Best-Laid Plants

by Marty Wingate

  “Ms. Parke?”

  To her left, a woman stood in the doorway of the small outbuilding.

  “It is you, isn’t it?” she asked. “I’m Coral Summersun. Coral.”

  “Hello, yes, I’m Pru. Lovely to meet you.” Pru approached and took in a quick first impression. Coral—possibly late thirties and with impeccable but subdued makeup—wore a dress with a full skirt in a leafy green print with a darker green, thin cardigan and low heels that matched her sweater. Pru looked down at her own feet, her walking shoes stuck with dried grass.

  “I’m so very pleased to meet you,” Coral said. As the women shook hands, Pru took note of the woman’s manicured nails painted a shade of warm rose-pink.

  “Won’t you come in?” Coral gestured toward the shed. She carried about her a light floral scent like the promise of spring, Pru decided.

  Pru puzzled why the meeting with Coral Summersun would take place in an outbuilding and not in Glebe House itself, but when she stepped in and caught the earthy scent of humus combined with musty paper, she understood instantly. This was the head gardener’s domain—shed, office, library all rolled into one. In that case, she had dressed appropriately.

  “I’m really delighted to…” Pru’s voice drifted away as her eyes adjusted to the light that poured in through two high windows. Shelves, edged with a motif of carved oak leaves, lined one wall, and against another a high bench sat next to a seed cabinet—Pru recognized the latter’s function because she and Simon had one much the same at Greenoak. Beyond that, in a shadowy corner, tools hung from pegs on the wall—arranged by size from long-handled hoes and forks to spades and loppers. A leather chair with wide, flat wooden arms and a massive oak desk with a design of acorns and berries running down each leg took up the middle of the room.

  A true example of Arts and Crafts style—both functional and beautiful. It seemed Mr. Bede had taken care indoors and outdoors. Pru recalled a comment from one of the articles she’d read: Batsford Bede is both designer and plowman, creator and laborer. Glebe House gardens will be the lasting testament to this Renaissance man.

  “Coffee?”

  Pru blinked. Coral had moved to the corner of the room where an electric kettle rattled to a boil and switched off.

  “Yes, thanks.”

  “Do you take milk?”

  Pru watched as Coral dumped heaping spoonfuls of dark-brown crystals into two mugs.

  “I do, yes. I like it quite milky, if you can spare it.” Anything to mask the taste of instant coffee.

  As Coral prepared the coffee, Pru, drawn as if by a magnetic force, eased over to the far side of the room to examine garden plans tacked to the wall. Dozens of them, large and small—plan views, elevations, broad aspects and details all done in pen and ink with colored-pencil shading. Breathless with excitement, she recognized one small vignette showing how the pergola framed the view of the round pool beyond.

  Coral offered Pru a mug. “Please do let’s sit.”

  Pru tore herself away with great reluctance and sat in front of the desk—a wide, clear expanse, empty save for a mobile phone and their mugs of coffee. Coral settled herself behind it and squirmed, looking to Pru like a princess atop an enormous stack of mattresses. Setting her hands in her lap, Coral smiled, a smile that wrinkled up her nose in a mischievous sort of way.

  “I’m not accustomed to sitting at Uncle Batty’s desk. Although, when I was young, I did love to hide underneath it. Mother and Uncle Batty would always pretend they didn’t see me.” For a moment, she stared at the space at her feet as if looking for that little girl. Then she sighed and shook her head.

  “You’re very welcome to Glebe House, Pru.”

  “Thank you, I’m so happy to be here,” Pru replied, leaning far over to the left and trying to read a list on one of the tacked-up drawings. Did it say: Selections for Magnolia Mound? The key to Glebe House gardens lay all about her, and she found it difficult to concentrate. She took a deep breath, straightened up, and focused on Coral’s face.

  The woman had a pleasant expression, but the smile had faded, accentuating round hazel eyes and a soft mouth and smooth skin, apart from a few thin lines leading from the corners of her eyes. Mid or late thirties, Pru thought. Her golden hair was pulled back into a chignon, twisting and twisting on itself and pinned neatly.

  “Will Mr. Bede be joining us?” Pru asked, taking her mug and holding tightly to keep from running her hands along the carvings of leaves and berries and opening each little drawer on the seed cabinet.

  “Oh. Well, no.” Coral’s eyes flickered toward the door behind Pru, as if to confirm the statement. “You see,” she continued, “it’s only that Uncle Batty tires so quickly. Perhaps we can arrange it at a later date. But let’s just take this day by day, shall we?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “Well then, I had better tell you my story, hadn’t I? So you know why you’ve been summoned to Glebe House?” Coral offered a small, hesitant smile. “Perhaps you have already heard a few tales. You see, my mother created the gardens here at Glebe House along with Uncle Batty. He isn’t actually my uncle, but I’ve always called him that. Uncle Batty never married and has no relations, and so he arranged to leave his estate to my mother in gratitude for all she’d done—a lovely, kind gesture. Sadly, my mother died ten years ago.”

  “Your mother was Constance?”

  Coral gave a small nod.

  Out of the corner of her eye, Pru spotted a small watercolor above the seed cabinet—golden roses against a green-black hedge with pillars of blue campanula below. She thought she recognized it from photographs of the Long Walk.

  “I had moved away, and so I was not here for much of Mother’s illness.”

  Coral took a sip of coffee, set it down, and began to twist a thin gold band on her right ring finger.

  “Where were you living at the time?”

  “Oxford,” Coral replied.

  “Mmm,” Pru said, hoping to infuse her noncommittal response with as much sympathy as possible as she took a large swig of coffee, already gone cold. She had expected Coral to say she’d been living in Australia during her mother’s final illness—Los Angeles or New York at the very least. Oxford was less than an hour’s drive from Oddington—Upper or Lower.

  As if they had a will of their own, Pru’s eyes fell on the shelves behind Coral, and on three fat black notebooks, the kind that her brother Simon used, the ones with elastic bands to hold them closed. These had Glebe House Gardens handwritten on the spine of each in white ink.

  Primary documents! Pru’s breath quickened and her palms itched at the thought of poring over the history in advance of discussing plants and design with the man himself. When he felt up to it, of course.

  “Death seems to follow me,” Coral said.

  The garden journals were forgotten. Pru—afraid she might’ve missed a significant part of the conversation—commented only with a lift of her eyebrows, praying the woman would fill in the missing elements.

  “You see, I married a year and a half after my mother died. After only two years, my husband—who had close ties to the university—died.”

  “I’m so sorry. Had he been ill?”

  Coral shook her head. She then began to twist a thin silver band on her left ring finger. “And I remarried, you see,” Coral continued. “My second husband held an important post at Green Templeton College at Oxford. Sadly, he also died. Quite suddenly.”

  “How terrible for you,” Pru said. “That must’ve been difficult.”

  “Yes,” Coral said with a breathless laugh that was unaccompanied by a smile. “Unlucky in love, I suppose you could say. Twice over.”

  Pru, unsure of how the path through Coral’s life would bring them back to the moment, ventured, “Do you still live in Oxford?”

  “Until recently. Uncle Batty has not been well, and I knew it was time to come back. You see, I’ll be the one to inherit Glebe House now that Mother is gone. Details, of course, to be worked throug
h with Mr. Elkington, his solicitor. But when I returned, you can imagine how shocked I was to see the gardens in such disrepair.”

  “Have you visited much over the years?” The gardens couldn’t have plunged into disrepair overnight.

  “Sadly, circumstances prevented me.”

  Now that’s the story Pru would like to hear.

  “Well, to business,” Coral said, brightening up. “I want you to know that as you observe, consider, and recommend what to do, that you are welcome to avail yourself of any of Uncle Batty’s books and such.” Coral gave a weak wave round the room, and Pru swiveled her head, grateful for the excuse to look further. This time, the contents of the bookshelf stopped her.

  Even from where she sat she could recognize many of the authors’ names. They were icons of the British garden world—Graham Stuart Thomas, Vita Sackville-West, Rosemary Verey, Gertrude Jekyll, and William Robinson alongside books on William Morris and the Arts and Crafts movement.

  Coral followed Pru’s gaze and shook her head. “Secondhand, of course—nothing of any real value. Uncle Batty was forever haunting dusty old shops for his little treasures. Please, borrow any title you like.”

  Pru stopped herself from explaining to Coral that it was the books’ contents that made them valuable beyond measure, not their price on eBay.

  “And his journals,” Coral continued, “although I’m not sure how riveting a read they will be. Just a load of plant names.”

  A load of plant names? Mr. Bede’s personal journals were priceless, but Pru took a deep breath and reminded herself not everyone could be a gardener—or even, it seemed—a lover of gardens.

  “I look forward to getting started,” she answered. “Of course, I’ll write up a complete report for you, but even before that, once I get a sense of what needs to be done, perhaps you’d like to walk round the grounds with me?”

  “Good Lord, no,” Coral said. “I’ll leave the gardens to you. Uncle Batty always liked it a bit jungly, but now you practically need a machete to get through. No, Pru, you are on your own—I will rely on your expertise.”

  Free rein—unlimited access to the contents of the shed and permission to roam the grounds. Where to start? First, she would go searching for that particularly fine and unusual evergreen shrub from Tasmania called the mountain pepper. Beautiful ornamental, and weren’t the berries used to make a spicy sauce? Mr. Bede had planted one in a protected corner of the White Garden and it had thrived, from all accounts. She wanted to see for herself.

  “Your work is much admired, you know,” Coral told her. “And the Bennet-Smythes speak so highly of you.”

  “Have you known them long? The Bennet-Smythes?”

  “Oh yes—years and years.”

  “And you know Oliver as well? Their gardener.”

  Coral tilted her head slightly as if she hadn’t quite heard what Pru had said. “Mr. Ottershaw? Yes. Of course. Naturally, when one is friends with the family in the house, one can’t help but come in contact with the staff.”

  Come in contact? She made Oliver sound like a contagious disease.

  “But you see,” Coral continued, “with your name attached to it, people will know that any work done here at Glebe House will be carried out in a way that respects the qualities of the…you know…the way it was laid out.”

  “The Arts and Crafts style,” Pru said.

  “Yes.” Coral sighed. “I’ve never understood how textiles and wallpaper can be translated to plants, but Mother always said, ‘Coral, you have no mind for nature.’ It’s my only excuse.”

  Coral’s mobile danced on the surface of the desk as it vibrated. She glanced at the screen, and said to Pru, “Would you mind if I…”

  “Not at all.”

  Coral answered the phone as she walked out to the yard, saying, “Dr. Cherrystone, hello, good morning…yes, I’ll be right there.”

  Pru rose from her chair and, like a kid in a candy shop, for a moment didn’t know which way to turn. She broke her indecision and stepped over to the bookshelves, running a finger down the row of spines. She dashed to the wall with the plan drawings, and stifled an excited squeak when she saw the detailed watercolor of the steps designed by famed architect Edwin Lutyens—five circular stone risers set into a short incline that led to the Thyme Walk and beyond. She tore herself away from the drawings and approached the shelf behind the desk. She stared at the three garden journals and at last reached out, pulled one from the shelf, and slipped off the elastic band. Holding her breath, she opened to a random page.

  Cow parsley (Anthriscus sylvestris)—Exquisite texture; puts on a dance in spring. Its beauty is enough, but that Victorian faff about the meaning of a flower tells me that cow parsley means “sanctuary.” Who seeks sanctuary in my meadows?

  “I’m so sorry,” Coral said from the doorway. “It seems I’m needed.”

  Pru slapped the book shut. “I was only…”

  “Not at all—take them along if you like.”

  Coral’s cavalier attitude toward someone else’s property—as if she already owned them—made Pru think the worst of Mr. Bede’s condition. But that didn’t mean she wouldn’t take the woman up on the offer.

  “Well, if you’re sure.” Pru packed the three notebooks away in her canvas bag. “It will be good background.”

  They walked out together into the yard. “I trust your accommodations are suitable for you and your husband?” Coral asked.

  Pru thought back to early that morning—how she had struggled with the wrought-iron window handle before realizing it had been painted shut; how the shower alternated between scalding and freezing; and how she’d been plunged into darkness when Christopher shifted the joystick light switch in their bedroom to third instead of second gear.

  “Mrs. Draycott is lovely,” Pru evaded. “Thank you so much for making the arrangements.”

  “Weeks ago, when we first discussed bringing someone such as yourself in, Uncle Batty arranged for the hedges to be trimmed and a rough cut of the grass. So, you’ll at least be able to walk through,” Coral told her. “It seemed to take them forever, and the place was full of scaffolding, ladders, and lines of string stretched from here to there—really, I despaired of them ever finishing before you arrived.” Coral glanced at her watch—delicate, gold, and possibly diamond-encrusted, by the looks of it, with a face so tiny Pru would’ve needed a magnifying glass to read it.

  “You don’t mind if I leave you here?” Coral asked. “I’ll see you in the morning, shall I?” she whispered and disappeared inside the house.

  Pru stood alone in the yard. She heard bleating in the distance and a couple of wood pigeons in the hedgerow across the lane. Had Coral’s dismissal meant “go on your way” or had it meant “the garden awaits”? Pru hitched her canvas bag up higher on her shoulder and, with no one to tell her otherwise, decided for herself. She followed a path round the side of the house to where a tall wooden gate painted turquoise blue stood ajar. Well, there you are—an invitation. She pushed it open and went in.

  We watched them lay the last of the stone today, after which C and I got to work on planting the White Garden. The girl dragged round a watering can behind us and sprinkled—more christening than drenching. BB

  Chapter 7

  Through the turquoise-blue gate was a courtyard with French doors into the house, but these were closed and the curtains drawn. Pru stood quite still for a moment and took in her surroundings. The square courtyard contained a frame of yew with four square planting beds and a circle in the center. She had seen photos and knew that in the middle of each bed a cordyline grew surrounded by low hedges and bulbs, but now the cordylines strained to keep their spiky palm heads above overgrown shrubs and clambering ivy, and the low box edging had died out in places. But clearing out and replanting would be easily sorted.

  Pru skirted the edges of the courtyard hoping no one would appear to banish her—she couldn’t quite be certain she had permission for this self-guided tour of discovery. O
ut of the courtyard on the other side, she was met with a wall of sheared yew and offered two paths, one left and one right. She had studied the garden plans in magazine articles and knew these paths would lead to the same place—both circled round to the spot directly in front of her on the other side of the green wall.

  She chose left, and in twenty feet the path turned back on itself. With a hedge on both sides, she continued down the yew corridor—grateful that Batsford Bede had made sure the miles of hedges were brought back into shape before she saw them—until a wide gap opened on her left. A metal bench, painted the same turquoise, sat atop the Lutyens Steps and faced down the Long View. At Pru’s feet and growing under the bench was a ground cover of Convallaria majalis, lily of the valley. She seemed to remember it had been a favorite of Mr. Bede’s. A plant both charming and thuggish.

  Ahead of her, at the base of the steps, the Thyme Walk began—a wide path of square-cut stones, the hard surfaces softened by low, hummocky mounds of green, gray, and yellow. The thyme had died out in places and reseeded in others—what remained basked in the sun and soaked up the warmth from the stone. On either side, a golden yew hedge was trimmed in a serpentine fashion, making the plants look like part of a flowing stream. Pru chose to ignore the weeds—dandelion, hawkweed, willow herb—that choked the base of the hedge and colonized corners of the walk. These were minor nuisances. The bones of the garden were intact—that’s what mattered.

  Statues flanked the opening. These must be part of the Italianate hoard Mr. Bede had shipped to England all those years ago. Perhaps they had been matching figures, but the limestone had not aged well, and now the faces were worn away and the feet partially melted.

  Pru descended the steps, treading on the herbs as she walked through—breathing in the aromatic oils, just as Mr. Bede had intended. As she walked, she unconsciously reached down and pulled out a few of the easier weeds. Old habits.

  At the end of the Thyme Walk she climbed the matching Lutyens Steps to the lawn that ran between the Deep Borders, where beds to her left and right had been planted with choice shrubs, perennials, and bulbs, for color and texture that would last months and months.