by Gil McNeil
“So?”
“So nothing, I’m just saying.”
“Well stop it. You’re not looking for a second husband, so what do you care. When’s he back from Madrid?”
“In a couple of weeks, but then he’s off somewhere else I think. He rang to say he couldn’t resist putting on a performance in front of Portia and he hoped I didn’t mind. But there’s something—I don’t know—he’s a bit too pleased with himself.”
“I wish I’d seen Pete’s face.”
“Yes, that was a definite highlight. And it’s nice, having someone showing an interest, but it’s all—I don’t know—somehow underwhelming.”
“It’s bound to feel strange, putting yourself back out there, like going on a refresher course. Refresh and revitalise, like a good spa treatment, but with better underwear.”
“But that’s exactly what I’m trying to say. It doesn’t feel that refreshing, or revitalising, and I definitely don’t have that kind of underwear—and before you say it, no, I’m not going shopping. It all feels like it’s a foregone conclusion, like we’ve fast-forwarded somehow, and there’s just a hint in amongst all the flirting that I should feel very lucky he’s paying me so much attention. And I should be, I can see that, he’s very much the eligible man about town and everything, but I don’t want to spend my time doing anything I’m not one hundred percent keen on anymore. I spent far too long doing that with Pete. It’s like Bertie says, I’m all for a bit of gallivanting, but if it all turns into dinners and what to wear and scoring points over the ex-wife, I think I’d rather stay in, pottering around the house and keeping the boys out of trouble, or out in the garden, it’s so beautiful now. Gallivanting interspersed with pottering and getting into gardening—I think that’s what I want to be doing.”
“Good for you darling. So when are you going out gallivanting then?”
“God knows, probably never, but I like the sound of it.”
“Just promise me you’ll keep doing things which get you away from the Doctor Doolittle thing you’ve got going on, I do slightly worry you’ll develop a passion for rare breeds. You’ll turn into one of those women who are always covered in hair and dribble from some special kind of long-eared goat.”
“I think that’s rabbits. I don’t think they do long-eared goats.”
“See what I mean. Promise?”
“I promise.”
“Good. So what’s the plan for today then?”
“An early lunch, and then there’s a car-boot sale and I thought we could do the egg hunt when we get back.”
“I don’t buy things from people’s cars darling.”
“There are stalls too, food and surfing kit, hippy clothes, that kind of thing. Or we can stay here and help the boys clean the pigsty?”
“Maybe the car-boot thing is worth a go. At least if there are hippy stalls Tre will enjoy himself.”
“Does he ever speak?”
“Not really. He’s very stupid darling, so I try not to encourage it. Beautiful though, yes?”
“Oh yes.”
She laughs, and then winces.
“Christ, have you got any more Panadol? Those first two haven’t quite hit the spot.”
“Sure. And another pot of coffee?”
“Perfect.”
Lola and Tre have a “siesta” before lunch, and Celia is in the garden with Ben planting out summer veg with Dennis, so I have a relaxing morning making lunch in between stopping the boys’ bickering. Dan is still sulking because I wouldn’t let him join in the killer-cocktails session last night, and Alfie is sulking because I’ve vetoed training Bubble and Squeak to come into the house and up the stairs into his bedroom.
“Dennis says we should be able to lift the second crop of new potatoes soon, and the asparagus is nearly ready.”
Ben’s a keen gardener now and spends ages with Dennis and Celia mucking about in the greenhouse or digging in the kitchen garden.
“That’s great love.”
“Shall I alert the BBC? They’ll probably want to make a special Boring Gardeners programme.”
“You don’t have to eat any of the asparagus if it’s too boring Dan. And Ben, take your socks off love, get a clean pair or you’ll be traipsing mud everywhere.”
“I said we’d help Dennis with the rabbits later.”
The Easter Bunny doesn’t really get a look-in round here, since Dennis is waging an ongoing rabbit battle. There are burrows along the cliff tops, and they keep trying to infiltrate the kitchen garden by digging tunnels under the walls, so he’s mounting special patrols in the early morning and at dusk, with Tess and Jasper barking and the boys running around yelling. So far this, combined with sporadic cannon fire from Bertie, seems to be doing the trick, but Dennis is adamant they’d clear the garden of all traces of salad and veg if we let them, so constant vigilance is essential, despite the quantities of mud and soaking-wet anoraks this involves.
“That’s fine love, but only if you let Alfie join in, and Tom if he’s here with Patrick checking on the pigs.”
“But he always ends up falling into the ditch and making a huge fuss.”
Dan grins.
“That’s why they call it a ha-ha. I’ll give you a hand later if you like. You never know, you might be the one who ends up in the ditch.”
“Hurry up and lay the table please. And Dan, go and tell Lola the shepherd’s pie is nearly ready, and yes, Alfie does need to help if he wants to. Didn’t Dennis say the more the merrier?”
“Yes, but he also said he’d get his friend round, the one with the night-vision thing on his gun, and you weren’t too keen on that were you? Actually a machine gun would be better, you’d get loads of rabbits with one of those, and Uncle Bertie is bound to know where to get one.”
“Don’t be daft Dan, we just want to keep them off the veg. We don’t want a rabbit apocalypse in our back garden—it would upset Alfie.”
“It would not, he’d love it. Dennis was saying he’s partial to a bit of rabbit pie, and Alfie said he wants to try it.”
Oh God, if I’m not careful Ivy will be trying to teach me how to skin a rabbit before I know where I am. It’s bad enough picking shotgun pellets out of pheasants, although admittedly the casseroles are delicious. But that’s one of the things about country life which I’d forgotten: how things don’t arrive in nice clean plastic packets. It’s fine with veg, and the occasional pheasant. But I definitely draw the line at de-furring rabbits.
“Dennis said we’d get a few for the freezer. We’re country boys now. Shoot things and eat them, all part of country life isn’t it—well, apart from Benny boy.”
Dan is definitely smirking now.
“Sure, if you skin them and do all the prep. It’s a very messy job, but I’m sure Ivy can show you. I’m having nothing to do with anything bunny related. Now, please get the table sorted, and anyone not sitting down, with clean hands and socks and being nice to their little brother, and not talking about shooting things, won’t be getting any lunch.”
They both tut.
Bertie entertains us at lunch with tales of guns mounted along the cliff tops during the War, and makes the whole thing sound like it was all a tremendous adventure.
“It wasn’t all fun though, was it, Uncle Bertie?”
“Sorry my dear?”
“We wouldn’t want anyone to think that War was fun, would we?”
I give him what I hope is a firm look.
“Oh no, quite right, terrible business. I could tell you things to make your hair curl.”
The boys all lean forwards slightly, clearly thrilled.
“Yes, but not at lunchtime. We don’t want anyone having nightmares, do we?”
“No, quite, no need to dwell. Put it out of your mind, that’s what we all learnt, else you couldn’t go on, end up in the loony bin. Can’t help remembering on dark days—lost so many decent chaps, girls too. Lots of tears in amongst all the larks, lots of tears.”
He pauses, and I’m
hoping he’s not about to launch into another one of his naval reminiscences. Some of them are pretty devastating.
“What’s on the itinerary for this afternoon? Dennis mentioned something about rabbits. Thought I might test the cannon, check everything’s in working order, wake the buggers up.”
Alfie sits up a bit straighter, looking delighted; not only has the cannon been mentioned but a grown-up has said “bugger” at lunch.
“We’re off to a boot sale Uncle Bertie, but maybe afterwards? And I’ve been meaning to talk to you about the cannon, only do you think we could have a signal before you fire it? Just so we get a bit of warning. A warning whistle, something like that?”
Everyone thinks a whistle is an excellent idea, and Alfie races off to retrieve the one from his Christmas cracker, and we all have a few practice toots. Great. So now Bertie is keeper of the whistle and will blow it before he fires the stupid thing, which should mean I don’t break quite so much china. If we can just get through the afternoon without anyone “accidentally” letting the pigs out, or trying to point cannons at rabbits, we should be in for a peaceful time.
“Alfie, eat the rest of your carrots love, and tell Aunty Lola about the scouts.”
Alfie and Ben tell Lola all about the wonderful world of scouting and she’s suitably impressed. Alfie is officially a Beaver, and Ben is a Scout, so they have different sweatshirts and badges. They’ve only been going for a couple of weeks, but so far they both love it, and there are plans for going camping later in the year.
“You’ll have to get lots of badges Alfie, so Mummy can sew them on for you in her sewing room.”
“You can glue them on now Lola, thank you, so less of the Mummy-sewing-things-on, if it’s all the same to you.”
“That’s handy.”
“Very. The only tricky bit is they go the same night as Dan has his lifeguards’ thing, so I end up driving backwards and forwards all evening like a taxi service. I’m thinking of getting a light to put on the top of the car and see if I can’t pick up a few fares.”
“I’d be careful what light you get darling—anything vaguely red and you might find yourself getting some unusual requests.”
Bertie starts chuckling, and raises his glass to Lola in appreciation.
“Yes, thank you Lola, and what other sort of lights would there be then? Do explain what you mean to Alfie.”
“Ice-cream vans have lights darling, and you wouldn’t want children queuing up for ice cream every time you stopped at the traffic lights would you?”
Celia’s trying not to smile too now, and Dan.
“Tell Aunty Lola about your lifeguards’ thing, Dan, I’m sure she’d like to hear all about it.”
“It’s just me, and my mate Robbie from school does it too. It’s pretty cool. We do training on the beach and races and everything.”
“Sounds exciting darling. Do you race in and out of the surf?”
“Sometimes.”
“And he’s got special red shorts and a bright-yellow sweatshirt, haven’t you Danny?”
He gives Ben a threatening look.
“Yeah, but that’s so people can see you on the beach, you idiot.”
“They can probably see you from the other side of the bay.”
“Ben, you can start clearing the table ready for pud, if you’ve finished.”
Lola is smiling.
“Well good for you, Dan. Do lots of people go, from your school?”
“Quite a few: Robbie and Tom, and Sam Masters, and this girl I know, Freya. And a few of the sixth formers, but they don’t talk to us.”
Alfie puts his fork down.
“It would be better if there were no girls. But I might join, when I’m bigger.”
“When you’re bigger you might like girls a bit more Alfie, you never know.”
“I do know Aunty Lola, and I won’t.”
“Apart from your Aunty Lola of course.”
He gives her an adoring look.
“Of course. And we can have ice cream when we go to the boot fair, can’t we, as many as we like?”
“Over to you Aunty Lola—more than one and he’s definitely in your car on the way back, and that’s all I’m saying on the subject.”
The car-boot sale is quite a good one, and I find some more old glass bottles and bowls for the guest bedrooms, and a lovely old white enamel bread bin which will look great in the kitchen in the gatehouse. We meet Vicky and Bea and Daisy, buying material for Daisy’s bedroom, and Vicky helps me choose some for curtains for the gatehouse bedroom, so that’s another thing crossed off the list. I stock up on handmade soap, and Lola buys some too—rose geranium and verbena, and sage for Tre, because apparently sage is very cleansing.
We’re back home having a quiet cup of tea while the boys count up their eggs after a rather frantic Easter-egg hunt where Alfie inevitably ended up falling into the ha-ha again, when Bertie and Celia wander in, looking chirpy. They’ve taken to going on little walks in the afternoons now, each treating the other as an elderly person in need of a slow pace and a steadying arm.
“Celia has a proposition about the garden my dear, and I must say I wasn’t keen at first, but now I’ve got all the info I’m rather coming round to the idea. Entirely up to you of course.”
He nods at Celia.
“Off you go then, ask her.”
“I thought you were going to ask her.”
“Was I? Oh sorry, forgot that bit. Mind like a sieve. Might be better if you ran her through the basics. Bound to make a hash of it if you leave it to me.”
She looks at him in the same way I remember Helena used to, a mixture of annoyance and affection, rather similar to the way you’d greet an old family pet who’s been chewing your slippers for the umpteenth time.
“It’s quite simple: I’d like us to consider opening the garden for a day, as part of the National Garden Scheme. My friend Bobby is the county organiser, so she could give us all the details. They’re very fussy, but I’m sure we’d be accepted, and you charge an entry fee—five pounds is the usual, and you donate it to a charity of your choice. I thought we could raise funds in memory of Helena, make a donation to a heart charity, and we could also sell teas and cakes, and pot up some seedlings and sell those to raise funds to renovate the fountain. Helena definitely had that in her sights as her next project, and it would be such a fitting tribute. And best of all, we could also invite the Rose Society people—they’ve been trying to present a medal in honour of all of Helena’s work for years. She kept telling them she was too busy, although personally I think it was more a case of too shy.”
“Too stubborn, more like—never did like a fuss.”
She nods at Bertie.
“That’s true enough, but this is a gold medal. They’ve only awarded seven so far, it’s quite exceptional, so I do think she’d approve. I know she was terribly pleased when they first suggested it, even though she pretended she wasn’t. So what do you think my dear? Shall we find Dennis and discuss it, because we’d obviously need to take his views into account.”
“How many people would come do you think?”
“Around two hundred, at a guess, maybe more if the weather is good.”
Bloody hell, two hundred people tramping round the garden and wanting tea. Dennis will go nuts, and if he doesn’t, Ivy definitely will.
“Let’s talk to Dennis and Ivy about it tomorrow.”
Celia stands up.
“Ivy’s in the kitchen right now actually, Dennis drove her up a few minutes ago, been shopping, something about wanting the big mixing bowl from the pantry. Shall I ask them to join us?”
“Great.”
Bugger.
“Well I think it’s a brilliant idea. Put you on the map—well, the gardening map anyway.”
“Thanks Lola, and will you be down that weekend helping serve all the teas then?”
“Possibly not darling, but you could print up leaflets about the B-and-B you know, be great for business.”
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“Yes, brilliant, if we want all our guests wanting tours of the gardens every five minutes, it will be perfect. Anyway, it’s up to Ivy and Dennis—they’ll be the ones doing all the extra work.”
I’m rather counting on them to be honest, but as soon as they come in I can see that Dennis is quite taken with the idea, even though he’s pretending not to be.
“We’d need to keep on our toes, because they turn up with penknives and plastic bags to take cuttings and we don’t want them snipping away at our best plants like vultures. I’ve seen them at it, when we’ve visited other gardens. Ivy and I often have a driveout on a Sunday, don’t we Ivy?”
“Yes, and a right mess they usually make, with people wandering in and out of the house with muddy shoes.”
Celia nods.
“We’d have to think about that, make sure we planned things properly. But the medal would be such a fitting tribute to Helena, and all her hard work over the years. And your hard work too Dennis—she couldn’t possibly have done it without you.”
“I’m not saying I’m against it, I’m just saying we’d need to be on our guard.”
“Absolutely.”
“I suppose we could have the tea in the stables, if it rains?”
“In those dirty old stables? If you think I’m serving tea on our best plates in those mucky old stables, you can think again, Dennis.”
“Only if the weather’s bad. And we’d clean them up, we’d want to do it properly.”
Bertie stands up.
“Excellent, knew you’d come up with a plan to make it work. And if people can buy Ivy’s cakes, we’ll make an absolute fortune, that’s pretty much guaranteed. I think this calls for a celebratory tipple. Anyone care to join me?”
We’re starting on what I predict will be an ongoing series of mild bickers about what china to use and what people will sit on when they have their tea, when Alfie races in, panting.
“Mum, quick, a sheep has fell in the ha-ha. Come and see, it’s great.”
We troop down to the bottom of the garden. The farmer who rents the fields has had the sheep out with their lambs for a few weeks now, and they bounce about and climb on top of anything they can find, including their mothers if they make the mistake of lying down. They’re still very small though, so I’m hoping it’s a lamb, but it turns out to be a rather large and very grumpy sheep.
