Best-Laid Plants

by Marty Wingate

  But no longer—Mr. Bede’s specialty plants had been choked out by two of the most insidious weeds known to gardeners: ground elder and bindweed. The Thyme Walk had escaped this coup because of its hot, dry conditions, but here in more amenable circumstances, the takeover had been complete. Pru’s heart sank—the beds would need to be dug out completely to a depth of…

  Blinders. Pru put on imaginary blinders and marched down the grass path of the Deep Borders, realizing as she neared the end that she still held a handful of weeds. She glanced round, unwilling to just drop them—no matter how the rest of the garden looked—and caught sight of an empty urn, with ivy snaking up its sides. She deposited her weeds and left.

  Next, she came into the Stilt Garden. Here, two double rows of pleached hornbeams—trees kept to about twenty feet high—were trained so that their trunks were bare and their canopies grew together to form an eye-level hedge. They had lost their sharp edges and would need a severe pruning in the winter, but otherwise, the space had held true to its design. On she went until at last she stood at the black wrought-iron gate with its filigreed arch, where she stopped and took a deep breath. Opening before her was a territorial view of the fields and the Cotswolds escarpment rising in the distance. Magic.

  Hedgerows delineated the far fields like green-and-tan checkerboards with sheep scattered about as playing pieces, with uncut meadows closer at hand. This must be the land Bram farmed—the land she wanted a leasehold on so she could begin her own smallholding. Christopher might be in the dark copses to the left at this moment, searching for signs of badgers.

  “Is there any hope for it, do you think?”

  Pru jumped.

  “Oh, I’m sorry, forgive me,” the man said. He stood several feet away from her, set down a black leather bag, and raised his hands in a show of peace. “I thought you’d heard me coming.”

  “I was lost in thought is all,” Pru managed, catching her breath. She glanced over his shoulder and at the far end of the Long Walk, atop the Lutyens Steps, she saw a tall, thin figure leaning on a cane, watching her. Mr. Bede? She was too far away to tell for certain.

  The man beside her held out his hand. “Arthur Cherrystone, physician. You’re Pru Parke?”

  Pru set her own bag on the ground and shook the man’s hand—a large hand, a firm grasp. Not tall—she could look him in the eye—but he was nonetheless solidly built and had a full salt-and-pepper beard trimmed short to match his hair.

  “Yes, hello. How do you do?”

  “Batsford said you were on the grounds as of today. That was quick work getting you here, but of course, he’s not a man to be kept waiting.”

  Pru looked again up the Long Walk, but the figure had vanished. “I’m sorry he wasn’t feeling up to meeting me this morning, Dr. Cherrystone. Do you think tomorrow, perhaps?”

  “Please, it’s Cherry—that’s what everyone calls me—with or without the ‘doctor.’ You’ve been talking with Coral, of course. I realize she paints a gloomy portrait—she wants to think the worst for her own reasons. Batsford fought through a serious upper-respiratory infection, and at his age, he’s been slow to recover. But he’s stronger than most. And stubborn.” The doctor smiled. “He’s not finished yet.”

  “That’s good to know.” Pru wondered which version to believe—Coral’s worry that her uncle hadn’t recuperated or the doctor’s impression that Mr. Bede was hale and hearty. “I look forward to meeting him. In the meantime, I took the liberty of getting my first glimpse of the garden. So far I’ve seen only the Long Walk—it’s this lovely view that stopped me, as it was meant to.”

  Cherry gazed out onto the fields. “Yes. Pity you can’t eat the scenery, isn’t it?”

  Pru considered it nourishment of another sort, but wouldn’t get into such a discussion here. She noticed the doctor glance at his watch and so she checked the time, too. Already gone noon.

  “I’d best be off,” she said. “I’m to be at Grenadine Hall about now.”

  “You can go from here, you know,” Cherry said. “Across the ha-ha.” Until that moment, Pru hadn’t noticed the shallow ditch just a few yards in front of them. Of course, that was the point of a ha-ha, to be an unseen barrier, making it look as if you stood in the same field with the sheep and cows. “Skirt the field to the right—you’ll see Batsford’s old glasshouse—and cross two lanes. Well, it’s one lane and a track, actually—through a second field and up into the pasture just below the Hall.”

  Pru sighed.

  Cherry grinned. “Or you could go back out to the lane here and walk the mile on solid ground.”

  She laughed. “It isn’t that I don’t enjoy a good walk,” she said, “it’s only that I’ve been through a few fields already today. I believe I’ll take the lane.”

  “And I’ll take my footpath in the other direction. If you ever need me, you can go this way”—he pointed to the meadows below—“through these two fields and that copse and across a lane. You’ll see my house just down the drive. I hope to meet you again.”

  Pru retraced her steps, but hesitated before she reached the courtyard. Did Mr. Bede keep an eye on the comings and goings from his French doors? Pru was reluctant to walk across that stage, and so, she veered off the Thyme Walk and discovered another gate that emptied her out into the yard on the opposite side of the front door from where she had started. She had crossed the gravel and stopped to admire a tall silk tassel bush trained against the stone wall of the shed when she heard a female voice coming from the courtyard. Pru stepped onto the paving stones and walked to the gate, peeking inside just in time to see a silvery-gray head of hair in tight long ringlets disappear through the French doors.

  I relented on C’s notion of cocktails in the garden with friends and, much to my chagrin, found I enjoyed myself thoroughly. BB

  Chapter 8

  Pru passed the Horse & Groom on the way, and with a faint memory of walking to the pub three autumns ago, she struck out onto a footpath off the lane, marched across a field, and with great relief, caught sight of Grenadine Hall, sitting prominently on a rise and surrounded on two sides by gardens with a long and highly visible drive that circled round on itself at the front entrance. A Georgian house, it had been remodeled by its nineteenth-century owners with fanciful carved stone scrollwork above bay windows, gargoyle water spouts, and several Gothic spires thrown in for good measure—a Victorian folly. A large pasture lay off to the far side of the house—the site of the fête. Pru held up for a moment and took in the scene. Soon the stalls would go up—baked goods, tea cozies, and collectibles that would line the edges. And the educational stalls, too—with Christopher standing beneath the banner that read BADGERS—OUR COMPANIONS IN THE COUNTRY.

  She started for the front door of the Hall, but when she passed the wooden gate set in the brick wall of the kitchen garden, she noticed a small blackboard—the kind cafés set out on the pavement—with a chalk drawing of a rabbit wearing a blue coat holding a half-eaten carrot. Below it was written: Information leading to the apprehension of this thief will be rewarded with a harvest basket. Inquire within.

  Pru stepped into the kitchen garden—as large and plentiful as she remembered. She made her way to the far gate, weaving around the rows of broad beans and runner beans on their last legs of the season, with pumpkins and leeks and kale still going strong.

  Out the gate on the far side, across a gravel path, and into the glasshouse where a man stood at a bench lined with tiny terra-cotta pots.

  “Oliver?”

  He looked up and grinned. His dark hair, combed forward, couldn’t disguise the receding hairline—he must be early forties by now—but it still gave him an impish look, and his good nature came through in the smile lines round his mouth.

  “Pru,” he said, dusting his hands off. “It’s been a while, hasn’t it? Good to see you—I was hoping you’d stop here in the garden before lunch.” He extended a hand for a firm shake.

  “I don’t want to disturb you.”

/>   “You aren’t—I’m just finishing up these heliotrope cuttings, stay if you like.” He went back to his work, taking the last few stems, dipping them into rooting powder, and plunging each into its own pot. “Have you been to the holy ground yet?”

  “Glebe House. Just my first glimpse today. You’ve been there?”

  “No,” Oliver said as he brushed loose soil off the bench and into a bucket. He looked over his shoulder and grinned. “That is, well, yes. But it’s been years since I’ve had a good look round. Too bad what’s happened to it.”

  “It’ll take a fair bit of work,” Pru agreed, but absentmindedly, as she checked the labels on trays of cuttings—Penstemon Raven and another flat of coneflowers. Oliver could be a good source of replacement plants for Glebe House. “All I really did today was to meet with Coral Summersun.”

  Oliver’s hands paused for a moment before he lifted a metal watering can at his feet and gave the new cuttings a shower. “And how did she seem?”

  “Oh, um,” Pru said, wondering that herself. Unsettled? Apprehensive? Opposed to getting dirty? “A bit sad about Mr. Bede, I think. But wanting to get the garden back into shape, although she doesn’t seem to know much about it.” Pru came up with what she thought would be a cute anecdote. “I wasn’t sure if you two had met, the way she mentioned you. ‘Oh yes, Mr. Ottershaw,’ she said.”

  The watering can dropped to the ground and fell over on its side, crashing into a stack of black plant pots and knocking them over. Oliver whipped round—two red spots bloomed on his cheeks, and his face was like thunder. “ ‘Mr. Ottershaw?’ Is that what she called me?”

  “Well—” Pru had put her foot in something, but she had no idea what or where to step next. “Possibly. She seems quite a formal person. I’m sure she didn’t mean anything by it. Perhaps I heard wrong?”

  “No,” Oliver growled, shaking his head. “You didn’t hear wrong. Apparently.” He set the pots upright and hung the can on a nail, all his fire gone. “Here now, I’m finished, let’s go up to lunch.”

  —

  Natalie greeted Pru at the door, first with a handshake and then a hug. “Welcome back,” she said. “It’s been far too long. And so much has happened,” she added when Christopher stepped out of the library with John. Natalie ran her hands through her hair, which was loose and dark with ribbons of silver, and pushed the sleeves up on her cardigan. She had the knack for looking put together even when she wasn’t.

  Although Pru had spent only a weekend at Natalie and John’s—and Christopher had met them only briefly—they were the sort of people who put a person at ease almost immediately. They gathered round the kitchen table for their meal—John swept the morning newspapers aside and opened a bottle of sauvignon blanc.

  Lunch restored Pru’s faith in good food. A pasta salad with little balls of marinated mozzarella, couscous with sundried tomatoes, poached salmon salad—she dived in, afraid to guess what would be placed on the Copper Beech’s dinner table that evening. Christopher did the same—plus second helpings. Pudding—apple tart with custard—completed the meal.

  Their hosts provided a running commentary of village life throughout lunch. “Now that you’re here for more than a weekend, you might as well know who everyone is.”

  Pru asked about Lizzy Sprackling—a gentle crackpot—and Bram—the dearest thing, so young and full of enthusiasm. Christopher inquired after Ger Crombie, the casual laborer.

  “He’s a drifter of sorts,” John said.

  “Seasonal worker,” Natalie corrected him.

  “We met him at the pub last night,” Christopher said, “and I saw him again this morning when I went out to visit Bram. He was saying there had been complaints about badgers going after the lambs, and what did I think of that? It’s a ridiculous claim—I believe he only wanted to rile me.”

  “Ger has a run-in with almost everyone he meets,” Oliver added. “Yet Bram continues to give him work—although, I don’t see how she can put up with him.”

  They talked round the village, but skirted the subject of Glebe House and Batsford Bede until Pru brought it up.

  “He’s a quiet man,” Natalie said. “But kind and certainly well respected. I was sorry to hear about his illness.”

  “Do you see much of him?”

  John shook his head. “Bede’s always kept himself to himself. A recluse of sorts.”

  “Apart from his friend,” Oliver added. “Or therapist or companion—what would you call her, Natalie?”

  “I’m not sure she needs a label,” Natalie said, and Pru saw Oliver and John exchange grins. “Cynthia Mouser—she lives in the village. There was talk about the two of them at first, but it died down. Whatever she is, at least he’s had someone to talk with these years since Constance died and Coral absented herself.”

  Yes, that head of silvery curls disappearing through the French doors at Glebe House.

  “We met Cynthia when we arrived yesterday,” Pru said. “Well, I met her—Christopher already knew her.” She hadn’t meant for it to sound like anything, but when she said it, it did, and Natalie’s eyebrows lifted.

  “When I lived in Cheltenham,” Christopher said. “About twenty years back.”

  “Time flies, doesn’t it?” John asked no one in particular. “And occasionally seems to come back on itself.”

  “We were happy when Coral returned to the village—about three months ago now,” Natalie said, “although sorry for the reason, of course. But we’ve seen little of her. She declines our invitations and I believe keeps apart from the village, too. She has totally concentrated on her role as Batsford’s carer. I’m delighted you took this assignment, Pru, no matter how brief your stay—for Coral’s sake. God knows I’ve tried to encourage others to check in on her.” Natalie put her elbows on the table and leaned in, looking directly at Oliver. “Must be lonely in the house, just herself and her uncle Batty.”

  Oliver looked up from his empty dessert plate. “Is there any of the apple tart left, do you think?”

  Natalie sighed and stood. “Custard?”

  “Why not?”

  —

  They took coffee in a sitting room with French doors that opened to the view south.

  “I can see your horses from here, Oliver,” Pru said, standing at the window. On her first visit, she had taken note of a staggered series of yew blocks with running horses sheared in relief on the sides. “They’ve done well—looks as if they’re about to gallop into that field.”

  “Oliver has a hidden whimsical nature. He’s planned a gnome treasure hunt for the fête,” Natalie said. “Children must mark the place of all twenty of them on a map for a prize. And he’s grown enough of those tiny pumpkins to give one to every child who attends on Saturday. I tell him we’ll expect a fairy light show in the glasshouse next.”

  “I wouldn’t know the first thing about wiring,” Oliver said, shaking his head. “I’m no Elden Draycott.”

  “Ah, the Copper Beech electrics,” Christopher said. “It’s quite a guessing game as yet.”

  “Oh God.” Natalie laughed and frowned at the same time. “I’m so sorry about that—Coral had made arrangements before we had a chance to offer a room. Why don’t you move over here? Just think, next weekend Jo and Cordelia and Lucy and little Ollie will be here. A house party.”

  Pru thought back to the enormous lovely room she’d stayed in at Grenadine Hall three years before—the view of the garden, the food, the company. And then she remembered Mrs. Draycott in that vast, empty, higgledy-piggledy cottage saying to them how lovely it was to have company again—“I feel quite renewed,” she had told them that morning. Pru glanced at Christopher and sighed.

  “Thanks so much, but…we’ll be fine at the B&B. And Mrs. Draycott seems to enjoy having people around.”

  “Fabia is a dear,” Natalie said. “But she can barely boil water—still, I understand. Just remember you’ve a room here if need be.”

  —

  Those words echoed in P
ru’s head at dinner when Mrs. Draycott set their plates down and settled in her own chair to join them. Chicken, potatoes—both drier than the night before—and for a change in veg, boiled cauliflower. The plate was remarkable for its whiteness. While they ate, Mrs. Draycott regaled them with stories about the late Mr. Draycott and a few of his many inventions.

  “The corncob windmill—a small contrivance. He attached ears of corn to spokes that turned in a breeze. He thought it would amuse the hens, but on the first day a strong gust knocked one of them nearly senseless.”

  They left Mrs. Draycott as she switched on BBC Radio 4’s Book at Bedtime and headed for the pub.

  —

  That night in bed, Pru pulled out the first of Batsford Bede’s garden journals. Would the plants be in alphabetical order? Had he written a discourse on the chalky soil and pockets of clay found in the Cotswold landscape? Would he itemize his Italianate treasure trove of worn and chipped urns and statues? She opened to page one, dated thirty-five years earlier.

  There can be no greater delight on earth than to create a garden with the right partner—relying on each other’s strengths, debating double or single clematis, setting out stones, and measuring paths. I may have dug a few holes on my own, but now, we go forward together—our adventure has begun.

  What she had assumed would be an account of the garden was in fact a personal memoir—and this, the beginning. The “right partner,” surely, was Constance Summersun. Did Coral know what the books held? Pru thought not. Coral probably hadn’t even glanced inside the journals—why else would she pass off such a private history?

  Private or not, it didn’t stop Pru from reading, and when the next entry debated the merits of two lavenders—Hidcote and Munstead—she felt on safer ground and continued with several of Bede’s plant evaluations.