The Great Allotment Proposal

by Jenny Oliver

  Emily nodded, her hair scrunching on the dust sheet on the floor beneath her. She didn’t say anything for a moment. Annie reached out so that her hand could hold hers and she gave it a squeeze. ‘I know,’ Emily said.

  No one spoke.

  Then Jane reached over to her bag, fumbled around for the diary and said, ‘Let me read you this…’

  He sent me a letter today saying he’d be in London on the 18th. It asks if I want to join him. He says he knows it’s forward and unexpected, but if this war has taught us anything it is to seize opportunities when they arise. He says that if I don’t join him then he’ll be forced to go and see his family which will be a dry, boring affair. And he’d rather spend his days laughing at the moment. He said that I was the only person he’d met who had made him laugh without thinking about it. (I’m assuming with me rather than at me, the latter would not be promising.)

  Here look this is what his note says: If you want to join me for dinner, I’ll be staying at the Ritz.

  The Ritz! I’ve never been to the Ritz. Can you imagine if the only time I went was with a war on? What would I wear? I can’t believe I’m thinking about what I would wear rather than whether I should meet a stranger for dinner.

  Of course I’m going to meet him. If we can’t make beautiful memories at the moment, what can we do?

  Emily rolled over onto her front and propped her chin up on her elbows. Annie did the same.

  ‘She went to the Ritz to meet him?’ Emily said, mouth open in shock. ‘Go Enid!’

  ‘Yeah, I know!’ Jane nodded. ‘There are pages and pages of description about what it was like. She got really nervous about going, didn’t tell a soul. She wore a blue silk dress of her mothers that she re-sewed at night without anyone knowing. It’s amazing. She got a lift in the ambulance up to London and said she was so nervous she couldn’t open the back doors when it pulled up. The doorman came over and helped her in the end. She never said any of this, did she? I never even heard her talk about it with my mum.’

  Annie reached out and took the diary from Jane, flicking over the pages. ‘Does she talk about the evening? How it went?’

  ‘Yeah.’ Jane leant over and turned a couple more pages so Annie could see where to read from.

  ‘It was lovely. More so than I’d hoped. I don’t need to write it down because I will remember it forever.’

  ‘Damn you, Enid,’ Annie said with a frustrated laugh.

  ‘We sat in the bar together, we smoked, we talked about everything, we laughed, he held my hand. I’ve never had my hand held with such reverence before. I’m not stupid. I know it will be nothing more than a night. But it was truly the best night of my life.

  Mum asked today if I’d seen her dress. I said maybe someone had stolen it off the line. She looked suspicious. I think it’s because I can’t stop smiling, although no doubt tomorrow’s shift will put paid to that.

  The weather is boiling. It’s insufferable. I want to be back at the Ritz.’

  Annie shut the diary. ‘I’ve just realised that this only ends badly,’ she said. ‘I’ve had this ridiculous smile on my face reading it and I know it ends badly. What happens next?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Jane with a shake of her head. ‘It’s in the next diary. We’ll have to wait and see.’

  Emily rolled onto her back again. ‘It sounds like it was perfect while it was happening, doesn’t it? Wartime stripping them of all inhibitions. It’s fabulous. Surely it’s better to have experienced it, than not?’

  It was only after she said it, that Emily realised she could have been talking about her and Jack. And the idea of her having kissed him and him never coming back didn’t seem in any way a good thing. ‘Or maybe I’m wrong,’ she said, pulling herself up to standing and heading for the door. ‘Makes me want to go to the Ritz,’ she added in as throwaway, casual a tone as she could muster.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Saturday morning was the hottest on record. As Emily walked through the marquee with Jonathan deciding on the best places for the competition stands, she was reminded of the original Cherry Pie Island Festival.

  ‘So I’ve drawn a plan. The big hitters in the centre, the more minor stands further out to the side. We need to the give the vegetables the space to be appreciated.’ Jonathan was holding his clipboard out to give Emily a good look.

  ‘Jonathan?’ Emily paused at the doorway of the marquee.

  ‘Yes, Emily?’

  ‘When did you become so old? You’re what, thirty-five? Have some fun!’

  ‘What like you, you mean?’ he said, his tone disapproving.

  ‘No.’ Emily shook her head. ‘Like your daughter out there.’ They both turned to see Gerty making River’s pug run round and round in circles after a multi-coloured pinwheel. ‘The stalls can be however you want. You will probably win everything. So just lighten up. Go and play with Gerty. Have some champagne and mini croissant – that’s what they’re here for, this day is meant to be fun.’

  Jonathan swallowed, then looked back at his clipboard.

  ‘Oh do what you like,’ Emily said with a frustrated wave of her hand. ‘Hey, Holly and Wilf have arrived.’ She slipped off her wedge sandals and ran over to where Holly and Wilf were getting out of a battered Renault Five.

  ‘What are you doing in that car?’ she asked as she gave Holly a big kiss on the cheek and made a face at her brother. ‘Look at your bump, Holly. It’s a proper bump. Aw, it’s so sweet. Why are you in that car?’

  ‘Don’t ask.’ Wilf shook his head. ‘There aren’t any others. Every vehicle our family own is somehow buggered. So we came in this. Place looks good, Em.’ Wilf took his sunglasses off and had a look around. ‘Nice marquee, nice decorations, very nice. Saw your picture all over the net. Nice one. How’s Jack?’ Wilf asked, draping his arm over Holly’s shoulders.

  Emily made a face. ‘He’s gone.’

  Wilf frowned. ‘Gone where?’

  Emily shook her head like she didn’t know.

  ‘Well I never.’ Wilf said, tapping his fingers to his lips. ‘Doesn’t seem very Jack.’

  ‘It’s exactly like Jack. Just wants an easy life,’ Emily said annoyed at his comment, and turning to start walking back to the house.

  ‘Em,’ Wilf said as he and Holly walked with her. ‘Have you ever thought about Jack’s life?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I mean really thought about it?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘So what part of it has ever been easy?’

  She rolled her eyes at her brother and sighed. ‘The eco commune thing.’

  Wilf snorted a laugh. ‘Have you ever lived off-grid, Em?’

  ‘No.’

  Wilf nodded. ‘Have you ever been self-sufficient? Or lived in the desert?’

  ‘You know I haven’t.’

  Wilf held back a smile. ‘Forgive me for not remembering clearly, but am I right in thinking he went to Australia and got an engineering degree?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And now he runs his own business building bloody great installations for all the top venues in the world?’

  Emily sucked in a breath. ‘Yes,’ she said, stubbornly refusing to look at her brother and stalking away to check everything was OK with the beer tent.

  ‘And just one more thing, Em, before you flounce off in a huff.’

  ‘What?’ She spun round, hands on hips.

  Wilf laughed, loving winding her up. ‘Doesn’t he live on a boat? A boat that he built, on his own?’

  ‘Oh why can’t you just piss off!’ Emily shouted back at him.

  ‘That’s no way to treat your darling brother, Emily.’ Wilf grinned. ‘Ah, champagne. Perfect,’ he added as he saw Jonathan in the marquee picking up one of the flutes.

  The show was scheduled to begin at midday. Contestants dropped off their entries between ten and eleven. Beautifully polished vegetables arrived wrapped in muslin and nestled in baskets of straw. Giant sunflowers wobbled their way to the tent, whil
e roses, clipped and arranged in vases, were positioned on the white table cloths – their scent overpowering in the heat of the marquee. The bakers dropped off their goodies and stood to the side waiting to see the other creations. A giant, show-stopping chocolate cake started to melt and slither in the scorching heat. There were cherry tarte tatins, sticky lemon drizzles, a three-tiered coffee cake completely covered with chopped-up walnuts, there were wonky layers and skewiff tops, burnt edges and a soggy-looking courgette cake. All of them lined up proudly, their icing starting to drip as the marquee got warmer and warmer. Winston had made a pineapple upside-down cake and held it up to Emily, Annie and River as he took it to the table. ‘In honour of the wallpaper,’ he said and Emily laughed.

  ‘I hope you win,’ she said.

  Behind his back, River raised his brows at the monstrous-looking cake and Annie had to look away for giggling.

  ‘As my mrs always says, it’s the taking part that counts,’ Winston said, throwing River a pointed glare as he walked away to the cake table.

  Emily agreed, but her attention was taken by the sight of someone unloading a bag of strawberries and cherries onto the fruit table. From the back he was the spitting image of Jack. She almost took a step towards him, but then he turned and she saw that it wasn’t Jack at all.

  Jane arrived next with their second-best dahlia and a fairly robust carrot. Holly was not far behind her.

  ‘Is this us?’ Holly asked, as she looked down at the slim pickings.

  Emily sniggered. ‘This is us.’

  Behind them Annie’s mum arrived with her tomato cow and a basket of stunning-looking onions. ‘I’m so sorry again, girls. It was all my fault, Holly,’ she said as she went past to drop off her wares.

  ‘Do you think she did it on purpose?’ Holly asked, glancing past Emily to watch her unpacking her onions.

  ‘No! Of course not,’ said Emily.

  Annie laughed. ‘You know, I wouldn’t put it past her.’

  Jane shook her head. ‘There’s no way she would have done it on purpose. She was practically crying on Martha the other day.’

  ‘Is that when you told her?’ Annie asked.

  ‘Told who what?’ Emily said.

  ‘Martha,’ said Jane. ‘I’ve read on. In the diary. And I’ve Googled James Blackwell again. He didn’t die in the war. He died five years later. After he’d got married and had two children, children who grew up, got married and each had their own children. Children who inherited the family business that James Blackwell’s son started. Blackwells. They own Blackwells.’

  ‘Christ,’ said Holly, ‘Didn’t they try and buy Wilf’s company out?’

  ‘Blackwells?’ asked River.

  ‘Massive restaurant and hotel chain,’ said Annie.

  ‘That’s not all.’ Jane went on, ‘When he left Enid after the Ritz…’ she paused. ‘He left her pregnant,’ she said. ‘These are Martha’s relations. William Blackwell, who heads the company up now, he’s her nephew. She’s a Blackwell.’

  ‘But she doesn’t want anything to do with it,’ Annie said.

  ‘I think she’s wrong,’ said Jane. ‘I think Enid would want her to know. Would want us to find him. I’ve read the rest. She would have wanted it.’

  ‘Well you can’t make her contact him,’ Holly said.

  ‘No.’ Jane shook her head. ‘But maybe I will.’

  ‘Go Jane!’ Emily laughed, then she heard her name being called by one of the bouncers from the gates.

  She came out of the marquee, past a line of people waiting to hand over felted tea cosies, hand-stitched quilts, embroidered cushions and ugly vegetables, meeting him half way across the front lawn. ‘Everything OK?’ she asked.

  ‘There’s a load of paps on the door. Said you said they could come in.’ The bouncer towered over her, his arm muscles bulging out his black T-shirt, his walkie-talkie crackling as he spoke.

  Emily glanced over to where the group of paparazzi were practically salivating at the front gates. It seemed suddenly crazy that she had agreed to let them in. Letting them roam free on her property.

  ‘What me to get rid of them?’ The bouncer asked.

  ‘No.’ Emily shook her head and exhaled slowly. ‘Let them in.’

  She watched as he gave word via the walkie-talkie and the gate opened slowly, letting the enemy swarm in.

  Holly came to stand next to her. ‘You all right?’

  Emily nodded. ‘If it goes to plan, yes.’

  Before Holly could reply, Jonathan clicked on his microphone and, from the stage next to the Dandelion Cafe stall, called everyone to attention.

  ‘People, listen please. People. Everyone. Hush for a moment.’ He coughed.

  Emily caught Wilf’s eye, who was standing next to Jonathan about to be introduced as a judge and giggled. Wilf was struggling to keep a straight face.

  Jonathan carried on. ‘It gives me great pleasure,’ he said, then paused. ‘To announce…’ Another pause for effect.

  ‘Get on with it, mate,’ one of the paps called out.

  Jonathan coughed again before finally saying, ‘To announce the opening of the Great Cherry Pie Show.’

  Cheers went up from the crowd as he introduced the mayor, the councillors and Wilf as his fellow judges.

  Jonathan went on to outline the rules of the competition in minute detail and, melting under the blazing sun, the crowd started to wane. Emily could see people shielding their eyes, waving their programmes for some cool air, whispering under their breaths, shuffling with boredom. She looked at her watch. It was quarter past twelve. She looked at the gates.

  Jonathan droned on. The sun sizzled, frying the crowd. The flowers in the tent would be wilting and the icing on the cakes splitting.

  She saw the paparazzi looking round anxiously and wondered if it really had all just been one massive great mistake.

  But then a horn sounded and the gates of Mont Manor opened and a black limousine cruised up the path and onto the grass so it drew level with the stage.

  Emily put her hand to her mouth and almost cried when the door opened and Giles Fox stepped out.

  ‘You came,’ she said.

  His perfect rosebud lips tilted into a half-smile and his perfect eyes glinted with humour and as he stepped forward, placed his hand on her shoulder, bent down to kiss her on the cheek he whispered, ‘I said I would, didn’t I?’

  ‘I know but—’

  ‘And this makes us even?’ he added and Emily rolled her eyes, as if she should have known.

  ‘Yes, Giles. This makes us even,’ she said as he straightened up, his perfect smile on his perfect face and waved to the star-struck crowd.

  Adeline and their two children followed him out of the limousine and a nanny with the baby. ‘Emily,’ Adeline said, her velvet-smooth voice saying her name like they’d been friends for years.

  ‘Adeline,’ Emily replied.

  ‘Such a pleasure to be here,’ Adeline said as she air-kissed Emily on both cheeks, their skin never touching.

  The paparazzi went wild. Cameras flashed like gun fire. Giles held up a hand and waved to his people.

  Jonathan stood open-mouthed at the mic. Wilf watched with puzzled amusement.

  Emily watched Giles take in the surroundings, the crumbling manor, the makeshift stage, the wonky banner on the cafe stall, the wide-eyed residents gawping at him. She knew it was everything he loathed. The legs of the chairs in his LA mansion were gold-leafed. He wore a new pair of socks every day. But ever the professional, he clapped his hands together and said, ‘OK let’s do this thing.’

  As the crowd split to let them pass, Emily, Giles, Adeline and their kids walked together to the marquee, Jonathan, Wilf, the mayor and the bemused councillors following. The paparazzi went ahead, walking backwards as they snapped.

  And Emily revelled in the fact that Giles was here alongside his wife. And finally, it was just possible, that with a show of friendship and nonchalant, almost mundane adult solidarity, the mystery
surrounding them could be laid to rest. As they tasted the pineapple upside-down cake and marvelled at the neat stitching on the quilts, she could almost feel ‘Fox Hunter’ slither away and disappear.

  ‘On to strawberries,’ Jonathan said, consulting his clipboard as he ushered them all forward.

  ‘Anything to drink around here?’ Giles scratched a bead of sweat from his forehead.

  ‘Can we have refreshments for Mr Fox?’ Jonathan called and ten different people scuttled away to rustle up some chilled champagne and a cold beer.

  Emily was busy trying to find Jack’s name on the strawberry stand but it wasn’t there. She even glanced around to see if he might show up, dashing through at the last minute with his prize-winning strawberries, but no, behind her was just the excited faces of the crowd trying to get a better view of Adeline and Giles.

  ‘And the cherries,’ Jonathan said.

  Giles bent down to Emily and muttered, ‘Many more?’

  ‘Oh yes,’ Emily nodded. ‘You haven’t even got to the vegetables yet.’

  ‘And the dahlias.’ Jonathan ushered them on, clapping to chivvy Wilf who was still eating strawberries.

  When they got to it, the dahlia stall was completely bare bar one little flower. Not a particularly special flower. Its quills less than perfect, its leaves uneven, its head small, its stem wonky. But it was the only one. It was Emily, Annie and Jane’s.

  Emily turned to search out Annie’s mum in the crowd, who winked when she caught her eye.

  ‘A clear winner. Right, let’s move along. Next we have, ugliest vegetable…’

  At this Giles perked up immensely, and, in Jonathan’s opinion, spent an infuriatingly long time laughing at the tomato cow, a Jesus potato and a very rude-looking carrot.

  Emily watched the day as it unfolded. As people got used to having Giles and Adeline there, as Wilf did the same cocky strut across the grounds as he had when he was eighteen at the festival, as the kids splashed in the pool and people drank cider and lounged on hay bales, as River and Clemmie’s band played folk music and locals danced, as the sun beat down and made their skin slippy. She watched Giles play to the cameras while his and Adeline’s little kids play with Gerty and the others. And she wondered if this did make them even. If this did make up for him leaving her on the day of their wedding. And she suddenly didn’t care. Because it was behind her, it was all slowly and steadily behind her.