The Great Allotment Proposal

by Jenny Oliver

  Jack looked around as if to check what it might be like to see it for the first time. ‘Thanks,’ he said.

  ‘You’re welcome,’ she smiled, almost mocking their politeness.

  Jack chucked a stone from the deck into the river and they watched as the light from the boat caught the ripples on the water. ‘How’s your new house?’ he asked, still looking at the river.

  ‘Ruined by dreadful interior design.’

  He laughed through his nose. And his shoulders slumped back against the wooden cabin, like he was finally starting to relax since she’d arrived on the boat. Emily tucked her legs underneath her and pulled her hair out of its ponytail. ‘Do you want to help me put it back to normal? Build me a staircase or something?’

  Jack leant back and closed his eyes for a second, then shook his head. Like he’d thought this question might be coming. ‘No.’

  ‘Oh why not?’ she asked, bashing him on the shoulder. ‘Please? You could do it as rent. For the mooring.’

  He opened one eye. ‘If you want rent, I’ll pay you rent.’

  ‘I don’t want rent. I want lovely architrave.’

  He laughed, and threw another stone into the water. ‘Sorry, Em, I can’t do it. I don’t have time.’

  He didn’t look her in the eye when he said it and she knew it was a lie. She could feel it, but with Jack she still knew better than to push. She could only assume that he didn’t want to get further embroiled with her. So instead she said, ‘I’m cold. Can I borrow a blanket?’

  ‘Yeah, there’s one on the bed.’

  She stood up and headed back into the cabin. Around her on the water the ducks drifted and she could see the thin wobbly reflection of the crescent moon. She heard Jack pour another slosh of brandy into each tumbler.

  Inside it was cosy warm. The low lights from the kitchen cast the whole cabin with a soft yellow light that made her want to curl up and stay rather than head back, at some point, to her cool, dark manor. As she grabbed the blanket, she did a quick recce of Jack’s stuff. The wooden dish with coins and his keys in it. A notebook with squared paper and lots of diagrams, a pencil so short it was barely holdable with a rubber on the end flattened from use. There were a load of books stacked on a shelf, all biographies of people that she hadn’t heard of. As she was leaning over the bed to read the titles, her eye caught on the photographs pinned on the wall next to the books. One of his mum and dad when they were really young, standing in front of the lighthouse on the island. One of a group of eco-looking people, the men as equally bearded as Jack, all giving thumbs up to the camera. The shack behind them must have been the Spanish research centre. There was another of Jack and a couple of guys standing by a giant table and chairs. It was obviously some extravagant commission – all laid out with oversized teacups and plates.

  It was the last photo that surprised her. Taken the morning of the festival. She remembered it because she’d been midway through doing her make-up when she was yanked into the picture, so had one big, spidery mascaraed eye and one nude one. It was her, her brother Wilf, Jack, Holly, Annie, Annie brother’s Jonathan and Jack’s younger brother, Ed. They were standing out the front of Enid’s ice cream van holding up the Cherry Pie Festival banner that Annie had painted and was about to be pinned to the gates of Mont Manor. Emily had cherry blossom in her hair. Holly was cross-legged on the floor in front of Wilf. Annie was looking away at something else. Jack was in the centre, beaming, his arms spread wide behind him, one hand resting on Emily’s shoulders, the other on his little brother Ed’s.

  She realised she’d been staring and couldn’t work out how much time had passed. Probably only a couple of seconds but it felt like minutes. Bypassing how annoyingly young and fresh her skin looked, she saw how goddamn happy she’d been, how open. Even how she was standing for the camera, just full-square at the lens regardless of her bonkers eye make-up. She didn’t stand like that any more, she stood with one foot forward, body angled to the left, chin raised a touch, a half-smile that didn’t show too much teeth.

  When she got back outside, Jack said, ‘You took your time.’

  Emily hung the blanket round her shoulders and sat down, it smelt of the smell of him that she remembered from being a teenager. Like getting a whiff of your old perfume and reeling back through a thousand thoughts and feelings that you can’t quite catch. ‘I was looking at the photos by your bed,’ she said, letting her head roll to the side so she could look at him. ‘Of all of us at the festival.’

  Jack turned to look at her. ‘It was a long time ago.’

  ‘I know,’ she said. ‘It’s hard to think what the me then would think of the me now. You know?’

  ‘I think she’d think you were pretty OK.’

  ‘Yeah but would she have expected her most well-known achievement to have been being humiliatingly jilted? Probably. Or ending up living back here?’ she paused and smiled, ‘Probably. Jack, have you been married?’ she asked, expecting him to shake his head.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Oh.’

  He glanced at her and then back at the river. ‘But not any more.’

  She took a moment to take that in. It shouldn’t have shocked her at all. Of course he could get married. He could have a couple of kids for all she knew. But it wasn’t the admittance of marriage that took her by surprise, it was the sharp catch in her chest when he said it. Almost like jealousy. Which, of course, she thought as she sipped her warm brandy, was completely ridiculous.

  Chapter Eight

  Two weeks later and Emily had roped in a motley crew to help on her house. With most of her money ploughed into buying the manor and back into her EHB Cosmetics business, she was relying on whoever she could get to help put the place back to normal. Jack had stuck firm to his original refusal. And she hadn’t seen him again to persuade him, so Emily currently had Holly’s dad in as a handyman, ripping out the dreadful kitchen cupboards and pod island unit. He was also going to attempt to get rid of the dropped ceilings and spotlights and hopefully get back to the original Georgian ceilings she remembered. The back windows in the kitchen she couldn’t do much about at the moment but he would take down the white plantation shutters that they’d added to every other window on the downstairs floor. He was working alongside one of the builders, Eric, that Annie had hired to fix the roof of the Dandelion Cafe, who was in London from Norfolk for a month and happy to work on anything for as many hours that were going. She’d also hired a painter/decorator called Winston who was in his seventies, an out-of-work artist and quite possibly the slowest, most fastidious painter she’d ever met. She’d watch him sliding his brush up the wall with the care and precision that might have gone into the Sistine Chapel and was itching to tell him to slap it on thick and get on with it. But he was quite funny and very cheap so she let him do as he pleased.

  When she came back from work, to escape the mayhem at the house, on occasion, when she remembered, Emily went to the allotment. She’d invested in a pair of short red Hunter wellingtons with fringing on the front and a waterproof poncho.

  That Friday evening was perfect allotment weather – the sun sizzled, the birds were chattering, the grass paths had been cut and the scent hung fresh and sharp in the air. While she’d only been there a few times, Emily had developed quite a routine. She’d wave to everyone working on their plots, give her own beds a good water and then pull out the deckchair, have a glass of wine from the bottle she kept in the shed – red so it was OK if it got a little warm – and sit back to read her emails or her book and then close her eyes for a moment of relaxation.

  ‘Emily?’ she heard a woman’s voice ask tentatively as she was listening to the Mindfulness app that Annie’s mum had recommended.

  Emily opened one eye. ‘Hello?’

  The woman standing before her was probably the same age as her but dressed older. Her hair was pulled back in a low ponytail, she was wearing jeans cut off at the knee and an old baggy shirt, Crocs on her feet and no make-up on. ‘I’m Jane
Williams.’

  Emily had to tip her head back so she could meet the woman’s eyes from under her giant sunhat. ‘Hi, Jane Williams,’ she said, wondering if she wanted an autograph.

  ‘I’m here because of Holly?’ Jane said. ‘She asked me to come and help.’

  Emily frowned. ‘Why?’

  ‘I think she thought maybe, I don’t know, you might need an extra pair of hands.’

  Emily sat up as much as she could in the deckchair and held the brim of her hat up with her hand. ‘No I don’t think so, I’m doing fine. Look…’ She pointed to the allotment. ‘It’s all blooming.’

  Jane glanced over at the patch and nodded. And while she was clearly tried to hide it, she looked like she might be holding in a smile.

  ‘What?’ Emily asked. ‘What have I done wrong? Annie’s brother came by just yesterday and said it was doing really well.’

  Jane bit down on her thumbnail and made a face. ‘I think maybe he was erm… I think he might be…’

  ‘Oh god, is he lying?’ Emily scrabbled up from the deckchair as gainly as she could and, standing next to Jane, looked over at the bright-green, blooming bed. ‘What’s wrong with it? It looks really healthy.’

  ‘Well it’s just…’ Jane didn’t know how to put it without offending her. ‘Those…’ She pointed to the big green plants. ‘They’re all weeds. They’re not your plants.’

  ‘No. They can’t be.’ Emily took her hat off and put her iPhone and headphones down on the deckchair, then went over to have a proper look at her bed.

  Jane followed her. ‘They are, I’m afraid. Look, these are your plants. These here—’ Jane bent down and, pushing the huge weeds out the way, pointed to some wilting, insipid-looking seedlings.

  ‘Oh shit.’ Emily put her hand up to her mouth. ‘Shit, well they all look like they’re dead. Shit. You mean I’ve been coming here and watering weeds and no one’s told me?’

  Jane nodded. ‘They’re pretty competitive at this time of year.’

  ‘Oh that’s so pathetic. Why didn’t Jack tell me?’

  ‘Jack Neil?’ Jane looked up from where she was yanking up a couple of dandelions. ‘He’s away,’ she said. ‘He’s got a workshop in Kent. They’re building some big installation for a festival.’

  Emily frowned. She hadn’t realised he was away.

  For some reason she felt like he should have told her. But why would he? It felt odd to hear his whereabouts from someone else. She’d kind of got it into her head that he was a boat-dwelling loner – hers to pop by and visit at the end of her garden – not a bona fide member of the community who had friends. ‘You know Jack?’ Emily asked as nonchalantly as she could.

  ‘Yeah, a bit. Not massively. I live on a houseboat on the other side from here, along from the pub.’ Jane pointed across the allotment, ‘It was my mum’s. She died a couple of months ago. That’s why I came to live here, actually. To look after her. Ten years. It just went in a flash. I don’t know—’ Jane stopped mid-sentence, realising she’d gone off point. Feeling awkward, she blew her fringe up out of her eyes. ‘Anyway, my boat started taking on water recently and Ed, you know Jack’s brother, he told me that he’d be the best person to help. So I only know him because he fixed my boat. I know his brother better. Why d’you know him?’

  Emily watched her for a moment, realising that it was entirely possible that this woman knew absolutely nothing about her. Nothing at all. The idea was almost addictive. ‘I only know him from when we were kids,’ Emily said with a shrug. ‘Did you say you’ve been looking after your mum for ten years? And now she’s passed away? That must be awful.’

  Jane had stood up and was walking towards the sloping, half-collapsed shed. ‘It was awful. It was especially awful for the last two years because she shouldn’t have been living at home but she refused to do anything else. So, to be honest,’ she bit her lip and paused before attempting to open the skewiff shed door. ‘It’s sort of a relief. But I don’t really tell people that because it sounds too dreadful.’

  Emily watched her as she winced. ‘I think it sounds completely understandable. I’m not even sure I could have my mother live in the same house as me now,’ she said, then pointed to the stuck door. ‘There’s a knack to the door. I fell on the shed which is why it’s all broken.’

  Jane laughed. ‘Well we just need to get the hoe and the fork.’

  As the door finally opened a crack and Jane stepped sideways into the precarious shed, Annie appeared beside the cherry tree. ‘How’s it going? I’ve brought the last slices of cherry pie and a bottle of Martha’s homemade lemonade,’ she said then, nodding towards the vegetable patch, added, ‘It looks good, doesn’t it?’

  Emily shook her head. ‘It’s all weeds.’

  ‘What?’

  Jane came out the shed with the garden tools. ‘Hey, Annie.’

  ‘Jane?’ Annie frowned, then looked at Emily and whispered, ‘Why is she here?’

  ‘Holly sent her to save us.’ Emily made a face. ‘We’ve been deceived, Annie. By your own brother. None of these big bushy things are plants. They’re weeds.’

  ‘Shit.’ Annie bit her lip.

  Jane looked pityingly at both of them. ‘Don’t worry, we can save some of it,’ she said, trying to detangle the sweet peas and runner beans, twisting both back round their respective canes. ‘OK, the smaller weeds you can hoe, Emily. The bigger ones we’re going to have to get out with the fork. Annie, do you want the fork? Dig right down because the roots of that stuff–’ She pointed to some bindweed. ‘They go deep.’

  Emily scratched the back of her neck, her eyes resting on Annie’s bags of cherry pie and lemonade. ‘Do you think it’s worth it?’

  Annie saw her looking at the pie, then up at the harsh afternoon sun, then back to the lemonade, appealing dots of condensation sliding down the bottle. They both looked at the deckchairs Emily had set up. ‘Yeah, maybe it’s not even salvageable,’ said Annie.

  Jane glanced up from where she was retying a cane and narrowed her eyes at the two of them. ‘Aren’t you meant to be doing this for Enid?’

  Annie looked down at the ground. Emily nodded.

  ‘If it’s alive, it’s salvageable.’

  ‘OK,’ they both replied in unison.

  And with a regretful backward glance at the cherry pie, Annie picked up the fork and started battling with a giant bindweed while Emily stood looking down at her hoe. ‘Jane,’ she said. ‘I hate to say it, but I have absolutely no idea how this thing works.’

  They weeded, they hoed, they scattered slug pellets, they netted, they cloched, they staked and twisted and battled with evil bindweed roots until Emily collapsed on the earth and said, ‘I can’t go on. I’m so tired, my nails are completely buggered and I really, really want some cherry pie.’

  Annie snorted a laugh. ‘Get up, Emily, we’re nearly done.’

  ‘Please don’t make me.’

  Jane straightened up from where she was staking the practically non-existent dahlias and giggled. ‘Maybe we could have a little break. Have some lemonade.’

  Emily clapped her hands together and said, ‘Or bugger the lemonade and let’s have the wine that’s in the shed.’

  Annie pushed her hair out of her eyes and straightened up, slowly uncurling her spine and arching backwards with a sigh. ‘That sounds like a much better idea. I think there are some little candles in there as well.’

  As Annie and Jane put the final touches to the canes and the netting, Emily squeezed herself into the dilapidated shed and came out with a bag of tea lights, the wine and a big roll of white and blue bunting. ‘Look at this, it was from the ice cream van, wasn’t it? D’you remember? I’m going to string it up,’ Emily said as she handed the wine and candles to Annie and started tying the bunting to the fallen water butt and along to the highest branches she could reach of the damson tree.

  Jane lit the candles with an old cigarette lighter she found in the shed and Annie poured the wine into plastic beakers and divi
ded up the cherry pie. The pastry a little bit soft after sitting in the paper bags in the sun but, after all the allotment labour, their first mouthfuls felt like the best they’d ever tasted.

  ‘Did you know Enid?’ Emily asked Jane as she looked across at the bunting, the pennants flapping gently in the occasional gust of wind.

  Jane nodded. ‘Her and Mum used to play poker. Practically every night. They were ruthless. I’d have to bow out after about the third hand. They’d bleed me dry.’ She took a sip of her wine before adding, ‘I think probably it was Enid dying that finished Mum off. Her friend had gone and that was it.’

  ‘Did you find the diary?’ Annie asked as she relit one of the tea lights that flickered out in the breeze.

  ‘What diary?’ asked Emily.

  ‘You know they found that letter about the corporal injured in the war?’ As Annie spoke, Emily shook her head.

  ‘I told you the other day. We found a letter in the cafe addressed to Enid about a guy who’d died in the war that wasn’t her husband. Remember?’

  ‘No, I don’t think you told me that.’

  ‘Or you weren’t listening.’

  Emily made a face as if she was being told off by a teacher.

  Jane cut in before they could start bickering and said, ‘We think there’s a diary. Or Holly thinks there’s a diary. I’ve searched Enid’s place but couldn’t find anything. Annie’s looked in the cafe. We haven’t asked Martha yet because she’s not that keen on the whole thing, I think she just wants her mum’s memory to rest and not have the past changed. But…’ Jane shrugged. ‘I kind of think Enid would want us to know. I think she’d like that we were chasing after her history. And anyway, I think it’s kind of exciting.’ She laughed. ‘See, you can tell I’ve spent a lot of time hanging out with two pensioners.’

  Emily laughed, poured them all more wine, and then stood up to go and look over their patch. What had earlier in the day been a huge mass of green leaves was now individual plants trained into neat little rows and trailed up bamboo canes. The lettuces that had been shredded by the slugs had been plucked out and the smaller, less holey ones covered with arcs of netting held in place by damson twigs. What she now knew were carrots and beetroots had been salvaged from the bindweed, and the flowers – the dahlias, the sweet peas and the sunflowers – had all been rescued by Jane. The begonias were past it, unfortunately, and were on the compost heap. ‘I don’t think we’re going to win anything,’ Emily said, looking over her shoulder at the other two.