The Garden Plot

by Sara Sartagne

  It had taken Sam a while to text her niece to say sorry for snapping at her. The evening of the argument had been spent floating a foot above the ground, remembering Jonas' hands and mouth on her.

  She frowned again, feeling her temples throb. God that hurts...

  “You ok?” asked Andy, from the other side of the patio.

  “Bit of a headache,” she said. “I need to arrange a visit to the nursery to pick up more plants.”

  Andy pursed his lips. “Yes—we could plant the borders the day after tomorrow.”

  “Magda wants to come to the nursery with us.”

  “Ah.”

  Sam screwed up her nose. “I know…”

  “He'll be fine. Don't worry about it,” Andy said calmly.

  She sighed and Andy peered at her. “Are you truly ok? You look a bit flushed.”

  “I'll take some pills.”

  But the headache got steadily worse and by midday, Sam could barely lift her head.

  “This is hopeless. I've got to go home.”

  Steve tutted at her. “Finally. You should’ve gone hours ago. I'll run you home.” Sam felt too poorly to argue and simply climbed into the passenger seat.

  “Tell Jo- Mr Keane I'm not well and that I’ll be back tomorrow,” she said to Andy. He nodded and then waved her away.

  “Get to bed and stay there until you're better. Otherwise I'll get Greg on you.” She nodded, barely hearing, as Steve drove her away.

  Three hours later, she jerked awake. The bedroom spun as she lifted her head and she felt sweat run down her neck. She groaned softly and struggled onto her elbows, waiting for the room to stop moving. It didn't.

  She pushed the covers down and crawled out of bed. She winced as she saw herself in the mirror. Her eyes were sunk, her face paper white. Her hair was stuck to her head.

  Urgh... Gruesome, she thought and splashed water over her burning face. She fumbled in the medicine cupboard and swallowed some aspirin. She grasped the wash basin and hung on while a wave of dizziness swept over her. Finally, it passed. Everything ached and by the time she reached the bed, she felt as if she'd run a marathon rather than walking twelve feet from the bathroom. She groaned, lay back and shut her eyes.

  “Is Ms Winterson around?” Jonas asked, casually.

  Andy looked up from the gravel he was raking.

  “She went home around lunchtime, she wasn't feeling well. She said she'd see you tomorrow, but I wouldn't bet on it. I think she's been working too hard. Steve said she looked dire when he dropped her off.”

  Steve nodded. “Awful, she looked. Mam says there's a virus going around—half the people in the store have been off with it.”

  “Is someone checking on her?”

  Andy gave him a shrewd look.

  “Yes, Mr Keane. I'll call in later, I have a key.”

  Oh you do, do you? thought Jonas, irritated. He took a breath. “Right. Let me know when she'll be back, will you? And pass on my best wishes, of course.”

  “Of course. We're a little ahead of the schedule, so I don't think her absence for a few days will impact it, she prepared quite detailed plans.”

  “I'm more worried about her health!”

  “Actually, she gave me explicit instructions not to let the schedule slip,” Andy said, fixing him with a look.

  “Yeah, she's been working us like slaves to get it completed early!” piped in Steve. “Anyone would think there's a race on!”

  Jonas hid a smile. “Well, please pass on my best wishes for a speedy recovery.”

  He walked away. Disturbed that Sam was unwell, but smug it wasn't just him longing for the garden to be finished and their professional relationship to end. He glanced at his watch. No, there wasn't time for him to visit the cottage, particularly if Andy was going to call in. He'd think about visiting tomorrow, maybe...

  Sam heard the ring of the doorbell through what seemed to be cotton wool.

  Go away... She winced as the sharp pain stabbed through her temples and then tensed as she heard someone come through the front door.

  “Sam? It's Andy. Are you here?”

  “Up here,” she croaked, horrified that her voice seemed to have vanished. She tried again. “Up here!”

  She heard Andy come up the stairs; they creaked a little with his weight. He pushed open her bedroom door and leaned against the door frame.

  “Hiya. How are you feeling? Actually, don't answer that. You look like shit.”

  “Thanks,” she whispered.

  He moved into the room, and she vainly tried to straighten the rumpled bedcovers, feeling the sweat prickle on her brow. She made to sit up, but he pressed her back down.

  “No, don't move. You look like you might fall over. When was the last time you took pills?”

  “No idea, sorry.”

  “Hmm. Last time you drank something?”

  “Hours ago.”

  “I'll get you some tea and some water. How long have you been in bed?”

  “Since I got home.”

  “Right, stay there.”

  He disappeared downstairs to appear a short time later with tea and a jug of iced water. She eased up and leaned against the bedhead.

  “God, that's marvellous,” she whispered as the hot tea hit the back of her throat. He pressed his hand against her forehead and frowned.

  “You're quite feverish. I might give Greg a call.”

  As he talked to Greg, Sam closed her eyes and savoured her tea. She felt wrung out. She caught sight of the alarm clock and eventually, when her groggy brain put it together, realised she'd slept the clock round and it was now morning.

  Andy finished his call.

  “Greg will be here in about ten minutes to give a second opinion.” He eyed the rumpled bed. “I know I told you to stay put, but I think I'll strip the bedclothes. You'll be much more comfortable. Where's your wrap?”

  Sam pointed to the back of the door and he took the waffle dressing gown and threw it over her shoulders.

  “Can you get up?”

  “'Think so.” Sam put her feet on the floor, swayed, and then Andy caught her.

  “Whoa! Nope, not yet, I think. Put your arms around my neck. Here we go.”

  Sam's head swam as he lifted her up and carried her carefully to the chair by the window. Her phone rang.

  “Leave it—oh, it's Lisbeth,” he said, catching sight of the screen. “You ought to tell her you're unwell.” Sam took the phone.

  “Hello?”

  “Hi, it's—What's wrong? You sound terrible!”

  “It's just a cold.”

  “Sounds like 'flu to me,” muttered Andy as he stripped the bed.

  “Who's that?”

  “It's Andy. He came around to see how I was.”

  “I'm coming over,” said Lisbeth. “Just stay put, Aunty Sam.” And she rang off.

  Oh no, thought Sam wearily. I'm not sure I can stand another ministering angel. She dropped the phone into her lap.

  Andy looked up from plumping a pillow. “Is she coming around? You're going to be overwhelmed with well-wishers. Jonas Keane also sent his regards when you left yesterday.”

  Sam smiled faintly.

  Ten minutes later, Greg was clucking over her.

  “I can't believe you didn't call in to see Sam yesterday!” he scolded Andy, who looked suitably contrite. “Now, what have you got in your medicine cupboard...?”

  Five minutes after that, Lisbeth arrived.

  Sitting in the chair by the window, all Sam wanted them to do was leave, but while Lisbeth was there, she was at least able to take a shower. Her hair felt limp and sticky and she was glad of the chance to freshen up, but by the time she was dry and in fresh pyjamas, she was exhausted.

  Lisbeth took control, shoo-ing Andy and Greg out of the door. “It's fine Greg, if she gets worse, I'll ring the doctor, I promise. And no, Andy—you can't talk about work!”

  “But—”

  “No, sweetie, she's right. It's doing too much work
got her into this state!” Greg agreed. Andy left, protesting.

  “Nicely done, bossy boots,” croaked Sam as she lay down with a sigh of relief.

  “And that's enough from you, too. I saw your temperature and it's only because I know you'll hate the fuss that I'm not calling the doctor. Or mum,” she said, pulling the bedroom curtains together more firmly. “I'll be downstairs, call if you need anything.”

  “Lisbeth?”

  “Yes, Aunty Sam?”

  “Are we still friends?”

  “Don't be daft. Of course we are. I'm sorry I pushed.”

  Sam's eyes filled with tears. “I'm sorry I snapped.”

  “Don't worry about it. You can make it up to me in driving lessons.”

  Sam gave a watery chuckle and drifted off to sleep.

  22

  Magda looked with intense satisfaction at the mass of plants on the patio. It would be exaggerating to say that they stretched as far as the eye could see, but there were a lot of plants.

  Jonas came out and stopped dead.

  “Good God. No wonder you took a van! Are we setting up a northern version of Kew? Will we actually need all of them?”

  Andy grinned at him. “You've got a big garden, Mr Keane. Sam has it all planned, I'm pretty sure we'll need all of them.”

  “How is she?”

  Magda's eyes narrowed as she heard the note of urgency in her father's voice.

  “I think she's on the mend. She's been doing too much,” Andy said.

  “Actually, I heard from Lisbeth,” added Magda. “She's round there most days and she told me Sam's getting better, but she's still quite weak.”

  Jonas said nothing, but Magda could see his face tense. Oh, interesting, she thought. She turned bright eyes on him. “I'm going to see her later—you should come.”

  “I'd check she's up to visitors if I were you,” Andy intervened. “Now, are you happy with the plants, Magda?”

  She nodded happily.

  “Then we'll get going.” And he moved away with two enormous trays of greenery.

  “Did you enjoy the visit to the nursery?” Jonas asked her.

  “It was great,” she said firmly.

  Actually, it had been a decidedly mixed experience, but she wasn't about to tell that to her father.

  When she'd climbed into the van, she could sniff the tension, but didn't know what it was about. Sitting between Steve and Andy, she could have sworn she had something infectious—Steve couldn't sit any further away from her without getting out of the van.

  While Andy drove, she had sighed inwardly. Although her Dad and Sam hadn't been making eyes at one another exactly, she knew there was something there. She felt the tension every time they met—come to think about it, it felt a bit like how it felt now. Weird.

  She was glad to get back to Brook Lodge.

  But looking now at the frothy clematis and velvety roses that were a tiny part of Sam's planting scheme, she realised she had enjoyed the morning. She trailed her hands gently over sprouting lavenders, raising their lovely scent, and examined camellias promising glorious creamy white and palest pink blooms next spring.

  “You look like you want to help,” Jonas observed quietly. She smiled at him.

  “Part of me does! But it’s probably best to leave it to the professionals!” She turned to him. “I'm going to call Lisbeth. Do you want to come if Sam is well enough?”

  For a second he brightened and then she saw his face fall. “I think I'd probably need to check it out with Dr Walters. I don't want to give her anything else while she’s unwell.”

  Magda saw the disappointment in his eyes—and decided to pile it on.

  “Oh Dad! I never thought about that! God, no! Perhaps you shouldn't see her until she’s completely better!”

  Jonas gave her a sharp look and she wondered if she'd overdone it.

  “I doubt that I'll need to move to another county,” he said. “Look, if she's well enough to receive visitors and you go around, you can just say hello from me.”

  She looked at him, innocently. “Of course. I'll go and call Lisbeth to see what's what.”

  OK 2 call? she texted Lisbeth.

  Hang on, moving 2 kitchen.

  A few moments later, Lisbeth rang back.

  “Hi, how's Sam?” Magda asked.

  “She's asleep. When Mum came around yesterday, she took Aunty Sam’s temperature and called the doctor. I think it was off the scale and the doctor came straight away.”

  “Wow! Really? Is she still very ill?”

  “She's been sleeping for days, it seems, but I think she's getting better. How's things your end?”

  “I was wondering if I could visit, and maybe bring Dad?” said Magda, ignoring any danger of contagion.

  “Mmm, not sure that's such a hot idea,” said Lisbeth. “Aunty Sam looks dreadful—think Vampire Diaries. I don’t think it would help your cause.”

  “Oh. Right then. If you think not...”

  “Defo. You come around and see if I'm not right.”

  A few hours later, Magda admitted silently that Lisbeth had indeed been right. Sam's face was very pale, with deep shadows around her eyes, framed by limp hair. Her voice was still husky (which was a bonus and probably could be good in a phone call, thought Magda) but she was soon tired from the visit.

  “You're as bad as my Dad,” Magda teased, as Sam made her excuses after a mere half hour out of bed. Sam turned to her.

  “I forgot—your Dad's been ill, hasn't he? Is he getting better?”

  Magda thought for a moment. “Well…a bit. He used to need to take a nap during the day but that's stopped now.”

  “Do they know what it was?”

  “No, it was some kind of virus like glandular fever, apparently. It was awful. I thought he was going to die...”

  “So they still don't know what was wrong?” persisted Sam.

  “No. It's frightening, not knowing if it could happen again. He's got another appointment soon, for more blood tests. Perhaps they'll know more after that.”

  “I'll bring you some water, Aunty Sam,” said Lisbeth, firmly shepherding Sam to the stairs.

  Five minutes later, with Sam safely back in bed, she flopped next to Magda on the sofa. “Is your Dad really not well, then? Should we be even trying to set him up with Aunty Sam?” she asked.

  “Well, we don't know what's wrong with him, but I daresay it's not quite as dire as I made it sound,” Magda said comfortably. “But if she thinks he's about to die at any time, perhaps she might seize the day, so to speak.”

  Lisbeth gawped. “You’re a nightmare!”

  “Well, it might add a little more urgency to things. It’s good that Gerry’s out of the way now. I think Dad is interested in Sam and I think she's interested in him, but so far, nothing's happened! It's really frustrating!”

  Lisbeth looked at her over the rim of her coffee cup, shaking her head in disbelief.

  “You know, it might just take longer than you think. Or we could be wrong.”

  Magda sighed and bit into a chocolate digestive. “I know. But—come on! They're made for one another!”

  Lisbeth shook her head. “Even when she's better, Aunty Sam will have a lot on her plate, you know. She’s got loads of work on. Andy was telling me she's hardly had a day off in the past month or so. She's been seeing people at weekends to try and build up the business and doing some garden designs at the weekend.”

  “What, and then doing our garden?” Lisbeth nodded. “I didn't know that. But can’t she take on more staff?”

  “Yeah Andy thinks they should, but Aunty Sam's a bit scared of employing people and then the work drying up. She takes her responsibilities like, really seriously.”

  “And what's happening with Jessop's Field?”

  Lisbeth bit her lip. “I think from what Dad says, they might lose,” she said hesitantly. “I haven't told Aunty Sam, but after the row, Mum persuaded Dad to speak to the Leader of the Council about the bats.”

>   “What, trying to stop the development?”

  “Doubtful. It was a huge row they had, and I think Dad's still sulking.”

  “Oh dear. So you think Sam’s lot will lose?”

  “No idea, I only know if they do, Aunty Sam will probably blame Dad, and that will be a nightmare. I think she’ll be very stressed, and—I don’t want to make it worse,” she said in a rush. “I’m not comfortable with what we’re doing.”

  Magda frowned. “It might not make it worse! There’s no need to be, like, quite so negative, Lisbeth!”

  Lisbeth stared at her for a moment.

  “I’m not negative, I’m being realistic!” she said.

  Magda wrinkled her nose.

  “Aren’t you totally overreacting? Dad could be the best thing to happen to her!”

  “So you say, but I’m not so sure. And I do know Aunty Sam! But you seem to go deaf every time I say anything!”

  Magda stared.

  “Why haven’t you said anything before?”

  “I have! But you’re never bloody listening!” Lisbeth said, crossly. “You keep on and on—lying to Sam, lying to your Dad, and all because you don’t like his bloody girlfriend!”

  Magda stared and her face seemed to harden.

  “I will start listening, when you start saying something worth listening to! As for ‘stopping’, I’ve not done anything, other than throw a lifeline to Sam’s business, as far as I can tell! So far, your precious Aunt has had nearly thirty-five grand of my money, and if Dad and she don’t like each other, she’ll still have it!”

  “But it’s not about money, Magda!” said Lisbeth, goaded. “Or did you think that your money could buy you a family?”

  A shattered silence fell as Magda went white. Jerkily, she grabbed her bag and went out of the door without another word.

  Two days later Sam woke up and lay there, waiting for the headache to start. It didn't.

  Thank God for that.

  She got carefully out of bed and her legs didn't feel as rubbery as they had. She took a step. And then another.

  “Hallelujah,” she muttered and staggered into the bathroom.