by Laura Briggs
"Backpacking across Europe? That sounds exciting," said Lady Amanda. "And you work small jobs to pay for this venture, I presume?"
"You got it. Last village north of here, I helped a guy paint his house," he said. "It was a day's work. I made enough to pay for a few sandwiches and for a bus ride. If you know anybody who needs a day's labor, I'm their man," he said. His hinting tone ... and expression ... was unmistakable.
"If you insist on camping in this part of the world, I know that Ted Russert lets backpackers use a little glen near his pond," said Lady Amanda. "And if you're in need of a job, William, my husband, could probably find something for you to do. If not here on the estate, then in the village. You would probably earn enough to travel to your next destination, providing it's in Cornwall."
"Are you any good at carpentry?" asked Katie. "There's a few boards loose in Edwin's playhouse that Lord William hasn't had time to fix." She glanced at Lady Amanda for approval. "That's a good start, right?"
"Playhouse, huh?" said the boy. "I could be worse with a hammer."
"Hammer?" said Edwin, hopefully. "Nails?" He took his fingers — and the remains of a chocolate biscuit — from his mouth at the mention of tools. Edwin was fond of all things related to construction, which was why the shovel of his toy bulldozer held the crumbs of his biscuit.
"You got it, buddy," said the young man. "Just hand them over, and your playhouse will be safe again, Edwin."
"Whats y'rname?" asked Edwin, pointing.
"Good question. It's Riley ... Riley O' Connell," said the young man from the pub. "It's ... Katie, right? And I didn't catch your name," he added to me.
"Julianne," I said. "This is Lady Amanda, lady of Cliffs House, and Michael, who's the chef."
"Pleased to meet you all," he said.
"Let me find a few tools — and a few quid —" said Lady Amanda, "— and we'll see if you can't earn enough for a very decent lunch."
Riley was soon pounding away at the loose boards in the playhouse Lord William had built his son, as Katie and I watched from the windows of the small sitting room. She was busy folding place cards for an upcoming ladies' luncheon, while I was trying to copy the key dates for the amateur players' meetings into my personal diary.
"I wish I had been daring enough to hitchhike across Europe," said Katie. "My friends Roberta and Miguel did it after high school. But I thought I'd wait and do something more practical ... hence what I'm doing now. Somehow folding little paper cards pales next to camping by an English pond. Where snakes are scarce compared to America."
"You met Riley at the pub last night," I surmised. "Did he talk about his adventures there?"
"Not really. We just chatted a little about America," said Katie. "He's from somewhere on the West Coast. He hasn't been in England for long. I think maybe he said something about wandering around the U.S. first. He's been traveling for awhile, I guess."
It surprised me — his shoes weren't that worn, which I would have expected. It surprised me too that there were no patches on his backpack, like the ones that cross-continent backpackers usually sported proudly. Maybe he just wasn't into traveler's cliches.
"It's kind of nice to have somebody younger around here," said Katie. "Besides Gemma, I mean," she corrected, hastily. "And you." I hid a smile, knowing that to a girl as young as Katie, I seemed like the seasoned, middle-age type.
Riley stood and stretched in the midst of his work, looking slightly sweaty in the afternoon sun. He had shucked his jacket onto the steps of the playhouse, and rolled up his sleeves, revealing that hitchhiking somehow apparently builds one's biceps. Which might be the reason why Katie glanced his way now and then.
"Maybe Lord William will find something for him to do, and he'll stay around for a little while," she continued, pretending she hadn't been watching him a second ago as she folded another place card. "He seemed really interesting at the pub. Or maybe it was just talking about home that seemed interesting." She stacked the little cards together in a pyramid stack, the sturdy paper giving a sharp clack against the table's wood.
"It can be a little lonely here at first," I said. "I remember the first time I met up with another American. It was nice to know I wasn't going to commit a speech faux pas, or say something totally unintelligible in a conversation."
"Exactly, right?" said Katie. "I mean, somebody who loves Twinkies and Dominoes Pizza at eleven o' clock at night."
Those days were long behind me, but I didn't want to admit this, truthfully. "Does Riley love those things?" I said. "I take it he's known a few late-night study sessions himself."
"Oh, he's not a student," she said. "He said he's between jobs right now. That's why he's taking time for himself. He says camping can be as big of an adventure as scaling mountains or racing cars."
I laughed. "He sounds like he has a nice sense of humor," I said. "That, or a lot of things crossed off his bucket list."
"It would be cool to find out which one, maybe," said Katie, thoughtfully. "If he sticks around." She looked a little wistful, and I realized that Katie was probably starting to miss more than just fast food and cable television during her stay overseas.
It was then I decided not to comment that the last person I met before mysteriously losing my wallet was none other than Riley O' Connell. After all, maybe I was wrong about him, and my instincts were unfairly suspicious of a man who was only a free spirit wandering Europe with no clear goal in mind. And maybe it was just a coincidence that I was shy a few quid after a chance meeting with someone desperate for a good meal.
Besides, if Lady Amanda was right and I was wrong, I would only be hurting his reputation to mention that fact. Giving Riley a second chance was probably the right thing to do, at least for now.
***
Glendurgan Garden boasted a maze of beautifully-trimmed hedges that wound themselves in curving passages, like snakes made of greenery. This was my favorite place in the garden near Falmouth, besides the riverbanks where the Helford swept by the grassy shores, and native flowers painted the landscape with life and color.
I wasn't alone in thinking it was a beautiful spot, either — plenty of visitors to Falmouth found their way to these gardens, and were also exploring the beautiful niches between these green walls. Among its sheltered sites, the rustic gazebo where I found Matt resting with a thermos of tea. He smiled when he saw me making my way through the living corridor to find him.
"Here you are," I said. "I thought maybe I would find you in the plant nursery." Glendurgan sold live plants, some of which matched the beauty of the flora in their gardens. Matt had been working there to help propagate a new hybrid which a plant genetics colleague of his had developed.
In between, he consulted on improvements to the garden with the chief landscaping architect, although I couldn't see any sign that this place really needed his help. Not those rambling downs thick and green with grass, or the shady glens encircling fields in bloom.
"I thought I would have a bite to eat in privacy," he said.
"Privacy? I think you need a job somewhere else," I answered, sitting next to him under the gazebo's canopy. "There's a dozen tourists coming up the path behind me."
"I like to watch visitors explore this spot," he said. "Especially when they see the walls from above the maze, and see the ingenuity behind its design. It astonished me the first time I saw it." He slid his arm around my shoulders and drew me closer. "I enjoy seeing them enjoy it."
My husband. Gardener, botanist, professor, and botanical genius specializing in plant disease control. I could still imagine him being astonished by a garden's beauty, despite all the gardens where he had worked, here and abroad. Gardens where he had battled to save heirloom roses, revived antique hybrids, preserved rare natural specimens, and even saved one plant in the wild from extinction.
And to think I was once under the mistaken impression that his Ross Poldark-esque looks were his best asset.
"Are you hungry? he asked "I haven't enough here for two, b
ut we could remedy that easily."
"I'm not starving," I said. "I just thought I would come see you. You know, before I help Lady Amanda save the players' summer production."
Matt smiled. "Couldn't find a way out, could you?" he said.
"I've tried, honestly. But Lady Amanda and Rosie are determined to have me in charge, no matter what," I answered. "As if an American director matters when it comes to this play. I don't think anybody expects an authentic version of New York from the villagers."
"Come and tell me about it over some cream tea," said Matt. He tucked the rest of his sandwich into his gardening bag.
"You've already had lunch," I pointed out.
"I'll have it again," he said. "It'll be better the second time for having your company."
We had lunch in the garden's restaurant, with plenty of cream tea that reminded me of Dinah's trays of old, and a slice of sponge that made my mouth water before I even tasted it. I told Matt about the players' dilemma, and Rosie's frustrated attempts at stage managing. We hadn't finished casting, and several parts were short, as if half the players had chosen to skip the production since Millie was ill. If we had to cancel, I knew she would be disappointed. But would a rallying cry from her bring everybody back?
"There's only so much you can do," Matt reminded me. "And if you're truly the director, you can steer the production in whatever direction you think best. Including trimming portions of it, perhaps?" he suggested.
"I hate to do that," I said. "I think the only saving grace is that it's a minimalist production. Gerard only has to build a couple of sets, there's no backdrops, and all the costumes will come from the casts' own closets. They just need somebody to put each person in the right spot onstage ... and tell them if their acting stinks, I guess."
"Sounds like fun," said Matt, wryly, as he sipped his tea. "If you want to get out of it, I'll help you, you know. Make an excuse that I desperately need your assistance in the garden."
"No one would believe that excuse," I answered, kissing his forehead as I brushed back his unruly hair with my hand. "They know I can't make seeds sprout, much less help tend a delicate plant in a nursery."
"It's worth a try," said Matt.
We went for a walk along the riverbank afterwards, where Matt talked about the new hybrid's final stages before its public debut. I closed my eyes as I listened, letting Matt guide me along the path. The water made a gentle noise as it flowed by, not like the wild nature of the sea at the base of my cliffs, and I enjoyed the soothing sound. As much as I loved the sea and the rocks, soothing was a welcome change, sometimes.
"What's in your thoughts?" Matt asked.
"What do you mean?" I lifted my head to look in his eyes.
"Don't be coy, my love," he said. "I can tell that you've something tucked in the back corner of your mind. There's always a little bit of it in your voice, no matter the words you say."
"You can tell all that from my voice?" I retorted.
"I have an instinct for it," he answered. His lips brushed against my forehead now. "So tell me, if you please. Don't force me to guess. We both know I'm terrible at it."
"Mmhmm. So ... what am I worrying about?"
Matt squeezed my shoulders with his arm, and forced a confession from me about Riley O' Connell the unofficial handyman at Cliffs House, and the incident at the pub the night before.
"He's camping at Ted Russert's pond — Lord William is letting him do a few chores around the estate so he can earn the bus fare to his next destination," I said. "But something doesn't feel right about his story, Matt. I can't explain. It's just that I've known a few summer backpackers in my time, and things about Riley don't add up."
"You think he's a drifter of sorts," said Matt. "Picking pockets, maybe petty theft — leaving a village when it gets too close for him?"
"I don't know," I said. "I just think his lack of camping gear seems odd. And he doesn't seem to know much about any of the youth hostels in England. But what else he would be doing wandering around England so far from home, I can't imagine. Not unless he dropped out of a job, or a summer internship, like Katie's. Or he's a runaway," I added, jokingly. "Although he seems a little old to be running away from home."
"What does everyone else think?" he asked.
"I didn't tell anybody about what happened at the pub," I said. "Or my missing money. It was just a few quid, after all, and the charge card company hasn't reported any unauthorized purchases. Everybody likes him, and it's easy to see why. I mean, I like him — he's funny, he's interesting, he's kind of mysterious ..."
"I think I'm beginning to feel jealous," said Matt. "Are you quite sure you're not planning to run off with this so-called handsome American university student?"
"Stop it," I said, rolling my eyes. "He's not a university student, apparently, but is a little vague on the details about what his job was before he set off across England on foot. And I didn't say he was handsome, did I?"
"It was implied," answered Matt.
"Well, he is," I answered, honestly. "But I think everybody else noticed, too, including my intern, so it's not a strictly personal opinion."
"Katie the American," said Matt. "It's possible they have a lot in common, both young people spending their summer in England."
"Like me when I first came here, she was homesick for a familiar accent," I said. "And I think she's a little lonely for a boy's company, too. There's not an abundance of young men hanging around Ceffylgwyn in the summer; most of Andy's friends are working up north, or busy with football or rugby. But relax — I won't fight her for him."
"Thank you," said Matt. "I'm comforted to know it."
"Of course, if I were you, I wouldn't linger too long in Falmouth each day," I continued. "If I get too lonely in Ceffylgwyn, I might change my mind."
"Oh no you won't," he said. And before he could finish tickling my ribs, I escaped from his embrace, laughing as he chased me back up the path, and not caring if any tourists thought we were acting strangely.
***
"Father, what's the word?" read Andy. "Has anyone told you? What is the mayor's fate?"
There was a pause as Martin hunted for the right page in his script — he was late to the evening's unofficial audition, having experienced a tire puncture on the way back from visiting an elderly parishioner.
I sat in the stiff little director's chair where Millie usually sat; beside me, cross-legged on the stage, Rosie was struggling to come up with the right marks for blocking the scenes, all while listening to Andy's try.
"He's a bit dry," murmured Lady Amanda. "His heart's not quite in it this time, perhaps."
"No, he's just a bit hoarse," said Rosie. "Told me he'd inhaled some smoke while helping put out a fire in the kitchen at the fish and chips. New lad had a bit of an accident with one of the fryers."
Behind us, the steady sound of hammering as Gerard nailed together the framework for his latest set design for the balcony — which, because this was a modern production, was being replaced by an 'apartment window', one of several cut haphazardly in the plywood frame representing a block of buildings with staggered height.
Riley was assisting him, 'on loan' from the estate. Lord William had run out of small tasks after having Riley tidy up the garden shed and help Pollock move some fertilizer for the new vegetable plot next spring, so Lady Amanda had commandeered him for the new production.
"Sorry," apologized Martin. "Ah, here we are." He adjusted his reading glasses. "It's bad. Very bad, my son. The mayor ... he's been removed from office. It's over for him."
Dolorous words and tone, even for 'Shakespeare light,' I noticed. I had forgotten that tragedies really aren't my taste. I waited for the end of the scene, when we would switch actors for another one — a more cheerful one, I hoped, with crossed fingers.
Katie was trying out for a part, too. I had dragged her along as my assistant to help the players pull this production into shape. To my surprise, she actually volunteered to read lines since we
were woefully undercast at this moment.
Right now, she was sitting at the base of the apartment set, reading an open script as she ate an apple. "He has a snake's heart," she read, quietly. "Slithering behind a beautiful face. He's like a dragon behind the waterfall's rainbow. A handsome monster, a lying angel — he's the opposite of everything I believed him ..."
Riley had stopped hammering, and was listening, too. "Put a little more shock in it," he said.
Kate stopped reading, and leaned her head back. "What?" she said.
"A little more shock," he said. "You sound angry. Just angry. Juliet's not just mad. She's sad, and she's confused, and she's in complete shock. I mean, the person she thinks she loves most in the world killed somebody she's known all her life. Think about it."
"I'm thinking," said Katie, half-smiling. "What makes you so sure that's right?"
"I know the play," he said. "I know a little bit about how the play works. In New York, I saw one of the best onstage in that part."
"Who?" she asked.
"Name's not important," he said, shaking his head. "Trust me on this. Read it like you've just been told that your boyfriend killed your best friend. It's a sucker punch to the gut."
"Okay. Thanks." Katie settled more comfortably into place, and began reading the next lines. This time, her voice faltered a little, and hesitated, trying to sound like tears were coming, but not quite there. "To find out this way that he's a saint of the damned," she read. "And not the hero I believed he was. Nature ... nature must be hell to put such a soul into that body. It made Paradise a home for the devil."
She stopped. "I kind of like it that way," she said.
"Word of advice," he said, leaning out of one of the set's lower-story windows. "Don't read Juliet like a tragedy. Read her like a comedy until this point in the story. Think about it. It's silly, right? To believe you met the love of your life in one night, and practically get married right then. You've got to be kind of crazy to jump in like that."
