“A fair day’s wages for a fair day’s work,” Jack countered, grinning.
Mr. Barlow glanced over his shoulder, saw an incoming tide of Handmaidens, said a hasty good-bye to Jack and me, and made his way rapidly to the front door, his tool kit clinking as he ran. Elspeth, Opal, and Serena swept in and allowed Jack to sweep them out with admirable dexterity. I savored the silence for a few seconds, then headed outdoors.
I found Jack leaning against the front gate to catch his breath while Bree continued to wield her brush hook.
“It’s like being swarmed by a flock of budgies,” he marveled.
For the second time in two days I resisted the temptation to say “I told you so,” but Bree was merciless.
“You can’t say you weren’t warned,” she said. “I told you yesterday that Peggy Taxman was indiscreet, but did you listen?”
“Stone the crows,” Jack said incredulously as a gray Land Rover pulled up behind Bree’s car. “Here comes another one.”
“You’re in luck, my friend,” I said. “It’s not another one. It’s Emma Harris, who bears no resemblance whatsoever to a budgie. I promised her a cup of tea, by the way.”
“I could do with one myself,” said Bree, wiping her sweaty brow with the hem of her T-shirt.
“I’ll lock the gate behind Emma,” Jack proposed, “and we’ll all take a lunch break.”
“At last!” Bree exclaimed. “The boy’s talking sense!”
• • •
Emma Harris was the most capable woman I knew. She could knit a sweater, tend a garden, train a horse, write a computer program, and run a business without ever seeming overwhelmed or frantic. She was the kind of woman I would have aspired to be if I’d aspired to fight a losing battle. As it was, our friendship proved that, as with Jack’s parents, opposites attract.
She arrived at Ivy Cottage with a digital camera, a notebook, and a laser tape measure tucked into a canvas tote. She’d drawn her graying, dishwater blond hair back into a neat ponytail and dressed with equal simplicity, in blue jeans, a lightweight, long-sleeved jersey, and black Wellington boots. She greeted Jack cordially, apologized for missing his uncle’s funeral, and welcomed his invitation to sit down to lunch.
“I eat most of my meals at my desk,” she explained. “A dining table will be a great luxury.”
While Emma, Bree, and I put a sizable dent in Jack’s casserole collection, he explained that he’d applied to Lilian Bunting for help in finding a lab to test the well water and that he’d used a sterilized milk bottle and a length of his late uncle’s fishing line to retrieve the sample.
He then went on to discuss horticultural matters with Bree and Emma. Since I had nothing worthwhile to contribute, I allowed my gaze to wander around the room and noticed almost immediately that something new had appeared in it. A slightly squashed reddish-brown kangaroo—a soft toy, not a product of taxidermy—sat atop the bookcase. I waited for a break in the conversation to mention it.
“Is the kangaroo yours, Jack?” I asked, pointing to the bookcase.
“He is,” Jack replied. “His name is Joey—it’s what baby roos are called—and I’ve had him since I was an ankle biter. He’d’ve ended up in an op shop if I’d left him at home, so I brought him along with me on my travels. Joey’s been from the Snowy Mountains to the Kimberly, from Sydney to Perth, from the Great Barrier Reef to the great hunk of rock known as Uluru.” He sat back, folded his arms, and regarded Bree resignedly. “Go ahead, take the piss. Ask why a bloke has a kid’s toy in his rucksack.”
“I don’t have to ask,” said Bree. “I get it. It’s no fun to travel alone. It’s better to have a mate with you.”
Jack seemed taken aback by her respectful response. I wasn’t, because I knew something he didn’t. I knew about Ruru, a small and very tattered brown owl Bree had carried with her on an epic journey that had taken her from New Zealand to her great-grandaunts’ house. By sheer luck, Jack had confessed his eccentricity to three people who wouldn’t find it risible. Although Emma didn’t have a Reginald or a Ruru or a Joey of her own, she was far too open-minded to ridicule those of us who did.
“I’d love to sit around and chat,” said Emma, pushing her chair away from the table, “but I have to be back to the manor by two, so I’d better get to work. I’ll take measurements, notes, and photographs today, Jack, and use them to draw up a preliminary plan.”
“I’ll be in the front garden if anyone needs me,” said Bree, getting to her feet.
“I’ll join you after I’ve cleared the table,” Jack told her.
“I’ll be in the back garden,” I announced, “clearing the path from the kitchen door to the well.” I gazed at Jack with feigned innocence. “Millicent Scroggins will make her wish as soon as she’s back from the dentist’s. You wouldn’t want her to turn an ankle, would you?”
Jack threw his napkin at me, laughed, and began to stack the dishes.
I caught Emma’s eye, and with a small jerk of my head directed her to meet me in the back garden. She responded with a mildly puzzled look, but I found her waiting for me by the well when I emerged from the kitchen armed with a rake.
“I presume you’re scheming,” she said quietly.
“Don’t be so suspicious,” I scolded, raking up the strands of ivy strewn about the well. “I simply think it would be nice if the young’uns spent some time together. On their own. Without older folk around to cramp their style.”
“Matchmaking,” said Emma, gazing heavenward. “I should have known.”
“There’s nothing wrong with giving natural impulses a gentle shove in the right direction,” I said.
“I’ll leave the shoving to you,” said Emma. She rested a hand on one of the well’s sturdy posts and scanned our surroundings. “I’ve almost forgotten how much I enjoy gardening.”
“You’ve been too wrapped up in the riding school,” I told her, bending to my task. “You should take a break once in a while. Grow a prize-winning eggplant, knit a circus tent, invent the cure for the common cold.”
“There’s no room for a break in my schedule,” she said. “I couldn’t ask for better partners than Nell and Kit, but they can’t run the school by themselves and Derek has his own business to manage.”
Emma’s husband, Derek, owned a construction business specializing in restoration work. His daughter Nell—Emma’s stepdaughter—and her husband, Kit, lived with them at Anscombe Manor and worked full-time at the Anscombe Riding Center.
“They look after the horses and the students beautifully,” Emma went on, “but the rest of it—the business end of it—is my responsibility.” She heaved a small sigh. “These days I spend more time behind a desk than on a horse. I hardly ever get to teach a class anymore. I’m too busy managing schedules, accounts, supplies, maintenance, personnel . . . I do everything but climb into a saddle. When I started the school, I didn’t envision myself shuffling paperwork, but the paperwork must be shuffled and I’m good at that sort of thing.” She gave another little sigh. “I wish . . .”
I leaned on my rake and asked curiously, “What do you wish?”
“I wish the perfect someone would appear on my doorstep and manage the riding school for me,” she exclaimed. “I’d offer room and board if I thought it would attract the right person. Heaven knows we have rooms to spare at the manor.”
I stared at her, speechless. Emma was used to my passionate outbursts, but I seldom heard one from her, and I’d never before heard her utter a negative word about her beloved riding school. I wasn’t quite sure what to say.
“You could advertise for a manager,” I suggested cautiously.
“No, I couldn’t,” Emma said. “There’s no such thing as a perfect someone, and besides, I don’t really want a stranger stepping into my boots.” She smiled wanly. “Pay no attention to me, Lori. I’m tired and when I’m tired I get fed up with unblocking blocked drainage ditches and listening to parents complain because their little darling’s lesson was canceled.”
Her gaze drifted from the pergola to the stone wall to the rose-covered ruin of a trellis. “I won’t let it spoil my time here, though. An hour or two spent up to my knees in green stuff will put me right.” She bent to examine the feathery leaf of an otherwise nondescript plant, murmuring, “Interesting, very interesting . . .”
I left her to her green stuff and went back to work, wishing a knight in shining armor would ride over the horizon to slay my friend’s paperwork dragons.
Ten
Emma’s initial survey of the gardens at Ivy Cottage had unexpected results. Jack, Bree, and I had finished liberating the brick paths from the undergrowth and were in the kitchen sipping tea and comparing blisters when Emma asked us to join her near the old wishing well. Her face was flushed, her hair was falling out of its ponytail, and her voice trembled with excitement as she made her surprising announcement.
“All work in the gardens must stop,” she declared. “Right now. Immediately. No more cutting, slashing, or uprooting until I’ve created a comprehensive garden plan.”
“Why?” Jack asked. “I didn’t notice any endangered species when I looked ’round the other day. Nothing out of the ordinary.”
“It’s not about protecting endangered species. It’s about . . .” Emma paused to regroup, then continued urgently, “I realize that your uncle’s property looks like a neglected mess, Jack, but it isn’t. He knew exactly what he was doing with it and he did it brilliantly.”
“I didn’t think he’d done anything with it,” said Jack, perplexed. “How could he? He didn’t even own a spade.”
“Have you looked in the shed?” Emma asked, waving a hand in the direction of the ramshackle garage.
“Not yet,” said Jack. “The doors are jammed.”
“Ask Mr. Barlow to open them for you,” said Emma. “I think you’ll find a full complement of gardening tools inside. Your uncle couldn’t have done what he did without them. He must have been a great nature lover.”
“He was,” Jack confirmed. “He used to sit at his windows with his binoculars and take notes on whatever caught his eye.”
“I knew it!” Emma said triumphantly. “Don’t you see? He designed his gardens to attract wildlife—birds, bees, butterflies, bugs. Look . . .” She strode away from us, pointing to her finds as she passed them. “Bee balm, butterfly bush, yellow hyssop, witch hazel, milkweed, yarrow, cosmos, hollyhocks, globe thistles, blackberries, clematis, alyssum, sunflowers, calendula, . . .” She returned to the well, saying, “I could go on, but I’ll put the rest of it down on paper.”
“I don’t see hollyhocks,” said Bree. “Or sunflowers. Or—”
“They haven’t come up, yet,” Emma cut in, “but I found last summer’s leaves and stalks, so I know they’re here. I found four birdbaths, too, and a pair of bird tables for winter feeding. They’re falling apart, but they could be repaired or replaced.” She clasped her notebook to her chest and peered up at Jack hopefully. “Your uncle created gardens that celebrate and support life, Jack. It would be a crime to destroy them.”
Jack rubbed the back of his neck, looking doubtful. “Can they be simplified? I’ve got to sell the place, you see, and I’m not sure anyone but Uncle Hector would enjoy living in the middle of a nature reserve.”
“Once we tidy them up, they’ll have excellent eye-appeal,” Emma assured him. “Not everyone wants a lawn,” she added encouragingly. “All I ask is that you leave the gardens alone until you’ve seen my plan. I’ll bring it to you tomorrow—Thursday at the latest. There is one thing you can do, though, and I suggest you start doing it as soon as possible.”
“What’s that?” Jack asked.
“Examine the cottage’s external walls,” Emma replied. “If they’re in good condition, the ivy won’t hurt them. If they’re deteriorating—if the mortar’s loose, for example—the ivy will hasten their decay, in which case you’ll have to strip the vines and make the necessary repairs. While you’re up there, make sure the vines haven’t gone under the roof slates or taken root in the gutters and downspouts. If they have, prune them with a firm hand. Bees love ivy and it provides shelter for small birds, but it has to be kept under control.”
“Why not remove the ivy entirely?” I asked. “Doesn’t it make little holes in the walls?”
“Contrary to popular belief,” said Emma, “ivy protects stone buildings. It regulates temperature and moisture and it guards walls from pollutants that damage stone.”
“If the walls are in bad shape, though, I’ll need to find a stonemason,” Jack said with a sigh. “Can you recommend one?”
When Emma hesitated, I jumped in.
“Emma’s too modest to say it, so I’ll speak for her,” I said. “Her husband is the man you want. Derek Harris is a builder who specializes in restoration work. He’s a brilliant stonemason. If the ivy has damaged your walls, he’ll be able to repair them.”
Jack folded his arms and gazed thoughtfully at the garden, then turned to study the cottage’s ivy-cloaked walls.
“Done,” he said decisively, extending a hand to shake Emma’s. “No point in asking for expert advice if I’m not going to take it. I’ll hold off on the gardens for now and start in on the cottage walls. If I don’t find a ladder in the garage, I expect I can borrow one from Mr. Barlow.”
“I suggest you borrow three ladders,” I said.
“Lori and I aren’t afraid of heights,” said Bree, catching my drift. “We’ll be back here tomorrow, same time.”
“Beaut,” said Jack, gazing gratefully at us.
“Hello? Is anyone at home?” cried a voice all but one of us recognized.
“Millicent Scroggins,” said Emma, cocking an ear toward the front door.
“Fresh from the dentist’s,” said Bree.
“I told you so,” I said at last, wagging a finger at Jack.
My friends and I escorted him to the front porch to greet the missing Handmaiden, whose right cheek was as swollen as a chipmunk’s. We commiserated with her on her ordeal, suggested remedies ranging from oil of cloves to ice packs, then left her to Jack’s ministrations and took off, Emma in her Land Rover, Bree in her small sedan, and me on Betsy.
Riding a bicycle after a good night’s sleep is one thing. Riding one after a day’s hard labor is another. Fond thoughts of the internal combustion engine’s many charms filled my head as I pedaled home and I spent the evening hobbling gingerly from room to room.
Bill was an old hand at cycling. He rode to and from his office on the village green as often as his schedule and the weight of his briefcase would allow. He informed me during dinner that my homeward journey had been hampered not only by muscle fatigue but by topography.
“Finch is at the bottom of a river valley,” he reminded me. “We’re higher up the valley. You don’t notice the gradual slope in a car, but you do on a bicycle. The return journey is an uphill battle. Literally.”
“We should install a tow bar,” I said.
“Whit Kerby’s mum has a mountain bike,” said Rob. “She won a race in the Cairngorms last summer.”
“The Cairngorms are mountains,” Will explained, making peaks in his mashed potatoes. “They’re in Scotland.”
“Mrs. Kerby went straight up them,” said Rob. “On a dirt course.”
“She got a medal,” said Will.
“For best in her age group,” Rob concluded.
“Thanks, boys,” I said, leaning my chin on my hand. “I feel much better now.”
The twins smiled smugly at each other, pleased with themselves for comforting their mother, and Bill very wisely hid his grin behind his napkin.
After the boys had gone to bed, Bill again displayed his wisdom by inviting me to stretch out on the sofa with my feet in his lap so he could massage them. His tender treatment of my aching arches rendered me incapable of retaliating when he offered to teach me the correct way to use hand brakes.
“Sally Pyne tattled,” I murmured, slurring my words drunkenly.
“You
didn’t expect her to keep your death-defying maneuver to herself, did you?” said Bill.
“Not for one second,” I said.
“I’m glad you wore your helmet,” said Bill, working his way up to my calves.
“I’m glad I landed in the hedge,” I said.
“Now, about the weather . . .” he went on. “Should I bring an umbrella to work tomorrow or did you wish for a prolonged dry spell?”
“Very funny,” I retorted as forcefully as I could under the circumstances. “Unfortunately, people are taking the joke seriously.”
“What people?” Bill asked.
“The good people of Finch,” I replied. “Jack told Peggy Taxman about my wish coming true, and she must have bellowed the news to everyone who set foot in the Emporium because Sally Pyne and the Handmaidens showed up at Ivy Cottage to make their own wishes. Miranda Morrow was there, too. She claims well water has healing powers, but you’d expect her to have oddball ideas.”
“I’d expect Sally and the Handmaidens to have oddball ideas, too,” said Bill. “I hear them at the tearoom, discussing their horoscopes as if their lives depended on them, and Sally will read tea leaves for anyone who asks.”
“Mr. Barlow thinks they’re balmy, too,” I said, “which is too bad, because he could make a really cool wish if he wanted to.”
“Such as?” asked Bill.
“He’d like to work on a classic Jaguar,” I replied.
Bill threw back his head and laughed. “Good old Mr. Barlow. Give him a wrench and a banged-up car and he’s a happy man. I wonder what Sally and the Handmaidens wished for?”
“Heaven knows,” I said. “Youth? Wealth? Your father’s hand in marriage?”
“Hope springs eternal,” said Bill, chuckling.
“For the Handmaidens, maybe,” I said. “Sally’s heart belongs to Henry.” I closed my eyes blissfully and asked, “What would you wish for?”
The soothing pressure Bill was exerting on my calf slackened infinitesimally. I peeked at him through my eyelashes and saw a shadow cross his face, but it was gone in an instant and he answered my question in his usual, playful manner.
Aunt Dimity and the Wishing Well Page 8
