Love in an English Garden

by Victoria Connelly

  So why hadn’t he used Laurence’s move to go their separate ways? He must surely feel that there was something to salvage in their relationship – that they could reach out to each other. The trouble was, Marcus didn’t know how to begin.

  Chapter 8

  Vanessa was hovering by the window. She’d made the phone call the night before and was surprised at how fast her invitation had been accepted. Now, she began to feel anxious. Was she doing the right thing? What if this was a huge mistake?

  ‘I wish you’d sit down. You’re giving me indigestion,’ Dolly said with a weary sigh from the breakfast table. ‘Are you expecting somebody?’ The old woman got up and moved towards the window with alarming speed, just as a van was pulling up in the lane. ‘Who’s that? He’s not going to park that disgusting old van there, is he?’

  Vanessa had to bite her lip to stop herself from laughing at the sight of Jonathan Dacre’s mud-splattered vehicle.

  ‘That’s for me,’ she said.

  ‘I might have known it would be something to do with you.’

  Vanessa chose not to rise to her mother-in-law’s comment, but left the room with alacrity. As she made her way to the front door to greet Jonathan, she realised that she was feeling excited at seeing him again. He’d made quite an impression on her the day they’d met at the shop and she was eager to find out more about his gardening project.

  She’d just reached the hallway when he rang the bell.

  ‘How are you?’ he asked her as she opened the door.

  ‘I’m very well.’

  ‘Good.’ He smiled at her and she noticed the way his hazel eyes seemed to dance with merriment. She liked that.

  ‘Can I get you a tea or coffee?’ she asked.

  ‘No thank you. Just had a tea.’

  ‘That’s good because Dolly’s hanging around and would no doubt scare you off if you came in.’

  Jonathan’s eyebrows rose a fraction. ‘Your mother-in-law, right?’

  ‘Right. And she’s not to be crossed,’ Vanessa said.

  ‘To the garden then?’

  ‘Definitely.’

  Vanessa led the way around the side of the house, passing the oast house where Jasmine had already been for hours. The door was closed but the sound of loud rock music could be heard, which meant she was probably working on a very large and energetic abstract.

  ‘So, this is the walled garden,’ she said a moment later.

  Jonathan nodded. ‘I remember it from my last visit. It’s such a great space.’ He stood with his hands in his trouser pockets. He was wearing his steel-capped boots, but he didn’t have a jacket on. Was he one of those people who didn’t feel the cold? Or perhaps his job meant he was on the go all the time and so kept naturally warm.

  ‘I’m afraid we haven’t kept it in the best order,’ Vanessa explained unnecessarily. ‘We do what we can, but there are only so many hours in the day and growing vegetables comes a long way down on our list of priorities.’

  ‘But it should be right at the top,’ Jonathan said. ‘I feel very strongly about that. The food we eat is the most important thing in our lives, isn’t it? It’s something that we do every day – we can’t live without it – and we have an obligation to ourselves to know where it comes from. That’s what I think anyway, and you’ve got the perfect place here to grow good organic food.’

  ‘I’ve never thought of it like that,’ Vanessa admitted.

  ‘Not enough people do, I’m afraid. That’s why I like working with young people, and encouraging them to really think about where food comes from and teaching them how to get involved with growing it.’

  Vanessa nodded. ‘That sounds really rewarding.’

  ‘It is. It can be frustrating too. Some of the young ones just don’t want to get their hands dirty, and the thought of pulling something out of the ground and eating it is totally alien to them.’

  ‘I have friends from London like that. I’ll try to give them fresh home-grown produce and they look at me as if I’m quite mad. I don’t think they’ve ever seen a vegetable that doesn’t come washed, trimmed and pre-packed in a tray from a posh supermarket.’

  Jonathan laughed. ‘Society’s grown so far away from the basics of life.’ He shook his head sadly.

  ‘So, tell me more about your – what do you call them?’ Vanessa asked as they walked down the gravel path between the overgrown raised beds.

  ‘Team,’ he said. ‘We’re a team. They’re mostly kids with alcohol or drug-abuse problems and – well – the crimes that go with addiction. Usually petty thefts, things like that. Nothing big time, you understand, although a few of them have been in and out of prison.’

  ‘Right,’ Vanessa said, acknowledging the fact that this was a world so far removed from her own that she couldn’t even begin to understand it.

  ‘Introducing them to gardening and the concept of making something from scratch, of getting your hands into the earth and growing something you can then eat – it’s really liberating. Most of these kids have never even been in a garden before.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Truly.’

  ‘I can’t imagine,’ Vanessa said. ‘To grow up without a garden.’ For a moment, she thought back to her own childhood which, although it’d been in London, had always encompassed a garden even if it was the tiniest of spaces. It would be unthinkable to live without a garden now, not after so many years at Orley.

  ‘I always have to stop and remind myself that everything I take for granted is new to them,’ Jonathan said.

  ‘And what are they like?’

  ‘The team? They’re great kids. They’ve simply lost their way because they’ve never been given any guidance before, or maybe they’ve taken a couple of wrong turns and made some bad decisions. They’re damaged, but they can be repaired – they just need time, love and a little bit of guidance, and a garden can give all that. There’s something incredibly good and honest about gardening and manual labour. Being outside in all weathers and watching things grow – things that you’ve planted and nurtured. That gives people an enormous sense of self-worth. I’ve seen it over and over again. Even if you only grow a bit of salad in a window box, you know that those leaves on your plate at lunch wouldn’t exist without you.’

  Vanessa smiled. She liked listening to him. He was so passionate about what he did and about sharing that love with others and making their lives all the richer.

  ‘And how many of you will there be?’ she asked.

  ‘There’ll be four to seven of the kids at any one time, and Rod too. He’s the ex-policeman and keeps a beady eye on everyone. I’ve known him for years. He doesn’t say a lot, but he’s a really decent guy and he knows how to keep the kids in line.’

  Vanessa felt a little easier having heard this. ‘I look forward to meeting everyone,’ she said.

  ‘So, you’re really on board with this?’

  ‘You sound surprised!’

  ‘I am. I get a lot of rejections,’ he explained. ‘People see me coming now and draw their curtains or pretend they’re out. So many people turn their backs and close their minds. They think these problems are city problems, but these kids are from our own neighbourhood and we have to take responsibility for them.’

  Vanessa bit her lip. This was a serious business, she realised. She hoped she hadn’t taken on something that she couldn’t handle – that Orley couldn’t handle. But Jonathan would be there and she felt quite certain that, with him leading the way, nothing could go wrong.

  They continued walking around the garden together.

  ‘So, you’ve got a little orchard too,’ he said, nodding towards the fruit trees.

  ‘Yes, some lovely old varieties of apples, pears and plums.’

  ‘They need a good pruning.’

  ‘No doubt.’

  ‘Is that something you’d trust my group with?’

  ‘Absolutely,’ she said. ‘You’d be doing us a favour.’

  ‘And general maintenance too �
� like repairing fences and some of these raised beds? We have a little money put aside for materials and we have bits and bobs donated by folk.’

  ‘Whatever you think needs doing. I’ll be guided by you,’ she told him. ‘It’ll be a relief to have a bit of help around here. As I said, my daughters and I have done our best over the years, but there are never enough hours in the day.’

  ‘You still work?’

  ‘Part-time. I’m an interior designer. I don’t do as much as I used to. I cut my hours back when my husband fell ill. I became his carer.’

  ‘I was sorry to hear he died,’ Jonathan said. ‘He was a good man.’

  ‘The best,’ she said, looking away for a moment as her eyes misted with tears. It could still get to her – a mention of Oliver from a stranger. ‘Then there’s the house to take care of,’ she continued. ‘That’s a full-time job in itself.’

  ‘I bet it is,’ he said, glancing back at Orley Court before bending down and picking up a handful of earth, letting it crumble through his fingers. ‘Good stuff.’ He brushed his hands down the front of his trousers as he stood back up.

  ‘We have several compost heaps and bays around the grounds. You’re welcome to use those. And we’ve got a tool shed, although I should warn you that a lot of the tools are old. Some should be in a museum really.’

  ‘That’s okay,’ he said. ‘I’ve got tools. I’ve accumulated a grand collection over the years and it’s all I seem to get bought for Christmas and birthdays.’

  Vanessa smiled. ‘So, when do you want to start?’

  ‘As soon as possible. Spring’s upon us and we need to do a lot of preparation work before we can start planting. Can I give you a call once I’ve spoken to Rod and organised the team?’

  ‘Of course,’ she said. ‘You’ve got my number?’

  He nodded. ‘I can’t tell you how grateful I am for this opportunity.’

  ‘You don’t have to thank me.’

  ‘I absolutely do,’ he insisted. ‘You’ve no idea what this means to me and the group. It’s a huge weight off my mind having somewhere to work like this and it will be so great to finally get all the plants into the ground. I’ve been growing seeds in my own greenhouse and cold frames and I’m rapidly running out of space.’

  ‘It will be wonderful to see this garden being put to good use again. I’ve felt so bad about it being neglected over the last few years.’

  They walked over to the small orchard at the far side of the walled garden and Vanessa watched as Jonathan reached out and touched the bark of one of the old, gnarled apple trees.

  ‘That’s an Egremont Russet,’ Vanessa said.

  ‘One of my favourites.’

  ‘Mine too! Oliver used to refuse to eat them though – said they were far too sharp.’

  ‘I like that about them. Better than the insipid watery varieties you get in the supermarkets.’

  ‘Exactly.’ She smiled.

  ‘Well, I’ve probably taken up enough of your time for one day,’ he said, and she suddenly realised that she didn’t want him to go. She liked being out in the garden, talking about apples and compost.

  ‘You’ll let me know when you want to start?’

  ‘I will.’

  They walked back through the garden, passing the oast house once again to the blast of rock music, and she accompanied him down the path in front of the house and out of the gate into the lane. It had been a cloudy morning but the sunshine now peeped out and shone on Jonathan’s hair, turning it a wonderful auburn.

  ‘Okay then,’ she said, suddenly feeling awkward.

  ‘I’ll call you.’

  She watched as he got into the van, turning the key in the ignition once, twice before it fired. He shook his head in despair and wound down the window.

  ‘Seen better days,’ he confessed.

  ‘Like me!’ Vanessa winced. Why on earth had she said that?

  He smiled at her and raised a hand in farewell, and she watched as he drove round the corner and back towards Elhurst. Vanessa turned and immediately saw Dolly standing by the morning room window. She’d probably been stood there the whole time, raining curses down upon Jonathan’s old van.

  You’re going to have to tell her, a little voice said as she walked back to the house. As much as Vanessa would have liked to hide away in a private corner of Orley she knew Dolly would find difficult to get to with her slow gait and arthritic knee, she thought it would be just as well to get things over and done with. She returned to the morning room and hadn’t even got through the door before Dolly pounced on her.

  ‘So, are you going to tell me who he is or am I going to be the last to know about that too?’

  ‘His name is Jonathan Dacre and he’s a gardener. He’s going to be working in the walled garden.’

  ‘We can’t afford—’

  ‘We’re not paying him.’

  Dolly glowered at her. ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘He’s working with a group of young people. They need somewhere to – to train,’ she said, giving just as much information as she thought would satisfy the old woman.

  ‘You mean these young people don’t know what they’re doing? That they’ll be wielding tools around the property that they don’t know how to use and doing all sorts of damage?’

  ‘Jonathan will be supervising them. Rod too.’

  Dolly frowned. ‘Who’s Rod?’

  ‘I haven’t met him yet. He’s an ex-policeman.’ Vanessa bit her lip. She’d said too much.

  ‘An ex-policeman?’

  ‘I’ve got a call to make,’ Vanessa said, making to leave the room.

  ‘You’re not telling me everything, are you?’

  That’s right, Vanessa thought to herself. That’s absolutely right.

  Laurence had taken Tilda’s advice and placed a postcard in the window of the village shop, and he had been pleasantly surprised by the response. So far, he’d received half a dozen phone calls and had met with three of the callers, who had already signed up to become new clients of his. He felt rather pleased with that result. He might not be on the best of terms with his father at the moment, but it seemed his new business was moving in the right direction.

  He was also in the process of setting up his office – the space where he would work from home and meet with the occasional client. It was funny being his own boss after so many years of working for a large company. He would have to be very disciplined, he realised, setting up his own workdays and not being tempted to slack off when the sun was shining and the garden looked glorious. It would be all too easy to put down the paperwork and venture out into the countryside, forgetting his obligations and frittering his days away.

  The furniture he had bought at the antique centre in Elhurst had arrived and his father had helped him to place it around the rooms. Marcus hadn’t said much. He’d nodded a few times when Laurence had asked him if he liked the pieces, but he hadn’t hung around when he’d been offered a cup of tea.

  Laurence shook his head as he thought about it now. What did his father do all day? he wondered. Did he really read? He had seen Marcus leaving the house a number of times and been tempted to follow him to find out exactly where he was going and what he was doing, but that would be a bit freaky, wouldn’t it?

  Perhaps his father was bored down here in Sussex. That was Laurence’s main concern – that he’d cut him off from civilisation. Mind you, he hadn’t ever gone out when he’d been living with Laurence in London, despite being a stone’s throw away from some of the world’s most fabulous theatres, museums and restaurants.

  Maybe Laurence could involve his father in his business, he thought. He’d have to go about it slyly, though. Asking directly wouldn’t work. It would be better if he approached the subject obliquely, maybe suggesting that he needed help and wasn’t sure where to turn.

  Tara Sturridge had been an accountant and Laurence had inherited his mother’s fascination with numbers. He remembered watching her for hours as she pored over
columns of figures, balancing books for her clients.

  ‘Figures calm my mind,’ she’d told him. ‘In an ever-moving world, numbers settle me.’

  His mother had been the sweetest woman. She’d had a head for business, but a heart that reached out and touched all who knew her. No wonder his father felt the loss of her so keenly.

  Returning to Sussex had made Laurence think about Tara more. He could hardly believe it was two years since she’d died. Just two years. It was hard to comprehend that he’d never see her again, never hear that warm voice on the end of the phone, never sit at the kitchen table whilst she buzzed around making tea. When a person died, they took away so many little everyday things that could never be replaced, and Laurence felt intense guilt at not having spent more time with her. During his years in London, he’d been so wrapped up in his work that he’d turned down many an invitation to visit his parents in Kent.

  ‘Not this weekend, Mum, sorry,’ he’d say lamely.

  What he’d give now to have one of those weekends. He’d have been in his car and on the motorway within ten minutes. But time only moved forward and his mother was gone. The only thing he could do to make himself feel better would be to forge a real connection to his father. The fact that Marcus had moved to Sussex with him was a really good indication that he too wanted to repair their relationship.

  Unless he just had nowhere else to go. Laurence couldn’t help but wonder this, considering that his father had yet to make an attempt to hold any sort of conversation with him.

  ‘Give it time,’ Laurence told himself.

  He was just looking around his study when he realised that he’d left an important file in his car. Leaving the north wing, he walked into the entrance hall just as Tilda was coming through the front door with another young woman.

  ‘Hello,’ he said with a smile.

  ‘Hello,’ she said back. ‘Laurence, this is my sister, Jasmine. I don’t think you’ve met yet, have you? Jassy, this is Laurence.’

  Laurence looked at the girl who was a little taller than Tilda and who had gloriously curly hair. Other than that, she was strikingly similar to her sister, with her pale heart-shaped face and bright-blue eyes.