A Blessing In Disguise (15 page)

‘Of course!' she says. ‘He's in the garden. I'll give him a shout.'

I can't imagine Molly Nugent shouting for anyone. She's one of those patient, calm, soft-spoken women. Unruffled. However, whatever she does now it's effective because Henry is on the line in two minutes flat.

‘Good-morning, Vicar! What can I do for you?' he asks.

I tell him my problem. ‘And why I haven't done something about this before I can't imagine,' I say. (Actually it had come up in my interviews before I was appointed, but was never thoroughly gone into.)

‘Naturally,' I say now, ‘I'm not thinking I'm going to be called out every night, or even often.'

‘I doubt you will be,' Henry says. ‘I don't think your predecessor was, much.'

‘But it could happen. And with no warning. So what am I going to do? I just need someone I can rely on to come in and be with Becky. A woman.'

‘Yes,' he agreed. ‘It would have to be a woman.' There is a short pause and then he says, ‘But I'll tell you what I think your best bet might be, certainly until we get something more permanent sorted out, and that's my Molly.'

‘Molly?' Molly Nugent has never occurred to me. ‘Is that the sort of thing she'd do? Isn't she awfully busy?' I ask.

‘If you want something doing, ask a busy person,' Henry says. ‘I'm sure you know that as well as I do. Anyway, apart from the fact that we live near, she's well qualified. She's brought up her own children and now she's into grandchildren. She gets on well with the young. She was a teacher, you know. Shall I have a word with her and ring you back?'

‘Well, that would be wonderful,' I agree. ‘I don't yet know many people I could ask. I'd thought about Carla Brown, though I don't know her circumstances and I certainly don't know if she'd want to do it. But don't press Molly too hard!'

‘I won't,' he promises. ‘Anyway, I'll ring you back. Will you be in?'

‘I plan to go to the garden centre,' I say. ‘I want to perk up the garden a bit.'

‘Not before time,' Henry agrees, ‘though we mustn't blame your predecessor too much. He had arthritis, he couldn't do much in the garden.'

While I'm waiting I start to write my list for the garden centre. I know I want bulbs. Tulips, crocuses, a few hyacinths, chionodoxa, muscari and so on. I'd also like some shrubs, especially flowering or colourful ones, but it's going to be a question of money. In Clipton we gave each other cuttings, or divided plants and handed them around to friends, and I expect this will happen here in due course. I shall put out feelers. For now I would like a
Viburnum fragrans
. I've always had one, wherever I've had a garden. It flowers profusely on its bare branches from November to Spring, which is when the leaves come; and one small flowering twig brought into the house in the middle of winter scents a whole room.

At the end of my list I add a soil-testing kit because I've made some awful bloomers in my time, before I knew a thing about soil. Rhododendrons and azaleas planted in the chalky soil have died the death in double quick time – I probably murdered them. Gorgeous red Japanese maples withered away, camellias refused to flower. In my ignorance, in those first days I thought that I had only to buy a healthy-looking specimen, plant it well, water it and feed it, and I would have a garden like a royal park.

I'm just adding fertilizer and plant labels to the list when the phone rings. It's Molly Nugent.

‘Hello, Venus!' she says in her cheerful voice. ‘Yes, I'll be pleased to help out as and when needed. At least I will in the short term, until you can get a more permanent arrangement. I think I'd better come around to sort it out, don't you? I don't really know Becky, nor she me, and I think we should get to know each other. She doesn't want to feel she's being left with a stranger, does she?'

‘That's true,' I agree. I don't tell her I wish her luck in getting to know Becky. In any case Becky might be fine with Molly Nugent. Or shall I say as fine as with anyone chosen for her, by me. ‘This is very good of you, Molly! When would you like to come?'

‘I think fairly soon, don't you? I can't come today, though. There's a WI meeting this afternoon and this evening I'm babysitting the grandchildren. What about tomorrow?'

‘Tomorrow would be fine. Could you come early evening? Oh, but there's the Tuesday Eucharist at eight o'clock? In fact . . .'

‘Would you like me to stay on with her while you take that?' she asks.

‘That would be wonderful!' I tell her. ‘It takes about thirty minutes as you know. Becky was away with my parents last Tuesday, so it didn't arise.' In fact I'm going to have to do something about Tuesday evenings and I'm not sure what. I'm weighing four people coming to a mid-week service which will last less than thirty minutes against my daughter's needs and I don't know what the answer is, except that a single parent who's a woman priest is not, once again, the ideal combination. But I didn't set out to be a single parent, did I?

‘I can guess what you're thinking,' Molly says. ‘You'd best have a word with Henry about that. Anyway, I'll be with you tomorrow, say around quarter-past seven, and I'll stay until you get back. Does Becky like games – I mean board games, Monopoly and suchlike?'

‘She might,' I say. ‘She used to.' But who knows now?

‘I'll bring something or other and we'll see,' Molly promises. ‘My daughter will know what the latest craze is.'

Fenton Hill Garden Centre is – surprise, surprise! – at the top of Fenton Hill where the ground levels out into a plateau. Carla Brown recommended it to me. ‘It's quite good,' she said. ‘A bit pricey but the quality's good. And some of the staff are quite knowledgeable.' So, list in my pocket, I get into my lovely little car, drive down Church Lane and turn right into the High Street, pass the end of Sonia's road, picturing her with a busy Monday morning surgery, and drive forward, which quickly leads me to Fenton Hill. It's a steep hill with houses on both sides to begin with, before they give way to open fields. It's a lovely October morning, bright and sunny, and, apart from the fact that my mobile's in my handbag should I be needed, I'm free! The conversation with Molly Nugent, though I can't kid myself it's going to solve everything at once, has cheered me up,
SO
– I'm going to enjoy the next hour or two. And as I drive up the hill, I start to sing. A hymn, admittedly, but a fast, cheerful one with a strong beat. I shall introduce it to St Mary's. ‘Teach me to dance to the beat of your heart.' I doubt they sing it already. The kids will love it.

I'm still singing when I turn into the car park, which is half empty – I suppose because it's a Monday. There are loads of trolleys, neatly stacked together in a long row, and the one I take actually has four wheels which all go in the same direction. I buy the dull things first; fertilizer, soil-testing kit, plant labels, before allowing myself the heady experience of the bulb and then the plant sections. Packet after packet of spring bulbs find their way into my trolley, all of them with exquisite, highly-coloured photographs of how I can expect these dull little brown shapes inside the packet to eventually end up in my garden, and I don't for one minute disbelieve the photographs, partly because when it comes to gardens I'm an optimist but also because it's a miracle I've seen happen time and time again. In fact, give me an ordinary daffodil bulb, dull and dead-looking, and I'll give you a sermon on the Resurrection. Though not at the moment because, having bought extravagantly, I'm going to tear myself away. I'm off to look at the shrubs.

To my great delight I do find a
Viburnum fragrans
, also a
Cornus Westonbirt
, which in plain English is a dogwood which will cheer up a bit of the garden in the sharpest winter weather with its brilliant red stems. And then I think of the cost of all this and turn my trolley firmly in the direction of the checkout but, walking down the aisle with my attention caught by a display of terracotta pots of all shapes and sizes, I literally cannon into, nay, lock trolleys with, guess who? Mark Dover!

‘Good-morning, Venus!' he says. ‘Are you and I destined to bump into each other like characters in a romantic novel, or is it a crime story and do you have some sort of plan to mow me down?'

‘I'm sorry!' I say. ‘I was taken by these pots. They're rather nice, aren't they?'

‘They are,' he agrees, ‘though I doubt you have room for even the smallest one in your trolley.'

‘You're right,' I tell him. ‘Or on my credit card! That's why I'm making for the checkout.'

‘I'm going in the same direction,' he says. ‘In my case because every single thing in my trolley means another job in the next day or two. Sometimes I think I'll have my garden concreted over.'

‘You don't like gardening?'

‘Not over-much,' he admits.

We push our trolleys along together, not unlike the companionable way new mothers, side by side, push their babies in the park.

‘Do you have a large garden?' I enquire.

‘Large-
ish
,' Mark says. ‘Why not come and see it? You might be able to give me some labour-saving advice.'

‘I'd really love to, some time,' I tell him. ‘See it I mean.' It's true. I like seeing other people's gardens. They so often reflect the owner, both in what they are and what they're not.

‘I don't mean some time,' he says. ‘I mean now. Why don't you come home with me now?'

‘Now?' I say, as if I didn't understand English.

‘Yes, now. I remember that at Sonia's you mentioned Mondays as probably being your free day, also you said you'd come and look at my paintings.'

‘I said “some time”.'

‘This is some time,' he says.

Why not? I'm thinking. He's a very pleasant man. ‘Then thank you,' I say. ‘I'd love to!'

I sign my credit card chit, trying not to wince at the total, and we go out into the car park. As it happens, his car is parked quite close to mine. It's a black BMW, almost new, so he can't be a painter starving in a garret.

‘It's not far,' he says. ‘A matter of minutes. Follow me!'

His house is beautifully situated, standing alone not far below the crest of the hill, the soft grey of its flint walls blending into the landscape as if it had grown there. A gateway – the gate is open – gives on to a short, curved drive which ends in a terrace in front of the house. When I get out of my car I look ahead at the view. There, at the bottom of the long hill, is the village, well tucked in. St Mary's is clearly visible but the Vicarage is cut off by trees. I can see the school and I wonder how Becky is doing. I shall be glad to see her when she gets home. Looking around here there are a few other houses, not by any means closing in on this one, but not far away. I wonder if Miss Frazer lives in this area, and then I wonder why I don't already know that if she's so important, after which I stop thinking about her because Mark says, ‘Let's go in. We can look at the garden afterwards if you want to. It's not madly interesting.'

We step into the hall, which is large, square, and well-furnished. The furniture, I note, is not the kind you go to the store and buy, it's the kind you inherit. It's mostly dark, standing out against the white walls, and each piece, which doesn't match any other piece, has that look of having been lovingly polished over the years.

‘Come through to the kitchen,' Mark says.

The kitchen is in stark contrast. Nothing old-fashioned here. Stainless steel tops, gleaming Aga in red, black-and-white tiled floor, gadgets everywhere – blenders, bread machines, state-of-the-art steamers – filling the shelves and hanging from the ceiling. A pretty penny all this will have cost.

‘Would you like some coffee – or perhaps a drink?' Mark says. ‘In fact, it's more or less time for lunch. How about some soup, or bread and cheese – or both? And a glass of beer? Do you drink beer?'

‘Sometimes,' I say. ‘But really, I didn't come for lunch. I came to see your garden and your paintings.'

‘And so you shall,' he says. ‘I take it you do eat lunch? You're not one of those women who exist all day on black coffee and a leaf of lettuce?'

‘Definitely not!' I assure him. ‘I have a healthy appetite!'

‘Good! So you would be having lunch, so why not here and now?'

No reason at all, I think. All I have to do is get back in time for Becky and the red-framed clock on the wall says it's only twelve twenty-five, so why am I hesitating?

‘Well, that would be rather nice,' I say.

He takes a carton of soup out of the refrigerator, carrot and coriander, heats it up and serves it with fresh bread which has a subtle flavour of sun-dried tomatoes and basil, and also sets out a cheese board. Then he opens two cans of beer.

‘A feast!' I tell him. ‘My compliments to the chef!'

‘Well I did make the bread,' he says. ‘If you can call chucking the ingredients into the bread machine and operating a couple of switches making it.'

After we've eaten I say, ‘I really would like to see some of your paintings, if that's all right.'

‘Sure!' he says. ‘I don't hang many in the house, as perhaps you've noticed, but I have a studio out at the back. When my mother was alive she hated the smell of oil paints and turpentine, said it pervaded the whole house, which of course was true, but I love it. So I had this place built at the bottom of the garden. It works well.'

From what he said I had in mind a sort of garden shed, but this is much more than that. Solidly built, with huge windows, one built into the roof, and blending into the garden because there are shrubs around and climbing plants up the walls. A clematis, one of them, though past its flowering stage and now hung with clusters of fluffy white fruits. As he unlocks and opens the door I realize he's right about the smell. It pervades the air but I quite like it. There are canvases everywhere, hanging on the walls and resting on easels, stacked around, but what strikes me most is the blaze of colour. Reds, yellows, blues, and blends of primary colours: orange, magenta, vibrant purple, pinks, greens. I am – what's the word? – assaulted by colour. But not assaulted, because the experience is pleasant. And pleasant is too mild a word, too milk-and-water, I am stimulated, uplifted!