Best-Laid Plants

by Marty Wingate

  “It’s all too much for Coral, isn’t it?” Ger asked as his eyes fell on Pru. “That load of Italian pots and statues and rubbish? Let alone that jungle he calls a garden. You’re here to sort out the flowers and such for her, is that right?”

  Annoyance flamed up in Pru like a match being struck, but she couldn’t tell if it had been sparked by Ger’s dismissive tone toward badgers or about gardens. Either way, he’d made a poor first impression.

  “Yes,” she said, smiling sweetly up at him. “Flowers.”

  “See you in the morning, Ger, right?” Bram said, and nodded to the unlit cigarette in his hand. “Don’t let us keep you from that ciggie.”

  Ger hesitated. But then he gave a dismissive jerk of his head and flashed Bram a quick grin. “Yeah, all right. See ya.” He had an unlit cigarette dangling from his lips before he’d made it out the door.

  “He goes out of his way to be like that,” Bram told them. “I don’t see any reason—it does him no good. Still, when I need someone for one day or five, there he is, and he’s a hard worker.”

  “Day labor,” Christopher said, his eyes on the pub door.

  Bram nodded. “He’s even filled in a bit here at the pub, but Danny said he got into too many arguments with customers, and he let him go. Ger’s got an opinion on just about any topic and enjoys telling everyone round him. It’s him that isn’t sure of the sett—but when Michael came round to take a look, Ger was nowhere to be found. Still, I don’t pay his attitude any mind and we get along all right. Good thing, too, because I’ll have more work for him in the future—I’ve big plans. I’m going to create a real smallholding.” Her cheeks grew rosy as she spoke. “I’ll keep bees and grow more food crops and have my own farm stand. Maybe a café.” She took a long swig of her beer, as if to cool off her growing excitement.

  “There’s great interest in that—locally sourced,” Christopher said.

  “There is,” the young woman agreed. “It’s a bit frightening, of course. I’ll be signing on to a leasehold—ninety-nine years.” She gasped and laughed. “This has been my dream for yonks—since I was sixteen.”

  “Who owns the land?”

  “Why, Mr. Bede does. Of course, there are details still to be sorted, and I’ll need to talk with Mr. Elkington. Mr. Bede can be a bit impatient about things.”

  A name Pru didn’t recognize. “Mr. Elkington?”

  “He’s Mr. Bede’s solicitor. But it’s going smoothly. There are no problems. It’s all sorted, I’m sure. Of course, Cynthia’s the one who put the whole idea in my head.”

  “Cynthia Mouser?” Pru asked.

  Bram’s eyes lit up. “Yes, do you know her?”

  “Christopher knows her—I met her only today.”

  “We were acquainted many years ago.” Christopher threw Pru a stern look. She smiled it down—she wanted him to know it was all right he had an old girlfriend or two in the past. The long past.

  “She’s tops, isn’t she?” Bram’s cheeks began to color again. “A really genuine person, so kind to everyone, you know, always interested in what you’re doing and willing to help out. She’s been a great friend of Mr. Bede’s for many years now, as he’s grown older. She’s a great friend to all of us, actually.”

  —

  “Coral Summersun certainly is planning ahead, isn’t she?” Pru speculated as Christopher drove the short return journey to their B&B. “Perhaps Batsford Bede called her back, knowing he was dying, to get his affairs in order—and the garden. I’m looking forward to seeing Glebe House tomorrow. And meeting Batsford Bede, its maker—maybe I’ll breathe in some Arts and Crafts inspiration.”

  “Perhaps I’ll take Bram up on her offer of a visit to the farm in the morning and meet you at Grenadine Hall later.”

  When Pru had emailed to thank them for their referral, the Bennet-Smythes had immediately invited them to lunch on their first day. Pru looked forward to it—she had fond memories of both the house and its owners. And the garden.

  The Copper Beech was plunged into darkness. No light on the drive, no lamp in the entry. Pru excused Mrs. Draycott forgetting she had lodgers, and used the flashlight on her phone to show them their way to the door. They crept in—reluctant to grope for wall switches in case Mr. Draycott’s electrics inadvertently threw an unwelcome beam in his widow’s sleeping face—and tiptoed up the stairs. Through the fire door they traipsed, taking the second turn, making their way up and down steps, Pru in front the whole way, whispering over her shoulder as they went “Duck!” until they both got the giggles and had to stop.

  When their laughter faded, they stood silent in the dark. Although his form was barely discernible, Pru could hear Christopher breathing. He grabbed her round the waist and held her close, nuzzling her neck. A shiver ran down her skin to her toes. She kissed him and put her lips to his ear. “Wait now, she might be behind this very door.”

  He sighed. “Lead on.”

  While C and I spent the morning double-digging the Deep Borders, the girl gathered a posy of Convallaria to adorn our table at tea. BB

  Chapter 5

  The next morning, Pru and Christopher sat at their table near the window. It had been reset with breakfast accoutrements including a pot of marmalade, a dish of butter, and a bottle of brown sauce. They exchanged glances as Mrs. Draycott rattled round in the kitchen.

  “It’s breakfast,” Pru said hopefully. “Even I can do that.”

  “Here we are now,” their landlady announced as she entered the dining room wearing a rose-pink velour tracksuit protected by a checked pinny. She carried two plates, each held by a napkin. Pru closed her eyes and for a fleeting moment, thought perhaps she should’ve asked for a cold breakfast—there’s no spoiling a bowl of Special K, is there?

  But the lovely aroma of grilled bacon wafted up and her mouth watered. She opened her eyes to a plate of rashers and two plump eggs jiggling slightly from their journey.

  Mrs. Draycott pointed to a dish on the table. “Ms. Mouser’s own marmalade—she sent it over especially for you. You’ll find it quite unusual. Now, Mr. Pearse, are you sure I can’t get you some black pudding?”

  “No, thank you—this will do.”

  Pru—her eggs already salted and peppered and the point of a buttered toast half poised to plunge—hesitated. “Have you had your own breakfast?” she asked.

  “Oh, indeed. I had my muesli ages ago—before the morning walk.” She took a step back and admired the breakfast table. “May I say once more what a delight it is to have the two of you here at the Copper Beech. I’d quite forgotten how guests can liven things up. Now, I’ll just pop more toast in for you. How is your tea?”

  They tucked in and made short work of it, depleting the toast rack in record time. Pru kept an eye on the door, but no fresh slices seemed to be forthcoming.

  “I’ll just nip in and see about the toast—do you think?” Pru whispered.

  Christopher, his mouth full, nodded her off.

  Pru pushed the kitchen door in halfway and said, “Hello, sorry. Can I give you a hand with the toast?”

  “Oh, Ms. Parke, come in. It’s just come up ready.” Mrs. Draycott had her back to Pru, huddling over the electric kettle as it switched off. “I was about to pour up another pot of tea for you. The toast is there at the cooker.”

  The stove, as with the rest of the B&B, had a vintage look—white and boxy with four gas rings, an oven, and a grill. On a warming shelf above the burners sat a plate with a single piece of toast, a shriveled-looking specimen. Pru hoped they weren’t under bread restrictions at the Copper Beech—perhaps it was the end of the loaf. She took the plate.

  “Not that one!” Mrs. Draycott shouted.

  Pru let go of the plate, and it dropped two inches back to its shelf, a few crumbs tumbling off. “I’m sorry,” she said in a tiny voice. “I thought you said—”

  “No, no, Ms. Parke, it’s my fault, all mine. But, you see, that’s Mr. Draycott’s toast.”

  Pru eyed the toa
st. Then she scanned the room searching for the specter of the late Mr. Draycott, who might be hoping to butter his slice.

  “He had asked for more toast that morning six years ago, you see,” the landlady continued, “and I came in to put it under the grill. It took no time at all, and I left it there on the warmer and went out to ask him if he could make do with bramble jelly, as we’d run out of marmalade. But he’d gone. Just there, at your table, over the last of his bacon.”

  “Oh, I’m so sorry,” Pru said. “How terrible for you.”

  “My only regret is that he neglected to finish sorting out the bathroom taps. Did I mention that to you—how the hot and cold are reversed?”

  Pru took the correct plate of toast to the dining room, set it on their table, sank into her chair, and heaved a great sigh. “Mr. Draycott’s toast is on a plate over the cooker.”

  Christopher glanced to the kitchen door and back.

  “Should we wait for him?” he asked.

  Pru snorted. Mrs. Draycott came out with a fresh pot, and Pru tried to turn her snort into a cough, succeeding in choking herself.

  “Tea?”

  —

  “Why don’t you let me drop you?” Christopher asked as they stood at the car.

  “No, I’ll enjoy the walk—it’s a lovely morning, and I really should walk off a bit of that breakfast,” Pru replied. Although she’d gone light on Cynthia’s marmalade—the traditional orange concoction but it had been flavored with bay leaves. Pru decided not to speak against it, but noticed Christopher had left a spoonful of it on his plate. “You go on your way to Bram, and I’ll see you later at Grenadine Hall.”

  Mrs. Draycott came up the side path, a metal bowl of chicken feed in her hand. Several russet hens paraded behind her in a disorderly fashion.

  “Now, Ms. Parke, you’ll have no trouble finding Glebe House,” she said. “Down our lane and at the junction with the war memorial, swing round and take the second track until you reach a footpath on your right. Head straight through the field—pay no mind to the notice about the bull—and when it rises to the next lane, go right, past a short row of terraced cottages. When you come upon a field with one enormous oak tree, you’ve almost arrived. And, oh yes, you may have noticed we’ve poor mobile reception here at the Copper Beech. Something to do with cosmic rays, Mr. Draycott always said—although he may have been joking. You’ll need to resort to the landline.”

  At that Mrs. Draycott withdrew, her hens following. Christopher kissed Pru and wished her luck.

  —

  Doesn’t every field in England have an enormous oak tree smack in the middle? Pru thought as she rounded the war memorial. When she reached the field and saw the sign that admonished BEWARE OF BULL!! she hesitated, scanning the horizon for anything bovine-related. Far off to the left she saw a cluster of golden-brown cows. Hoping the bull had other things on his mind, she hurried across the field and climbed the bank, pulling herself up with the aid of the sturdy branch of a field maple and holding on to the railing post as she climbed over the stile. She reached the lane and stopped. She dropped her massive canvas bag—amazing how heavy extra hair clips, a coin purse, and a few bits and bobs could become—and leaned against the stone wall to catch her breath. Warm for October, she thought, running the back of her hand across her forehead. But who could complain about that in autumn? She had dressed for the weather, light trousers and a camisole covered with a linen shirt—a gardener’s version of a business outfit. She took her hair clip out, combed it through, and reclipped.

  The drone of a bee caught her attention and she watched as it headed for a catkin-like burgundy flower swaying atop a tall, slender stem. A stand of great burnet still in bloom. Pru looked past the swaying stems and saw a cottage, the first one in a row of five.

  This end-row cottage stood disguised behind a congested front garden where plants jostled one another for space. The last few flowers of lanky late-season rudbeckias flapped languidly; prickly teasel heads, dried and brown, caught in spiderwebs; and spikes of mullein seedheads held tattered, silver-gray leaves.

  Somewhere behind the Japanese anemone, Pru saw movement. “Good morning,” she called.

  A hat emerged, a hat with a brim as wide as a tablecloth and almost as floppy. It began to move toward her. Pru could see no one under it.

  When the figure broke through the last and particularly thick stand of asters, Pru still couldn’t see a face, only a short figure wearing a tunic top and trousers made from sunflower-print fabric. They were stuffed into the tops of bright pink Wellies that sported a garland of plastic flowers round the rims.

  “You lost?” A woman lifted the brim slightly as she tucked a pair of secateurs in her pocket.

  “No, I’m not lost.” But no harm in checking when in unfamiliar territory. “I’m on my way to Glebe House. It’s just down this lane, isn’t it?”

  “So, you’ve arrived, have you?” the woman asked.

  The bulletin, apparently, had gone out.

  “Hello, good morning. I’m Pru Parke,” she said, wondering what happened to the proper start of a conversation.

  “Oh. Lizzy Sprackling.”

  “Happy to meet you, Lizzy. It seems you’ve heard that I’m going to talk with Coral Summersun about the garden at Glebe House.”

  “The garden is crap,” Lizzy said.

  Pru opened her mouth and blinked, unable to speak. She did not believe that any garden loved by its maker could ever be crap. Neglected—yes. Abandoned, overgrown with perhaps plants unsuitable for their aspect—possibly. But crap? No. Not even a chipped terra-cotta pot holding a bedraggled geranium with one brave lollipop stem of scarlet flowers could be crap if a person washing dishes could cast her gaze out the window and smile at the sight.

  Clearing her throat, Pru managed only to say, “I’m sure the Thyme Walk is still lovely.” She took a deep breath and continued. “And the Stilt Garden leading to the gate overlooking the fields—that must continue to be quite striking. Although I’ve seen it only in photos.”

  The woman lifted her chin as if sniffing the air, sensing which way the wind blew. “Oh yes, the Thyme Walk. Quite a good placement, that. And often copied.”

  That was better. Respect where respect was due.

  “Mr. Bede’s work was quite admired in its day,” Pru remarked. “It sounds as if Ms. Summersun wants to restore the garden to its…you know, former glory.”

  “Don’t expect Coral to give tuppence for the garden’s former glory—at least, not as Constance did.”

  “You knew her mother?”

  Lizzy nodded back to the cottages. “Mother and daughter lived midterrace, moved in when Coral could only just walk. Batsford had already started the garden a few years before that, but when Constance arrived, they got stuck in. Donkey’s years ago.”

  “You saw the garden as it came into being,” Pru said. Contemporary accounts are vital when researching a historic garden.

  Lizzy shrugged one shoulder. “Yes, well, I suppose I did. I was married and lived in Cheltenham. I worked for an architect, and learned a bit about drawing plans and such. But kept an eye on my mum here, and moved back for good when I divorced and my son went off to university. Saw the garden built bit by bit. Did a bit of work for Batty. I remember all the old Italian stonework arriving. We thought Batty’d gone round the bend, but you know, when the garden matured, it all seemed to make sense.”

  With Lizzy’s face lost under her hat, Pru had found it difficult to tell her age. Perhaps younger than Mrs. Draycott’s eighty-six years—late seventies?

  A rustling behind the teasel caught Pru’s eye—she saw a bushy tail disappear round the corner.

  “Mr. Tod,” Lizzy said. “He stays close, but can be a bit shy at first.”

  “Well, I’d best be on my way,” Pru said, “but I hope I can talk with you again. And see your garden, too.”

  Lizzy peered out from under her awning. “Yes, all right. You’re welcome to stop anytime—I’m always here exce
pt for my morning and evening walks with Fabia and Cyn.”

  I’ve a mind to keep this volunteer milky bellflower (Campanula lactiflora) that showed itself in the border. Tall, the palest of pink. Will it prove its worth? BB

  Chapter 6

  Pru made her way down the lane. To her left ran a low stone wall, but farther in, she caught a glimpse of what must be the gardens—something about the unusual form and texture of the trees, uncharacteristic for the native landscape. Below that, fields with the massive oak tree. Her excitement fluttered inside her chest like captive butterflies. Restoration of a modern garden would be unlike her post at Primrose House in Sussex, where she had worked to reconstruct a Humphry Repton landscape gone for two centuries. Glebe House’s gardens had to be intact, but perhaps wanted only clearing out or replacing. Perhaps that gorgeous round pool dredged and refilled. And just think, she wouldn’t have to do any of the work herself, only recommend it. Isn’t that what Coral Summersun had promised?

  The wall ended and a freshly sheared yew hedge took its place. Its first cutting in a while, Pru thought—cuts had been made back into old wood. But that was the beauty of yew—it was forgiving and had already started to sprout new green from the trunks and the bare, stubby branches.

  The hedge curved and a drive opened up, flanked by stone walls that carried a black plate with the gold letters GLEBE HOUSE.

  The short drive spilled out into a small graveled yard with a collection of buildings all worked in the honey-colored Cotswold stone. To the right, a building with one wall covered by a climbing hydrangea, its lacecap white flowers against dark green leaves and a small, gunmetal gray Honda parked in front. To her left, a small stone building and farther on, the two-story house with a mossy slate roof. Old, of course—hadn’t she read seventeenth century in one of the articles? But Batsford Bede had repurposed it in the Arts and Crafts style, a theme he continued in the garden. With a frisson of excitement, Pru approached its front door.