the dark, in front of a huge tree at the farm with fairy lights stretching to the ends of every branch. We’re all hoping the promise of that one iconic shot will be a clincher for bookings. I’m just picking up my own card from the table, and waving it back at her, when a hand lands on my shoulder, and there’s a familiar laugh.
‘Nice picture, great idea. Daisy Hill in a spin because of my new brochures? Remind me to organise an illuminated tree at the Manor first thing tomorrow.’
So Kip is here after all, dammit. Disgustingly blatant too. He grins at Jess. ‘Uncle Bart’s over at the barbecue hitting the Hunter’s Chicken. Fuelling up for another argument, and dying to see you, Jess.’
Jess waves the bottle at Kip. ‘And I love you too, sweetie. If you want some Moet you’ll need a glass.’
Kip shakes his head. ‘I’m designated driver. It’s alcohol-free sauvignon blanc all night for me.’ He raises an eyebrow at the empty chairs at our table. ‘Okay if we join you?’
I pull out a special sparkly customer smile. ‘I’d rather have my teeth pulled.’ No point not being truthful is there? It’s only the kind of thing Kip would say to Nicole.
Kip grins back. ‘Good to see Ms Happy’s not venturing out of her comfort zone by being upbeat. I’ll take that as a “yes” then.’
The next second he lands on the cafe chair next to mine.
‘Fabulous.’ I say. ‘Not.’ Al
though there’s a plus side. If Jess was planning to keep her promise to my mum on the tall dark and handsome front, I couldn’t ask for a better space blocker than Kip. In which case, I’d better get busy with some scintillating conversation. I glance up at the light bulbs threaded above the courtyard. They’re glowing against the fading sky as they swing above our heads in the warm breeze from the sea. ‘Did Nicole mention illuminating the jetty down by the lake?’ As an attention grabbing strategy it works a treat.
Kip sits up straight away. ‘We thought you could do us a scheme for the terrace as well as the lakeside. Let’s face it, everyone loves candles and lanterns and strings of lamps, especially award judges. They beat floodlights any day.’
‘You want me to do both places?’ Damn. This isn’t where this was supposed to be heading.
‘Tea lights in dangly jars are your big thing aren’t they? Make it a priority, and we’ll do some pictures at dusk before the end of the week.’ Talk about bish bash bosh. Kip’s turning into a whirlwind decision maker with tyrant traits.
Jess gives me a nod. ‘Fabulous, Kip. Exactly why Lily’s here. All the best deals are done over champagne.’ Her purr drops to a gentle groan. ‘Don’t look now, but the original crumple zone’s coming our way. Someone should show your uncle a trouser press, Kip.’
As I look over my shoulder, sure enough, Bart is heading over, rocking head-to-toe Caribbean chic, with a cheesecloth shirt and baggy trousers.
‘Ahoy there, me hearties.’ He sets down a plate piled high with food, and beams. ‘Anyone for grog and grub?’
Jess snaps at him, with a tight-lipped glare. ‘If you’re on a rum raid, Uncle Bart, forget it. Every drop of our champers is spoken for.’
I lean across to Kip. ‘Pirate talk?’ It’s like that day on Facebook when the emoticons all got eye patches.
Kip rolls his eyes. ‘Cornwall collides with the Caribbean. He’s channelling his inner Jack Sparrow.’
Bart chortles. ‘Don’t get your knickerbockers in a twist, Jess, I’m not here to plunder, I’m sailing with my own supplies.’ The champagne bucket he whips out from behind his back contains two bottles. As he slams it onto the table I can’t help smiling to see the Bolly and Moet labels are identical to Jess’s.
Jess snorts. ‘That’s rich coming from someone whose drawstring pants appear to have more wrinkles than an octogenarian’s bottom. Have you never heard of a travel iron?’
‘Creases are the new smooth, although you’re not entirely wrinkle free yourself.’ Bart sends a wink in the direction of Jess’s slightly rumpled linen slacks, then grasps a bottle, and twists off a cork. He splashes fizz into Jess’s glass, then fills mine too. ‘That should scrape the barnacles off. Bottoms up, wenches.’
Kip pulls a face. ‘Okay, less of the cutlass wielding you lot. Try a hot dog, they’re venison.’ He pushes one each at Jess and Bart.
As Jess gets up and tugs the folds out of her trousers, she’s staring daggers at Bart. ‘Don’t let him in our bucket, Lily, I’m off to mingle in a pirate-free zone. Give me a shout when the coast’s clear again.’ She turns an especially steely scowl onto Bart. ‘When Captain Pugwash has buggered off, in other words.’ From the speed she grabs a bottle and her glass and disappears into the crowd, she can’t wait to get away.
Bart’s tanned face lights up as he leans over. ‘Isn’t she fun? So easy to ruffle her feathers too.’
Kip sends Bart a stern frown. ‘Jess does a lot of work for us, we can’t afford to upset her. If you don’t behave I’ll take you home.’
I can’t tell if he’s joking or not, but Jess is bomb proof. Nothing fazes her. She keeps her cool when the rest of us are reduced to wrecks, so I’ve no idea why Bart gets under her skin so easily.
Bart tucks a bottle under his arm as he gets to his feet. ‘Aye aye, Cap’n.’ Somehow his unrepentant grin isn’t reassuring.
With Jess circulating and likely to bump into eligible hunks at any moment, there’s all the more reason for me to keep Kip talking, so I fill my glass again to keep my strength up. ‘Bart’s still here then?’ Stating the obvious, but at the same time something tells me there’s a lot of mileage in this one.
Kip lets out a long breath. ‘He left and came back again. He’s perpetually on the move working his deals, although he might be happier if he wasn’t.’
‘It’s great if he’s helpful. Not wanting to overdo the nautical thing, but he looks like a bit of a loose cannon.’
Kip scratches his head. ‘He’s like a second dad to me, and he’s not usually this excitable. When our mum died, and our dad went to pieces, Bart had us at the Manor whenever we weren’t at boarding school. It can’t have been easy keeping tabs on six of us.’
I pull a face. ‘Teenage boys on the rampage. You did have a bit of a reputation in the village.’ To put it mildly.
Kip laughs. ‘With so many of us, we all took the rap for every screw up. Singly we were only a sixth as bad.’
Nice way of looking at it. ‘That sounds like a great disclaimer.’
Kip looks hurt. ‘We had rules.’
That’s hard to believe. ‘What, like you weren’t allowed to kill each other?’ Pretty much anything else was up for grabs as far as I remember.
He pulls a face. ‘Mostly with girls. If one of us expressed an interest in anyone, the rest had to back off forever. A strict code of conduct was the only way to make sure we didn’t murder each other.’
‘And?’ All these years on, it’s a strange privilege being given an insider view into the Penryn code of ethics.
He laughs. ‘That was about it. Uncle Bart had standards, but he let us stick to them in our own ways, so we developed as individuals. Like most brothers, we’re all very different.’
That’s not something that really struck me before. ‘All wild, all in faded denim. Not many people got beyond that.’
His elbow’s on the table, propping his chin in his hand. ‘Fascinating. And horrifying at the same time.’ He laughs. ‘Thanks for the enlightenment, Water Lily. That explains a lot. No-one’s put it like that before.’
A few minutes of honesty, and he’s back to being sarcastic.
‘I definitely think of you as Penryn first, and yourself second.’ I hesitate, and take another glug and empty my glass. That’s the weird thing with champagne, sometimes the more I drink, the thirstier it makes me. I doubt I’d have said that before I drank the last four glasses. ‘Does Kip come from Christopher, then?’ Can you tell I’m back to keeping him in his seat? Although it’s a slog, and this morning’s five o’clock start is making my eyelids droop.
That brings on the crinkles at the edge of his eyes, and his extra low confessional tone. ‘No, Kip’s short for Kipling.’
I should have known it would have to be something super-posh. ‘Nice to be called after an author though. Didn’t he write The Jungle Book?’
Kip laughs again. ‘He did, but I’m named after the other Mr Kipling. The one who bakes the cakes.’
‘Now you’re kidding me?’ I wouldn’t usually find that funny, but for some reason it makes me giggle. A lot. Eventually I hiccup to a stop. ‘How come?’
He gives a shamefaced grin. ‘My mum ate a lot of his apple pies when she was pregnant with me. I was one of the eldest too, so it wasn’t even as if she was running out of boys’ names.’
‘How sweet is that?’ There are worse things to be named after. One of my friends in Bath was called Charlotte, after some writing her mum had read in a toilet.
‘It might have fitted better if she’d been eating his Manor Cake.’
Which reminds me. ‘Mmmm. I love his Cherry Bakewells. And the Mini Battenbergs and the Viennese Whirls. Not forgetting Almond Slices …’ Once I start I can’t stop, and the mouth-watering reminds me I haven’t eaten since lunch. Call me squeamish, but I can’t ever bring myself to eat a deer, even if it’s wrapped up as a sausage.
Kip smiles. ‘Anyway, that’s enough about me, how about you and your family?’
Such a direct question is enough to make me down two glasses straight off, which means Jess’s bottle is empty, and I’m almost at the bottom of Bart’s. As for whether they’re Bolly or Moet, right now I don’t give a damn. I’m trawling through my brain, failing to find a non-incriminating, throwaway comment when a shout goes up across the courtyard.
‘Hey, everyone down the beach – time for volleyball.’
I’m beaming at Kip, because this gets me right off the hook. ‘Great, I think this might be our cue to go home.’ Right now, I can’t think of anything more comfy than snuggling into my bed under the sloping ceiling. Although given my legs feel like lead, I’m less keen on the four flights of stairs I’ve got to climb to get there. As Jess comes dashing over, I’m expecting her to be right with me on the disgusted of St Aidan thing. ‘Time to leave?’
‘Leave?’ From her shocked tone she’s appalled. ‘Huntley and Handsome’s sunset volleyball is one of St Aidan’s finest after-drink traditions. We play until we can’t see any more. It’s unmissable. Nothing else would get me into sand shoes, believe me.’ As she nods at her feet I notice she’s swapped her thousand-variations-on-a-loafer theme for some slip-on snakeskin trainers with silver stripes. Although given there’s a Gucci logo on the back, she’s not selling out completely.
My heart plummets so far I can’t help my screech of disbelief. ‘We’re actually joining in?’ Since when did a civilised wine evening turn into a drunken scramble on the sand? I’m practically wearing a mini skirt too. That’s a mistake I won’t make again, either.
‘Absolutely. Come on, what are you waiting for?’ As one of the waiters bounces a ball at her, Jess pounces on it like a tiger on raw meat. She starts patting the ball, and following the throng of guests down the steps, and beyond the courtyard.
As I turn to Kip in desperation, he’s pursing his lips. ‘I can run you back to town?’
