by Georgia Hill
Stan didn’t need asking twice.
The garden centre was, indeed, having a sale and all their terracotta pots were on offer at half price. It was too much to resist. Rachel had been dying to plant something up, but had been waiting until the garden was in a more finished state. She drove home, feeling stupidly excited. The load of three pots of various sizes, two bags of compost and assorted plants weighed down the boot of her ancient Fiat so much it made the nose of the car stick up. The gravel and some slabs were ordered and were due to be delivered later in the week.
Stan coughed noisily. Rachel suspected he was dying for another cigarette but knew he didn’t like to smoke in the car or house.
‘You got yersen a good little lot ‘ere, an’ all.’ He said and held onto the plant on his lap a little more tightly as she rounded the last bend before their turn off to Stoke St Mary. ‘This hosta will want a bit o’ shade and that fuschia’ll come back next year alright for you.’
Rachel grinned. She’d never really understood why people got the gardening bug – until now. She couldn’t wait to get started on planting up the pots. Until now she’d observed plants simply in order to draw and paint them, but she’d never given a thought to how they grew or what they needed. And she could just see herself, sitting on a chair, a little round table in front, balancing a large glass of red. She could enjoy inhaling the scents of the plants and watching the birds. It would be the perfect end to the day. And maybe, just maybe, Gabe might share it with her. It was time to start letting people into her life. It was a risk and they could hurt her, as Charles had, but with Hetty’s help, she was learning to embrace life and all its opportunities.
‘Can I have some lavender and –’ she furrowed her brow to think, ‘some rosemary in the little round beds? I like the scent.’
Stan laughed. ‘Ar. Them’d be good. Nice cottagey plants, they are. Rosemary’s alright with a bit o’ lamb too. My old Eunice used to do a bit o’ lamb summat special with rosemary.’
With that Stan lapsed into silence. Rachel didn’t want to pursue the subject, his grief was obviously still raw.
They were in the village now, driving past the church and the green. There wasn’t a soul in sight. It had turned into too hot a day. Rachel turned right and then braked at the bottom of the track leading up to the cottage. She thought about the load in the back and winced on behalf of the car.
‘Hold on tight, Stan, I’m not sure I’ll get up with this lot in the back.’
‘Let me out ‘ere then an’ I’ll walk up.’ He already had his hand on the door.
‘Are you sure?’ Rachel looked at him anxiously. ‘It’s got very hot.’
It had, without a breeze to ease the building heat of the afternoon.
‘You get on, lovely. I’m not all that aged. I could do with a walk.’
‘Well look, give me the hosta. You can’t carry that all the way up there!’
Stan got out of the car awkwardly, as it was at an angle. Rachel took the plant off him and fixed the seatbelt around the sticky plastic pot. ‘There, won’t go anywhere now. I’ll see you at the top. Okay?’
‘Alright.’ Stan stood to one side of the track, in the shade of the hawthorn hedge. He waved her off and began to fumble in his pocket for his tobacco tin and matches.
Rachel grinned. She’d been right about his need for a cigarette. She gunned the engine hard, sending up a cloud of dust, but the car wouldn’t budge. Its wheels spun uselessly on the loose stones.
‘Less gas,’ shouted Stan, through the cloud of exhaust fumes. ‘She won’t go nowhere like that. Ease up on the throttle. If you wants to get her up that track on the stones or mud or snow, be more gentle, like.’
Rachel peered through the passenger window at him and took her foot off the accelerator. She reapplied the power more gently and, to her astonishment, the car began to inch up.
‘Don’t let me down,’ she whispered, through gritted teeth. ‘I can’t afford another car and I can’t do without you.’
It was true. There was no bus service out of the village, the nearest train station was Hereford, a good forty minutes away and Rita sold only the most basic of supplies. And, even then, begrudgingly. Rachel hadn’t thought through how vital a car would be to her. She’d gone for days in London without having to use one. Now it was her lifeline.
At the top, as the Fiat groaned to a halt, she heaved a huge sigh of relief and backed the car up as close as she could to the garden gate.
‘What you been up to, then?’ Gabe said as he leaned in through the open driver’s window and watched as she switched off the engine. ‘I got here to do the kitchen radiator and there was no one in.’
‘Buying up the entire contents of Roseberry Garden Centre,’ Rachel answered, relief that her old car had made it to the top in one piece making her expression warm.
Gabe quirked an eyebrow and grinned back. He loved it when Rachel smiled – it made her whole face light up. ‘What have you bought?’ He laughed at the sight of the hosta, still secured with its seatbelt on the front seat. ‘Good to know these plants know how to “Clunk Click Every Trip”’.
Rachel rolled her eyes at him. ‘It was the only way I could stop getting soil all over the place. Stan was holding it but I had to jettison him at the bottom of the track.’ Gabe was disconcertingly close but she ignored her quickening pulse. She could feel waves of heat coming off his body. She got out of the car, pushing him gently out of the way. She needed some distance from him. ‘What haven’t I bought!’ she said, in an overly bright voice. For some reason his nearness was making her nervous. ‘Come and see.’ Gabe followed as she opened the boot.
He sucked in a breath. ‘You should have said. I could’ve picked up this lot in the van. It would’ve saved your suspension.’
Rachel pouted. ‘It got up here. Just.’ Then she had doubts. ‘Do you think I’ve really damaged the suspension?’
Gabe bent to look under the car, his t-shirt rising up to give a tantalising glimpse of smooth brown back as he did so. He gave the suspension a summary look. ‘Naw, it looks okay. You want me to unload?’
‘Oh Gabe, would you? Don’t think Stan’s up to it and I’m worried he’ll try.’
‘Yeah, won’t take a mo’. You get that small pot out and I’ll shift the rest. Where d’you want it?’
Rachel gave him another grateful smile. He really was a lovely man. ‘Thanks so much, Gabe. Put the compost bags by the front door, please. I’ve got some gravel and slabs on order. They’re for my new patio area.’
‘Oh right,’ Gabe said, as he helped her with one of the planters. He winked. ‘And who’s going to lay that for you, then?’
‘Well, I wouldn’t like to take advantage of you,’ Rachel began doubtfully and then saw his face. ‘Oh would you?’
Gabe grinned again, this time with the air of one who suffered. He wanted to tell Rachel she could take advantage of him any time she liked. ‘I suppose I could fit it in, like,’ he said, pulling a face. ‘Along with the central heating and the roof and the re-pointing.’ This was shouted after her as she struggled up the path with her terracotta pot. ‘Oh and Rach –’
‘I know, I know, put the kettle on!’
Stan, puffing on a foul-smelling roll-up, joined Gabe. He leaned against the car and gave a thoughtful sigh. ‘She’s got a lovely little figure, that one.’
Gabe watched as Rachel’s bottom wiggled with the effort of carrying her load. ‘You can say that again, Stan, you can say that again.’ He was just glad the thin bloke from the quiz seemed to have disappeared.
Two days later Rachel leaned out of her bedroom window to see Gabe’s Toyota parked neatly by her Fiat. Stan had been busy clearing the area marked out for the ‘owl frisky’ living and it was now a bare patch of solid red clay.
Rachel wondered how anything could grow in such inhospitable-looking soil but she’d been assured by Stan that, once established, plants did really well in it and it was fertile. Considering how many crops were grown
in the land around the village, Rachel conceded the point. She couldn’t wait for her patio to be ready and be able to enjoy the warm evenings and the spectacular sunsets.
She watched as Gabe carried a slab from the pile at the front gate. She almost called out to him and then stopped. She loved watching him work. She crouched down so she wouldn’t be seen and felt very naughty.
Gabe put the slab down on its edge and seemed to be considering where to put it. Rachel held her breath. She hadn’t discussed this in detail with either Gabe or Stan and part of her wanted to call down to Gabe and tell him where to begin. But she found it was more fun watching him, so for once relinquished artistic control. It was only a few paving slabs, after all. She could trust him.
Gabe was apparently still thinking. Then he wiped a hand over a brow and snagged a lock of hair behind his ear. He lifted the slab – Rachel held her breath – and placed it, with infinite precision, to the left of the front door. Perfect for the pot of hostas that she’d planted up, Rachel thought and released the breath. They’d get shaded from the worst of the heat by the cottage wall.
Gabe disappeared to get another paving slab. Rachel watched in fascination as the muscles in his shoulders strained with the effort of carrying it and how his biceps bunched as he placed it, with just as much care, next to the first. She almost giggled and called out to him, but then he took off his t-shirt and she stifled a gasp.
Gabe was beautiful. Wide shoulders with pronounced muscles and well-tuned biceps, a chest that was hair-free and finely sculpted by what she supposed would be called a six- pack. And he was very suntanned. He was a golden brown, slightly lighter than where his t-shirt exposed him to the sun, but still smooth-skinned and jewelled with sweat. His wore his jeans low so Rachel could see where his stomach hollowed. Her fingers itched for a pencil; she’d love to draw him.
Time stood still and thickened, like the hot summer air. Hardly daring to breathe, Rachel watched as Gabe stretched his arms up to the sky. He was, maybe, only easing out a kink in a muscle, but he looked as if he were worshipping the sun. He ran a brown hand through his hair, making it loosen from its ponytail. Once again, Rachel admired his fingers; long and lean like the rest of him.
Toffee ice-cream. He looked as if he would taste of toffee ice-cream! She salivated and had a sudden urge to lick him.
All over.
She ducked down and knelt against the wall under the window. She found she was breathing heavily, her breasts straining against her thin shirt. She felt very aware of her nipples and put a hand to each. They pushed against her palms, her breasts weighing heavy and hot. An urgent beat set up between her legs. She collapsed against the wall, feeling at once soporific and strangely tense. Boneless and yet aware of every fibre and nerve of her being. She wondered what the hell had happened. She’d never had such a physical reaction to any man.
She began to giggle helplessly. She’d just been ogling. Letching, as Tim would say. What if she’d been caught? She must be years older than Gabe. It just didn’t seem right. And yet, in some way, nothing had felt more right. Levering herself up again, she couldn’t resist taking another peek.
‘Ah, there you are, Rach. Was wondering if you were around.’
Damn! He’d spotted her.
‘Thought I’d get an early start on this, like. Got to go over to the other job later.’ Gabe used his t-shirt to wipe the sweat from his brow, flung it over a shoulder and grinned. ‘Don’t mind, do you?’
‘No!’ Her voice came out as a squeak. She was still trying not to giggle.
‘You alright, Rach? You look a bit flushed.’
‘Get yourself under control, woman,’ she muttered and then said aloud, ‘I’m fine Gabe.’ She tried to sound casual. ‘You just carry on. You’re doing a great job.’ She waved down in the vague direction of the two carefully placed slabs. ‘That’s exactly where I want you. I mean, them.’
‘Okay, then, if you’re sure.’
‘Yeah. Just off for a wash, then I’ll make some tea, shall I?’
‘Sweet.’ Gabe watched, as she gave another frantic wave and slunk from the window. He laughed and shook his head. She hadn’t a clue that he’d been perfectly aware she’d been watching him.
He tucked his t-shirt through a loop in the waistband of his jeans. Nor had she a clue that through her white shirt, stretched tight across her breasts where she leaned onto the window ledge, he’d enjoyed the view of her jutting nipples.
He re-tied his hair back into its elastic band and grinned. It was a good way to start the day, he reckoned. ‘Beat that lanky city boy,’ he muttered to himself. Then, walking a little awkwardly, he went to fetch the remaining slabs.
Chapter 19
Neil took Rachel out again, this time to a new Italian in Hereford. A throwback to the seventies, the restaurant had fake leather banquettes, red velvet drapery and dripping candles stuck into Chianti bottles. It also had the kind of maître d’ who revelled in being a professional Italian. Rachel didn’t have high hopes of it being a good night.
She tried valiantly to be interested in what Neil said, but she couldn’t escape the fact that there was something missing. There was absolutely no spark of attraction between them. He was good-looking and well-mannered; eminently suitable in so many ways. He just wasn’t the right man.
It didn’t help that images of a t-shirtless Gabe kept flashing into her head.
Neil was unusually quiet; he didn’t keep up the steam train of chatter as he had on their last date. The trouble was, it led to great gaps in the conversation. And they weren’t of the comfortable kind. It was weird; she and Gabe were often silent, but it had never mattered.
There was quite a wait for their food and, after a particularly embarrassingly long pause, he said, ‘So, have you read any more of Hetty’s journal?’
Rachel shook her head, relieved that she had something to talk about. It was one of the few times that Neil had expressed any interest in her. Frustratingly, their pasta arrived at that very moment. The maître d’ insisted on doing something showy and embarrassing with an enormous pepper mill, so it was a while before she could answer.
‘Only bits and pieces,’ she continued, eventually, when the fussing was over. ‘I’ve read a letter Edward sent Hetty from the war and the part where she describes how she received his things from the Front. After he’d died.’ Rachel shuddered.
‘How awful.’ Neil tutted in sympathy.
Rachel warmed to him. She put her fork down and sipped the house red he had ordered. This was good too. It was turning out to be a better evening than expected.
‘Yes, it’s hard to imagine why they thought sending back his bloodstained tunic would help. But it’s obviously something they did sometimes. Oh, I’m sorry,’ she added, as she noticed Neil had stopped eating. ‘Not really a subject for conservation over dinner.’
‘No,’ he shook his head and smiled as he agreed. ‘But I did ask! It’s dreadfully sad. This was Edward, was it? Her first husband?’
Rachel nodded and wound some pasta around her fork. ‘Yes,’ she said, when she’d swallowed. ‘I haven’t got to the bit where she marries again, but I’ve a feeling I know who she married after his death.’
‘Who?’ Neil raised a beautiful black eyebrow in query and took a gulp of water. ‘My, this arrabiatta is warm. How’s yours?’
Rachel looked at her salmone al penne. ‘Delicious, actually,’ she said, in surprise. ‘Very creamy.’ She’d done it again, pre-judging something. This time she’d judged the restaurant far too quickly and the food had actually turned out to be really good.
Neil touched his mouth with the tip of his napkin in a delicate gesture. ‘That’s a relief. This restaurant has had excellent reviews, but you never know what it’ll be like when a place has only just opened.’ Leaving his food untouched, he returned to the subject. ‘I’m so sorry, Rachel, I didn’t let you answer. Who do you think Hetty married?’
‘I think she may have married Richard. The other brother,
’ she added as Neil looked blank.
Neil crumbled a chunk of bread on his plate. ‘But why are you sure it was Richard she married?’
‘Well, she seemed very fond of him, although he comes across as odd. Hot-headed, mercurial. The sort who would attract a young girl, but wouldn’t necessarily treat her well. And, of course, she doesn’t change her surname. Throughout her life she seemed to be known as a Trenchard-Lewis.’ Rachel chewed her pasta thoughtfully. Neil, she noticed, was ignoring his. Too spicy, perhaps.
‘And this was when?’
Rachel shrugged. ‘I don’t know yet. It’s all in a bit of a mess. There’s a whole load of bits of paper, letters and all sorts of scraps that, for some reason, she didn’t get around to sorting out.’ Rachel pushed her plate regretfully away. The food had been good, but the portions had been huge and she couldn’t eat any more.
Neil grinned over his glass of water. ‘It’s exciting. Just like a detective puzzle! I can’t wait to see it all.’
‘Yes, you must sometime,’ Rachel strived to sound vague. She wasn’t sure how she felt about someone other than herself and Gabe looking over Hetty’s papers. Besides, although she liked Neil, she didn’t want to encourage him too much. She suspected they were only ever destined to be friends.
It had turned out to be a nice evening, Rachel thought, as Neil drove her home. Grown up, civilised. She settled back into the leather seat of his four-by-four, replete with good food and enjoying the luxury of being driven. She gave a contented sigh.
‘Good time?’ Neil looked over in the gloom of the car interior and she heard him smile.
‘Very, thank you. My mother would thoroughly approve.’
‘Of me?’
Rachel giggled. ‘Oh, she’d definitely approve of you. But I meant she’d approve of the evening. She never quite got why I liked going clubbing with Tim or going for a girly night with Jyoti. They’re my friends in London,’ she added.
‘Then I’m very glad.’
Once back at the cottage, Neil again came round to open the car door for her. She bit down a giggle at the gesture, realising she wasn’t totally sober.
