An Ocean Apart (28 page)

“We
didn't
throw the match! We just, well, got rather hysterical and we couldn't hit a ball! Anyway, Dad, I'll have to get back to class.”

“Okay, but don't go just yet. I, er, want to ask you something.”

“What?”

“Well, it's just that … well, what would you honestly think if I said that I was going to stay over here for a short while?”

“What? In America?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“Well, I suppose for a short holiday.”

Sophie was silent for a moment. “How long's a short holiday?”

“I don't know. About a month, maybe.”

He heard her tut down the line. “That isn't a
short
holiday, Dad!”

“Yes, I know. It's just that, well, I've sort of lined up a temporary job for myself, and a month is the least time that I can do. But I really don't need to do it, Sophie, if you would much rather I came home.”

Sophie let out a long sigh. “No, I think it's a good idea, Dad. I said to Granny last week that you should stay out there for a bit, and anyway, I'm going to be revising for my exams all through leave-out.”

“Did you really say that to Granny?”

“Yeah, I did! I think you need a change-of-scenery sort of thing.”

David felt a sudden lump rise in his throat, hearing his young daughter say such reasoned words of understanding.

“But you will write, won't you?”

“Of
course
I will!”

“And you will be back before the holidays start?”

“I promise you.”

“Well—no real objections, then. Do you want me to tell Charlie and Harriet?”

“I don't know. Maybe it would be better if I spoke to them myself.”

“No, just write them a letter and I'll tell them. It'll probably go in one ear and out the other with Charlie anyway, and Harriet seems happy enough, so I won't go on about it too much to her. Listen, Dad, I'd better go. Write really
soon,
won't you, and whatever you do, don't forget my sixteenth birthday if you're not back for it, okay? Bye. Love you lots!”

David put down the receiver and sat for a moment staring at the wall, his mind torn between feeling relieved at her acceptance of the plan and sheer guilt at the impulsiveness of it all. He rose slowly from the chair. Well, it may be a complete disaster, anyway, in which case, as he had decided before, he would just go home. He took his towel from the tail-board of the bed and walked into the bathroom. Just play it by ear, that's the best thing.

He didn't really need to take the car to work that day. The Newmans' house was well within walking distance, and thanks to Dodie, he had more than enough time. However, he did want to go via the deli to get himself breakfast and something for lunch, and after work, he planned to stock up with provisions at Hunter's SuperSaver, before calling in at Helping Hands to tell Clive of his change of address.

He left the house at twenty past eight, stepping out into a day that promised to be as hot and as clear as the one before, the sky a glaring blue, with the morning sun sitting like a burning globe atop the waving bank of pampas-grass. He toyed with the idea of putting down the hood of the Beetle, but being unsure of how Dodie behaved in the car, he thought better of it. He opened the door and the dog jumped in, pushing herself between the two front seats into the back, where she sat panting with excitement. David climbed in after her and, putting the key into the ignition, went to fire up the engine. However, it was immediately apparent that Carrie's lack of automotive interest was all-encompassing, as it took at least a minute of fruitless cranking, accompanied by numerous backfires, before the engine eventually spluttered to life and he was able to start lurching his way up the road.

By a quarter to nine, he sat parked outside the Newmans' house, drinking coffee and eating the proverbial fried-egg sandwich, and smiling wryly to himself as he wondered what the workmen outside the deli must have thought of him with his little hippie vehicle and the poodle bouncing around inside. He drained the Styrofoam cup and, having stuffed his litter back into the brown paper carrier, he once more coaxed the engine to life and pulled into the driveway.

It was by far the largest and most opulent property that he had seen in Leesport. The gravelled drive, which led down to the rear of the house, was flanked by a wide expanse of well-kept lawn and overhung by the leafy branches of oak- and birch-trees that alternated on each side of its one-hundred-yard length. The house itself was a long Colonial-style building, the cedar shingles on its upper and lower stories being finished in different stains, giving it a two-tone effect. To the west of the house a large glass conservatory topped by a white balustraded veranda extended out to trap the evening light, while at the east end a passageway, subtly blended into the fascia, joined the old stable on to the main block of the house. A clematis montana bursting with pink flowers climbed over the entrance porch and meandered its way upwards to cover part of one of the dormer windows on the top floor, while flower-beds alive with azaleas and dwarf rhododendrons in bloom ran the full length of the house.

David drove slowly down the drive, trying to make his arrival as unobtrusive as possible, and pulled the Volkswagen to a halt next to a metallic-blue BMW 318 parked at the front door. Then, immediately thinking that this might be somewhat presumptuous of a mere gardener, he reversed and parked under the trees next to a long wooden shed, its sides and roof strewn with a tangle of trumpet-vine. He cut the engine, and Dodie, eager to get on with her new adventure, jumped forward onto the front passenger seat and sat blinking hopeful looks up at him.

“Stay here for now, Dodie,” he said, putting up the window and leaving several inches open at the top for air. “I'll come and get you in a minute.”

He stood looking at the house, trying to work out where best he should go. Two dustbins sat beside the banistered steps that led down from the door in the stable, and presuming this to be the kitchen, he made his way towards it. He climbed the steps and knocked on the door, and as he waited, a muffled yelp sounded out from the Volkswagen. He turned to see Dodie's face peering longingly at him through the side window.

“Sssh! That's enough!” he said in the loudest whisper he could muster.

This seemed only to act as further encouragement to the dog, and she now followed up her muted overture with the main performance, throwing back her head and letting out a long, plaintive howl. David took a quick glance at the back door, and seeing that no one had yet answered his knock, he ran down the steps and started back towards the car, waving his hand in a downwards movement at the dog.

“Dodie!” he called out, much louder, “get down and shut up!”

Dodie looked at him quite surprised, as if unused to being addressed in such harsh tones and, sliding her paws down the window, she slowly disappeared from sight. David turned back to the kitchen door, only to find that the whole episode had been witnessed.

“Oh, sorry!” he said, running back to the bottom of the steps. He looked up at the black woman who stood at the top, a grin stretched across her face.

“You havin' a bit of trouble?” she laughed.

David smiled and looked back at the car. “Sort of, yes. I've got a dog in the car who thinks she can order me around.”

“Ah,” the woman said, nodding her head slowly, “I'm glad it's a she. Obviously knows who should be the boss then!”

She was a large, happy-looking person, dressed in a strikingly bright pair of cotton trousers, a voluminous T-shirt and blue Reebok training shoes. David thought initially that she must have been in her early fifties, because of the faint wisps of grey that had begun touching at the edges of her tight black curls, but then, seeing her close up, he realized that it was almost impossible to guess her age, her face being as smooth and unlined as polished ochre.

“My name's David Corstorphine, and I—”

“Oh, of course,” the woman cut in, her voice lifting in recognition of his name. “You've come from Helping Hands to do the garden.”

“Yeah, that's right. Are you, erm, Mrs. Newman?”

She threw back her head and laughed heartily. “Heaven's sakes, no!” she said, putting forward her hand. “I'm Jasmine, Mrs. Newman's housekeeper.”

David shook her hand. “Hullo, Jasmine, nice to meet you.”

“Nice to meet you too, David. Come on in.”

She stood aside and ushered David into the house, closing the door behind them. He had been right—it was the kitchen, a long, airy room with open rafter beams from which tracks of spotlights hung, its black-and-white tiled floor stretching the full length of the place. He was standing at the business end of the kitchen, from where he took in the custom-made units of reconditioned pine fitted with ultra-modern stainless-steel cooking hobs, deep freeze, refrigerator and eye-level oven. Dominating the centre of the room was a long refectory table with bentwood chairs pushed in around it. Its surface was scattered with open newspapers, cereal packets and plates, and in the middle stood a flourishing cactus, with a touch of surrealism added by a bicycle pedal, its chrome stalk pushed deep into the earth of the flower-pot.

Beyond the table, two sofas were grouped around a television, the space between them taken up with two enormous beanbags. The whole area was bathed in light from the three full-length French doors that extended the complete width of the far gable end, each being open to allow the warm breeze to blow into the room from the front garden.

“So,” Jasmine said, walking over to the sideboard and flicking on the switch of the electric kettle. “Where you from? I love the accent.”

“Scotland.”

“Oh?” she said, leaning back against the unit and folding her arms. “You sure don't sound like any Scot I ever heard talk.”

David smiled at her. “Well, it depends where you come from.”

“Yeah, I guess it does.” She pushed herself away from the unit and reached up for two mugs from one of the top cupboards. “Would you like some coffee?”

“Well, if you don't mind,” David replied, putting his hands into the pockets of his jeans. “I don't want to hold you up.”

“You're not,” she said, picking up the coffee pot from the hob. “How you take it?”

“Black, please,”

As Jasmine poured the coffee into the mugs, the urgent click-clicking of high-heeled shoes on stone flooring crescendoed towards them from the main part of the house.

“Jasmine!”

“In here!” she called out and walked out of the door in the direction of the voice.

David picked up his mug and, taking a cautious sip of the piping-hot coffee, started to move towards the French doors so that he could look out at the front garden.

“Listen, there's an old car out there with a dog in it that's going ballistic. Do you know who it belongs to?”

David stopped abruptly and swore quietly to himself.

“Yeah, it's all right. It's David, the new gardener from Helping Hands.”

He turned and hurried over to the back door and craned his head against the window to see if he could catch a glimpse of the car.

“Oh, God, I forgot he was starting today. Look, I am so late, and I really need to get Benji to school, so maybe you could tell him what to do.”

“Well, he's here in the kitchen.”

There was a short pause before the click-clicking of the footsteps started again. David moved quickly away from the door and stood with his hands thrust into his back pockets, an inexplicable feeling of nervousness in the pit of his stomach at the prospect of meeting his new employer. Jasmine came back into the kitchen, followed by a tall, strikingly attractive woman in her mid-thirties. She was dressed in a fawn linen business suit worn casually over a cream silk blouse, its collar opened wide to reveal the full length of her slender neck. Her honey-blonde hair was pulled back from her lightly freckled face and gathered at the back of her head in a large gold clasp. She wore no make-up, save for the merest touch of pale lipstick on her mouth, and her only jewelled accessory was a pair of tiny diamond-studded earrings. In her hand she carried a brief-case, and across her shoulder, slung by a long strap, was a large crocodile-skin handbag.

“This is David,” Jasmine said, grinning at him. “He's from Scotland.”

“From Scotland, huh?” the woman said, coming no farther than where she had stopped next to Jasmine. “And do Scotsmen know more than Australians about gardening?”

David frowned, not understanding the context of her question. “I'm sorry?”

“Our last gardener was Australian. Actually he wasn't a gardener, he was a butcher. He could mow the lawns, but he treated everything in the flower-beds as if it were a weed. Do you know the difference?”

“Yes, I think so. I mean, yes, I know so.” He inwardly kicked himself at the uncertainty of his reply.

“Good,” she said, glancing briefly at Jasmine as if seeking approval that she had said enough to the new gardener. She looked back at him. “Well, I'm sure that Jasmine will show you where to find everything, and then you can, well, just get on with things.” She caught sight of the clock on the wall. “Oh, God, Jasmine, look at the time! Where the hell is Benji? Could you find him and say I'll meet him in the car?”

“Okay.” Jasmine disappeared off through the house.

“Oh, and Jasmine!” she called out after her.

“Yup!”

“Make sure that Germaine picks him up on time today. Benji said that he had to wait for at least half an hour outside the school last Wednesday.”

“Okay, will do.”

The woman turned and made her way towards the back door, and David, who still stood close by, quickly stepped forward and opened it for her. She glanced at him as she passed, a brief smile being the only acknowledgement of the gesture, and hurried her way down the wooden steps and along the path. David leaned forward out of the door to watch her go. As she approached the BMW, she began to talk urgently to a young boy who had emerged from the front door of the house and now walked unhurriedly towards the passenger door. He threw it open, slung in his school-bag, and got in. The woman revved up the engine and, with a spatter of gravel, reversed round in a tight arc and sped away up the drive.