A Family of His Own

by Liz Fielding

  ‘I’ll call you tomorrow,’ Greg said from the door. ‘We’ll talk about some help.’

  ‘No rush,’ he said absently, willing her to look up—look at him. Then he was distracted by another movement as a little girl leapt up out of the grass, holding up a loop of flowers. A daisy chain of some kind. Sara put it on the child’s head so that she looked like a little princess.

  He was sure she was laughing. If only he could see her face.

  ‘No rush…’ he said again as the door clicked shut. Hands pressed against the glass, he watched as, having bent to kiss the child, she reached into her back pocket, took out a pair of secateurs and reached down to cut through the thick stem of the brambles. ‘I’ve got all the time in the world.’

  Then he saw that she wasn’t wearing gloves.

  He’d bought her a pair, but she always tore them off, impatient with her clumsiness in the thick, thorn-proof protection.

  As he watched, a bramble whipped back and caught her hand.

  ‘No…’

  She eased it carefully from her skin, then put her thumb to her mouth, sucked it, and, like a recurring nightmare, history began to repeat itself…

  ‘Sara…’

  But her name choked in his throat and he slid down the glass as the image shimmered, then shattered as he slammed his lids shut.

  ‘Heavens, Kay, you’ve done well.’ Amy Hallam placed a bowl with a few blackberries in it on the kitchen table. ‘I thought I’d help out, but there really isn’t much fruit in our paddock. The goat nibbles any bramble shoots the minute they appear.’

  ‘Goats eat anything the minute it appears above ground.’ Kay rinsed the fruit and added it to the pan simmering on the stove. ‘But thanks for the thought. I’m afraid I had to do something rather bad to ensure that the blackberry and apple pies weren’t just apple this year.’

  ‘Bad? You? How unexpected.’ She grinned. ‘How promising.’

  ‘Stop it. I’m serious. I raided the garden at Linden Lodge. Egged on, I have to tell you, by your god-daughter.’

  ‘What’s bad about that? It would have been a crime to let them go to waste. Polly’s a bright child and I’ve done my godmotherly duty in teaching her to use her initiative.’

  ‘The resident blackbird didn’t take your relaxed view—’

  ‘Let him eat worms.’

  ‘—and I broke the latch on the gate when I pushed it open.’

  ‘Scrumping and vandalism in one fell swoop,’ Amy said with a grin. ‘You’re a one-woman crime wave, Kay Lovell. The neighbourhood-watch coordinator will have to be informed. Oh, wait. You are the neighbourhood-watch coordinator—’

  ‘Oh, stop it,’ Kay said, unable to suppress her answering grin. Then, picking up the kettle, ‘Coffee?’

  ‘Please. Do you want me to send someone over to fix the gate?’

  ‘No, I can handle it. The bit that the bolt slides into had rusted away, that’s all. I’m sure I’ve got one in the shed.’

  ‘What’s it like in there?’

  ‘The shed? Do you want to do a landlady’s inspection now? I really should have some notice so that I can tidy up a bit…’

  ‘Linden Lodge.’

  Yes, well, she knew that was what Amy meant. She wasn’t sure she wanted to talk about it though.

  ‘It’s so mysterious behind those high walls,’ Amy prompted.

  ‘No, just overgrown,’ Kay said. ‘Polly sat down to make a Michaelmas-daisy chain while I cut back the brambles and she completely disappeared. Just for a minute I thought…’ She let it go. She didn’t want to remember how she’d felt in those few horrible seconds when Polly had failed to respond to her call. When all she could see was the open gate and a million hideous possibilities had rushed into her head…

  ‘You cut back the brambles?’ Amy asked, distracting her.

  ‘What? Oh, well, yes. They were strangling an espaliered peach. Poor thing.’ She concentrated on spooning coffee into the cafetière. ‘Don’t snigger, Amy.’

  ‘Me? Snigger? Perish the thought.’

  ‘Well, don’t smile, then. I know it was pathetic of me. I just can’t bear to see anything suffering.’ She stopped, turned away to take down a couple of mugs. She knew she didn’t have to explain. Amy never needed explanations. She just seemed to know. ‘Anyway,’ she said, ‘I’ll drop a note through the letterbox tomorrow when I go and fix the gate. Just to explain.’

  ‘About cutting back the brambles to save the peach tree?’

  ‘About nicking the blackberries. For a good cause.’

  ‘There’s no one at home to care and ghosts don’t need explanations, Kay.’

  Startled, she turned to look at her visitor. ‘Ghosts?’

  ‘You didn’t feel it? The garden always feels haunted to me whenever I walk past.’

  ‘No. It wasn’t creepy, just…sad.’

  ‘Maybe that’s what I meant.’

  Kay didn’t think so. She hadn’t felt any ghosts there, but Amy was well known locally for her slightly fey qualities, her ability to feel more than most people could see.

  ‘A For Sale board went up on Friday. Did you know?’ she said, determined to change the subject. She hadn’t felt anything beyond sadness, yet even now her skin was goosing. And she had to go back there to fix the gate.

  ‘I heard it was on the market. Such a pity.’

  ‘Did you know the people who lived there?’

  ‘The Ravenscars? Not well. We’d met at village events, of course—the fête, a fundraiser for the hall, that sort of thing—but I was busy with the children. I had Mark that year and I was still establishing the business. They were younger, hadn’t been married more than a year or two and were still more interested in each other than anyone else. They came to the harvest supper, though. I remember Sara Ravenscar was thrilled at the way the whole village comes together for that. She’d have approved of you having the blackberries.’ Then, ‘Her death was such a tragedy.’

  ‘I heard she died from tetanus poisoning. Is that true?’

  ‘Well there were complications, but can you believe it in this day and age! Apparently her parents didn’t believe in any kind of vaccination and, like most enthusiastic gardeners, she couldn’t keep a pair of gloves on.’ Then, ‘After she died Dominic went overseas. I heard he was working on some kind of aid programme.’

  ‘I’m surprised he didn’t sell the house, or let it. Rather than let it stand empty. Whoever buys it will need to put in a lot of work and not just in the garden. The paintwork is in a very poor state.’

  ‘Maybe he couldn’t bear to let it go so soon. Then I suppose coming back seemed even worse so he shut it out. Now he’s like a needle stuck in an old gramophone record, unable to move on.’

  Kay gave a little shiver, as if a goose had walked over her grave. ‘Well, he’s put it on the market now. That’s movement of a sort.’

  ‘Maybe. I hope so.’

  ‘Yes, well, I’ll take the wheelbarrow and clear up the stuff I chopped down when I fix the gate. Maybe I should approach the agents and see if they want the garden properly tidied up. I’ve rather let my own business slide while Polly has been off school for the summer.’

  Amy looked as if she was about to say something, but when she hesitated and Kay raised her brows she just said, ‘Bearing in mind what happened to Sara Ravenscar, make sure you wear gloves. Have you put something on those scratches?’

  ‘Tea-tree oil.’ She glanced at her hand where the sharp thorns had caught her when one of the brambles had whipped back suddenly. ‘The minute I got home. And my shots are up-to-date.’

  ‘Good.’ Then, as a pyjama-clad Polly hurtled into the room, Amy turned to scoop her up into her arms. ‘Hey, sweetheart! Just the girl I wanted to see. Can your mummy spare you tomorrow?’

  Polly, who knew when a treat was being offered, still hesitated. ‘Tomorrow?’

  ‘All day. We’re taking the boys to the sea and Mark really, really wants you to come too.’

  Her eyes we
nt round. ‘Oh, wicked!’ Then, ‘But I’ve promised to help Mummy make the pies…’

  ‘I think I can manage,’ Kay assured her, trying hard to ignore the stab of annoyance that Amy had left her with no real choice. ‘If Amy can,’ she added. ‘Are you quite sure you can cope?’

  ‘Absolutely. Four children works better than three. Jake can do adventurous things with George and James and I get to have fun rootling around the rock pools with the little ones.’

  And the unspoken message that she needed to let Polly go sometimes, that being quite so protective was not good for either of them, came across loud and clear.

  ‘Well, in that case, how can I resist? I hope you all have a lovely day.’

  ‘Did you see how many blackberries we picked, Amy?’ Polly demanded, snapping the tension that stretched between them. ‘And I made a purple daisy chain, too.’

  ‘Purple? You’re kidding me!’

  ‘No, honestly! Come and see…’ She wriggled free and, grabbing Amy’s hand, tugged her towards the stairs.

  ‘I’ll be right back.’

  ‘I won’t hold my breath,’ Kay responded, flipping the off switch on the kettle. ‘Just don’t let her sandbag you into telling her another story. You’ve got children of your own to put to bed.’

  ‘Yes, but they’re all boys. They don’t do fairies. Or daisy chains. Besides, Jake’s on bathroom-and-story duty tonight and I have no intention of returning until he’s mopped up the mess.’

  Dom forced himself to heat up a can of soup, eat some bread. Tasting nothing, but going through the motions of living as he had done every day for the last six years. Yet for the first time in as long as he could remember, he was aware of his heart beating.

  Afterwards he walked through the house, touching the things that lay undisturbed on Sara’s dressing table, coated with the thin layer of dust that had settled since the cleaners’ last visit. Opening the cupboards where her clothes still hung, lifting the soft material of a dress he remembered her wearing, rubbing it against his cheek.

  Her scent lingered and he breathed it in.

  How stupid he’d been. She was here. All the time he’d been running, Sara had been here, waiting for him.

  Downstairs he unlocked the French windows and opened them wide. He didn’t venture beyond the paved area where they’d sat together on sunny evenings with a glass of wine, half-afraid he’d disturb her presence as she lingered in the garden. Half hoping that she’d walk out of the gathering dusk to join him.

  But the garden remained still and silent. Even this late in the summer the heat clung to the walls, filling the air with the scent of late roses, and for a while he sat there, every cell focused on the wilderness that had once been a garden, hoping for one more glimpse of her before it grew too dark to see.

  Then the sound of childish laughter floated towards him and instead of cutting him to the quick as it usually did, a poignant reminder of everything he’d lost, he found himself leaning towards it, straining to hear more. Holding his breath. Not moving while the sky darkened to the deepest blue and the first stars began to appear.

  He didn’t move until it was quite dark and nothing was visible within the deep shadows of the walled garden.

  CHAPTER TWO

  “There has fallen a splendid tear

  From the passion-flower at the gate.

  She is coming, my dove, my dear;

  She is coming, my life, my fate.”

  Alfred, Lord Tennyson

  KAY DIDN’T waste any time. The minute she’d waved Polly goodbye, she loaded up her wheelbarrow with the tools she’d need and headed for Linden Lodge. She’d behaved embarrassingly out of character yesterday and she wanted this over and done with.

  She did her bit for the community, helped in the village school, worked hard to support herself and Polly, and she kept her head down. She never stepped out of line, never did anything to attract attention to herself, cause talk. There’d been enough of that to last a lifetime when Amy had first taken them under her wing, then let them move into the cottage.

  She couldn’t think what had possessed her.

  She stopped, parked the barrow.

  She was lying to herself. She knew exactly what had possessed her.

  The mystery of a garden locked away from view. That was what had possessed her. A chance to see more than the tantalising glimpses of it she could see from her upstairs windows. She’d wanted to see more. She’d always wanted to see more.

  Polly wouldn’t have talked her into trespassing unless she’d been a willing accomplice.

  As she pushed back the gate, the mingled scents of crushed grass, germander, valerian gone to seed everywhere, welcomed her. The blackbird, perched in an old apple tree, paused momentarily in his song and then continued. And she felt…accepted.

  What utter nonsense.

  She set about the grass and weeds behind the gate, making short work of them with her shears, so that she could open it wide enough to manoeuvre her big wheelbarrow inside.

  Then, since securing the gate was more important than tidying up some mess no one was likely to see in the very near future—and she was the neighbourhood-watch coordinator—the first thing she did was to replace the bolt. She oiled the hinges, too. It was the neighbourly thing to do and little enough thanks for all the blackberries.

  As if anyone would notice. The buyers—and there would be buyers; no one was going to be put off by tired paintwork, a neglected garden…it was rare for a house in Upper Haughton to come on to the market—wouldn’t give a hoot. They’d probably rip it out and replace it with a fancy new one. Which was a shame. The old one, despite the cracked and peeling paint—where paint still remained—had character.

  They would probably grub out the high-maintenance cottage garden, too, and replace it with something modern that wouldn’t involve a constant battle with slugs, blackspot on the roses, the rust that attacked the old-fashioned hollyhocks if they weren’t constantly watched. They’d certainly tear down the crumbling summer house.

  Maybe they’d put in a swimming pool.

  She tossed the oil can into the barrow and looked around. It was still early, quiet as only a village that didn’t lead to anywhere else, tucked away from the main road, could be on a Sunday morning.

  Tattered dew-laced spider webs sparkled in the low, slanting sunlight, slender crimson berries of the Berberis thunbergii glistened like droplets of blood against purple leaves that were fading to autumn crimson, and in the little orchard ripe apples were poised in that moment of perfection before they fell to the grass to be plundered by birds and hedgehogs and wasps before the insects and micro-organisms got to work and they rotted away to nothing. The food chain in action.

  She walked the overgrown paths, sighing over the horticultural treasures that were struggling to survive against the more robust species. The temptation was to linger, set them free. But what would be the point? Without continuous care nature would rampage into the vacuum she created with renewed vigour. She’d do more harm than good.

  She hadn’t needed Amy Hallam’s raised eyebrows to know that wasting her time cutting back the brambles had been plain stupid. In the spring they’d be back, stronger than ever, and in the meantime she was having to pay for her ridiculous gesture with time and effort that would have been better spent on her own garden.

  She certainly didn’t have time to waste daydreaming about how this one would look if it was rescued from neglect, she reminded herself, and pulled on thick leather gloves before she set to work chopping up the brambles so that they’d fit into her barrow.

  And did her very best to ignore the delicate branches of a witch hazel that was being strangled by bindweed.

  Dom started awake and for a moment he had no idea where he was. Knew only that he was cold and stiff from a night spent in an armchair. That at least was a familiar experience.

  He rubbed his hands over his face, dragged his fingers through his hair, eased his limbs as he willed himself to face anoth
er day. Then, as he sat forward, he saw the garden, sparkling as the sunlight caught the dew.

  For a moment it looked like a magical place.

  And then, as he caught a glimpse of Sara at work near the summer house, he knew it was. No longer feeling the ache in his limbs, or in his heart, he stood up and walked down the shallow steps into the garden, oblivious to the wet grass soaking his feet.

  All that he cared about was that his beloved Sara was here, working in her garden, kneeling in front of a small shrub, gently releasing it from the stranglehold of some weed. And he was going to help her.

  Engrossed in her task, taking care not to snap the slender branches of the shrub as she unravelled the bindweed, Kay had scarcely any warning that she wasn’t alone.

  Only the rustle of grass that she assumed was a bird, or one of the squirrels which, having already come to give her the once-over and decided she was harmless, had continued their own busy harvest of the hazel copse on the far side of the wall.

  Nothing more.

  Scarcely a moment to register the presence beside her, a heartbeat for fear to seize her before he was on his knees beside her.

  ‘Sara…’

  His voice shivered through her, held her.

  Sara?

  The word was spoken soft and low, as if to a nervous colt that might shy away, bolt at the least excuse.

  Maybe she had started because, more urgently, he said, ‘Don’t go…’

  Soft, low, it was a heartbreaking appeal and she needed no introduction to know that this gaunt, hollow-eyed man was Dominic Ravenscar. Needed none of Amy’s famed insight to make the leap from his low plea to an understanding that, with her back to the sun, her face shadowed by the broad brim of her hat, he thought she was his poor dead wife come back to him.

  Needed no feminine intuition to know that whatever she did was going to be wrong. Was going to hurt him. Even as she struggled to find the words, he said, ‘I won’t leave you again. Ever.’

  She remained frozen in the act of slicing through the bindweed, unable to think, unable to move.

  There were no words.

  While she knelt there, trying to decide what to do, he reached out and, as if it was the most natural thing in the world, began to unravel the bindweed she’d cut through. As his hand brushed against hers a jolt, like the discharge of static electricity, shot through her and she dropped the pocket knife.