The Garden Plot
Sara Sartagne
Copyright © 2020 by Sara Sartagne
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments or events is entirely coincidental.
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Created with Vellum
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Want to know what happens next?
Afterword
Acknowledgments
About Sara Sartagne
1
The thin sun only just took the edge off the winter’s day. Sam tied the scarf a little more tightly around her neck and settled the bobble hat a little more firmly on her head. She leaned across to the passenger seat to get the white roses and the bag containing the plugs of winter pansies and finally, her trowel.
As she struggled out of the Land Rover, she caught her breath at the freezing wind.
“God, I hope the ground isn’t solid,” she muttered to herself as she locked the door.
The churchyard was deserted, although she could hear singing floating on the air as she walked up the path. She also saw the pushchairs lined up outside the doors.
Christening, she thought. That would explain the number of cars in the car park. Her feet found the grave without much conscious thought. She was pleased to see the heathers had withstood the worst of the weather which had hit the country just after Christmas. She smiled as she knelt and brushed her hand over the delicate purple bells. Her knees registered the ground was hard, but thankfully not like concrete.
She busied herself emptying the vase at the foot of the grave, the flowers long since past their best. Steeling herself to grip the ancient tap at the side of the church, Sam gasped as icy water sloshed over her hands, and she swore under her breath. Her hands starting to go numb, she walked quickly back to the grave. Once the roses were in the vase, she rubbed her hands together briskly and thankfully pulled on her gardening gloves.
After a few minutes digging, Sam sat back on her heels and looked at the headstone. Samuel Clarence Winterson, 1960—2017, husband and beloved of Dawn Josephine Winterson, 1963—2004. And the words, over which there had been such disagreement with Fraser:
…glad to have sat under
Thunder and rain with you,
And grateful too
For sunlight on the garden.
In the end, Sam had given the stonemason the lines from the poem and just ignored Fraser, who had wanted something about ‘father, grandfather, sadly missed’ to add to her parents’ grave.
Shaking off the memories, she swept away some of the leaves and started to dig.
She was just pushing one of the pansies out of its polystyrene container when she heard someone call her name. Charlie and Fraser and her niece Lisbeth were coming out of the church, bundled up in expensive-looking sheepskin.
She waved, and then turned again to the pansies, taking them tenderly from the tray and placing them into the cold earth.
“God, you must be frozen!” Charlie exclaimed. “Do you really need to do this now?”
“The grave needed tidying up and I’m really busy over the next few weeks,” Sam said, gently patting the earth back into place around the cheery purple and yellow plants.
“White roses,” Charlie said softly, looking at the vase. “Mum’s favourites.”
Sam nodded, remembering the wedding photos of her parents. “Yes, she used to tell us she had them in her bouquet, didn’t she? Anyway, I’ve done now, just need some water.”
“It all looks lovely!” Lisbeth enthused, and smiling, Sam rose, brushed the soil from her knees and headed back to the tap. She paused to say hello to the vicar who was busy closing the church after the christening, and it was a couple of minutes before she re-joined them.
Charlie and Fraser stopped talking abruptly as she approached so she assumed she’d been the topic of conversation. Lisbeth just grinned mischievously.
There was some general chat about the state of the graveyard as she watered in the plants and cleared the dead flowers.
“Ok, well I’m done here. Just need to take this back,” she waved the watering can.
“I’ll walk to the pub,” Charlie said, nodding at Fraser and Lisbeth.
“Are you sure? It’s damned cold,” said Fraser.
“It’s ten minutes at the most and they’ll have made the tea by the time I arrive.”
“Ah yes, you need to go and kiss babies, don’t you?” Sam said brightly. Fraser ignored her, but Lisbeth hid a grin.
“Fine, but don’t be long.” He strode away with Lisbeth in tow. Sam watched his departing back.
“So masterful,” she murmured.
“Oh, do stop it,” Charlie said wearily. “Honest to God, I don’t know why both of you have to behave like such children when you’re together. You both get worse with age…”
Sam shrugged.
“Anyway, what’s up?” she said as they walked back towards the Land Rover.
“I wanted to ask you whether James had called.”
Sam stared at her sister incredulously. What—the bushy—eyebrowed neo-Conservative from that dreadfully awkward supper? With the big nose? Sam burst out laughing.
“No! Good God, did you think he would?”
“Why ever not? He thought you were very attractive, he said so after you left on Friday night. I thought you would have heard from him.”
“Charlie, it would take a lot more than physical attraction to make that relationship work!”
“I’m sure if you really tried, you could find something to talk about,” Charlie was defensive.
“Assuming I want to talk to him!” A thought struck her. “Anyway—how would he call me? You haven’t given him my number, have you?”
Her sister went pink.
“Charlie! After what I said to you on Friday night, you still gave him my number? Christ, I don’t believe it!”
“He’s a nice man, he’s well off, he’s not bad looking, and he liked you!” Charlie responded hotly to Sam’s astounded gaze.
“And for those reasons I should be interested? What about my reasons? That we probably have completely different principles? Wildly different politics? Read different newspapers? That I actually didn’t like him much?”
There was a silence. They had reached the Land Rover.
/> “I’m sorry. It’s been years since you and Andrew split up and I thought you might like some decent male company,” Charlie said stiffly.
“Good God Charlie, do you think I’m gagging for it or something?” Sam exploded, ignoring the mention of Andrew.
“Don’t be crude.”
“Oh believe me, if we weren’t in earshot of the vicar, I could be one hell of a lot cruder!”
Charlie looked around quickly and saw the vicar was indeed, pinning up a poster on the noticeboard near the entrance to the churchyard.
Sam looked at her helplessly.
“You just don’t get it, do you?” Charlie opened her mouth and Sam interrupted. “No, hear me out. I know you mean well, but I’m a big girl now and if I can run Dad’s business, I can certainly find myself a bloke if I decide I need one.”
“Can you? I despair of you ever finding a decent relationship!”
Sam looked at her sister as though she’d grown two heads.
“A relationship? What if all I want is a quick f-”
“Don’t say that word!” Charlie cut in.
“What if all I want is a quick roll in the hay?” Sam rephrased, determinedly patient. “I’m pretty busy, what with the business and the village. I don’t have time for a relationship, and even if I did, the last place I’d look for one is amongst Fraser’s constituency cronies.”
“And where are you going to find this ‘quick roll in the hay’? Some anonymous fumble after a drink in the pub? Or do you save yourself for the Labour Party Conference?” Charlie sneered and Sam thought that for a good-looking woman, her sister could look really ugly.
Sam pulled open the passenger door viciously and flung the canvas bag with her tools on the floor.
“This is none of your business, Charlie, so just butt out please,” she said, grimly hanging on to her temper. “If I choose to either shag someone I’ve just met or live out my days as a spinster of this parish, it’s my choice and nothing to do with you.”
“I’ll get you a cat for Christmas,” Charlie bit out. “Sounds just perfect for your future life.”
Sam watched her stride away on the ancient flagstones and wondered if her elder sister would come a cropper in heels that high. She hoped so and even watched for a few minutes to catch it. Charlie disappeared from sight without so much as a wobble, and shaking her head, Sam huffed and climbed into the Land Rover.
She was still seething ten minutes later when she drew up outside her cottage, and went in, muttering. She shrugged off her coat. Her hand reached for the kettle automatically and clicked it on. Her mobile phone buzzed. A text from Lisbeth.
Has he called yet?
“No he bloody hasn’t,” muttered Sam, texting the exact same words into her phone. The response was almost immediate.
LOL!
Wryly, Sam typed back.
Hilarious, niece.
Mum just trying 2 help. Lisbeth responded.
“Ha!” Sam took a mug, threw a tea bag into it and waited for the kettle to boil. She reached for her phone, paused and then gave a big sigh.
I know.
There was no response from Lisbeth. Stirring her teabag idly, Sam continued the message.
Trying to fix me up with your dad’s bloody Eton friends is NOT the way. A pause, and then a new message flashed up.
What IS right way ?
Sam stared into the garden, lying pale and bare in the weak mid-morning light.
Finally, she reached for her phone again.
Dunno. Perhaps I’m beyond help. Sam remembered something else from that dreadful Friday night and texted—Have you heard about your friend and her dad?
No, other than he was in coma. Not looking gd?:(
“No, sweetie, it’s not,” muttered Sam.
It might be that he’s ‘stable’—you know, not well, but out of danger she texted instead.
Hope so was the reply.
The room was bright, almost everything white. Magda jerked her head up and refocused. She rubbed her eyes. The soft beep of the machine sounded through her head like a hammer blow.
She kept her eyes on the still, pale face of her father as if her stare alone would bring him round.
Dad, oh dad… she thought. Wake up. Please wake up.
The door cracked open and she turned to see the older, still-beautiful woman and tall, bearded man enter the room. She leaped up and flung herself into her grandfather’s arms.
“Opa! Nanna!” Her breath caught, and Friedrich hugged her tightly, murmuring nothings and nonsense into her dark curls. Niamh, her grandmother, put her arms round both of them, and for a moment, they simply stood there, saying nothing.
Magda saw Niamh’s eyes turn towards the figure lying still beneath a pale blue blanket, the only thing of colour in the room, and heard her sharp intake of breath. Friedrich’s hand clasped her elbow.
“Calm, my dear,” his voice rasped. “He’s unconscious, not dead.” Niamh seemed to pull herself together.
“What happened Magda? The message we got wasn’t very clear.”
Magda sat down again.
“Jane—Dad’s secretary—called the school to say he’d collapsed. Miss Trewisham, my housemistress drove me here and I’ve been here since…well, I suppose since eleven o’clock this morning.”
Magda glanced at the clock on the wall. Ten past eight.
“Where is this Miss Trewisham now?” Niamh asked.
“Getting coffee and something to eat.” Magda’s stomach turned sour at the thought.
Niamh moved to the bed. “Has there been any change since your dad was admitted?”
“I don’t know,” Magda sighed, and rubbed her eyes. “They won’t tell me anything, they think I’m just a kid—they’ve been waiting for you to arrive.”
The door swung open.
“They only had ham and cheese left, so—oh!” The teacher trailed off as she saw Magda wasn’t alone. She put the unappetising packs of sandwiches on the side table and wiping her hands down her lumpy winter skirt, held one out to Friedrich. “Sorry, you must be Magda’s grandparents—I’m Elaine Trewisham, from Clavedene School.”
Even as she watched Niamh and Friedrich introduce themselves, Magda relaxed a little. Her family was with her, she wasn’t alone any longer. It would all be fine. Wouldn’t it?
Miss Trewisham said she thought the doctor should be coming on his rounds at eight o’clock.
“In which case, he is already late,” clipped Friedrich, looking displeased, moving purposefully towards the door and disappearing through it.
“I’m sure Friedrich will find someone to tell us what’s going on,” Niamh said, returning to the bedside. She absently stroked her son’s hair.
Magda was forcing a dry sandwich down her throat when she heard the sound of voices, and the doctor, hustled in by Friedrich, arrived.
“I’ll give you some privacy,” Miss Trewisham murmured and slipped out of the room.
The doctor was portly, with an untidy shock of auburn hair and introduced himself as Dr Walters. Niamh shook his hand.
“Perhaps we should go into another room…?” Dr Walters suggested delicately, his eyes flicking to Magda.
“I want to hear whatever you’re going to say to Opa and Nanna,” Magda said firmly, her voice rising a tone. Friedrich smiled and patted her shoulder.
“Natürlich,” he agreed calmly, and nodded at the doctor to continue. Dr Walters shrugged.
“Well, we had to resuscitate your son when he came in, he wasn’t breathing,” he said baldly.
Magda swayed and felt Niamh’s hand clasp her arm.
“He’s been given something to make him comfortable. We’re not completely sure, but we think this is a new, virulent strain of glandular fever,” he continued.
“You haven’t seen it before?” asked Friedrich.
“No, it’s a completely new one on me,” Dr Walters responded, a bit too cheerfully for Magda’s taste. “We’re doing blood tests and we should be a lot clearer
in a couple of days.”
“Will he be ok?” Magda asked faintly.
“If it follows the normal run of the glandular fever we know, there’s no reason he won’t make a full recovery, but we’re not quite sure what it is at the moment. We’ll be keeping a close eye on him over the next twenty-four hours, which will be critical, his vitals are rather weak.”
“Critical?” Niamh turned pale.
“We’re doing all we can, but until the results of the tests come through, we’re working a bit blind,” Dr Walters said. He looked at Jonas, motionless in the bed. “He might regain consciousness tonight, but again, he might not. You may be in for a long night if you wait.”
Magda looked at her grandfather.
“We’ll wait,” Friedrich said firmly.
Dr Walters pursed his lips for a moment and then inclined his head.
“Right, I’ll see what we can do to make you a little more comfortable.” He left the room.
Magda clung to Niamh for a moment, struggling with tears. Her head whirled as the impossible thought that her father might die came into focus. She felt Niamh push her gently towards the chair and she sank into it.
“Well,” Niamh said, looking at Jonas, still pale, still unmoving.
Five minutes later, Miss Trewisham sidled back into the room.
“I wondered what the news was?” she said hesitantly.
“Dad’s got some kind of glandular fever, they think. He might wake up tonight, but they’re not sure,” Magda said, shaking herself out of her reverie.
The teacher hesitated and Niamh spoke.
“I think you should get back to the school,” she smiled. “I’m enormously grateful to you for bringing Magda to the hospital, but we’re here now. We’ll get a hotel organised as soon as Jonas wakes up.”
The Garden Plot Page 1