Forget Me Not (29 page)

‘What lovely children.’ I held Kitty’s outstretched hand for a moment and as I stroked her dimpled knuckles I suddenly realised how much I
would
like another baby; then I looked at the boys, who were peeping at me from behind their mum. ‘Hi,’ I said. ‘I’ve come to see your garden. Will you show it to me?’ They scooted off down the hall, holding hands.

‘My husband will be down in a minute,’ Pippa said as we followed them into the old-fashioned kitchen. ‘I know you always like to see couples together.’

‘I do, because I need to know that they’re both in agreement about what’s to be done and how much the budget will be.’

‘I can understand that. He’s just had to take a phone call – he works from home. Anyway …’ She flung open the back door. ‘This is it.’

As the twins toddled down the steps, I stared at it. ‘Well … it needs quite a makeover.’

‘It does,’ she agreed. ‘It’s not very pretty.’

‘No,’ I had to agree. ‘It isn’t.’

It was … ugly. It was dark, with the dour, depressing air of a Victorian shrubbery. It consisted of a scrubby square lawn, strewn with toys and surrounded by overgrown shrubs such as
Viburnum tinus
, which has dark, dense foliage, a large rhododendron, and a
Choisya
that had grown out of control. There were also a number of trees – a large lilac, a
Weigela
and a bay tree that had been allowed to get far too big, sucking out all the light. The garden was enclosed by very high red-brick walls and, despite the time of year, there was little colour, though here and there a rose or a clematis poked through the dusty leaves, a reminder that the garden had once been loved.

I began to take photos. ‘The whole thing needs thinning out and lightening,’ I said as one of the twins clambered on to a plastic rocking whale. I began to chat through a few ideas. ‘I’d keep the lawn as big as possible,’ I said, ‘because of the children. But I’d probably change the shape a little, and put a path of cream stone round it to give it definition and brightness.’

‘And I’d like a really nice climbing frame,’ she said. ‘At the moment I’m their climbing frame!’

I smiled. ‘You could get a wonderful one – I’ve got lots of catalogues I could show you. And you could perhaps have a sandpit in that corner over there. But once some of these shrubs have been removed, you’re going to have room for lots of flowering plants. I think the raised beds should be rebuilt at a lower level as they’re unnecessarily high. And we could soften these walls with blue trellising and grow some pretty white climbers up it to give a feeling of light.’

‘I’d like a patio area by the house, for eating out.’

‘I’d also suggest that you have a seating arbour here, with box benches, so that you can stow away the kids’ toys – it could have a shelf for drinks, or a row of tea lights,’ I went on, as I clicked away with the camera. ‘It would be a lovely place to sit with the newspaper.’

‘If I ever have the time!’ She laughed. I heard a step behind us. ‘Here’s Gerald.’

I turned. Her husband was advancing across the lawn. To my surprise he was a good fifteen years older than Pippa, with a shock of silvery grey hair and an upright bearing, as though he’d served in the forces.

‘Ah, good to meet you,’ he said. He gave me a firm handshake, then nodded at the garden. ‘So what do you think?’

‘I think … it’s going to be a challenge – but I like challenges.’

He surveyed the garden, hands on hips. ‘It’s a crying shame, really, as it used to look an absolute picture.’

‘Really?’

He nodded. ‘My late wife used to do it.’

‘Oh.’

‘She was a marvellous gardener.’

‘Uh huh.’

‘But it’s gone to the dogs now.’

Pippa smiled patiently. ‘I’m afraid I’m not very green-fingered.’

‘You don’t have to be,’ I said. ‘And if you do commission me, I have lots of gardening books and photo files for you to look through so that we can identify the plants and shrubs that you like.’

‘My first wife could grow anything,’ I heard Gerald say. I felt my face go hot with embarrassment. ‘I left it all to her – she didn’t mind because she was so damn good at it.’

‘How long have you lived here?’ I asked him politely.

‘Twenty-two years.’

‘I see.’ Poor Pippa, I thought, having to move into the house in which her deceased predecessor had lived for so long. How depressing.

‘But after Ginny died five years ago, I asked my two teenage girls if they wanted to move and they both said “no way” – so we decided to carry on here, didn’t we, Pips?’

‘Hmm,’ she replied with a vague smile.

‘But my first wife – she
really
knew about gardening. Loved her flowers – but now…’ He shrugged.

‘I’m afraid all I do is cut the grass,’ Pippa said.

‘With three tiny children I’m amazed you do even that,’ I said, wondering why Gerald didn’t do it himself, or pay a gardener. ‘Anyway, you’re doing the right thing, getting professional help.’

‘Yes … she could grow anything,’ I heard him mutter.

‘And if you did choose to employ me,’ I said, ignoring him, ‘I’d transform this garden. But I’ll do some basic drawings first, which will take about a week. But on the planting front I think we’d stick to perennials to keep it as low-maintenance as possible as you’ve obviously got your hands full Pippa,’ I added pointedly.

‘And what about the budget?’ she asked.

‘I’d have to work it out – but I can tell, just by looking at what has to be done and the amount of clearance involved, that it’ll be in the region of twenty-five to thirty thousand pounds.’

‘Good God!’ Gerald exclaimed. ‘That’s what we’re thinking of spending on a new kitchen.’

‘Well,’ I said, ‘you should think of it in the same way. Your garden is another room in the house – a very important room – so you should consider spending a similar amount. And if you’re happy to have a thirty-thousand-pound kitchen, why settle for a five-thousand-pound garden?’

‘I can see the logic of that,’ Pippa said. She transferred the baby to the other hip. ‘But your ideas sound lovely, so will you go ahead and do the drawings?’

‘Steady on, Pips!’ Gerald barked. ‘Can’t we talk about this?’

‘We need to have this done,’ she replied softly. ‘There’s no park nearby, so this is where the children will do most of their playing, and I’ll go halves with you, as I’ve said.’

‘Well…’ The mention of money seemed to embarrass him. ‘As long as the designs don’t commit us to having it done.’

‘They don’t,’ I assured him. ‘You pay for the drawings separately and you only go ahead with the work if you want to.’ I turned to Pippa. ‘I’ll get them to you within a week.’

You get a real insight into people’s lives, doing this job, I reflected as I left. I walked up to the market on the North End Road to try and get some green satin for Milly’s forget-me-not costume. I’ve done gardens for newly divorced women, for example, who’ve had to move to a smaller house; they want the garden done up to make themselves feel better, in the same way they might have cosmetic surgery, or a makeover, so they’re very pernickety about how it’s done. I’ve had clients whose arguments about the proposed design have been indicative of marital stress. I did a small garden for one couple who’d argued about everything from the type of trellising to the particular variety of
Potentilla
; when I went round a few weeks after it was finished to see how the plants were doing, it turned out that the husband had left.

With Pippa I could see what the scenario had probably been. She’d been a professional woman, approaching forty, desperate to have a family before it was too late; then she meets the recently widowed Gerald, who makes a play for her and isn’t averse to the idea of more children, so she decides that he’ll have to do. She has her babies as fast as she can, only then realising that she’s now going to have to
live
with Gerald’s bossy patrician ways and his tactless remarks about his dead wife, in a house she probably wished had been sold.

‘BA-
NARN
-AS! POUND A SCOOP! BEST AVO-
CARD-
ERS! TWO FER A POUND!’

I walked around the crowded market, picking my way through the cardboard trays of scarlet apples and shiny courgettes. The wind had picked up and litter skittered along the street, wrapping itself round people’s legs. I glanced up and saw a polythene bag floating through the air, like a jellyfish. I found a couple of fabric stalls, one of which had some green lining material, which would do instead of satin, then I went into a haberdasher’s where I bought twenty small blue silk flowers and two yards of blue ribbon.

When I got home I read my e-mails and found a reply to mine from Xan. It simply said,
No problem. X
. I sighed with relief.

Then I opened the next message, from Mark.
I’m sorry
not to have got back to you
, he’d written,
but I’ve been on
vacation for a few days in Palm Springs. What was it you
wanted to know?

I clicked on Reply:
It’s about Mum and Dad
,’ I typed.

It’s very sensitive. I’ve recently discovered that things weren’t quite what they seemed with their marriage and I’d welcome the chance to talk to you, preferably over the phone, as it’s far too personal – and upsetting – to put in an e-mail. Love, Anna
.

A couple of hours later I received a reply:

Dear Anna,

I know what you’re referring to, but I’m afraid I won’t be able to help as I don’t see why I should be the one to enlighten you about this when our parents should have done so years ago. I suggest, if he’s willing to discuss it, that you talk to Dad. Sorry not to be more forthcoming, but as you rightly say, it’s upsetting. Love to you and Milly, Mark.

As I stared at Mark’s message another one pinged into my inbox. It was from Patrick, to say that he’d managed to book the hotel in Cornwall for the dates I’d suggested, but my head was still in a whirl about Mark’s reply – or rather, his rebuff. How long had he known what I’d only just found out? And why had he never told me?

I e-mailed Patrick back but decided not to tell him yet about Xan coming to London. Nor did I tell Milly in case something happened to prevent it – besides which I didn’t want her to mention it in front of Patrick before I was ready to tell him myself.

In the meantime the weather had begun to warm up. The temperature, which had been a pleasant twenty-three degrees or so, began to rise daily into the upper twenties, then into the low thirties as the heatwave took hold.

COSTA DEL BRITAIN! screamed the newspaper headlines. 100F – AND IT’S GOING TO GET HOTTER!!

Every day we awoke to a cloudless blue sky and by ten it was almost too hot to venture outside into the retina-burning glare. The papers were full of photos of office workers stripped to their underwear in desiccating parks, of tarmac melting like molasses and of train tracks in Birmingham buckling like hairpins. A water pipe burst in Holland Park Avenue and there were shots of children joyfully dancing in and out of the spray.

On 4 July I took the drawings of the vicarage garden to show Pippa and Gerald. As I discussed the designs with them the twins splashed about in the paddling pool in their swim nappies. I wished I could get in with them and stay there all summer. It wasn’t the heat so much as the humidity. Within minutes of showering I was wet with sweat and practically prostrate with fatigue.

In a few hours Xan would be boarding his plane for London, I reflected nervously, as I left Eden Lane. Yet I still hadn’t told Patrick – I couldn’t even explain to myself why. I decided to tell him the following day when I went to help him extract the honey. I’d agreed to this as long as I didn’t have to go anywhere near the hives: apart from my reluctance to meet the bees again I didn’t want to put on a protective suit in the heat …

‘So it’s honey harvest day,’ I said when I arrived.

He kissed me. ‘It is. I’m doing it a bit early because it’s easier to extract when the weather’s hot – it’s also a lot easier to strain.’

‘So have you got a good crop?’

‘Bumper. I removed the supers this morning and judging from their weight I’ve got a good eighty pounds – that’s twice as much as my first crop last year.’

We went into the kitchen, where Patrick had his extracting equipment all ready: an uncapping knife to remove the wax from the comb; an electric spinner, which looked like the inside of a tumble dryer; a clean bucket; a large sieve; four boxes of glass jars and a box of Bee Good labels. The frames were stacked on the table, oozing honey, its sweet, slightly medicinal fragrance permeating the warm, humid air.

‘You’ve got the windows closed,’ I said as I washed my hands. ‘Can’t we open them?’

‘I’m afraid not,’ he replied. ‘Otherwise the bees will come in to reclaim their stolen honey.’

I shuddered at the thought. ‘Fair enough. But how do you extract it?’

‘The spinner flings it out, by centrifugal force.’ He tied a white apron on to me, flicking my hair to one side and brushing a soft kiss on to the nape of my neck. ‘Then the honey goes into this holding tank here … and then into the collection bucket here … which has this valve here, allowing us to bottle it.’

He put on his own apron, picked up a large serrated knife, dipped it into a bowl of hot water and began to slice the wax cappings off the first frame, exposing the cells of clear golden liquid, which sparkled in the sunlight. He did one side, flipped it over, did the same to the other side and scraped the discarded wax caps into a huge saucepan to be separated later. Then he placed the uncapped honeycomb in the spinner.

‘Could you do this one?’ he asked, passing a frame to me.

‘Sure.’ I picked up a knife.

‘Dip it in the hot water first,’ he said. ‘Then slice slowly upwards. Do it from side to side, as though you were cutting bread… that’s right. Then scrape the discarded wax into this pan. Now turn the frame over and do the same to the other side.’

As we worked in silence I felt beads of sweat trickle into the small of my back.