The Garden Plot

by Sara Sartagne

  “What did you say, sweetie?” said Gerry, as she walked in. Jonas said nothing and she peeked over his shoulder. “They’ve shifted an awful lot of dirt. I wonder if she ever gets it out of her fingernails? Or even if she has fingernails?”

  Jonas remembered Sam’s small hands with their short, neat nails and slender wrists. Keep quiet, he thought.

  He smiled absently. Mrs Brown bustled into the room.

  “What do you think of the progress, Mrs Brown?” Gerry asked the housekeeper, to Jonas’ surprise. Mrs Brown also looked taken aback.

  “The garden?” she said. “Well, that’s a fairly big pond—if the soil at the side is anything to go by. They must be filthy dirty.”

  Gerry nodded and gave one of her tinkling laughs. “I was just commenting to Jonas that Ms Winterson doesn’t seem the feminine type, I was just estimating the amount of soil under her nails...”

  Mrs Brown harrumphed. “Regardless, if she’s like her father, I imagine she’s not without male company.”

  Gerry looked astounded and then laughed again. “Goodness! A garden seductress! Who would have thought?”

  Jonas looked out of the window again, and saw Sam throw her head back and laugh at something. She playfully cuffed the young lad—Steve was it?—on the shoulder and he grinned sheepishly. As they began to work again, however, he caught the look of shy worship Steve gave her.

  He was surprised to feel his stomach tighten in protest and put it down to hunger.

  Charlie sipped her coffee and looked at Sam.

  “Well, I can ask him, of course, but I doubt he'll agree,” she said.

  “No, that's what I told the committee, but they insisted. So here I am.” Sam stared into her mug.

  “It might be better if you asked him, rather than me, anyway,” Charlie added.

  “Not sure that's such a good idea, Charlie. We don't exactly get on, as you know.”

  “No kidding.”

  Sam grinned, unrepentant. “Well, if you must go and marry the local Tory MP, you might have known there'd be family tensions!”

  “If you argued properly, like you used to when we were first married, it wouldn't be so bad,” Charlie protested. “But now you just snipe at one another and frankly, it's unbearable.”

  Sam bit her tongue. She had enjoyed the banter with Fraser when she was younger. But this had been when he was a candidate and the Lib Dems had held the local seat. When Fraser was elected, he'd... just changed. As their conversations became louder and more passionate, they also became less forgiving.

  When Sam saw Fraser's temper turn on Charlie, she abruptly stopped any conversations which touched politics, and by silent mutual consent, so did Fraser. They'd barely had anything substantial to talk about since.

  “OK, I'll talk to him,” Sam said. “Is it Friday he gets back from Westminster?”

  “Yes, he's running a surgery in Chapel Winston on Saturday. You could go to see him at the surgery...?”

  Sam only just repressed a grimace. She couldn't imagine his face if she turned up.

  “Perhaps it would be better if I tried to catch him here—I'll pop in around seven, shall I?”

  “Do you want to come to supper? Lisbeth’s home.”

  Sam gave her sister a straight look.

  “Only if you don't try to fix me up with anyone.”

  “Cross my heart.”

  “Hmm. I'll bring dessert, I should have time to whip something up.”

  “Nothing too rich—Fraser's supposed to be on a diet. All the House of Commons puddings are really piling on the weight.”

  Sam laughed. “If he fancies taking some time out of Parliament, the job I’ve got on at the moment would soon slim him down!”

  “Dream on, Sam—I'm not sure Fraser knows one end of a spade from the other anymore,” Charlie grinned ruefully. “I'm really pleased we're going into recess next week—we don't seem to have seen one another for weeks.”

  Sam drained the rest of her coffee and stood up, just as the phone rang. Charlie glanced at the display. “It's Fraser, I'd better take it.”

  Sam waved and left, not looking forward to Friday at all.

  How R U? Read the text from Lisbeth the following evening.

  Good, thanks. I'm coming to supper on Friday night, it'll be nice to see you. How's the new music teacher? responded Sam, smiling and thinking of Lisbeth’s latest crush.

  ENGAGED!!!! the whole of my year in mourning...what was he THINKING??

  Sam snorted, and put aside the novel she was reading.

  OK, so just sombre clothing, then. I'll be respectful, Sam texted.

  Quite right. Also—was going 2 ask Magda 2 dinner Friday night—ok? Need 2 check w. Mum, obvs...

  “Ah. Don’t have much of a choice, do I?” said Sam under her breath. No problem she texted. How were the mocks?

  A pause.

  Gruesome. Maths & physics OK, but chemistry set by an alien from another dimension. English OK, French vocab = pants. Will know in a week—then ma and pa will either lock me in my room or buy me driving lessons.

  “Good God, really? Driving lessons?” Sam muttered, appalled. Let me know when you’ve got your results. In no circumstances are you to touch the Land Rover.

  Booooooooo! Ungr8teful! The text had an emoticon sobbing on it. Sam smiled.

  What?

  Lisbeth’s response was swift. Wot about Magda & this latest job?

  “Bugger,” Sam said under her breath. I offered you cash as a thank you. You refused. You said you did it because you loved me. She sent back.

  If I'd known U were going 2 refuse 2 let me drive Land Rover, wd have taken £!

  “Manipulative little cow,” Sam said, without heat. She thought a little. Listen carefully, niece. I will let you drive the Land Rover ONLY in an empty supermarket car park, in good daylight after you've had a couple of lessons. Not before.

  Deal came the response.

  Sam shook her head. The clock struck eleven. She texted Shouldn't you be planning midnight feasts or something?

  Funny—not. Your reading is 40 years out of date! C U Friday!

  Take care, pet. Goodnight.

  Finally in bed, Sam was flicking over the pages of the gardening magazine when an advertisement caught her eye.

  Garden Designer of the Year:

  £10,000 cash prize, plus the chance to design a show garden for RHS Tatton Park

  Rather wistfully, she let her eye drift down the copy, noting the size and specifications required to enter.

  Bloody focused on the big firms that get commissions that large... she thought acidly. I've done nothing big enough…

  She suddenly sat up.

  “Oh yes, I have! Or at least I will have!” she muttered, thrusting her legs out of bed and grabbing her wrap.

  She ran downstairs to her laptop and tapped her fingers impatiently as it loaded up. Finally able to access her files, she scrolled through her plans and designs. And then she found it.

  “Yessss!” She punched the air. The Keane garden was big enough to enter in the competition. She realised she hadn't brought the magazine with her and cursing, raced upstairs again to grab it from the bed.

  Breathless, she sat down to read the entry qualifications again, more carefully this time. She was to submit the plans, the brief, photos of the finished garden, and a recommendation from the person who commissioned it.

  Tick, tick and tick! she thought almost dizzily. Jonas would surely give them a reference if he was pleased with the garden, he was a businessman and understood the importance of client references. Surely he would?

  Looking again at the plans, Sam knew Brook Lodge was her best design to date and it deserved—no, damn it, she deserved!—a wider audience.

  A conversation with her father about another competition floated from her memory.

  “Eh lass, are you sure? They'll be a lot of entries from folk with a lot more experience than you, and I wouldn't want you to get your hopes up and be disappointed,” he had sa
id.

  “Well, you never know, I might actually win, Dad!” she had said, trying to laugh it off. Samuel Winterson had shaken his head.

  “I dunno Sammy—seems a lot of work.”

  “But all they want is the plans—and I've drawn those already!”

  “And what about the client? Will he want lots of people tramping all over his garden? Or the newspapers coming to take photos?”

  “But think of the benefit to the business, Dad! Even if we don't win, it will get us lots of attention! We could probably get some publicity for just entering!” she pressed. “And just think what it would mean if we did win! It would be worth thousands!”

  “And what if I don't want any more business?”

  “What?”

  “What if I'm happy with the business just as it is? After all, while you are my daughter and I'm chuffed you're interested in making a career of it, it is still my business, or had you forgotten?”

  Sam could remember the tide of red creep up her neck and into her face as he fixed her with a stare. She struggled to make her voice work.

  “No, Dad, I just—”

  “I don't want fancy-pants customers with pal-ettes and bloody rooms to their gardens. I like the kind of customers we have now and they're coming to me because they know me, and they know my reputation. I don't need no competition to help me win business, girl.”

  He patted her on the shoulder and kissed her forehead. “You do that when I'm dead and gone, pet. When this business is yours.”

  And that had been that. Sam wiped away a tear that had somehow dripped onto her cheek.

  Of course, when the recession struck, even Samuel Winterson's reputation hadn't been enough to keep the business coming in. Sam had looked again at some of the cosy supplier relationships her father had built over the years and re-negotiated some prices. Everyone in the industry was suffering, and she'd made herself mightily unpopular, but the small amounts she shaved off Winterson's supplies had helped to keep them in business.

  Her father had seemed to shrink. It was as if he'd looked out into the modern world of business and decided he didn't like it. He grew quieter with the team, although in public he was still as jovial as ever. She'd forced him to get a website, do some small ads in the local press, particularly around the more affluent areas of the county. She’d driven their success and slowly, gradually, the business recovered.

  But her father hadn't recovered, not really. Sam shook off the memories and looked again at the magazine.

  She ran her finger down the page and stopped at the submission date; 9 September, with judging at the end of October. By then the Keane garden would have started to grow and some of the plants would be looking their best, she thought.

  Plenty of time to butter up Jonas Keane to enter Brook Lodge into the competition. Her libido reared its head, pointing out that buttering up Jonas Keane sounded a lot of fun.

  She tore the page out of the magazine and put it to one side. She'd ask the sceptical, antagonistic owner when the garden was finished and as lovely as she'd planned it to be and he'd have no excuses.

  “It's just a matter of timing,” she said to herself.

  13

  The week had gone well, Sam thought, as they loaded up the Land Rover. The threatened downpour of rain hadn’t arrived, and they were half a day ahead of schedule. She stretched, feeling her muscles already starting to tighten up.

  A long, hot soak she promised herself. She believed herself to be very fit, but really, she was exhausted and aching in places she wasn't even aware of having muscles.

  I'll have to take it easier next week or I'll be a wreck before the job's done she thought.

  As they emptied the Land Rover of tools and gear, Paul strolled out of the office, with the pay packet for Steve.

  “For you, lad,” he said. Steve looked a bit nonplussed and Sam smiled.

  “We thought you might be a bit short so we've paid you for this week and a week in advance, which won't last long, but it will give you enough to get yourself a drink at the pub,” she said.

  Steve's face lit up and he mumbled his thanks.

  “You've done really well, so thank you,” said Sam. “Mind you, we're going to work you into the ground next week, so be warned!”

  Steve laughed, and calling his farewells, left for home. Andy watched him go.

  “I hope you're not going to work next week like you did this week, Sam,” he said to her. “You’ve slogged yourself to death, lifting stuff you shouldn't have, and doing more than you should,” he added. She felt her face go pink.

  “I wanted to get a head start on it,” she said.

  “More like—you wanted to show the bastard he was wrong. It won't do, Sam—I told you not to try and prove a point, you'll do yourself a mischief.”

  Sam opened her mouth to deny it and opted mid-breath to be honest.

  “Yeah, I know. I'll take it a bit easier next week.”

  “You will. Or you and me will have words.”

  Sam twinkled at him.

  “Ooh, you're so butch when you go all masterful on me!” she teased. “I can see why Greg loves you.”

  “Cheeky mare. Got time for a swift one in the Dog and Duck?”

  “No,” she said, regretfully. “I have to make myself presentable and get around to my brother-in-law so I can ask him on bended knee for his support on Jessop’s Field. That's if I can get up from the floor given the state of my muscles.”

  “I remember. Do you think he will help?”

  “I doubt it. I'm only talking to him at all because I got ambushed into it at the last meeting. He'll say something bland and—I don't know—political!—and we'll probably row. And then I'm staying for dinner, joy of joys...”

  Andy grinned at her face.

  “Well, if it all gets too much with the Right Honourable, you can always pop round to us for a glass of wine.”

  “Thanks, I might take you up on that!”

  As she drove off, Sam was seriously considering making her excuses for supper. She could just get her conversation with Fraser out of the way, and then go to Andy and Greg’s snug house.

  Still, I haven't seen Lisbeth for a couple of weeks. I can duck Fraser's snide comments, like I always do.

  She pulled up into her drive and looked at the late afternoon light glinting invitingly off the windows of her cottage. A deep, hot, long bath called to her.

  If I don't fall asleep! she thought.

  An hour and a half later, wearing a skirt instead of her normal jeans and carrying a chocolate mousse, she knocked at Charlie and Fraser's door. As she waited for someone to answer, she looked at the garden with a professional eye and noted the delphiniums coming up strongly, although they needed tying up. Charlie opened the door and saw where her gaze was resting.

  “And before you say anything, I'm going to be staking those delphiniums tomorrow morning!” said Charlie immediately.

  Sam grinned at her sister, who kissed her cheek and took the cut glass bowl of mousse. “Thanks for this. Fraser's in his office. You look nice, incidentally.”

  Sam thanked her absently, walking swiftly along the passage. She paused, listening at the door, and then tapped. Fraser's light voice asked her to come in.

  “Um, hello Fraser,” she said.

  “Hello, sister-in-law!” Fraser responded a bit too heartily. Sam's heart sank, as she sat in the chair Fraser waved her to.

  “To what do I owe the honour?”

  “Well, I don't know what Charlie—Charlotte—has told you—”

  “Only that you wanted to see me in—ah—an official capacity.”

  “Oh, no! Not really official. I just wanted to get your opinion as my brother-in-law.” She took her file of papers from her bag. “I'm part of the Sherton Environment Protection group and we're objecting to the housing development on Jessop's Field.”

  “Ah.”

  Sam looked at him. “You know about it?”

  “I've been contacted by Anglo Homes, who
explained about the development.”

  “What did they say?” asked Sam carefully.

  Fraser waved his hands airily. “The development is small and contained and will make up a deficit in the council's Local Plan in terms of housing. That homes in this area are badly needed. That it would bring considerable employment to the area.” His eyes were cool as they looked at her.

  “Did they also 'explain' the access to their development will cut across Green Belt land? That the development itself will encroach on a nationally recognised, wildlife corridor? That there’s brownfield land available too?”

  She stopped her voice rising with an effort and took a deep breath. “We need the views and beauty spots for our tourism. Building over it will threaten half the B&Bs in the area.”

  Fraser smiled faintly. She hated that smile.

  “But the houses are needed,” he pointed out. “For ordinary, working people who want a space of their own to raise families, build their lives.”

  “We're not anti-housing, of course not,” she said patiently. “But we'd like to keep the village beautiful, particularly as there are alternative sites for the development.”

  “If you build on contaminated land, all it does is delay the build and put the price up. Currently, this is a commercially viable scheme.”

  “Is it all about the money? Don't you care about what happens to the village?” she asked. “Have you seen how close the development is to Jessop's Field?” She laid the plans on his desk, over his existing paperwork and stabbed the development with her finger.

  He peered at it and Sam thought he really ought to give up his vanity and get some glasses.

  “It’s about houses for people who need them, Sam. Don’t forget if the cost of the build goes up, people in the local area won’t be able to afford them and they’ll get priced out. So while I recognise your arguments—” he held up a finger as she took a breath to begin another sentence, “—but this is a local matter and will be dealt with by the local authorities. I can't get involved, Sam.”

  She sat back. “Do you even agree with us?” she asked.