Deadhead and Buried

by H. Y. Hanna

  A few minutes later, Poppy left the office, an ancient bunch of keys clutched in her hand and an address scrawled on a note in her pocket. Her grandmother’s cottage was situated in a village called Bunnington, about ten miles south of Oxford. It would probably only take twenty minutes to drive, but with no car, Poppy found that her only option was a slow local bus that seemed to stop at every town and village on the way. Still, it was a beautiful June morning and she enjoyed the ride through the pretty landscape of the south Oxfordshire countryside.

  Arriving in the village at last, Poppy paused by the little Saxon church, situated at the edge of a wide triangle of grass—the traditional “village green”—and looked around. There were lots of tourists milling about and as she scanned her surroundings, she began to see why. Bunnington was absolutely picturesque, brimming with quaint timber-framed cottages and honey-coloured stone houses, as well as a mediaeval guesthouse—now doing duty as the village pub—and an ancient mill by the river that ran past the village.

  There was a handy poster with a map of the village, right outside the post office, and Poppy paused to consult this. She was pleased to find that the cottage was in a lane just off the high street and should only be a short walk away. A few minutes later, she stood in front of a rickety wooden gate, hemmed in on either side by a crumbling stone wall. Overgrown vines and climbing roses draped over the wall and formed an arch above the top of the gate, leaving a gap through which to peek at the garden beyond. Poppy stepped closer and looked through the gap; she was taken aback to see a crazy profusion of overgrown bushes and shrubs, climbing vines, overhanging trees and weeds… weeds everywhere!

  It was so not the image she’d had in mind of a neat and pretty cottage garden filled with flowers that, for a moment, she wondered if she had come to the right place. Then she noticed something on the wall next to the gate—it looked like a sign, half-covered by twining stems. Carefully, she lifted some of the leaves to get a better look and found a beautiful old mosaic plaque, the faded tiles spelling out the words:

  HOLLYHOCK COTTAGE & GARDENS

  Garden Nursery and Fresh Cut Flowers

  The words were followed by the house number. Poppy pulled the note with the scrawled address out of her pocket and checked: yes, the numbers matched. This was her grandmother’s cottage.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Stuffing the note back into her pocket, Poppy took a deep breath and pushed the gate open. It was stiff, the hinges creaky and rusty, and she had to duck under the arch of climbing vines as she entered, so that there was a sense of stepping through a doorway into another world. She found herself surrounded by a dense tangle of grasses and shrubs. In the distance, she could see a stone cottage nestled deep in the centre of the garden, but she wondered how to reach it. Then, as she pushed a few bushy stalks aside, she realised that what had looked like an impenetrable wall of green was in fact two wide borders on either side of a winding gravel path. The plants had become so overgrown that they were spilling out of the beds and obscuring the pathway.

  Slowly, she began to pick her way towards the cottage, shoving and heaving plants up and out of the way. Now that she was closer, she could see that there were flowers poking through the greenery—clumps of yellow and white daisies growing by the path, as well as several other flowers she didn’t know the names of, all mingling their bright, happy colours at her feet. In the distance, tall spires of foxgloves swayed gently in the shady corners under trees, and scattered through the tall grass were patches of vivid colour from the bright blooms of poppies.

  But most of all, she saw the roses. Great big cabbage roses in shades of soft apricot and pink, romantic climbing roses that festooned the stone walls, cupped roses stuffed with petals that looked like ruffled tissues, and perfumed roses that nodded and scattered their fragrant petals in the breeze. Poppy had never seen roses like these before—they looked like the roses found in illustrated books of old fairy tales, like the antique roses that once tempted Beauty into the garden of the Beast… and somehow, they were all growing and blooming in this neglected garden.

  She turned and caught sight of another climbing rose, this time clambering up a trellis on the side of the cottage, its trusses of pink and apricot blooms glowing softly in the afternoon sun. Beneath it, framing the cottage windows, was another plant with tall arching stems bearing sprays of dainty white flowers that swayed in the breeze like a cloud of white butterflies.

  Poppy felt her breath catch in her throat as she stared at the scene in front of her. From this distance, the weeds and overgrowth seemed to recede, and it was as if she’d caught a glimpse of what the cottage garden could look like, of how beautiful and enchanting it could be. How amazing it would be to restore it to its former glory, she thought wistfully.

  It was several minutes before Poppy realised that she had been standing there, gawping. Hastily, she continued along the path and arrived at last at the cottage. It was small, but quaint and charming, with low timbered ceilings, working fireplaces, and large bay windows looking out into the surrounding gardens. There were a few pieces of furniture in some of the rooms—a wooden table and chairs in the kitchen, a sagging sofa and old armchair by the fireplace in the sitting room, as well as single beds with lumpy mattresses in both the bedrooms—but most of her grandmother’s personal possessions seemed to have been removed. Poppy had hoped to find some photographs or other mementos to tell her more about her mother’s estranged family, but there was nothing. The mantelpiece was bare, the bookshelves empty.

  She discovered that a large part of the rear of the cottage had been converted and an extension added, to create a large greenhouse working area, filled with rusty spades and trowels, old earthenware pots, stacks of empty seed trays, and an assortment of other garden paraphernalia. It was quite dusty, with cobwebs in the corners, and the whole place had the musty smell of a house that had been shut up for too long.

  Still, the garden might have been overgrown, but the cottage itself seemed clean and liveable. The stove in the kitchen was in working order, and a few plates and cups, as well as some old cutlery, had been left in the cupboards. There was even an electric kettle—stained and rusty, but working—in one corner of the counter, several tins of beans, and a box of teabags left in the pantry. In the bathroom, the water ran clear and while the “H” tap, after much choking and spluttering, seemed only able to manage lukewarm at best, it was good enough for a quick bath. The bathtub itself—as Charles Mannering had said—looked ancient, but despite the cracked enamel, it didn’t seem to be leaking.

  In the linen cupboard, Poppy found some old but clean bedsheets, and she was just reaching for them when she paused. Was she really going to spend the night here? Shouldn’t she book into a nearby bed and breakfast instead? Even if there wasn’t anything available in Bunnington itself, there was still time to take the next bus on to Wallingford, where she would be bound to find accommodation. But something in her resisted. For one thing, it would save money to spend the night here, but she knew that wasn’t the only reason. It was as if now that she was here, she felt a sense of ownership, a feeling of loyalty to this place which made her reluctant to abandon it for another.

  Don’t get too used to it, she reminded herself. This place is going to be sold; it isn’t really going to be your home. Still, it wouldn’t hurt to spend a test night at the cottage, especially if she was hoping to live here for a while.

  Poppy pulled the sheets out and headed back towards the bedroom. She had barely unfolded the top sheet, though, when the peace was shattered by an unearthly shriek. She froze, then dropped everything and rushed out of the front door.

  The cry came again—a blood-curdling yowl that thinned into a shrill scream. It didn’t sound human and Poppy stopped in confusion, straining her ears and staring around the overgrown garden.

  Another scream, this time followed by a loud growling. The sounds seemed to be coming from the rear section of the property, in the garden behind the cottage. Poppy hurried a
round the corner of the building, then faltered to a stop as she came upon a familiar scene of battle between two age-old enemies.

  An enormous ginger tomcat stood in a face-off with a scruffy black terrier.

  The cat’s back was hunched, his fur standing on end, as he glared at the dog, who glowered back. The ginger tom hissed and yelled an insult, and the terrier quivered with indignation. He growled a reply, baring his teeth and lunging forwards. The cat didn’t even flinch. He simply twitched his tail and gave another blood-curdling yowl. Not to be outdone, the terrier let loose with a volley of barking, hurling every canine obscenity he could think of.

  “Hey!” Poppy shouted above the din, stepping forwards with her hands raised. She had never dealt with a dog-cat fight before and wasn’t quite sure what to do. “Hey! Um… no fighting!” she said lamely.

  The animals turned, distracted, then, to her surprise, they both came eagerly towards her. The ginger tomcat stopped beside her and sniffed her leg, then rubbed himself against her jeans. He was a handsome fellow, with a thick orange pelt, big yellow eyes and scars on his ears that showed he could take care of himself in a fight. He let Poppy scratch his chin, purring with smug satisfaction, all while shooting dirty looks at the dog on her other side. The terrier bounced up and down, wagging his tail and whining loudly, and Poppy laughed, reaching out with her other hand to pat him.

  “All right, all right… you too …” she said, rubbing the dog’s scruffy head. “What’s your name?”

  “Rufff!”

  Poppy noticed that he was wearing a collar but no tag. She looked around, wondering how he had got into the property. Then she saw that the soil in the flowerbed next to them had been disturbed. Had the dog been digging there?

  She stood up and walked over to take a closer look. Unlike the wide borders at the front which were heavily planted with all kinds of shrubs and flowers, and had a very natural look, this rectangular bed was clearly edged in straight lines and filled with a dark, rich soil that was bare, except for several plants scattered here and there. They seemed to be growing in an odd way and, after a while, Poppy saw that it was because they were growing more or less in rows. She realised suddenly that this must have been some kind of functional garden—a vegetable patch, perhaps? She peered closer. No, not vegetables… flowers. She could see the tall stems, thick with buds, and several were already blooming.

  A cutting garden, she thought excitedly. Yes, of course! She remembered the sign outside the gate. Her grandmother must have grown cut flowers to sell. These must either be the survivors of the last batch sown, or plants that had self-seeded and grown from last year’s crop. She reached out to pluck a large pink bloom, then a sound made her turn quickly around.

  The noise seemed to come from the front of the property; it sounded like shattering glass. From her position by the flowerbed, the cottage blocked her view of the gate and the front garden, so she couldn’t see if anyone else had arrived at the property.

  The tinkle of glass came again, and this time Poppy had an uneasy thought. It sounded like a window breaking… was someone trying to break in?

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Poppy sprang up and ran around the side of the cottage. She reached the front garden just in time to see a dark figure lurking by one of the windows. It was a man—somewhere in his late twenties, by the look of it—with heavily gelled hair, a dark hooded top, and baggy jeans. He was holding a chisel in one hand and pushing the window frame with the other, but at the sound of her footsteps, he swung around. Poppy caught a glimpse of a narrow, sullen face before he turned and bolted for the gate. She hesitated, not sure whether to chase after him or not, and by the time she’d made up her mind and run to the gate, the lane was empty.

  Slowly, Poppy walked back to the cottage and examined the window. It was an old-fashioned lattice type, with several rows of small glass panels instead of one large pane. The man had obviously been trying to lever it open but had only succeeded in shattering one of the glass panels. She tested the window—it was still solidly locked—and the broken panel was too small to allow anything bigger than a child’s hand through. Besides, no one in their right mind would put their hand through that hole lined with jagged glass fragments. She decided it was secure enough for the time being, and was just wondering how to find a window repair service locally when her mobile rang. It was Charles Mannering:

  “My dear… I have just returned from London and my secretary tells me that you have come up to view your grandmother’s property!” he said, sounding quite agitated. “I am sorry I wasn’t here to take you down myself. If I had known that you were coming—”

  “Oh, don’t worry, Mr Mannering,” Poppy reassured him. “It was a bit of a spur-of-the moment thing, and your secretary gave me very good directions, so I found it no problem. I’m here now, actually.”

  “Ah! I’m afraid the gardens have been quite neglected and the cottage is not in the best state—”

  “Oh, it’s not too bad. In fact, everything seems to be in working order—more than good enough for me, anyway. I’m sure I’ll manage fine tonight—”

  “I… I beg your pardon?”

  “Um… well, I was planning to stay the night here at the cottage—maybe even a few days—”

  “But my dear! I don’t think it will be very comfortable—”

  “Oh, don’t worry—as I said, I’m used to not having a lot of mod cons. The place I sublet in London doesn’t have many luxuries either. I’m sure I’ll be fine.”

  “But what about safety? You’ll be all alone… I’d heard rumours in the village about a tramp seen lurking thereabouts and furthermore—”

  “I’ll lock all the doors and windows, and keep all the lights on,” Poppy promised. “My grandmother lived here on her own, didn’t she?”

  Mannering sighed. “Well… if you insist, my dear. But do be careful—especially in the garden. It has been neglected for a long time, what with your grandmother being ill and then having an extended stay in hospital. It’s very overgrown and there are some prickly old roses and other shrubs with very nasty thorns. I’d hate for you to hurt yourself; perhaps it would be best if you didn’t go wandering in there until—”

  “I promise I won’t venture too far from the cottage,” said Poppy, touched by his fatherly concern.

  She had meant to tell him about the strange man trying to break in the window and ask for a recommendation for a local repair service, but the old lawyer seemed so upset already, she decided not to add to his anxiety. In any case, it had probably just been some opportunistic small-time thief who had thought that the house was empty and tried his chances. With the lights on and obvious movement about the place, petty criminals were unlikely to try again.

  So she assured Mannering again that she would be fine and promised to call him if she needed anything. As she hung up, she suddenly remembered the ginger tomcat and the little terrier she’d met. She had completely forgotten about them in the excitement, but now she made her way back around the outside of the cottage to the flowerbed at the rear. It was empty. Poppy turned around, scanning the area, but the dog and cat were nowhere to be seen. She shrugged. Well, they both looked too well fed and healthy to be strays. She assumed that they must have gone back to their respective homes.

  Returning to the cottage, she unpacked her small overnight bag and toiletries, made up the bed, then filled the old kettle in the kitchen and set it to boil. Twilight was drawing in and she went around carefully switching on all the lights and drawing the curtains, as well as double-checking that the front door was locked. As she was returning to the kitchen, she was startled by a clatter from the rear of the house.

  Poppy froze. It had sounded a bit like shattering crockery, and reminded her of the sound of the breaking glass from earlier. Surely someone couldn’t be trying to be break in again? Nervously, she made her way to the large greenhouse extension at the back of the cottage and was startled to see the door leading out to the rear garden standing slightly
ajar.

  She stiffened and looked quickly around. The greenhouse seemed empty. Then her gaze sharpened as she saw what had caused the noise: a column of terracotta pots had toppled over, with several smashing and breaking on the worn stone floor. That must have been the sound that she’d heard. She walked over and picked the intact pots back up, restacking them on the bench again. There were several other columns of pots there and they all seemed to be secure. Why had this one suddenly toppled like that?

  Something brushed against her leg and she shrieked and jumped. Then she looked down and clutched her chest in relief as she saw a large ginger tomcat at her feet, staring up at her with wide yellow eyes.

  “Oh, it’s you…!” she said in a shaky voice.

  He meowed—Poppy had never heard any cat sound like that. He had a deep, insistent voice and sounded for all the world as if he was saying: “N-ow… N-ow!”

  He sprang up suddenly onto the bench, so that he was closer to her face, and rubbed his chin against her shoulder. Then he walked along the bench to the stacks of pots, weaving between them.

  Ah… Poppy smiled. She was beginning to have an inkling as to why the pots had fallen.

  “You’re a troublemaker, aren’t you?” she said with a chuckle.

  “N-ow!” said the ginger tom.

  She reached out to pat him but he evaded her hands, jumping down nimbly and trotting over to the back door.

  “N-ow?” he said, looking back at her.

  She followed him to the door, wondering again why it was ajar. It was obviously how the cat had got in, but she didn’t think even his feline resourcefulness extended to opening locked doors. Then she peered closer and realised what must have happened: it was a self-latching door and whoever had last pushed it shut, hadn’t made sure that it had clicked into place. The door must have swung ajar again in the breeze, and the cat had pushed it open easily.