This Is Your Life

by Susie Martyn

  ‘Why? What’s the matter?’ asked Lizzie, long aware that while Miriam looked after all those animals, no-one kept an eye on her.

  ‘She was complaining of pains, in her stomach. Her colour was pretty awful too, and you know Miriam, always so healthy. I suggested she made an appointment to see her doctor, but she said she couldn’t possibly, she had far too much to do. Talking of which, so do I. This locum’s been delayed again and I’ve a long list of calls. Sorry Lizzie, I just thought you’d want to know.’

  ‘Thanks. Yes, of course I do. I’ll try and call her now.’

  Lizzie tried to call Miriam immediately but it rang and rang the other end, and she was forced to give up, calling the number Antonia had given her instead.

  Ginny and Edward Plunkett-Mackenzie had moved to Oakley last summer, to an old Edwardian property, complete with acres of garden that had remained unchanged for years. The lovely house was typically large and spacious, with an impressive drive that circled around the front of it. Ginny, a tiny fragile figure, had huge eyes and perfectly highlighted hair. Dressed in spotless pastel pink jeans with creases neatly ironed down the front of them, she’d appeared the instant Lizzie pulled up and had excitedly taken her arm and led her through a gate in the hedge.

  ‘It’s frightfully scruffy Lizzie, I’m afraid…’

  But an awestruck Lizzie had just stood and taken it all in. It wasn’t at all the kind of garden she would imagine belonging to Ginny.

  The rear of the house had a proper old-fashioned verandah which looked original, from which steps led down to the lawn. Rambling overgrown flowerbeds framed the path, from which more stone steps led to an ornamental pond. In a corner beyond, there was a rather crumbling statue that Lizzie thought was possibly Pan. It was probably worth a fortune… And that wasn’t all. The lawn extended around the far side of the house to a more informal area where there was an old timber-framed greenhouse surrounded by apple trees. But utterly beautiful as it was, it was running riot.

  Ginny had chattered away. ‘You see, it’s Edward’s sixtieth... Not until next year, Lizzie – I do know this will take time… But what I want is to throw a really super party for all our friends, but I can’t possibly of course until the garden is sorted out… Goodness, we couldn’t possibly let anyone see it in such a state. But do you think you could do that for me? It would absolutely have to be finished by the end of May...’

  Lizzie frantically scribbled notes as they walked.

  ‘And…’ added Ginny, a touch of steel entering her voice. ‘There is just one proviso. I’m sure it won’t be a problem for you Lizzie! But absolutely everything must be pink… I don’t mind what shade…’ she’d added, as though making a grand concession, ‘but I’ve always wanted a pink garden. Maybe just the teeniest dot of lilac here and there would be alright, just in the background of course…’

  Lizzie kept quiet. It was, of course, totally absurd to have a tacky pink garden behind this gem of a house. The idea alone was a travesty.

  But Ginny had jumped up at the sound of tyres crunching on gravel as a rather large car swept in to the drive. ‘Oh, how marvellous! Now you’ll be able to meet Edward! Come on Lizzie!’

  Lizzie followed her towards the house again as a squat, smug looking man with terrible skin strode down the steps towards them. A toad, Lizzie instantly thought, stifling a smile.

  ‘Darling,’ squeaked Ginny, looking distinctly on edge. ‘This is Lizzie! She’s going to make me a lovely pink garden!’ Ginny clasped her hands with an air of ecstasy etched on her tight face.

  ‘Lizzie. Hi. Edward. Good to meet you.’ He extended a large hairy hand, and clasped hers firmly, smiling widely to display a set of teeth that were far too white to be his own.

  ‘Hello Edward. You have a beautiful garden here,’ she said, her eyes fixed on those teeth.

  ‘Mmmm, yes, not too bad, is it?’ Edward looked around him, an expression of self-satisfaction settling on his coarse features.

  ‘The little wife here knows exactly what she wants, so I’ll leave it all to you girls.’ He winked lasciviously at Lizzie at the same time patting Ginny on her tiny bottom. She gave a tinkly, brittle little laugh.

  ‘And darling, don’t forget, Jim’s coming round at 6 for a gin. Have it ready will you, there’s a good girl.’

  Lizzie stiffened as she forced herself to smile back. She knew exactly why Edward disturbed her. In fact, fast forwarded twenty years, this could have been her and Jamie, with Lizzie dressed in pastels and botoxed to within an inch of her life and him boasting smugly about the impressive mansion he’d just bought….except he wouldn’t have let Lizzie make any decisions about the garden. Give Edward his due, at least he was up for that.

  Lizzie could cope with the most demanding clients if she fell in love with their gardens and in one afternoon she’d fallen hook, line and sinker for this one. Even in this state, it had a timeless beauty that you could never re-create from scratch. She’d cope with the owners. And Ginny wasn’t too bad, it was just the dreadful Edward… Apart from him and the whole pink thing, this was a dream of a project.

  She detoured home via Hethecote Farm just to check on Miriam, who was obviously feeling better than this morning when Lizzie tracked her down cleaning saddles.

  ‘Just a tummy-ache,’ she reassured Lizzie. ‘Nothing to worry about – really! I’m fine!’

  It was like flitting between the sublime and the ridiculous as Lizzie alternated between Ginny’s and Hethecote Farm, one with unlimited resources to pour into a completely self-indulgent project, and the other with the worthiest of causes but trudging around in her dead husband’s boots because she couldn’t afford to buy new ones.

  Miriam’s garden scheme was well under way, with half a dozen schools initially signing up to rent their own allotment within the garden. The local press had set a date for a photo-shoot and interview, and some much needed funds were at last coming in. Lizzie was spending a couple of mornings there, helping the schools as they began to design their gardens. She was determined too that Antonia would organise this ball. It was exactly the support Miriam needed.

  ‘When’s a good time for it, do you think? Autumn maybe?’

  ‘This year? Lord no.’ Antonia was horrified. ‘It’ll take yonks to get it organised. We need to collect raffle prizes – tickets for Glyndebourne, air tickets, that sort of thing.’

  Air tickets? Lizzie, who’d been about to offer her gardening services as one of them, was silent.

  ‘So when?’ persisted Lizzie, who wanted to be able to tell Miriam.

  ‘Oh, I don’t know… next summer? Don’t worry about it. Anyway, you going to Bert’s retirement do? A good old chap, Bert,’ Antonia changed the subject. ‘Very fair. Just as long as his replacement isn’t some jumped up little public school boy with ambitions, after all, we can’t have the rents going up! Anyway, don’t get too excited. I’ve been to these do’s before. There’ll be Mrs H’s nasty curly sandwiches, naff old potato chipsticks and a cake. If I were you, I’d give the sandwiches a miss, they’re always a bit iffy, but the cakes are another matter. Eucalyptus might be totally barking, but she’s the creator of the most divine cakes you have ever tasted! Bound to be one of hers. She started making them years ago, to help her put on weight, and then got bored with the same old recipes, so she invented new ones. They’re quite famous round here! Just turn up, oh I know, we’ll arrive together, have a bit of cake, toast old Bert and make our excuses. What do you think?’

  Lizzie had yet to meet the infamous Eucalyptus, who lived next door to the church in a tiny cottage tucked away in the trees. By all accounts, she was a recluse, and so far, Lizzie knew her only by reputation as a painter of the abstract kind of art that Jamie used to rave over - which had always left her cold.

  Entries for the horse show were coming in thick and fast. Antonia had asked her if she’d judge the prettiest mare class.

  ‘But I don’t know the first thing about horses,’ Lizzie objected.

  ‘Th
at’s why you’d be perfect darling,’ said Antonia firmly. ‘And it doesn’t matter who the judge is, someone always complains. You’ve really nothing to worry about.’

  Which didn’t fill Lizzie with confidence.

  Antonia hadn’t been exaggerating. Apart from a few nods, nobody paid them much attention. Mrs Hepplewhite had sniffed and pointedly turned her back on them, presumably for boycotting the WI, and they’d stood quietly looking at the modest party that had gathered.

  ‘Over there,’ murmured Antonia in my ear. ‘By the window – long face, mouth turned down – avoid like the plague. Harriet Armitage-Brown. Brown by name, brown by nature…’ she muttered bitchily, Harriet being dressed head to toe in dingy old clothes. ‘Bit of a nightmare. She’ll drag you along to her coffee-mornings which are ok because of the food, but she drones on like you wouldn’t believe. Just don’t catch her eye. If she comes over here we’ll make a dash for it.’

  ‘Oh, and over there is Cindy, darling,’ she added, nodding towards a pretty, fair-haired woman with a rather vague air about her. ‘Does the church flowers when she can get past Mrs H, whose are dire. You wouldn’t believe the rivalry that goes on over a few naff old geraniums. I say! Look at William… doesn’t he scrub up awfully well...’

  William did indeed look marginally cleaner than usual, in washed jeans and minus the beanie hat, revealing thick, tousled hair. Feeling Antonia’s eyes on him, he turned and winked at her.

  She jumped in amazement, clutching at Lizzie’s arm. ‘Did you see that? He winked at me!’

  Bert was dressed in his Sunday best, a checked shirt and tie, his usually windblown hair combed neatly, faithful Molly at his side. Smiling and nodding at everyone, his cheeks were a little pink. Someone had covered the rickety table with a plastic tablecloth, and laid it with paper plates of food and drinks. Lizzie made the foolish mistake of nibbling the corner of one of the fish paste sandwiches.

  ‘Warned you,’ muttered Antonia in her ear. ‘Which one was it - the salmonella special or a listeria tart? You mustn’t miss the e coli dip either, mmm, lovely…’

  ‘That’s the Woodleighs over by the door,’ Antonia told me, ‘Well, of course you know him, from all that malarkey with the cows. But Lord.’ She broke off. ‘Now who, I wonder, is that…’

  Lizzie followed her gaze – rendered speechless for the second time that morning, Antonia’s jaw had dropped. A youngish man, good-looking in a rather school-boyish way in a shirt and stripey tie strode in and confidently shook Mr Woodleigh’s hand. A voice behind them muttered, ‘that’s ‘im, bit of a new broom. Fings all be different now, you mark my words…’

  To which another glum sounding voice replied, ‘Aye, bugger’ll start puttin’ rents up in no time, you mark my words…’

  A skinny, worried looking woman with stooping shoulders and dressed in shapeless black came scuttling over to Antonia.

  ‘I was hoping you’d be here,’ she whispered, as she peered anxiously into Antonia’s face.

  ‘Oh excellent! Eucalyptus! Meet Lizzie! She’s moved in up the road from the church. Next door to Bert and Molly. I’ve told her all about your fab cakes. Which one is it today?’ enquired Antonia greedily.

  This was Eucalyptus? Lizzie’d built up a picture in her head of the cake-making artist: a plump bohemian, with titian hair, dressed in a riot of colour. A matronly kind of woman, not a timid, neurotic-looking stick insect…

  ‘Hello Lizzie…’ Eucalyptus worriedly held out a small hand that was almost as limp as her hair. ‘It’s passion fruit and macadamia, with satsuma frosting,’ she offered doubtfully, drooping even more as she stood there.

  ‘Oh yummy,’ said Antonia. ‘Can’t wait to try it. Don’t think I’ve tasted that one before.’

  Antonia and Lizzie exchanged glances between mouthfuls of cake, which in spite of its off-putting contents was sublime. Mr Woodleigh, the first time Lizzie’d seen him without his cows, still looked as though he’d walked straight in from the fields which in all likelihood he had, and he made a brief speech about what a thoroughly all-round decent chap Bert had been to have working for them all these years, before everyone clapped enthusiastically.

  They watched as the ‘new broom’ swept his way around the room, introducing himself to everyone as he went. Then he got to Lizzie, and held out his hand. A pair of friendly brown eyes smiled eagerly. Lizzie had always noticed people‘s eyes. ‘Windows to the soul’ weren’t they supposed to be, or so she liked to think… At any rate, they were a good indicator of character, she always thought, forgetting how many times she’d got this wrong.

  ‘Toby Anstruther-Smythe’, he introduced himself with huge self-assurance, in rather clipped, public-school tones. ‘I’m the new estate manager. I say, simply delighted to meet you both.’ He was looked extremely pleased with himself. Antonia too looked rather chuffed.

  ‘Antonia!’ She grasped his hand and held on to it. ‘And this is Lizzie. So how are you finding Littleton?’

  ‘Hmm. Funny little place,’ he said tactlessly in his rather booming voice. ‘Might need to shake things up a little, you know…’ he continued, oblivious to the surly looks of everyone standing within earshot.

  ‘Good for you darling,’ said Antonia admiringly. ‘What did you have in mind? I’m always up for something a little different…’

  ‘There’s nothing like change, is there,’ he continued, beaming at her delightedly. ‘Anyway, awfully sorry, but must move on. Need to get round everyone.’ But then, looking straight at Lizzie, took her completely by surprise.

  ‘I say old bean, you and I should get together one evening. You know, both of us being new round here and all that. Found a smashing pub the other night…how about it?

  Lizzie was filled with horror. Followed by panic, and an unsquashable conviction that this was a very bad idea. Absolutely no way was she going on a date with someone who reminded her of a Labrador.

  ‘She’d love to,’ Antonia answered quickly. ‘Wouldn’t you Lizzie? Absolutely excellent idea. Here’s her phone number.’ She ferreted around in her pocket and quickly scribbled something on some paper.

  ‘Antonia! I’m not going! You’ll have to tell him! It’s too soon and he’s not my type. You go,’ Lizzie was outraged.

  ‘Nonsense. Do you good. High time you stopped moping about. It’s only a drink for goodness sake. Just go out for the sake of it, it’ll be good practice. Hardly think he’s an axe-murderer,’ said Antonia bluntly. ‘Now, let’s get another slice of cake before this bloody lot polish it off.’

  But Lizzie definitely wasn’t going. She’d made her decision and this time, she was sticking to it.

  Later, at a loose end, she wandered back up to Hethecote Farm. Miriam was looking weary.

  ‘Just the girl,’ she said, brightening slightly. ‘Only I’ve a bit of a predicament on my hands. Mallow House have been in touch. Only they want one of our allotments… and I’m not sure what to say.’

  ‘What’s the problem?’ said Lizzie, who’d never heard of them.

  ‘Oh – of course. Sorry… they’re a home for young offenders. Not serious ones – just children from poor backgrounds who shoplift and daub graffiti in the wrong places… Poor little things really. So misunderstood. Only I’m not sure our schools would be too happy about sharing the garden with them…’

  ‘What if they came at different times?’ suggested Lizzie. ‘The schools come in the mornings mostly… what if the Mallow House lot came later on?’

  ‘Possibly,’ said Miriam. ‘It might work… but I’d have to write to them all wouldn’t I? And explain… Oh dear. There’s too much to do.’

  ‘Why not think about it?’ said Lizzie. ‘And if you think it’s a good idea, I’ll help. And can you leave these seeds somewhere for the schools to find? They’re a gift from one of the garden centres.’

  ‘Isn’t everyone so kind?’ said Miriam, then winced, clutching her stomach.

  ‘Have you seen the doctor yet?’ said Lizzie in alarm. ‘You really o
ught to…’

  ‘I will – when I have time…’

  Chapter 12

  As they drove the few miles to the pub, Toby Anstruther-Smythe, it soon became apparent, had extremely Big Ambitions. Boasting to Lizzie about his grand plans for the Estate, and about how it needed moving into the 21st century, he of course, ho ho, was just the person to do it. Lizzie had the feeling that his over-confidence wouldn’t win him many friends round here, but maybe there would be at least some changes for the better. Like dealing with the dreaded rat-runners for starters wouldn’t go amiss.

  It was a pub she hadn’t been to before - the Coach and Horses, and on such a sunny summer’s evening they sat outside in the garden under an umbrella that Toby insisted on leaving up, even though Lizzie had goose bumps in its shade.

  ‘Awfully nice place, don’t you think?’ remarked Toby loudly. It was one of those pubs which had been modernised, which wasn’t really to Lizzie’s taste, but it was pleasant enough and at least the wine was well chilled.

  ‘Funny old lot in Littleton,’ he said bluntly, forgetting Lizzie was one of them. ‘Could do with a bit of a shakeup, don’t you think? Don’t know anything about this nonsense with the farmers do you? Even old Woodleigh seems to be joining in. Not much of an example to set to your tenant farmers…’ he added arrogantly, reminding her horribly of Jamie for an instant.

  ‘Well actually,’ Lizzie said, ‘have you seen that traffic that comes tearing through? There’ll be an accident if no-one does anything. They drive like maniacs. And it is a country lane,’ she emphasised, before suggesting, ‘Er maybe you should get involved? Someone in your position might be able to do something…’

  ‘You’re right,’ he agreed. I’ll think about it old girl…’ He stared rather too obviously at her.

  Toby, Lizzie soon realised, was totally naive when it came to the opposite sex. His version of flirting seemed to mean horribly suggestive glances which she was finding rather off-putting and in spite of her best efforts to like him, there wasn’t the tiniest spark of chemistry. But he was pleasant enough company and as Antonia had rightly said, it didn’t do a girl good to spend too much time brooding.