The Garden Plot

by Sara Sartagne

  “If you’re sure I can’t be of any further use?”

  “Quite sure. You’ve been marvellous, thank you.”

  Her housemistress looked a little relieved, thought Magda. When she’d struggled into her nondescript beige mac, Miss Trewisham swung round to Magda, and gave her an enthusiastic hug.

  “Take care,” she said. “Call the office if you need us for anything. And it would be good if you can phone us when you’re a bit clearer on what’s happening,” she added, turning to Niamh, who nodded.

  “Of course. We’ll let you know as soon as there’s news, but I would say Magda won’t be back immediately.”

  With a nod and a last smile at Magda, Miss Trewisham left.

  “Thank God,” said Magda. Niamh raised her eyebrows in surprise. Magda huffed.

  “Oh, anyone with any sense could see that it was serious—she’s just been so bloody positive, so upbeat. I wanted someone to treat me like an adult and admit that things were grim...”

  “He’s not dead yet!” said Niamh with a short laugh. “Stop burying him! The doctors don’t know what it is, and until they tell us differently, we should expect your dad to recover.”

  Friedrich came back into the room.

  “Well, it’s a waiting game,” he grumbled. “Wait for Jonas to wake up, wait for the test results, wait to see how strong he feels...”

  Magda put her head into her hands. Her grandmother patted her shoulder.

  “Now, now, enough drama, Magda. You’re dad’s strong and fit. I suggest we make ourselves as comfortable as we can and try and be patient. Friedrich, do you think you could find us some coffee? I agree with Dr Walters that it’s going to be a long night.”

  He nodded and with a quick hug to Magda and a lingering glance at his son, Friedrich was gone.

  Niamh sat in the chair, Magda perched on the bed, and hand in hand, they waited to see if Jonas would regain consciousness.

  2

  Sam pushed open the office door, casting a pleased glance at the tub of daffodils and narcissi on the step which were in their full, golden glory, lifting the darkness of February. Thank God for the daffodils, she thought, much as she thought every year.

  As she expected, Andy was already in the office, checking papers and orders for the week, and so was Steve Johnson, her new apprentice. Sam smiled at him, so much more at ease in jeans and heavy-duty boots than he had been in the hand-me-down jacket and shoes he’d worn at interview. He grinned and wished her good morning.

  Andy looked up.

  “Sam, glad you’re in a bit early,” he said, scrabbling for a piece of paper hidden among the pile on his desk. “Mrs Pratchett left a message after you’d gone on Friday about the meeting next week. Something about a developer wanting to build on Jessop’s Field.”

  Sam frowned as she shrugged out of her coat and unwound the thick scarf from around her neck. Dorothy Pratchett was a pain, but someone whose determined nosiness gave her news before most people.

  “Jessop’s Field? But that’s designated green belt.” Sam hmmm-ed to herself and pocketed the note with Andy’s almost illegible handwriting on it. “I feel a protest coming on…”

  She turned to Steve.

  “Right then. We’ll get you kitted out with our jacket and gloves, and then we’ll take you to a garden we’re just finishing. You can help us generally clear the site and put some of the finishing touches on it—sound ok?”

  Steve nodded.

  “Andy, can you find the original brief for the Turner job please? And grab Steve some Winterson’s gear. Steve, help yourself to a cuppa while you read the brief. We’ll leave after.” Sam disappeared into her office to switch on her computer and check her emails.

  She bit her lip at the message from the bank. They were sorry, but they couldn’t extend her credit facilities. Her face tightened and she thought rude thoughts about her bank manager. She chewed the top of her pencil.

  Perhaps we’ll be ok. We just need a decent-sized job over the summer and some work lined up for the Autumn… Maybe do some prospecting in nearby counties…

  She’d go over the accounts again tonight, see what could be trimmed. She wondered for the umpteenth time if she was cut out for business. Still, Dad had had faith in her. They’d manage somehow.

  When she emerged, Steve was standing in the middle of the office, laughing with Andy. Sam looked over the essential brownness of him—brown hair, brown eyes and sallow skin and thought once again that he was a good choice for the business.

  The jacket swam on his rather small, wiry form, the sleeves almost down to his fingertips. Sam giggled, pushing the bank email from her mind.

  “I’ll order one in a medium,” Andy sat down and began tapping at his computer. Steve, still grinning, slipped out of the jacket, examining the logo on the back—the letters WGD curled around one another like a growing thing.

  “Looks good—sort of says what you do without having to have the words,” he said hesitantly. Sam nodded, pleased.

  “Good—that’s what it’s supposed to do. We need to look as professional as possible so we can charge what we’re worth.”

  Steve looked at her questioningly.

  “How’s that work, then?”

  “Well, this is a bit of a hobby-horse for me. The people who buy our services are often wealthy. I took a degree in garden design and Andy has a degree in horticulture. So we charge accordingly—although sometimes I know Andy gets worried about our new business hit rate,” she looked over as Andy grimaced.

  “I’ll say,” he said under his breath.

  Sam smiled at Steve who was looking a little uncertain. “As far as I’m concerned, designing a garden is as skilled as designing a house, and we do a good job for a fair wage. And as I’m the boss, what I say goes,” she added, twinkling.

  The door opened, and Paul, their administrator arrived. After brief introductions, Sam hustled Steve towards the van, still clutching the Turner brief.

  “If you ever have any questions—ask Paul,” she said to Steve as they climbed into the van. “He’s been with the firm for about twenty years and knows everything. A word of warning, though—never touch his desk. It’s a work of controlled art and he’ll have your guts for garters if you move anything!”

  It took half an hour to reach the Turner house, and by the time they arrived, Steve was asking questions about the design of the garden. Sam hoped his enthusiasm would continue past the first downpour he had to work through.

  Today was the final tidy up for the garden before the walk round with the client. Andy handed Steve a big brush, a hose and several large green bin liners.

  “We need to clear all the mess from the border planting and get all the mud off the paths. The client is coming back from work at two o’clock for Sam to give them the tour, so it all needs to be sparkling by then.”

  Sam, heaving a couple of big pots from the van for the patio area, called out to him.

  “There are some plants and things at the back which need putting in the beds, so whatever you do, don’t chuck them out as rubbish!”

  A bright, watery sunshine bathed the garden. Sam breathed in the cold air and felt the damp earth beneath her hands as she planted alliums, imagining their purple globes in the summer. She patted the compost down.

  At ten thirty, she called a halt and they drank coffee from a huge flask that Andy produced from the back of the van. As they sipped, Sam walked Steve around the garden, explaining the design.

  “We’ve chosen lots of plants which actually don’t need much doing to them as the Turners aren’t enthusiastic gardeners.” She shook her head, still bemused by this attitude and waved her arm at a choisya, gleaming gold and green in the sunlight. “And I’m going to recommend they get someone to tidy it if they can’t be bothered to do it themselves.”

  Steve nodded. Finishing his coffee, he said: “By the way, I found some onions at the back—what do you want me to do with them?”

  Sam wrinkled her nose.

&nb
sp; “Onions?”

  “I think they’re onions…” He went off to get the tray, and when he held it out for inspection, Sam’s brow cleared, and she laughed.

  “No, you don’t know much about flowers, do you?” she grinned. “These are daffs!”

  Andy chortled. Seeing Steve’s embarrassment, Sam quickly added. “It’s an easy mistake to make if you’re not used to dealing with bulbs.”

  Steve suddenly laughed. “God, me grandad would be turning in his grave!” He shook his head and walked away, chuckling.

  Sam, still grinning, turned back to her pots. Oh yes, she thought. He’ll be fine.

  Magda and her grandmother came through the door and looked expectantly at Friedrich, who shook his head. Magda battled a rising tide of panic. They’d left the hospital to buy some new underwear, some teeshirts, toiletries and for Friedrich, a fresh shirt. “If we’re not there, naturally he’ll come around,” was Niamh’s view. But he hadn’t.

  Magda saw the blip of her father’s pulse, strong and steady at last. There was some desultory conversation around her. Friedrich grinned at the multi-coloured shirt Magda had persuaded her grandmother to buy to cheer him—to cheer them all—up a bit.

  A nurse came in, checked the drip and disappeared again.

  “I’m starting to get rather bored by all this,” her grandfather announced. “Tests, more tests, they come, they check his pulse and his drip and then they go away.” Niamh clasped his hand and pulled it to her lips.

  “They’re doing their best,” she soothed, and Magda saw a tender look pass between them.

  Magda’s phone buzzed and puzzled, she hunted it out of her bag. She looked at the phone, thumbing the screen. Text from Lisbeth, she needed to reply to that—and then she saw the new message and groaned.

  “Problem?” asked Friedrich.

  “It’s Geraldine,” she said biting her lip. “She must have got my number from Dad’s secretary.”

  “Geraldine? Oh, his girlfriend? Is she still around then?”

  “Oh yes, she’s still around,” Magda said, wrinkling her nose with her finger hovering over the reply button.

  “Don’t you like her?” Niamh asked, momentarily diverted. “She seemed very…elegant…when we met her.”

  Magda pulled a face. “It’s fine when I’m away at school, but it’s a bit grim when I’m home. I get the feeling she’d like to give me money to go to the pictures, or something.”

  “Ah,” said her grandfather, hiding a smile.

  “No, it’s not like that!” Magda protested. “I get that dad needs company—it’s not like he’s old or anything! I’m just, like…” She tried again. “She always looks like a model and she makes me feel scruffy, and in the way.”

  She paused, not wanting to call.

  “She must be worried, Magda,” observed Friedrich gently and feeling the heat spread in her cheeks, Magda punched in the number.

  “How’s Jonas?” Gerry’s voice was sharp down the phone. “I’ve only just heard—his idiot secretary only got in touch ten minutes ago.”

  Poor Jane, thought Magda.

  “He’s unconscious.”

  “Still?” The voice was shrill, and Magda saw her grandfather’s eyebrows rise as he heard from the other side of the room. “Are you on your own?”

  “No, Opa and Nanna are here…my grandfather and grandmother. They’ve been here since Friday night.” There was a pause.

  “I’d come to the hospital, but I have a gallery opening tonight, and—well, at least you’re not on your own,” Gerry’s voice faltered and then firmed.

  “No, there’s no need,” Magda agreed, trying to keep the relief out of her voice.

  “You’ll ring me with any news?” Gerry persisted and reluctantly, Magda agreed and closed the call.

  “I could hear she was all concern for you,” Niamh observed drily. Magda grinned faintly and shook her head. Her grandparents went to get some of the disgusting hospital coffee. Magda sat down in the chair and watched her father’s chest rise and fall, the beep of the machines once again the only noise in the room.

  Magda felt the hand on her shoulder and her eyes flew open. She raised her head and sat up—god, her muscles felt concreted into place. The room was dim, and she blinked to make out her father’s face.

  “Dad?”

  “Liebchen,” her father’s voice, normally velvet and currently like sandpaper, came from chapped lips.

  “One sec.”

  Magda stiffly got to her feet and poured some water. She didn’t know what time it was, it felt late. Her eyes felt gritty, and she was longing to change her clothes. Her grandmother was asleep in the armchair, Friedrich was nowhere to be seen.

  Jonas struggled to raise himself and Magda tried to support him. He managed a sip of water and then another. He laid back and closed his eyes.

  “What happened? The last thing I remember was talking to Neil Laurence …”

  “You collapsed,” Magda said, looking at him closely and wondering if she should call the nurse. “Nanna and Opa arrived on Friday night.”

  “Your Nanna and Opa are here?” Jonas’ eyes flew open and he turned his head to see Niamh asleep in the chair.

  “Yes, Dad,” Magda said, clasping his hand.

  He signalled for another sip of water and Magda held the cup to his lips.

  “You’ve been unconscious for nearly two days. We thought you were going to die!” Jonas looked shocked at that and as he lay back, he closed his eyes.

  “Dad?” Magda said, suddenly panicking. She pushed the bell for the nurse and clutched her father’s hand. To her enormous relief, he squeezed her fingers.

  “Nah,” he said finally. “You don’t get rid of me that easily.”

  The nurse bustled in and started to check readings and charts. Magda moved reluctantly away from the bed as Niamh stirred at the noise and got stiffly to her feet.

  “Jonas is awake then? Thank God for that,” she said.

  The following day, Jonas swore roundly in German. His mother winced and even Magda’s eyes widened. Friedrich translated for the doctor rather more politely. Jonas drew a deep breath.

  “Six months? You have got to be kidding me!”

  “Of course I’m not kidding you,” Dr Stephenson said calmly. “When you came in, we had to resuscitate you. We’re dealing with a very nasty—potentially lethal—virus. I suspect you won’t be recovered for some time. Going back to work will hardly shorten your recovery and may even be dangerous.”

  “Jonas has a very full job, and he takes his responsibilities seriously,” his mother said to the doctor.

  “Well, he won’t be doing much good for his organisation if he’s flat on his back—or worse,” was the blunt reply. “Surely his company will understand the seriousness?”

  “As he owns the company, it’s a little more complicated,” said Friedrich heavily.

  “Really?” The doctor raised his eyebrows. “I’d have thought taking time off was a lot easier if you owned the company.”

  Jonas stiffened and Niamh rushed into speech.

  “Friedrich just means Jonas has a lot of people relying on him,” she said hastily.

  Jonas closed his eyes in frustration and dismay.

  His mind flew over his work—the new development in Cologne, housing designs being submitted in Berlin, the negotiations in Luxemburg, to say nothing of the joint venture with Anglo Homes. A noise brought him back to the anxious faces of his daughter, his mother and his father.

  “Well, you can ignore my advice of course—but I can’t take responsibility for the consequences,” Dr Stephenson said shortly.

  “Dad?” Magda’s voice sounded quiet in the silence. He looked at her. “Dad, I really think you should listen to the doctor—it was horrible when I got here, and you were unconscious.”

  Jonas grasped her hand. She looked down at their clasped fingers.

  “Surely you can arrange to take things easy for a few months?” Niamh said. Jonas shook his head mu
tely.

  “My advice—and that of Dr Walters, incidentally...is you should take at least three, and probably six months off work, with as much rest and as little stress as can be arranged,” repeated Dr Stephenson, his eyes flicking to the clock on the wall and then back to Jonas. “The blood tests came back showing the virus we expected for glandular fever, but also another type we haven’t seen before, so we need to keep an eye on you,” he added. “There’s no telling how the virus will mutate in the blood stream, but in any case, your immune system has been weakened—so you do need to rest.”

  “But surely six months is overdoing it?” Jonas looked at Frederick in appeal, his deep voice cracking. To his astonishment, his father agreed with the doctor.

  “We need to give the antivirals time to work, ja?” Jonas heard his father’s thickened accent and paused. Looking at his family, Jonas suddenly noticed how pale they were, how worn his parents looked, the deep shadows under Magda’s eyes.

  The doctor was saying something about the antivirals, but Jonas was no longer listening. He looked at his daughter and saw the glitter of tears in her eyes.

  “OK,” he said quietly.

  Dr Stephenson paused.

  “OK what?” said Magda, her eyes darting to his face.

  “OK, I’ll take time off work.”

  “How long?” asked his mother immediately. He screwed up his face.

  “Three months.”

  “Six months,” insisted Magda.

  “Four.”

  “Five, and we have a deal,” she quipped and grinned at him.

  Jonas looked at the ceiling, his heart sinking. He felt Niamh’s hand cover his and Magda’s and knew himself defeated.

  “Five,” he agreed. He felt Magda sag in relief and Niamh’s smile suddenly shone, making him aware of just how tired she had looked. He felt guilty.

  “Excellent. We need to keep you in here for another day, I think, but you should be fine to leave tomorrow afternoon. I’ll leave you to sort out the details of getting home, but you’ll be coming back for further tests. And remember—no work!” Dr Stephenson gave a faint smile and left.