Wildwood (5 page)

Another builders’ van rattled past us as I carried harness, saw and rope to the back of our Land Rover. There were a lot of men at work on the Grange, converting the Victorian shell into a state-of-the-art conference centre. What Michael Deverick was thinking of building a conference centre in rural Devon, I wasn’t sure, but it was hardly my problem. I had nearly thirty acres of overgrown garden to worry about restoring instead, not to mention the woodland beyond that.

Tony stuffed the phone back into his pocket. ‘That was Mr Deverick,’ he said. ‘He wants to see you.’

‘Me?’

‘Up at the house.’

I was a little surprised. I hadn’t known our employer was actually on site. I hadn’t even seen him since Emma’s wedding; my somewhat perfunctory interview had been handled by one of his project managers. I scratched at the back of my neck, trying to cover for the confusion I was feeling. ‘Now?’

‘He said as soon as you got down from that tree.’

As I walked up the drive, I realised I was actually feeling a little nervous. I’d dumped my helmet but a quick check told me that my hair was tangled into elf-locks by sweat, so I just hoped that by a small miracle it would dry to sleekness as I walked. The rest of me wasn’t in much better condition; it had been hot work up there. The dust and little insects and flecks of bark that always sift down from a tree canopy had stuck to the bare skin of my face and neck and arms, and would stay there until I had a bath. I was wearing heavy boots that made me clump and padded chainsaw trousers that, being cut for the male waist, tended to slide rather low down my hips. The sleeveless vest I wore under an equally sleeveless khaki jacket had a distinct damp patch positioned just over my breastbone.
I
wasn’t ashamed of the way I looked, but it certainly wasn’t respectable. And respectable was what I needed if I had to face Michael Deverick.

It wasn’t just that I wanted to make a good impression on the man who’d given me a job, although I could hardly imagine a job that I’d want more. It had been a difficult decision leaving the National Trust just when I’d got my foot on the ladder, but there I’d only been one in a large tree gang while here I was in charge of my own, with two other full-time gardeners and carte blanche to engage casual labour when I thought it necessary. I had been given almost free rein to do to the gardens what I thought fit, a generous budget, no deadline and, on top of that, a wage rise and a rent-free house of my own on site: the former head gardener’s cottage. Thankfully that building was in better condition than Kester Grange itself, boasting such necessities as electricity and an immersion heater. Plus I was close enough to Cornwall to get to the surfing beaches early on my weekends off.

I’d fallen on my feet here.

What worried me was the way I’d got the job. I hadn’t applied for it, or seen it advertised anywhere; the invitation to interview had simply arrived by post. There’d been no sign of any other candidates and my interview had consisted of a check of my certificates and a walk around the gardens with the project manager. It was as if it had already been decided that I would do fine. And what sort of man would employ anyone after the kind of debacle Deverick had witnessed at the hotel?

A creep, that’s who, said my better judgement. But had I listened?

He was there at the front entrance of the house as I approached, leaning against the bonnet of his black Range Rover to look over some plans. The building manager was with him talking
earnestly
so I hovered, my gaze casually sweeping the Portakabins and the scaffolding and the pallets of bricks, resting anywhere but on Michael Deverick, who was tieless but wearing a blinding white shirt. Without his jacket on the trim shape of his torso was obvious. He probably went to the gym three times a week and had a personal trainer and a masseur and a Swedish dietician, I told myself with a secret smile.

He didn’t keep me waiting, calling me over almost at once. ‘Avril. How are you settling in?’

I made myself meet his eyes confidently. ‘Great, thanks. We’ve nearly finished on the lime avenue.’

‘I read your management plan for the garden. It looks excellent, though I have a few questions.’

‘It’s just a preliminary document,’ I said, then cursed myself silently for being so defensive. ‘I’d be happy to talk it through.’

‘Perhaps we should go round to the rockery. I think there’s a bench there.’ He waved me on, steering us out of the bustle of human traffic that was constantly passing before the front door. I sneaked a sideways look at the crisp cotton of his shirt, the clean leather of his shoes. He made me feel hot and grubby. In more ways than one.

‘What do you think of what I’m doing to the Grange?’ he asked as we walked.

I looked up at the red-brick bulk towering over us. The original Victorian construction, all gables and chimneys and turrets, had been stripped back to a shell, and within that the builders seemed to be filling the space with glass and stainless steel so that the new oozed out from the old like flesh from a tightened corset. ‘It’s radical,’ I said, not wanting to commit yet.

‘You think so? Nothing is constant but change, Avril.’

We entered the overgrown ruins of the old rockery, but the
bench
we sought was buried beneath a pile of lumber so we had to remain standing. Deverick flicked through my management plan. ‘You mean to drain the lake?’

‘Not completely. But originally it was only about a third the size. The outlet’s been blocked by fallen trees, so I think if we remove those the water level will fall back to its original boundary. And then we’ll have a lot of mud to plant over.’

‘Fine. And the lawn needs returfing completely?’

‘Well, it’s too late for mowing to restore it. But what I’m suggesting is that we keep the far stretch there long for the moment, and manage it as a wildflower meadow, see …’

‘Fine.’ He flicked the file shut. ‘Whatever you feel is appropriate. As long as it looks good from the house.’

I got the impression he really wasn’t interested in the landscape, but I was to be surprised.

‘Have you been into Grange Wood yet?’

‘Uh, no.’ I blinked. ‘I mean, I went as far as the old gate on my first walk-through, but not beyond. It looks very overgrown. There were no conifers that I could see, so I guess it’s probably ancient oak coppice. I haven’t had a proper look.’

‘It’s certainly old.’

‘I assume it’s not urgent. I’ve been prioritising the areas nearest the house, mostly safety work so far. We had a couple of wind-broken cedars round the terrace at the back …’

He held up his hand and I fell silent. ‘I’m afraid I’m changing your priorities,’ he said, blue eyes fixing me. ‘I want you to get into the wood and do me a proper survey. I’m intending to have the place under a management regime within the year. I want footpaths, I want the undergrowth cleared, I want any features mapped – you know, follies and the like. Caves. Extra big trees. You can take a first look this afternoon.’

I was stunned. ‘OK,’ I said slowly. ‘What’s this in aid … I mean, what’s it for? You have plans?’

At once he switched off, indifferent again. ‘Oh, I don’t know. Paintballing maybe. There would be plenty of room for a paint-balling area. Do you think conference attendees would enjoy that?’

My knowledge of business conferences is about equivalent to my knowledge of the far side of the moon. I puffed out my cheeks and blew a sigh of helpless incomprehension. ‘Well. Yes. Maybe.’

‘That’s fine then. You can get started. And I want you to report back to me about anything unusual that you find. Anything.’ Once again his eyes were on me, cold and commanding.

‘What sort of thing?’

Suddenly he smiled and his face lit up with the sparkle of it. He was the sort who could charm the birds out of the trees, my gran would have said. I wasn’t exactly immune. ‘I don’t know,’ he said ruefully, as if confessing a terrible lack. ‘Anything.’

‘OK.’ You’re the boss, I thought.

‘Thank you.’ Then he changed tack abruptly: ‘Do you know what this plant is?’

I glanced at the one he indicated, with the splayed leaves and the hooded purple flowers in tiers. ‘Monkshood. That one’s flowering early. And it doesn’t belong in the rockery – it must have self-seeded.’

‘It’s very attractive. I think we should have a bed of it by the front door of the Grange.’ He snapped the top off a spike of flowers, and I winced.

‘Don’t! It’s poisonous – I mean, really poisonous. You should wash your hands.’

He seemed amused by my reaction. ‘Oops,’ he said without a hint of dismay. ‘How unfortunate.’ He tucked the flower into the breast pocket of my open jacket and I froze like a rabbit in the headlights. His fingers strayed close but never quite
brushed
against me; I could not mistake the threat though. My nipples, ever traitors, tightened. ‘It’s a good thing you know your stuff, Avril,’ he said, stepping back to admire his work.

I could feel myself colouring. I’ve never reacted well to being teased.

‘And how are you finding your new house?’

‘Oh … fine, thanks. I mean, it’s small, but then I haven’t got a lot of stuff.’

‘It doesn’t bother you, being alone on site at night?’

‘Not at all. I like the quiet.’

‘Most women would be afraid to be so isolated,’ he said, watching my face. I shrugged: what could I say to that? ‘But then, you’re not like most women, are you Avril?’

I decided that this was meant as a compliment, or at least to take it that way. ‘Uh, thanks.’

‘And I suppose having the place to yourself might have its attractions. You can run naked round the whole site if you like.’

Oh, now he was definitely teasing. ‘Um,’ I said witlessly, scratching my hair and unable to meet his gaze.

‘It must be a little lonely though,’ he concluded, ‘even for you. Perhaps you’d like to join me for dinner this evening? I’m staying at the County Hotel on the main road.’

I’d sort of braced myself for this. He’d steered me away from the builders so we wouldn’t be overheard. ‘That’s very kind of you …’ I began.

‘It’s not exactly lively there either, so I’d appreciate the company.’

‘Listen,’ I said brightly, ‘if you’re bored, there’s a pub in the village. The Red Knight. It’s nice, not rough or anything. Tony and Owen and the local boys drink there. You could join us. We’d be happy to see you.’

He wasn’t fooled, not for a moment. ‘Safety in numbers, Avril?’

What was I supposed to say? ‘The County’s not really my sort of place,’ I hedged. ‘I mean, cut-glass decanters and fancy food, it’s not my thing. I haven’t even got anything suitable to wear for dinner.’

‘I seem to remember a rather fetching pink dress,’ he said, deadpan.

‘I threw it out,’ I growled. ‘It was ruined by the water.’

We glared at each other. I was trying not to bite my lip, or show the dread I was feeling.

‘You seem a little nervous, Avril.’

I’m just useless at this pussyfooting around. Fools rush in, as they say. ‘Can we be honest for a moment?’

‘Feel free.’

‘I’d like to know why you hired me. I mean, I’m good at my job, don’t get me wrong, but you know, given the circumstances …’

He smiled. ‘I hired you because I like what I saw.’

I gritted my teeth.

‘But on the other hand, what I see is not always what others see. Does that make you feel better?’

I was perplexed. ‘I don’t know.’

‘Well, Avril, since you’re keen on honesty perhaps I might clarify a couple of points. First, I need someone to do your job. If you want to do it, and I want you to do it, I can’t see that we have a problem.’

I nodded, waiting for the caveat.

‘Second, if you’re implying, which I think you are, that I might be considering using our professional relationship as leverage to get you into bed with me –’

I winced.

‘– then I’m rather insulted.’

‘I’m sorry.’

‘Why should I need to resort to methods that crude?’

I’d been on the verge of feeling relieved, but those last words kicked the rug out from under me. I searched his face for signs of humour but found only amusement, which was not the same thing at all. There it was again, that enigmatic arrogance. That absolute certainty. And, undisguised this time, a promise. ‘I see,’ I said.

‘Good. I’m glad we understand each other.’

‘I have a rule,’ I said in a low flat voice. ‘I don’t get involved with people I work with.’

‘Ever?’

‘Ever. That’s the rule.’

‘Sounds like that one came from bitter experience.’

I shrugged, but my mettle was up. ‘You live, you learn.’

‘And yet,’ he said, breaking into a slow, sweet, chilling smile, ‘even though you suspected me of the lowest motives, still you took the job.’

I had no answer to that one.

‘Hh.’ He nodded, satisfied. ‘Well, I’ll be getting back. I’m sure you’ve plenty to be getting on with.’ He was doing it again, I realised: walking away and leaving me thrown completely off balance. ‘Think, Avril,’ he advised as his parting shot. ‘Rules are for the weak, to keep them safe. Is that what you are?’

I waited till he was out of earshot, then I ran my hands through my hair and swore a blue streak.

After lunch, as instructed, I left the others trimming a laurel hedge and set out to explore Grange Wood. I took with me only a clipboard and pencil, intending to sketch a map and make a few notes. I knew the wood was walled and that it blanketed a low hill and dropped away to the river valley and public road beyond, but that was about all. I was still wearing my chainsaw trousers and my helmet, since the padding of the former gave good protection should I have to wade through
brambles
and the latter was useful when ducking under branches. Passing through the old orchard, with a pause to shake my head wistfully at the cankered apple trees so shamefully left to waste over the last decade, I climbed over the gate in the stone wall and entered the wood. Within ten minutes I was in love.

Woods, like people, vary in character, from lofty cathedral-like beech woods to grim, pitch-black western hemlock plantations. But Grange Wood was one of those western-seaboard oak forests that seem to have been crafted by goblins, purely to enchant. Overhead, the first flush of leaves was turning from salmon pink to light green. Beneath my feet the spring flora was in full surge, seizing every last hour of sunshine before the shade grew too dense. Pink spires of foxglove were in flower and, in the middle distance, a mist of bluebells hung over the ground. Unlike the main garden where the earth was deep and rich, here the ground was rocky and the boulders covered in moss, and ferns grew in abundance. The trees themselves, twisted oaks bearing great twiggy burrs and piebald birches grown fat on the wet soil till their swollen boles seemed ready to burst, were splotched in lichens and mosses. Many of the trees had fallen. Some of these had died and their rotting trunks provided new footing for the ferns, their former places now clear patches where saplings had sprung up and were engaged in a furious race for the light. Others of the fallen trees were still alive even with half their roots jutting into the air and from a recumbent position were reaching up branches of their own. There was dead wood everywhere, underfoot and hanging overhead and poking up from banks of bracken. There wasn’t a tree in sight with a straight trunk. From a forester’s point of view it was a horrible, mismanaged mess. I couldn’t help think it was beautiful.