‘What does it look like I’m doing?’
‘Stealing – that’s what!’
‘Yeah?’
‘Yes!’
‘It’s not stealing. It’s compensation for the racket those flaming donkeys make.’
Flo could feel her colouring rise at his appalling explanation. ‘You have no right to steal my eggs. I could call the police and get you arrested.’
‘Yeah? Well, I could call the police and get you arrested for grievous bodily harm, and then give the environmental health a ring about the noise your donkeys make. They’d be carted away in a heartbeat and turned into glue.’
Flo gasped. ‘Why, you nasty old man! You keep your hands away from my eggs, you hear me?’
‘You batty old woman! You keep it quiet, you hear me?’
‘Oh, I hear you alright. You’re louder than any donkey!’
She heard him curse. He really did have a shocking vocabulary for a retired GP.
With tears of anger blurring her eyes, Flo stormed into her cottage and shut the back door behind her, glad to be out of the garden and away from that horrible man. How dare he, she thought? How dare that obnoxious man make her feel like that and in her own garden too? What sort of a person found it in their hearts to complain about a pair of donkeys living out their retirement? It wasn’t even as though they brayed every single day – they only did it to excess when her other neighbour played his trumpet. Perhaps she could have a quiet word with him and explain the situation.
She grabbed the kettle and put it on. A cup of tea should go some way to restoring her spirits after such an upsetting encounter, and maybe a biscuit. Just a little one.
She walked across to the dresser and stopped, noticing that the copper plate she kept there had gone. Hadn’t it been there that morning? No, she couldn’t say for sure. Gosh, she was getting so forgetful these days, it was kind of worrying. But where on earth could a copper plate have got to? She’d always kept it on the old dresser and it had looked so at home there, shining warmly against the dark oak.
It was then that Dusty the cat came into the room with half a dead rabbit hanging out of his mouth and the mystery of the missing copper plate was forgotten.
Later, when it was time to pick Sonny up from school, she thought about asking him if he’d seen the plate, but decided against it. He had enough to cope with without adding her scattiness into the mix. It would turn up, no doubt, along with the cake knife.
When they got home, Flo was surprised to find an envelope on her front doormat with her name scrawled on it in pencil along with the words, “For Sonny’s food”. She opened it up and found an old ten pound note. Ten pounds indeed, she thought, shaking her head. Well it was something at least when she hadn’t expected anything out of her nephew at all.
‘What’s that?’ Sonny asked.
‘Just a message from your dad,’ she told him. ‘He says he misses you and that he wants me to give you a big kiss from him.’ She leant down and planted a big smacker on the boy’s pale cheek. He looked so surprised that Flo immediately knew she’d overshot with her lie because the boy didn’t believe it even for a second.
The nightmares had begun again. Ben hadn’t experienced them for years. It had taken long, hard months to purge Paul Caston from his subconscious and it rattled Ben now that Paul had found his way back.
It was always the same. Ben was in the front room in the tiny terraced home he’d shared with his mum and sister when the sound of the front door slamming shut startled them out of their wits.
‘Be kind,’ his mother would say and Ben would look baffled by her request. ‘You know what he’s like when he’s had a few. He says things he regrets.’
Says things he regrets. Ben laughed now at that. His mother just hadn’t been able to see the true man behind the honied words and the gifts he’d bought her. But there’d been no honied words to Ben.
It had started small at first. There’d been a few jibes like what was a hulking great lad of twenty-two doing still living with his mother? Ben supposed Paul had felt threatened by not being the only man in the house or else jealous of Ben’s presence there. But when Ben refused to make Paul’s life easy by moving out, the jibes had turned to insults. The charming facade had slipped and the true monster had emerged. Of course, Ben’s mother didn’t see that side of Paul because he was clever. He’d wait until she was out of the room or out of the house.
The first time Paul had laid a hand on Ben, he’d been so shocked that he hadn’t been able to respond. There’d just been this dark look in Paul’s eyes as he’d got hold of Ben’s arm and twisted it like the very worst school bully.
‘Me and your mother don’t want you here,’ he’d whispered as he’d twisted. ‘You need to move on, son.’
Then came the punch in the face that had chipped a front tooth, made his nose bleed and had given him a black eye. He told his mum he’d fallen off his friend’s motorbike and she’d believed him. He’d left shortly after that knowing that, if he didn’t, he and Paul would end up killing each other.
It was the punch he always dreamed of. That colossal punch was the thing to wake him in the middle of the night. God, would it never leave him? That awful sick feeling he got whenever he thought of Paul Caston and those dark days.
He knew that Aria’s hunt for her brother had stirred it all up again, but it pained him that he hadn’t long forgotten all those feelings from the past – they had merely lain dormant, ready to rise at any given moment.
The first tender light of morning had peeped under the curtains and Ben decided to get up. He really didn’t want to fall asleep again and risk another nightmare. He tiptoed across the landing so as not to disturb Georgia and went into the bathroom which was filled with rows of feminine beauty products.
He splashed his face with cold water and looked at his reflection in the mirror. He still looked like a traveller with his overlong hair and beard. Maybe he should shave. He stroked his face with tentative fingers. He’d forgotten what a clean-shaven Ben looked like. Naked, probably. He would feel horribly exposed without his beard. Growing it had been a metamorphic moment for Ben. It was like he’d crossed from boyhood to manhood, as if he was shaking off his small-town roots and becoming a man of the world.
Giving his face another stroke, he decided to leave the beard. His armour would live to see him through another day.
After a quick breakfast of scrambled eggs and toast, he couldn’t resist logging onto the dating website. He knew he was probably setting himself up for disappointment, but he just couldn’t help himself. He had to see if Bryony had responded to his message.
A moment later he found out and swore that his heart started to do the foxtrot inside his chest because she’d replied. It was just one word to his question: Come here often? But it was a word that filled Ben with hope.
Maybe.
That’s all she’d written. Maybe. But, to Ben, it meant that maybe they had a future.
‘When did you plant all these nettles, Flo?’ Bryony teased as she put on a pair of strong leather gloves and began pulling for all she was worth.
‘I don’t know where they come from,’ Flo said. ‘There are whole armies of them. I don’t mind a few. I’m all for a bit of biodiversity and they’re good for the wildlife. I also make a bit of nettle soup each spring, but enough is enough.’
‘Yes, this is war,’ Bryony said, pulling a whopper out by its root.
‘Oh, well done!’ Flo cheered.
Bryony beamed with pride. Her dad would be proud of her. It was funny, but she’d never really shown an interest in gardening until recently. Her father had tried to encourage her, of course, but it had always been Polly who’d helped him out, diving into the borders with a big grin on her face. Bryony had been much more at home with arranging the flowers in vases with her mother or preparing the produce from the greenhouse and raised beds. She could appreciate what could be achieved in a garden, but she’d never taken an active part in curating it all.
‘How did I manage without you?’ Flo asked.
‘You managed just fine,’ Bryony told her, ever impressed with how Flo took care of so many animals and so much land all by herself.
It was as Flo was bending forward to pick up an ancient pair of secateurs, which had been revealed by Bryony’s clearing of the land, that she noticed Flo’s hands for the first time.
‘Flo – your poor hands!’ she couldn’t help exclaiming.
Flo looked startled by her cry and looked down at her hands as if seeing them for the first time.
‘Oh, it’s nothing. Just a few cuts and bruises,’ she said, self-consciously wiping them on her skirt.
‘What do you use on them?’ Bryony asked.
‘Use?’
‘To take care of them after gardening and – well – everything else you do.’
Flo took a moment to answer. ‘Erm, a bit of beeswax in the winter.’
‘Is that all?’
‘It’s good stuff, beeswax,’ Flo said. ‘I know I should use gloves. I have stacks of them, but they always seem to be in a different place from me and I think to myself, well, I’ll just do this little bit of gardening and, before you know it, there’s another cut to add to the collection.’
‘They must be so sore!’ Bryony said.
‘No, no. My hands are used to being knocked about.’
‘Well, I think they deserve a treat.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘You just wait and see. I’m going to give them a whole new look!’
A quarter of an hour later, having nipped home and returned, Bryony and Flo were sitting at Flo’s kitchen table, a row of colourful bottles standing in front of them.
‘Well, I never! Look at that pink. What a shocker! And gold. Ooooh, and that purple – it’s all swirly and glittery.’
‘Yes, I like that on my toes,’ Bryony confessed. ‘It makes them look as if they’re dancing even when they’re still.’
‘How delightful,’ Flo said. ‘But it’s really not me. Just look at my horrible stubby nails.’
‘They will look gorgeous. Just give them to me and I’ll turn you into a princess.’
Bryony began her work. First, she soaked Flo’s hands in a bowl of warm water scented with orange essential oil. A lovely calming aroma filled the room and Bryony was delighted by the look of joy and calm on Flo’s face. It was obvious that Flo wasn’t used to being pampered, which was a terrible shame because she worked so hard.
After soaking, Bryony treated Flo to a hand massage, using almond oil. She then began to file Flo’s nails into shape.
‘Don’t you ever file them, Flo?’
‘Not really. I occasionally hack them off when they get too long.’
Bryony did her best not to laugh. She wouldn’t be surprised if Flo used the ancient pair of shears she’d seen in one of the garden sheds.
‘Hands are so important,’ Bryony said. ‘We must take care of them.’
Sonny, who was home from school and sitting in the old chair by the kitchen fire, looked up from reading a book, but didn’t look interested in what was happening at the kitchen table.
‘There, I’ve done my best to shape them,’ Bryony said a few minutes later.
Flo inspected her nails. ‘Why, they’re lovely.’
‘Now comes the fun bit – the colour.’
Flo looked at the candy-coloured bottles which stood before her.
‘This one, I think,’ she said, picking a pearly pink. ‘It reminds me of my favourite peony.’
‘It’ll look really pretty on you,’ Bryony promised, undoing the bottle.
Flo watched her every move. ‘I don’t often just sit, you know. There’s always too much to do.’
Bryony wasn’t surprised by this confession. ‘But you read, don’t you?’
‘Oh, yes. I’ve been reading for the next book club.’
‘Which book is it?’
‘H E Bates’s The Darling Buds of May.’
‘Lovely!’
‘Yes, everyone agreed it was the natural choice for a book club meeting in May and it’s also nice and light – and short – after Hardy’s Far From the Madding Crowd.’
‘Yes, a much jollier read,’ Bryony said.
‘Exactly.’
‘Sonny’s reminding me a little of Cedric Charlton actually. You know the stuffy civil servant who ends up staying with the Larkins?’
‘Well, it’s definitely like Pop’s farmyard here with all your animals.’
Flo gave a chuckle and then whispered so Sonny couldn’t hear. ‘If only Mitch was more like Pop Larkin.’
‘What was your father like, Flo?’ Bryony asked after applying a slick coat of peony-pink to Flo’s left thumb.
‘My father? Gosh, I haven’t spoken about him for years. He died when I was seventeen. Dreadful road accident. He was cycling down a lane when a car came round the bend on the wrong side of the road.’
‘That’s awful!’
‘Yes. He was a good man too. Loved life. Loved the countryside. I think I get my great love of the outdoors from him. He worked in an office, but always cycled there whatever the weather. It was his way of making sure he got a few good lungfuls of fresh air a day.’
‘I like that,’ Bryony said. ‘It must have been hard growing up without him. I can’t imagine my dad not being there.’
‘Well, I was practically grown up when we lost him.’
‘But you always need your dad, don’t you?’
Flo nodded. ‘I often think of him when I’m in the garden. I have some of his treasured tools. He was never happier than when wielding a fork or spade and making plans for a new vegetable bed.’
‘Sounds a lot like my dad.’
Bryony continued to paint Flo’s nails, her attention focussed on doing the very best job that she could.
‘There we are,’ Bryony announced after a few minutes. ‘All done!’
Flo gasped as she looked down at her hands.
‘They’re lovely,’ she announced in awe. ‘I’ve never had my nails done before. I mean, I’ve seen those nail bars around the place, but they’re not for people like me with my grubby little hands and stubby nails. They’re for those young princess-types.’
‘Well, you look like a princess now, Flo,’ Bryony assured her.
Sonny looked over the top of his book.
‘I can do yours next if you want,’ Bryony teased.
He returned to his book and Bryony and Flo laughed.
It was the next day when Bryony called round at Campion House after work. She sat in her car looking at the friendly facade of the home she’d grown up in. How she loved the place and how lucky she felt to be able to come back whenever she wanted. Not everybody had that, she realised. So many of her friends had grown up with single parents or were children of divorce. Bryony could only imagine how that must feel, shuddering at the thought of that ever happening to her parents. She just couldn’t imagine it, thank goodness. Frank and Eleanor had a good, strong marriage. It was the sort that Bryony hoped to have for herself one day, but the right man was proving elusive.
Getting out of the car, she knocked on the door and waited. Her mother answered, her rich chestnut hair swept up in a messy bun.
‘Hello, sweetheart.’
‘Okay if I come in?’
‘Of course!’ Her mother said. ‘I’ve just been dusting the books.’
‘Do you want a hand?’
‘No, no. Nearly finished. I’ve been at it for days.’
Bryony could imagine. The Nightingale’s private collection of books was vast and was distributed around the entire house.
‘I found an old love letter from your father in the copy of Tess of the D’Urbervilles he bought for me when we first met.’
‘I hope his letter was more uplifting than the book,’ Bryony said.
‘Oh, it was!’ her mother said. ‘You know how your father feels about Hardy. He was quite shocked when I told him I hadn’t read any and
he ended up sending me his complete works. I still haven’t read The Trumpet-Major.’
Bryony laughed. ‘Where is Dad?’
‘He’s in the garden.’
‘Of course! I want to talk to him about something.’
‘Put a pair of wellies on. It was wet in the night.’
Bryony made her way to the utility room to find a pair of wellies and was immediately assaulted by Brontë the spaniel and Hardy the pointer. She bent down to fuss them and got two wet noses in her face.
‘Grandpa and Grandma around?’ she asked, pulling a pair of red wellies on.
‘No, they’ve gone to aquarobics.’
Bryony nodded. ‘I’ll just pop out and see Dad then.’
‘Shall I put the kettle on?’ her mother asked.
‘Lovely.’
Leaving the house, Bryony made her way into the garden, wondering which corner her father was occupied in. After an unsuccessful tour of the greenhouse and sheds, she found him down by the pond and watched him for a moment as he dragged a broken branch out from the water.
‘Hello, daughter,’ he said as he saw her.
‘Hi, Dad!’
‘This is a nice surprise. What brings you to my corner of the world?’ he asked, wrapping her in a big hug.
She grinned. ‘You’re going to laugh when I tell you.’
‘Am I?’
‘Yes. I’ve started gardening.’
‘At your new place?’
‘No!’ she said, thinking of the tiny paved courtyard at the back of her terraced house. ‘At Flo Lohman’s. I’m helping her out in the garden and I’m really enjoying it.’
‘That’s good.’
‘Yeah, it is,’ she confessed. ‘Why haven’t I done it before?’
Frank shrugged. ‘I guess there are those who are born gardeners – like me. Your gran used to tell me that I’d crawl out of the house to get into the garden when I was a baby.’
‘You didn’t!’
‘She’d catch me in the vegetable patch, pounding at the soil with my fists.’
‘You’re making that up!’
‘Ask her.’
Natural Born Readers (The Book Lovers 3) Page 11
