A Cottage in Cornwall

by Laura Briggs

  "I'll be very careful," he promised. And laughed, which actually made me a little angry. "It's a few weeks, Juli. Just long enough to observe, collect samples, and see if an antiviral program can be developed." He sounded more serious now. "If it wasn't so important, I wouldn't consider it. You know that."

  I knew. I also knew that I was jealous of South America, and a dying plant. It had been weeks since we'd seen each other for my vacation around Valentine's Day, which we'd spent hand in hand in Boston. I was tired after a long day's work and bitter over a whiny wine tasting host's insufferable demands for his upcoming event in the garden. That's partly why I had reacted poorly to words like 'virus,' 'jungle,' and 'weeks in a remote place,' where Matt would be without cell phone coverage or internet for nearly a month. But truthfully, I was lonely for him, and the one smidge of vacation he would have for spring break was being spent even further away from me than usual.

  So we argued. And, eventually, fought with harsher words about whether this was a practical choice, whether Matt could get hurt, or at least stuck in a foreign country and miss his students' final exam; and, underneath all those words, whether we were both too lonely and too tired to keep our relationship from crumbling under the strain.

  Even then, I could hear how much it was hurting him to have me even hint that his feelings weren't as strong as before. This, after he had bought my ticket to Boston, and barely let me out of his arms at the airport in time for me to board my flight. It hurt me to admit that I sometimes regretted his choice after I had tried so hard to be supportive and happy for his return to the university.

  He would never ask me to leave my job in Cornwall to come back to the U.S.; I would never ask him to give up his work as a scientist and a professor to make me happy. But somewhere in between those truths was a lot of wistfulness and heartache, and it had finally emerged in the form of a major disagreement. We hung up without resolving our differences, both too peeved to talk about what was really bothering us the most.

  A few days later, I received a short email from Matt before he left for his trip, one that felt a little more distant in its words than I wished it to be, even with 'all my love' at the bottom. I was still too sore to write back. And that was the last time I heard from him, even though it had been weeks ago, and by now, Matt would be back in Boston, probably administering the final to his class.

  It was my stupid pride's fault, I thought. I hadn't emailed him until it was too late, and even then those emails had gone unanswered. After all those weeks, our relationship had cooled to the point that Matt apparently didn't need to write me again, as if those distant words from his emailed goodbye had been the last ones. So Matt's pride was at fault, too. And now I was lonely, sad, and missing him like crazy. I almost wished I'd gotten on a plane to South America ... well, maybe not. Not with man-eating snakes and piranhas there. But if I hadn't been so bitter that last time he wrote me ... if Matt wasn't so stubborn sometimes ....

  See? Constance's wedding had come at the perfect time. Time for me to face facts that Matt and I had reached an impasse — that maybe that perfect love we had celebrated at Christmas wasn't so perfect after all. My heartache would have to find a way to fix things between us — or find a way to heal itself, so I could stop thinking of how much I missed him.

  And the way to that healing seemed, ironically, to be through plants. After all, Constance Strong was a botanical artist, Amanda pointed out, so the wedding obviously needed a strong natural theme. I had suggested she find a way to pay tribute to her friend's artwork as part of the wedding — maybe finding a rare cultivated species of flower to give to Constance and Joseph as a gift, maybe similar to one which Constance had painted in the past. The idea of paying tribute to Constance's art thrilled Amanda, who was already eagerly researching possible choices.

  Since it was spring, we could host the ceremony out of doors. Amanda had chosen the 'tea garden,' as I called it. Right now, it was in need of a trim, however, and some of the plants had been burned by a winter frost. Not exactly a magical site for a wedding, but I knew that a gardener's touch would make the difference.

  Unfortunately, that also meant I would have to talk to Billy.

  Cliff House's longtime gardener Jackson had retired this winter, and until a full-time replacement could be hired, Lord William had arranged for a neighboring estate to 'loan' him an experienced caretaker for Jackson's job — a longtime Cornish native who was a little past his prime, they explained, but had spent decades caring for their public botanical gardens. He arrived two days later, a hunched, sour-looking figure who glared at the gardens as if he was facing off a mortal enemy. He wielded pruning shears like he was cutting his way through the wilderness, and the only time I saw him smile was when he was savaging a stray hedgeling with his machete.

  While Jackson and I had been friendly coworkers, Billy and I ... well, we hadn't exactly hit it off. In simple words, I was fairly sure he detested me.

  Determined, I walked towards the hedges that Billy was busily trimming. "Billy," I said. "I need to talk to you about maintenance for the little garden on the house's east side."

  He squinted at me. "What'bout'em?" he asked.

  His words were unfathomable to me most of the time — maybe his remarks were occasionally in Cornish, maybe not, but either way, I couldn't understand him. "Lady Amanda wants the garden to be in pristine show condition two weeks from now," I said. "It's for a wedding for a friend of hers."

  "Garden'sa'right now," he said. He gave me a mean, calculating look, as if I'd accused him of neglecting it. My brain tried to translate his last sentence in the meantime.

  "She wants it to be special," I repeated. "I was thinking maybe some nice spring bulbs — some daffodils and paperwhites, and some early crocuses in the big urns."

  Billy spat — viciously — into the bushes. "Wales'r'dils," he said. "Nowannaput t' likes of 'em round 'ere." From the look he gave me, I gathered I had insulted him deeply with this suggestion.

  I opened my mouth to reply, trying to fathom the meaning of his words. "Do you have some flowers in mind?" I asked. "Again, it's in two weeks, and it's important to Lady Amanda —"

  "Donwanna foolin' around w' that spot for 'nother fortnight or so," he mumbled — grumbling — under his breath as he began scissoring away hedge branches again. "Tisn'twhat've amind fer it ... not fer 'nother few weeks. N'of it."

  Was that an outright refusal? I couldn't be sure, but I couldn't let it go at that, if it was. "Listen," I said, firmly. "What Lady Amanda wants, we do. Is that clear? She wants spring flowers in bloom in the east patio garden in two weeks." I held up two fingers, in case this number wasn't clear.

  "G'onw'ye!" he snarled. "I'vegiv'n ye answer, and it be. Meddlin'wench," he muttered under his breath after this, as the vicious pruners snapped their way through more limbs. There was a squeak from the mechanism with every clip of the blades, like a squeak of protest from the poor hedge.

  "We're not done with this issue," I said, firmly. "And I would suggest that you start cleaning out the urns and trimming back the frost-bitten plants so we can get started on putting in the new ones."

  As I walked away, I heard more muttering and snarling behind me, none of which was intelligible, except for maybe the word 'Yank' thrown in a time or two. I knew my face was flushed with anger, and that my Valentino heels were clipping an angry pace along the walkway.

  I passed Pippa who was tugging on a pair of wellies for visiting the kitchen garden, her dark, spiky hair hidden beneath her wool cap. "What's with you?" she said, looking at me with a puzzled expression. I folded my arms and scowled.

  "I was attempting to have a discussion with Billy the gardener, but I obviously need a lesson or two in Cornish," I said.

  "He doesn't speak Cornish," said Pippa. "Well, except when he swears," she added. "He's a tough old stick, Billy, isn't he? Not very friendly with the lot of us, but that's his choice. Got a chip on his shoulder, it seems. He's not exactly taken a shine to you anyways,
I've heard."

  "Is it because I'm an American?" I asked. "Is that why he dislikes me?"

  "Probably. He's got a bone against foreigners of any kind, seems. French, Italian, Spanish, Welsh..."

  "Welsh visitors aren't exactly foreigners, are they?" I asked.

  "Neither's Devon's folk, but he's got a real bone against that lot," said Pippa. "Anybody that's not proper Cornish. Not even me — me dad's from Cheshire."

  Weren't daffodils the official flower of Wales? I thought. Maybe that's what he took issue with in my suggestions.

  "Well, if he won't listen to me, he'll have to listen to Lord William," I said.

  Lord William, the titled master of Cliffs House, was in the manor's spacious, stone-built garden shed, the former carriage house from the Victorian era. I found him greasing a chain saw at his work bench, oil spattered on his old pullover and a worn pair of denim jeans. Far from the picture I'd first had of him, before I knew that modern-day estate owners were often as handy with tools, agricultural planning, and gift shop cash registers as they were with financial portfolios and business plans.

  He listened sympathetically to my problem. "Billy is rather stubborn, unfortunately," said Lord William. "I've had a difficult time myself getting him to understand how things are done at Cliffs House. It seems he's set in his ways — he has a particular way of doing things at his usual post, and wants to stick to it. I suppose thirty years of the same routine rather does that to a person."

  Any other time, I could sympathize with a senior-age gardener needing his routine, but not now. "Will you speak to him?" I said. "It's very important to Lady Amanda that he do something about the garden before Constance's big day. If it's just a few sad-looking plants and tufted grass in those flower urns and beds, I'll never forgive myself." I'll get on my hands and knees and plant cheap bulbs myself first, I thought.

  "Not to worry," said Lord William. "I'll see to it. I'll have a word with him and I'm sure he'll change his mind." He laid aside his oily rag, giving me a cheerful smile that made me feel much better about the prospects of getting Billy to plant a few of the much-despised daffodils.

  On my way back to the house, I heard my cell phone ringing in my coat pocket. I pulled it out, a part of me hoping against hope that it was Matthew's number on the screen — and, instead, saw one that had become familiar only these past few weeks: the number to a local estate agent, one of Lady Amanda's friends.

  I answered it. "Hello, Denise," I said. "Do you have good news for me?"

  I crossed my fingers as I spoke, since Denise had been combing all of Ceffylgwyn and the outlying villages for an affordable rental house or flat for me. A few possibilities had come up, but I had found myself reluctant to take any of them. Not because of the shabbiness of a couple of choices, but because they were outside the village. After months of living here, of quiz nights and quiet strolls along Cliffs House's walkways, I found I didn't want to live in another village, even one that would be just as charming. Not sleepy, quiet Ceffylgwyn, where all my American friends no doubt pictured me spending dull evenings knitting scarves and longing for the metropolitan atmosphere, coffee shops, and movie theaters of my old life in Seattle.

  Finding something in Ceffylgwyn itself would be challenging, Denise had warned me. But I was willing to take even the crumbliest of one-room flats in the village itself to stay.

  "I found you something at last," said Denise. "It's just come back on the market — the owner has been holding it for someone else, but hasn't had word that they're interested, so they're making it available."

  "Where is it?" I asked. "It's here, right?"

  "Right in the heart of Ceffylgwyn. It has —"

  "One room, I know, I know," I said. "A cold water flat with a view of some shacks and the fish and chips shop's neon window sign, but I don't care."

  "It's better than that," laughed Denise. "It's a proper house, with rooms, a kitchen and bath, and all the modern conveniences we all expect, and they'll be yours alone. And at a decent rate, although still a little pricier than you'd probably wish. But I think you'll be able to afford it. There's even a little wiggle room outside, should you want to take up gardening."

  Gardening. That little wistful longing in me for a certain someone stirred itself at this word. "Um, I'll take it," I said. "I'll meet you there, and get the keys, and I'll bring the deposit." It would take me a day or two to move everything — that with the help of Geoff, the kindly estate manager and fellow Cornwall transplant who shuttled me around in his car whenever I needed a lift.

  "It'll be tomorrow afternoon at the very soonest," said Denise. "I'll come and pick you up, and bring the rental agreement with me. You should see it before you sign, of course."

  "As if I'd pass on a place that sounds this great," I answered.

  I hadn't seen it yet, of course. But when Denise pulled up outside its gate and parked, I felt my heart give a great thump before it seemed to plunge all the way to the bottom of my chest.

  It was beautiful. It was charming, small, and exactly how everybody pictures a Cornish cottage. I loved it already, because I had always loved it — ever since Matthew had first invited me inside.

  "Isn't it a beauty?" said Denise, as she climbed out of the car. "The owner was quite shocked the previous tenant didn't renew his lease. They're a bit hesitant about renting to just anybody, you see. But I persuaded them that you would be a model tenant."

  I crossed the threshold, feeling like I was entering a ghost house. None of Matthew's things were here — his books weren't on the shelves, his pictures gone from the walls. The furniture was still there, everything positioned exactly as it was the last time I was here. Decorating a Christmas tree with Matt, trying to bring back a little of the childhood happiness he had lost all too soon to adversity.

  "The place has a name," said Denise, checking the listing on her mobile. "Ah, yes. Rose-"

  "-moor Cottage," I finished, at the same time as Denise. "I know."

  The room sounded empty and hollow, my footsteps echoing a little as I crossed the wooden floor in my stilettos. I bent down and lifted a silvery piece of tinsel which had fallen behind the shabby old armchair. It was dusty, marring the shiny, silver surface.

  "Needs a bit of cleaning, of course," said Denise, referring to the cottage's neglected rooms. "But I'm sure you'll love it once you've made it a bit more personal."

  "Why didn't the previous tenant come back?" I asked, softly.

  "Haven't the faintest idea, really." Denise dusted her hands after pulling open the worn tartan curtains across the front windows. "She simply said he hadn't renewed. Something about him being overseas — maybe he's staying a bit longer than planned. Either way, the place is available, and it won't be that way for long. It's yours to take or leave, Julianne." She paused. "Shall I bring the papers?"

  I gazed at the garden outside. The first spring blossoms had appeared, although the grasses and long-leafed, wild stalks seemed tangled and forlorn. A lump rose in my throat.

  "I'll take it," I said.

  I didn't want to, yet I did. I wanted to be here, and not have a stranger pulling up the plants and putting the old armchair out by the curb — as if that would actually happen, given the owner's feelings on tenants. Even though the last thing I needed was to be surrounded by memories of Matthew, I felt at home here. The coziness of this room, of this view, meant too much to me to let it go yet.

  After the papers were signed, Denise drove away and I was alone in the cottage. It felt strange, with only my presence in these rooms. I'd never been here before without Matthew. I walked through each one, finding dust and empty shelves and the wrought-iron bed frame I hadn't realized was in the bedroom. I opened a narrow door which led to a closet, and saw a flannel shirt lying crumpled on the floor. One of Matt's, which he had obviously forgotten.

  In my mind, I still pictured his books and his glossy brown tea pot on the table. But the teapot wasn't in the kitchen's glass-door cupboards when I opened them, one by
one in my exploration. Only the chipped plates I remembered fondly from having a takeaway lunch here with Matt a time or two, when we were still in the 'will we?/won't we?' stage of our relationship.

  Out the kitchen door, to the little hothouse Matt had loved. I stepped inside, standing beneath its glass ceilings choked with overgrown sweat peas, climbing roses, and other flowering vines that had crept up the frame and filtered the sunlight. The glass panes around me were grimy with pollen and dirt, making it hard to see the little green leaves budding out on the vines; the space around me was vacant, except for a few empty clay pots. Matt had found someone to care for all his plants before he left.

  I took a deep breath. It smelled like him, earthy and green — but also like leaf mold and manure, which made me sneeze, then wrinkle my nose after a second breath. I moved aside, and felt a broken piece of ceramic beneath my shoe. I caught sight of a hole near the corner, where Matt had dug up an impressive climbing pink rose that had always seemed to be in bloom.

  Oh, Matt. I wish you were here. I sighed. It would be a very long time before I didn't wish that, I was certain. I wondered if he was in Boston, missing me and wishing things between us were different. I wondered if I should try one more time to write him an email, to be the first one to break my pride and offer an olive branch.

  Maybe it wasn't too late. But I thought of the black hole into which my last three letters had vanished as I stepped outside the greenhouse and closed the door.

  ***

  "To Geoff Weatherby — the finest Londoner ever to come to our fair village," said Lord William. "May he have many a happy birthday among us." He lifted his glass as the rest of us did the same.

  "Here, here," echoed Gemma. "Three cheers for Geoff!"

  For the estate manager's birthday, Lord William had arranged a luncheon at Ceffylgwyn's finest restaurant — a quaint, semi-casual seafood bistro that served the freshest catch and had an outdoor seating area that overlooked the ever-moving waters of the Channel. We were toasting our beloved estate employee, who looked rather modest and somewhat embarrassed over being the center of attention — Geoff was typically the quiet and stoic type, who remained placid, whether Cliffs House experienced a crisis of garden blight, hoodlums trampling a newly-planted timber grove, or storm damage to the east side of the manor right before a major public event.