Their drinks arrived and Sam took a deep swig of her sparkling water.
“When will you start Magda’s garden?” said Lisbeth, between sips of coke.
“I’m meeting her tomorrow for a chat.”
“Great. It’s a fab house.”
Sam caught something in her voice and looked at her niece. “Is she a special friend?”
Lisbeth considered. “Well, yeah, I think she is. We’ve known one another since September, and we spend a lot of time together. She, like, sees a lot of stuff I see, and we laugh at loads of the same things. So, yeah, I suppose she is. I really admire her courage.”
“Courage?”
“It can’t be easy to lose your mum and then nearly lose your dad—she’s so strong, although she can be a pain in the rear when she gets something in her head…” Lisbeth paused and Sam, watching her face, saw a moment of—what? Frustration? Anxiety?
“She’s an only child?”
“Yes, I think she’s close to her grandparents, as her mum died when she was little—but I get the feeling she’s pretty isolated,” Lisbeth said thoughtfully.
“You’re an only child—do you feel isolated?” asked Sam curiously.
“No—but I have both mum and dad, and you and Uncle Jack and Aunty Sue and cousins, and obviously, there’s granny and grandpa McAllen. I have loads of family. She doesn’t.”
Lisbeth grinned suddenly.
“Sometimes I think she might see me as a sister-substitute!”
Sam laughed, thinking of Charlie.
She ought to be careful what she wishes for! she thought.
7
Sam's eyes widened as she drove up the drive, the tyres of the Land Rover crunching on the gravel. A dull overcast day and a brisk wind had given way to warm April sunshine with crystal blue skies overhead. Basking in the pale golden light was Magda's home, and its beauty caught in Sam's throat. Edwardian, elegant, its windows winking in the light—it was glorious.
The garden, however, was definitely not glorious. The photos Magda had brought to their meeting had not done its drabness justice. Sam could practically feel her palms itching to get to her tools and start pruning.
Magda, wrapped in a chunky knit cardigan came out to meet her as she climbed out of the Land Rover.
“Morning! Thank God it’s not raining—we can have a proper walk round and you can have a good look at everything,” she smiled.
Sam hefted her sketch book and note pad, checked her phone was in her jeans pocket, and headed for the wide expanse of lawn.
Garden space all around the house, she thought. She squinted upwards—the back of the house faced south-west, which would make it wonderful in the evening summer sun. She also spied a back gate in the high garden wall, overgrown with ivy and looking as though it had been unused for years.
Magda led the way to a couple of deck chairs outside the patio doors—Sam caught a glimpse of softly shining wood and deep reds and creams inside the house. Leaving her sketchbook on the deck chair, Sam took out her notebook.
“Where shall we start? You mentioned a stream—shall we begin there?”
The stream was tiny but had quite a gush of water. Sam tested the banks with her foot—quite firm, but with a bit of bogginess towards one end. She wondered about a pond.
Magda led the way around the stone walls of the garden, and Sam took photographs and jotted notes. She noticed the apple trees, in dire need of cutting back. And soon, if they were going to produce any fruit she thought. She gripped her pen more firmly.
The garden was larger than she’d thought, but although the space was big, there wasn’t much to look at. The beds were empty except for a few bulbs one rather ancient rose, and a few scraggy shrubs.
“I wondered if we could put a pergola here, or something?” Magda said hesitantly, waving her hand at a bare patch of wall overshadowed by the branches of a beautiful ash tree.
Sam considered. “Hmmm. Possibly. I need to ask some questions about what you're going to do in the garden, but first, let me take a soil sample.”
A middle-aged woman came out of the patio doors with a tray of tea and shuffled with remarkable speed across the lawn. Magda smiled at her.
“Thanks, Mrs Brown!”
Wiping her hand on her jeans, Sam held it out.
“Hello, I'm Sam Winterson. I'm a garden designer.”
Mrs Brown shook it with apparent reluctance. “Samuel Winterson's girl?”
Sam beamed at her.
“The very same. Did you know him?”
“Aye—the whole village knew Sam Winterson,” Mrs Brown sniffed. Sam stiffened, hearing the dismissal in the woman’s voice.
“I wonder what my dad did to her?” Sam said lightly as Mrs Brown shuffled off. “Mind you, after mum died, he did have a bit of a wild patch with the ladies. Perhaps he missed her out?”
Magda giggled and then grew serious.
“I'm sorry your mum died—mine did too.”
“Lisbeth told me. You must have been very young,” Sam said.
“I was eight. She drowned on holiday.”
“Mine died from breast cancer, back in the time when there were a lot less options for treatment,” Sam said easily. “I was about the same age as you were.”
“Really? Weird, huh?” Magda said with a smile. Sam nodded and began to walk towards the deck chairs. They sat down in the pale sunshine.
“Right, if it's ok, I'd like to ask you some questions about how you and your dad will be using the garden, and what’s important to you. It will guide the design.”
“Ok,” said Magda, looking a little nervous for the first time. Sam grinned.
“Don't look so worried! I won't ask you to reveal any secrets or dig up any family skeletons!”
She received a wry smile in response.
“So—do you and your dad like to be with lots of people, or are you more likely to be on your own? Or with only a few people?”
“We don't, like, actually do a lot of entertaining, but I know my dad loves it when we go to my grandparents in Zurich and they have all their friends round. We've been living in apartments for ages, so we've never really had the luxury of a garden before.”
“And would you use the garden for entertaining?”
“Absolutely! Nanna and Opa—my grandparents—are always having parties in their garden. We have an awesome time when we visit, normally, although we’ve not been for a while. And when we go to my godfather’s place in Ireland, there’s just masses of people around which is always a blast!”
“Right.” Sam scribbled a note. “I didn't see any signs when I came in, but do you have any pets?”
“No, my mother didn't even want me to have a goldfish!” Magda laughed. “She was allergic to fur, so anything with four legs was never going to happen. It would never have been practical, anyway, I spent all my summers in Zurich when I was younger, so whatever pet I had would have been on its own.”
“Ok, what do you like doing? And what does your father like doing?”
Magda paused, as if deciding how much to tell her. “I like all sorts of things—but I do really like playing tennis with my dad. And walking.”
“Well, do you want a tennis court or a garden?”
“Oh, a garden, defo! I play at the club.”
Of course you do, thought Sam.
“And your father?”
“He works quite a lot, but we used to do, like, entertaining at the weekends in Manchester.”
“What's your favourite place in the world?”
“Before we moved here, I would have said Nanna and Opa's house in Zurich...now, it's a toss-up between here,” she gestured at the house, “and school. My dad always used to say Florence and Tuscany were his favourite places in the world. We have an apartment in Florence.”
How nice. Still, Lisbeth did say they were loaded...
“What do you like about living here?” Sam asked, swallowing the twinge of envy.
“I like the space here, and al
l the trees, and the fact it’s so green. I also like the sense of having people just around the corner. I didn't really get that in Manchester, even though we lived in a block with loads of other people,” Magda said thoughtfully. “I think my dad also wanted more space. The flat was, like, huge, but lots of it was open plan, which made it less private. Does that make sense?”
Sam nodded, writing.
“I think this house suits dad more. He's, like, a bit traditional in outlook, so I think he likes all the wood and stuff.”
“And what about your favourite way to pass an evening? Do you like curling up with a book? Going dancing? A nice meal out? Some of these could be designed into the garden, you see.”
“I like all those.”
“Do either of you like open fires?”
“I love open fires!” Magda said eagerly. “We used to go to a ski lodge with a fire pit which was just awesome!”
“Your dad too?”
“Yes, he's quite fit, and he runs—or at least he did before he got ill. We go to the Greek islands more in the summer now rather than hiking—more relaxing stuff than energetic.”
Sam shot a glance at Magda. “So, is your dad a barbecue fiend?”
“Oh yeah, Dad really loves a barbecue. He's quite a good cook, actually—he cooks a brilliant Sunday lunch. He hasn't had much time with work over the last few years.”
Bit of a workaholic then, thought Sam.
“Do you go for long holidays?”
“Why do you want to know that?” Magda stared at her.
“If you're away for months in the summer, we'd need to put in an irrigation system to make sure the plants survived.”
“Oh, I see. Not really—our holidays last about ten days, I suppose. Dad won’t be absent from the business longer than that.” She stopped and then grinned. “And he's not packed me off to a six-week summer camp yet!”
“Give him a chance?”
“Nah... He wouldn't dare try it. I don't think.”
Sam looked down her notes. “Do you think you're looking for a formal, or an informal garden?”
“No idea—is the difference as simple as it sounds?”
Sam laughed.
“Sort of. Let me show you.” Sam found a photo of Villandry on her phone from her trip the previous year. Magda screwed up her nose.
“Ugh. Not keen. Looks a bit stiff—all those hedges!”
Sam nodded. “It has its own charm, but it's not for relaxing, I agree. Now this is informal,” she thumbed the images to find one of Giverny. “This is where Monet got his inspiration for his water lilies painting.”
“Well, I know which one I prefer, but what goes with the house?”
Hmm. Bright young thing, aren’t you?
“Great question—your house is Edwardian, so if we were going to simply match it, we'd be looking at the Arts and Crafts movement, which is a mix of both formal and informal...” she thumbed through her photos again. “No, I don't have a photo, but you can Google it to have a look. But do you like the style of the house enough to carry it into the garden design?”
“Oh yes, I love it! Dad does too, I think. I used to think Dad liked quite modern stuff—you know, the hotels we stay in—but he seems more relaxed here, you know? Mind you,” she added with a giggle, “perhaps that's because I'm at school all week and out of his hair!”
“Is it just the two of you? Does he entertain friends here?”
“It's just the two of us so far,” Magda said, her face closing. Sam shifted uncomfortably and grabbed her tea. “Dad normally takes his girlfriends out to dinner. I rarely see them. Except at breakfast.”
Girlfriends, plural? Was there a rota? Magda, seeming to read her face, grinned at her.
“I think my dad and your dad sound a bit alike,” she said cheekily. Sam stiffened. Her dad had been devoted to her mother. Well, up until she died, obviously.
“I see. Right. Well, if it's a fine evening and it's just the two of you, where might you sit after dinner?”
“Well, we’ve not done it yet, but I think here, don’t you? When the sun goes down, it shines between the trees and I think this part of the patio is quite sheltered. I like this particular spot a lot.”
“OK. Just a couple more questions and then I'm done, I think. Favourite colours? Are you looking for a 'scheme' with only a few colours, or would you like lots of different colours and flowers?”
Magda grinned. “Come and have a look at this, and then you'll see.”
She led the way into the house and Sam looked with interest at the furniture which had clean lines, but looked comfortable, in soft shades of grey and cream. The rug at her feet was a mix of cherry red, dark turquoise, and dark grey. It looked quietly luxurious. She already knew the answer to her question when she saw the painting.
“Oh, wow!” she breathed.
The painting was big, probably three feet across and two feet high, and it was an abstract starburst of colour, purples flaunted against jade, pink and gold. Flashes of yellow and lime green mixed in, and she stood for a moment, just looking. She loved it.
Sam turned to see Magda watching her reaction. She thought the teenager looked pleased.
“Well, that answers that question!” Sam said. She got out her notebook again.
“Do you both like modern art, or are you happier with something more traditional?”
Magda thought about it, her head on one side. Sam absently noted the dark curls brush Magda’s cheek, and was struck again by the green of her eyes. Once again, something tugged at her memory.
“Well, yes…I like all the curly bits on the Paris Metro—that’s art nouveau, isn’t it? I’ve never thought about it before, to be honest.”
“What about sculpture in the garden? Do you think you would like that?”
“That would be awesome! Dad likes...that bloke who does all the stuff outside in Yorkshire.” Magda frowned in concentration. Sam’s mind went blank for a second and then she grabbed the reference.
“Henry Moore?”
“That’s it!”
“I think even your budget won’t run to a Henry Moore,” Sam said wryly, “but we’ll see what we can substitute.”
Outside again, Sam looked down her list of questions. “Veg? Will you want to grow your own veg?”
“No, I'm at school during the week normally and Dad won't have time.”
“And finally—do you garden at all? Do you or your dad have any interest in it?”
Magda gazed at the garden for a moment before replying. “Me? I don’t know much about it—yet. But I am interested, and I love fresh flowers in the house. It would be mega cool to be able to pick them from our own garden! Opa and Nanna have a big garden and Dad likes getting his hands dirty when he gets away from the office, but it's more of a holiday thing, you know?”
Sam took a deep breath. She finished writing and closed her notebook.
“Is that enough?”
More than enough, thought Sam. Quite a lot of food for thought here.
8
“Can I bring the meeting to order?” Desmond pulled himself to his full five foot seven inches and puffed out his chest. Sam hid a smile. Amanda was right, he really did look like a pigeon.
The vicar, Tom Sanderson, began to report what he’d found about the development. “The planning objectives for the local area have the usual stuff—preserving the local character, sustainable development, etcetera, etcetera, but primarily, the protection of the Green Belt. Sadly, all this is forgotten because the Council needs to meet its five-year housing plans. They’re expected to deliver more than two and a half thousand homes between now and the end of the decade—” Tom squinted down at his notes, “—and currently, they’re behind by about thirty-five percent. This development would put them back on track for their target.”
There were murmurs of concern.
“I couldn’t get a straight answer from the chap I know who works in the planning department. Everyone I’ve spoken to at the Council is tight-
lipped, which I think means the Council is for it.”
Well, that’s very depressing, thought Sam.
Susan Miles, looking even more faded in beige and white this evening, spoke at length, and not terribly clearly about bats. Appropriately, it was Tom, with the patience of a saint, who pulled the information out of her so the rest of the meeting could make sense of her garbled notes. In short, to threaten the habitat of bats was illegal—even if there were none inhabiting the site when development began.
“So if there are bats on the site, and the developers don’t know and start work, then—they’re breaking the law?” asked Amanda.
Susan nodded vigorously.
“Developers can only work on the site if they have obtained a special licence,” she explained, beaming.
“And are these licences easy to get?” Sam asked.
“I’m not sure—it depends whether the Secretary of State is involved,” Susan said, suddenly gloomy. Thinking of the slug-like creature in the Cabinet whose protestations of protecting the countryside seemed to be accompanied by an increase in the number of homes built on Green Belt land, Sam felt even more depressed.
“The good news,” said Susan, brightening, “is that it is quite clear—if you carry out work affecting bats or roosts without a license you will be breaking the law. The penalties are harsh.”
“Such as?” asked Mrs Pratchett, obviously hoping for something of the ‘hung-drawn-and-quartered’ level of severity. Sam noted with some surprise Mrs Pratchett didn’t look very well, and her dog, normally a constant companion, was nowhere to be seen.
“A fine, up to six months in prison and forfeiture of vehicles, plant and machinery,” said Susan promptly. Mrs Pratchett looked disappointed.
“Well, that might put a spoke in Anglo’s wheel,” muttered Amanda.
“Not for long—I imagine they have deep pockets,” responded Sam.
Desmond’s piggy eyes watched their conversation and he said loudly, “Ms Devereux, did you find anything about the environmental impact?”
Amanda spoke up at once. “Normally, a development of this size wouldn’t need any environmental consideration, but, because we’re near a ‘sensitive’ area,”—Amanda mimed quote marks—“it is one of the requirements.”
The Garden Plot Page 7