Sunshine Over Wildflower Cottage

by Milly Johnson

  ‘Oh, if only,’ Gaynor half-laughed, half-cried as she raised her head up to the ceiling. ‘If only I were someone else, anyone else but Gaynor Pollock, I might not be in this mess.’ When her eyes drifted back to Janet, it was to see her holding Gaynor’s coat and handbag out for her.

  ‘Go home, Gaynor. I can manage.’

  Gaynor put on her coat with the weariness of a knackered pensioner and slipped the loop of her handbag over her shoulder.

  ‘I’ll see you in the morning,’ she said, walking slowly away and through the door. She hadn’t had a day off sick in five years but she felt as if the events of the past year had suddenly all joined together and thrown themselves at her in one big lump. As she zapped her car door unlocked, a male voice – a familiar voice – called her name. She turned, and there was Mick.

  ‘Gaynor,’ he said. The word hung in the air, as alone and isolated as the owner of that name felt. Mick scratched his head. His hair looked darker and was shiny and spiky. He’d had it cut in a new style meant to offset the thinning and make himself appear younger in the process.

  Gaynor didn’t say anything. She opened the car door and again he said her name and took a step forwards.

  Her appearance shocked him, she could see that. She didn’t have a stone and a half to lose and her cheeks were hollow. All her clothes hung loosely on her: the thin mac she was wearing looked two sizes too big. He’d bought her that mac, she suddenly remembered. He hadn’t intended to but she’d forgotten her Visa card and he’d put it on his and said it could be part of her fifty-second birthday present.

  ‘Gaynor, are you all right?’

  The ludicrousness of the question gave her a quick shot of anger.

  ‘Am I all right? Am I all right?’ She opened her mouth to say more then stopped and forced herself to take a breath. He had approached her: she had his attention for the first in a long time and she didn’t want to throw it away. She sighed and the breath seemed to take all the strength she had left. ‘No, I’m not all right,’ she said, her voice a wisp, a croak.

  ‘We could have signed up to another surgery as we’re in the middle of two but my records are still here so . . . I thought . . . I’m sorry.’

  ‘Sorry, for what?’ Gaynor asked. She desperately wanted to hear him answer that he was sorry for hurting her, for dragging her through the mud, for turning her into a bitter, envious, miserable cow, so could he please come home.

  ‘For buying a house near you. It was the only one we liked. It was a good price.’ His voice tailed off. Even he, with his blunted sensitivities, realised these details were surplus to Gaynor’s requirements.

  Gaynor wanted to take his hand, press it against her cheek. She would do anything in her power to have him come home. But he had heard her say that at least ten times now and it hadn’t changed his mind. She had shown him the full spectrum of her emotional range, all except this empty, hollow shell of herself. She felt as if someone had stuck a spoon inside her and scooped everything out.

  ‘We’ll sign up with the other practice. We won’t use this one. It’s wrong.’ Mick’s voice was gentle, full of sympathy. No, not sympathy but pity. Pity? She didn’t want that. Pity was what you felt for abandoned animals or homeless people, not for wives who couldn’t get over losing you. How dare he pity her, the tramp-shagging bastard.

  ‘Yes, you do that,’ Gaynor said, straightening her back, reclaiming some dignity. If he hadn’t looked at her as if she’d been an injured greyhound that needed putting out of its misery she might have thrown in the towel. Now she’d fight on until the fat lady sang so loudly she damaged her vocal cords. He’d be the one that people pitied, walking about with dyed spiky hair and jeans worn hanging halfway down his arse.

  She could have coped better if he had died, horrible as it was to admit to herself. Being Mick Pollock’s widow would have allowed her to keep some respectability, whereas being Mick Pollock’s ex-wife because he’d run off with a Bellfield scrubber did not.

  Mick made no attempt to stop her getting into her car, fumbling with the ignition key, nearly crashing into the car behind because she slipped into reverse rather than first. She did not look into the rear-view mirror and see his expression as she drove away. In her imagination, it would have been one of forlornness that he had made the biggest mistake of his life, and the sight of her there outside the surgery had forced the scales to finally fall from his eyes.

  Maybe she would have turned back and drunk in the sight of him looking at her with concern, had she known it was the last time she would see Mick Pollock alive.

  Chapter 16

  Geraldine threw her arms around Wonk and kissed the sweet grey fur on her head.

  ‘Oh, it’s so good to have you home.’ Then her face fell. ‘What will happen to her if we close? Where will she go?’

  ‘Any sanctuary will have Wonk, she’s rich,’ said Heath, unable to keep the bitterness from his voice.

  Geraldine geed herself up. ‘What am I saying? Wonk won’t be going anywhere. We have to stay positive.’

  ‘Have you found homes for the animals yet?’ asked Viv, thinking Heath was insensitive at best.

  ‘Nope,’ he replied. ‘We were always waiting for the miracle which was going to fall on us from above. The ancient powers that be would never let this place become a housing estate, everyone kept telling me. We should all dig in our heels and everything would be okay.’ His mouth bore a smile, but his words were humourless.

  ‘Something will come up, I know it,’ said Geraldine. ‘It has to.’

  Heath raked his fingers through the tangle of his hair, a gesture of concealed impatience, Viv thought.

  ‘Gerry, we are not living in a Disney film. We have to face facts that it’s starting to look unlikely and we should make plans accordingly.’

  Geraldine turned and walked rapidly back to the cottage. She was upset, that was evident. Viv stood there awkwardly not knowing if she should follow. Heath was staring beyond Wonk up at the castle.

  ‘I know it might sound a daft question but have you asked them to come to some sort of arrangement?’ said Viv, cutting into his reverie.

  ‘What?’ Heath quickly turned his head towards her.

  ‘Have you sat down at a table with the Leightons, I mean, and . . .’

  ‘I know what you mean. Taken tea and cakes and asked them to rent the land back to me? No, funnily enough I haven’t. Maybe you think I should apply for a mortgage and buy it myself. Have you any idea how much this wonderful stretch of prime building land is worth?’

  Viv took a stab at a guess. ‘A million?’

  Heath gave a dry laugh. ‘In your dreams. So no, of course I haven’t sat down with them with a cup of tea and a packet of custard creams.’

  ‘Well, isn’t it worth a try, then?’

  Heath’s eyes rounded and his mouth contracted to a grim line. ‘You’ve known me exactly how many minutes, Miss . . . Blackwell and—’

  ‘Blackbird,’ said Viv. ‘Like your name, only in English.’

  ‘Blackbird then.’ Heath’s cheeks were colouring with a flush of anger. ‘As I was saying . . .’ He stopped, breathed out, closed his eyes and shook his head. ‘Never mind. It’s just not worth talking about. All you need to know is that I have tried everything and it hasn’t worked, so I’d appreciate it if you just got on with the job in hand and cut the suggestions.’

  ‘Maybe if you let a stranger take a fresh look at things,’ Viv shrugged hopefully.

  ‘By stranger, of course you mean you.’

  ‘Well, yes, I—’

  Heath folded his arms across his chest. ‘Remind me about your law degree again.’

  ‘My law degree?’ Viv was confused.

  ‘Yes. Or am I getting mixed up. Did we employ you for your proven record in negotiations in war zones?’

  ‘Oh.’ He was being sarcastic. ‘I just thought . . .’

  ‘You don’t need to think, Miss Blackbird,’ said Heath. ‘All you need to do is call people from th
e list I have already drawn up in readiness and ask if they will have any space for my animals in July. I won’t let them go until I have to and if I do have to I will thank you for your assistance and send you on your way with a nice reference so you can have some more work “experience”. Okay?’

  ‘You seem quite friendly with Antonia Leighton. Couldn’t she help?’

  ‘I beg your pardon?’

  Uh-oh, thought Viv. That didn’t go down well, but there was nothing for it but to plough on. ‘I meant I saw you talking to her yesterday on the hill, before you arrived here, couldn’t she . . .’

  Her voice died as Heath turned briskly away from her and stomped back towards the cottage. Viv followed meekly behind. The mention of Antonia’s name had obviously touched a raw nerve. Was there anyone the Leightons didn’t have a dramatic effect on? Viv wondered.

  Chapter 17

  Caro looked idly out of the window as she waited for her next client to come. Mrs Carnegie was late for her nail infill as usual, but Caro didn’t mind today. She had been non-stop since she walked in at eight-thirty and was enjoying a welcome break and a long-belated coffee.

  Across the road a minibus had just parked and a group of pensioners were being off-loaded and led into the café there. Someone’s birthday, Caro guessed, as one of the last women to get off the bus was wearing a conical party hat. An old man with a stick had taken her arm to help her down the step from the bus and he waited until the next lady had climbed down safely too. A painfully thin woman with a duchess hump and a wobbly head began to alight and Caro froze. Her attention settled on the woman’s long, long black flat shoes; they looked disproportionate to the rest of her. No, it couldn’t be. Her mother had absurdly large feet, the relevant gene passed on to her brother but thankfully not to her. Caro studied her, moving away from the bus as if in slow motion. Her mother would be seventy-seven now: the woman across the street looked older – but then her mother had hardly lived a wholesome life. Was it her? Was she in a home now, near the end of her time?

  Imagining that it could be her mother, Caro searched inside herself to feel anything for the old woman, but there was nothing: no affection, no pity, no interest. As if suddenly aware of her scrutiny, the old lady swung her head towards Caro’s shop and it was clear that it wasn’t her mother after all. This woman had a long face with a witchy-pointed chin. It was only then that Caro allowed herself to think, Poor old soul.

  Chapter 18

  Heath had gone upstairs to his room by the time Viv reached the kitchen. Piccolo was screeching on the table as if he was telling Viv off in Heath’s absence for daring to mention Antonia Leighton. Viv wished she had been brave enough to ask Geraldine what – if anything – was going on between them. They’d suit each other, she thought; both of them good-looking and tall, arrogant and feisty. Mortal enemies or secret lovers? They couldn’t be both, could they?

  ‘Oh shush, Piccolo,’ Geraldine tutted at the owl, not that it did any good. ‘I’ve put the kettle on, Viv. I’ll make you a coffee to take into the office with you.’

  Geraldine’s eyes were puffy and bloodshot. She looked absolutely worn out. Her gaze was on the kettle but her thoughts were a long way away.

  ‘Are you all right?’ asked Viv.

  ‘No,’ said Geraldine, her voice no higher than a breathy whisper. ‘No, I’m not, Viv.’

  ‘I don’t know what to say,’ said Viv, and meant it.

  ‘I don’t either. I can’t think about it. This lovely old building demolished and replaced with a housing estate and no one can do anything. Ironmist won’t be able to choose who lives here any more if that happens.’

  Viv was just about to ask what that meant when the door crashed open and in walked Armstrong, grinning a greeting.

  ‘Heath’s back, isn’t he? I’ve just seen his pick-up. Does that mean Wonky is back too?’

  ‘Hello, love,’ said Geraldine, pinning on a smile. ‘Yes, she’s back.’

  ‘Oh that’s great,’ said Armstrong and clapped his hands together. ‘Can I feed her some carrots? My mum sent an apple for her.’ He pulled the bright red apple out of his pocket. ‘It’s a beauty, isn’t it? A proper Snow White apple, I reckon.’

  ‘I hope it’s not poisoned, Armstrong.’ Geraldine gave him a mock stern look.

  ‘No, it’s from the garden. It’s the first red one on the tree. It’s not very big though, is it?’

  He hadn’t got the joke.

  ‘Would you like to see how much Wonky likes apples?’ Armstrong asked Viv.

  ‘Viv’s just going to have a cup—’

  ‘I’d love to,’ Viv interrupted Geraldine. ‘I’ll have my coffee in a minute,’ she said, smiling at her. Geraldine smiled back. That was kind of Viv to be nice to Armstrong, she thought.

  Armstrong skipped out of the door. It should have been an odd sight to see him skip so skittishly but somehow it wasn’t. He would always be a boy, however old he became. Viv hoped he would continue to be as happy and carefree as he was now, too, but she suspected that he would take the closing down of the sanctuary very badly.

  ‘Have you met Heath?’ said Armstrong, stopping in his tracks and waiting for Viv to catch him up.

  ‘Yes, I’ve met Heath,’ replied Viv, trying to smile as if it had been a pleasant experience.

  ‘Want to see my impression of him?’ whispered Armstrong and he stood very tall and stiff and arranged his features into a semblance of exaggerated severity. Viv hooted with laughter.

  ‘He’s very stern, isn’t he?’ said Armstrong, as they arrived at Wonk’s field. The donkey had started to walk towards him before he started whistling, tempted by the boy or the sight of the apple or both. ‘Except when he’s with her.’

  ‘Her? Who’s her?’ said Viv, although it wouldn’t have taken Einstein to work it out.

  ‘Antonia Leighton,’ said Armstrong, after checking around to make sure there was no one to overhear them. ‘They fancy each other.’ Wonk nudged Armstrong’s hand, the one with the apple in it. He held it out for Wonk to nibble on. She demolished it in two greedy bites.

  Viv had a sudden vision of Heath and Antonia naked on the forest floor rolling around together.

  ‘I can tell,’ Armstrong confided. ‘My mum always says that opposites attract.’

  A little current passed through Viv, too quick to analyse what had made her nerves twang. Confusion at that news, if it were true. A pinch of jealousy, maybe. Though really that was ludicrous; Heath Merlo, she told herself, wasn’t her type at all – and she sure as hell wasn’t his. Her initial reaction to him had been misleading: her damned nose had tricked her. Antonia Leighton and Heath didn’t seem a natural pairing though – or maybe her first impressions were wrong there too. Maybe they were like Romeo and Juliet, star-crossed lovers from feuding families. What a mess, falling in love with your worst enemy’s daughter.

  She didn’t like the way that Armstrong’s revelation bothered her. She wanted to ask more but she knew she shouldn’t be encouraging Armstrong to gossip, besides which Geraldine was on her way over to them.

  ‘Armstrong, will you help me weigh the birds,’ said Geraldine as she neared them. ‘Heath’s going out to a meeting about some funding.’

  As if he had timed his exit to coincide with the mention of his name, Heath’s 4x4 zoomed down the drive. He gave Viv the briefest of glances as he passed, loading it with all the irritation he could muster. I’ve never made as many enemies in such a short time, thought Viv, pressing down on the involuntary giggle that bubbled up inside her.

  ‘Yeah, I like weighing the birds,’ said Armstrong, beaming a huge smile. ‘They sit on the kitchen scales and we work out if we’re feeding them all right,’ he explained to Viv. ‘I know all about the birds.’ He was obviously excited about the task.

  ‘I’ll leave you to it then,’ said Viv and walked back to the cottage. Pilot, standing in the doorway, started waving his long tail as she approached and she was quite touched that he knew her enough to wag at her. Bub
was purring and rubbing against her leg as she collected her coffee but she wasn’t fooled and he didn’t get a stroke. Piccolo was on the floor, comically peering into a hole beneath the kitchen units where the plinth had broken off. The place was a flipping madhouse.

  Heath had left a list of animal sanctuaries on her desk for her to ring to see if they could take in his motley family and notes on which animals would be best where. And which could not be separated under any circumstances because they had grown close to each other and would pine. It must have been upsetting for him to draw it up like a will, a sombre but necessary task, she thought. The paper was creased and she guessed he had done it ages ago but hoped he’d never have to use it.

  It was a duty that Viv, too, approached with a far heavier heart than she would have imagined. She had been here less than a week and already the place felt a whole. To be an agent of its deconstruction made her feel sadder than she wanted to. Her detachment was crumbling more with every wag of Pilot’s tail and smile from Geraldine’s lips. Coming here, she knew now, had been a monumental mistake and the best thing she could do was get out as fast as possible.

  Chapter 19

  Geraldine screamed out and sat bolt upright in bed as she broke out of the shell of the dream which enclosed her and suffocated her, and even though she knew she was safe in the cottage, she still felt shaken to the core. There had been detail to the dream which gave it credibility – the way he said her name, the chain he wore around his neck, the smell of his aftershave which he always over-applied. He had always said he would find her and she thought he might because in this digital age it was impossible to hide. It was only in the past year that she had let herself believe he never would; but recently, in the last few days, the dreams had started again. Since Viv arrived.

  *

  Viv started tackling the accounts the next day. They were in a terrible state. The sanctuary was overpaying on gas and electricity and she negotiated a much better deal on their phone and internet package too. She liked that kind of wheeling and dealing. Stel had taught her that there was always a bargain to be found when you needed to save a few pounds. Although really, if the place was going to be closing, was she wasting her time? Then again, another one of Stel’s sayings was ‘It’s not over until it’s over’. Geraldine would have certainly agreed with that philosophy, thought Viv, so she pressed on.