In The Garden Of Stones

by Lucy Pepperdine

  “You’re right, I should go and leave you in peace,” she says.

  “Yes, Miss. Thank you, Miss.”

  “But before I do, I have to say Mr McLeod, you keep a beautiful garden. Probably the loveliest I’ve ever seen. It’s a credit to you. You must be very proud of it.”

  “I am, Miss. Thank you, Miss.”

  “But it’s such a shame nobody’s allowed to see it. Such beauty is wasted if it can’t be shared.” Pause. “Goodbye then.”

  “Goodbye.”

  She takes a step backward, turns and starts to walk away. When she is within a few steps of the gate, he calls to her.

  “Miss! Wait! Please!”

  She turns to see him snipping a bloom from the rose bush with a small knife with a curved blade, striding purposefully towards her, adopting an awkward hop and skip gait. She suspects he couldn’t run if he tried.

  He holds the rose out for her to take. “To make up for … for what I did, for what I said. It was gey rude. I was rude. Please … take the rose.”

  She accepts the perfect flower and lifts it to her nose, closes her eyes and inhales deeply of its delightful, heady fragrance.

  “It’s beautiful. Thank you, Mr McLeod.”

  “Colin.”

  There’s that twitch of a smile again and the nervous bob of the head. He looks as if he wants to say something, but can’t form the words. After a struggle he blurts out, “If ye want ta come again … ye can.”

  “Really?”

  “Aye. Like you said, beauty is wasted if it canna be shared.”

  “I’d love to come again, Colin. Thank you. Now, you may escort me to the gate.”

  “Pleasure, Miss … Grace.”

  He walks with her to the gate and holds it open for her to pass through. The squeak from the hinges is dreadful and makes her cringe.

  “You want to get some oil on that,” she says. “It’s fair put my teeth on edge.”

  He smiles, properly this time, and it lights up his whole face, creasing the small lines around his eyes, which seem to have lost some of their terror.

  Handsome, in an unconventional sort of way.

  “May I come again soon?” she says. “Tomorrow, perhaps?”

  His mouth is moving, and he’s saying something, perhaps telling her yes, please, do come tomorrow, yet the voice coming from him is not his and not making much sense. He sounds just like the weatherman on Radio 4 putting the chances of rain in the north east at about fifty percent with a maximum of twenty degrees centigrade, and it takes her a moment to realise it is her six o’clock wake-up alarm.

  There is no gate, no garden, no Colin McLeod. There is, however, a dull throbbing sensation in the middle finger of her right hand and she raises it to her lips to suck it away.

  Chapter 10

  Grace has nothing particular to do the next day apart from giving Alec’s flat a thorough clean, do some shopping, make a cake for their tea, and tackle a mountain of laundry.

  “This must be what being a full time housewife is like,” she muses as she closes the oven door on the boeuf bourguignon they will have for dinner. “No wonder they are knackered all the time.”

  Everything done, she has an hour to spare before Alec and Denny come home from work. Just time to have a glass of wine and relax. Maybe let her mind wander a little …

  The man, Colin, is outside his ramshackle hut, hard at work running a sharpening stone over the blade of what looks like an old fashioned scythe, honing it to a razor’s edge. If it were real, it could be classed as a deadly weapon.

  “Hello,” she says brightly.

  A blur of movement, a whoosh of air, and the only thing preventing her innards from spilling out over her shoes are fresh air and a pair of small hands pressed flat against her stomach.

  She staggers, stares at him goggle eyed and breathless. He gapes back, an expression of slack jawed shock on his face.

  “Oh … f-uck!” He throws down the scythe as if it is red hot and puts his hands on hers. “Let me see!”

  “No!” she squeals. “My insides will come out. You’ve killed me!”

  “Let-me-see!”

  He prises her hands apart. There is a second of silence before he lets out a small, nervous laugh. “It’s okay. Ye’re fine. See fer yerself.”

  Grace keeps her eyes squeezed tight shut. “I don’t want to.”

  “There’s nothing there. Look.”

  She eases open her eyes and looks down. There is no blood, no entrails slopping into the grass like a nest of scarlet worms, but there is a clean horizontal slit in the fabric of her top and it gapes open like a widely grinning mouth. A dazed Grace sticks her finger inside the gash, widening it to examine her skin beneath. Not a mark on her.

  A small hysterical giggle builds, escaping as her eyes swim with tears of relief and she remembers to breathe again. That was a close shave. Too close.

  Colin puts his broad hands on her shoulders and looks down on her, his face a picture of horrified concern, his voice a soft and tender whisper.

  “You alright? You’ve gone a funny colour.”

  She nods. “Yes. I think so. I’m fine, physically. Nerves are shot though.” She flaps the open slit in her top. “This is buggered.”

  “I could have killed you.”

  “I thought you had.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “So you should be.”

  “Come and sit down,” he says, leading her toward the hut. “Ye’ve had a wee bit of a shock.”

  Wee bit? There’s an understatement if ever there was one. He’s almost bisected her with an archaic agricultural implement and that’s the best he can come up with.

  Inside he sits her at a rough table and busies about making her a cup of tea from the kettle steaming quietly on top of the wood burning stove, although from the way his hands shake as he’s doing it, it’s clear she’s not the only one in shock.

  “Theer ye go,” he says, passing her a chipped mug filled with hot brown liquid.

  “Thank you.”

  The cup is warm against the palms of her hands, she can feel the heat moving into her, and as she sips at the tea she has a thought.

  If I die in a dream, does that mean I die in real life?

  Probably not, but something to ask Mal Pettit … or more likely whoever he’s passed her on to.

  Her imaginary friend is sitting opposite her at the table, gazing at her with those intense brown eyes, expression expectant, like he’s just asked a question and is waiting for her answer.

  “I’m sorry, miles away,” she says. “What did you say?”

  “I asked if you were feeling better now?”

  “Yes, I’m fine. No real harm done.” It comes out sounding more confident than she feels and so she adds a nervous little smile. “What about you?”

  His head bobs up and down, more of a nervous shiver than a nod.

  “What are you doing with something so dangerous anyway?” she says.

  “Grass needs cutting. Needs a sharp blade.”

  “Then why don’t you use a lawnmower like everybody else? You can’t slice someone in half with a Flymo.”

  “No electricity.”

  “But the lawns are massive. Don’t tell me you use that old fashioned thing on them.”

  “No need,” he says. “They tak care o’ themsels. I need it fer the graves. They’re smaller, more…intimate.”

  “Oh. Right. Of course.”

  More silent tea drinking.

  “You sure you’re okay?” he says.

  “Perfectly fine.”

  “I didn’t mean ta hurt ye–”

  “You didn’t. I’m fine.”

  How much reassurance does one man need?

  “Ye need ta make yerself known,” he says. “I-I can’t do with - with being snuck up on.”

  “I’ll try to remember.”

  “Sorry again.”

  “Will you stop apologising? I said it’s okay. I’m fine. Forget it. I –”

&n
bsp; Something niggles at the back of her mind, a familiar sound somewhere in the background. She knows what it is and that she has to leave.

  She stands. “Look, I’ve … er … taken up too much of your time and you have work to do, so I should go.”

  He stands with her. “You don’t have ta.”

  “Yes I do. Thanks for the tea.”

  “Ye’re welcome to it.”

  “And if I come again, I promise to make more noise.”

  “If?”

  “When I come again. Now I really do have to go.”

  He holds the door open for her. “Cheerio, then.”

  “Bye bye.”

  A wave, a dash back through the gardens, through the gate and… she is back in her own reality, that slight sense of disorientation evident again, to Alec letting himself into the flat.

  “Honey, we’re home!” he calls from the hallway, plucking his key from the lock.

  Denny fights his way into the kitchen weighed down by two large bags of, groceries. “…like a bloody pack mule–” he mutters, dropping them onto the table and rolling his shoulders.

  Grace welcomes both men home with kisses.

  “Good day?” Denny asks, hugging her.

  “Fine.”

  Apart from nearly getting sliced in half by a man wielding a scythe like the Grim Reaper.

  “Any calls? Any mail? Anything to report?”

  Shrug. “No. Nothing. Dinner’s almost ready.”

  As she tends to preparation of their evening meal, her mind strays back to Colin McLeod and the hut and the garden, and she feels an overwhelming desire to ditch dinner and go straight back there to see him again.

  Chapter 11

  Voicemail: “Grace? Hi, it’s Melanie from the lettings agency. Listen, I shouldn’t be telling you this, but a new place has come onto the market today and I think it will be right up your street - no pun intended. (Laughter) I’ve put the details in an email, so have a look. If you’re interested, get back to me toot sweet because this one is going to fly. If anyone else is interested, I’ll try and stall them until I hear from you, but make it soonest please Okay? Bye.”

  It’s a difficult ride across town on the bus to the location of the new flat. There are unfamiliar stops, frequent changes, strange timings, and it takes a lot of concentration.

  On the last leg of the journey she settles back in her seat and watches the town centre drift by, letting her mind wander to the garden and the strange man who gave her the rose, yet keeping one eye and ear open for notifications from the bus’s digital information system telling her where she is.

  By the time she reaches her destination she is feeling slightly dizzy, having been thrust back and forth half a dozen times, each time not quite sure whether she is here or there. Garden or bus; bus or garden.

  The return journey however is better and the switches not so sudden or disorientating.

  In the evening, feet up in Alec’s living room, glass of wine in hand, TV droning away in the corner, she pays a final visit to the garden.

  “Ye were in and oot like Jocky and Jinny,” Colin says as they sit outside the hut drinking warm cider from chipped enamel mugs. “One second here, the next poof, gone.”

  “Sorry about that. I hadn’t been on that route before and I had to concentrate on the stops.”

  “I take it ye got theer alright?”

  “There and back in one piece … and not a single panic attack. I’d call that a success.”

  “How was the flat? Was it worth the hassle?”

  “Oh yes. The flat is perfect … absolutely perfect.”

  Grace’s first day in her new flat is a delight.

  Her estate agent Melanie got it spot on, it is right up Grace’s street, in every sense.

  It’s nothing like as big as the one she shared with Alec, virtually a shoebox in comparison, but well laid out, making full use of the available space.

  Sitting and dining share the main living room: sofa, armchair, a glass topped dining table with four chairs. A small but well equipped kitchen is in a separate area, the change from carpet to slate tiles the line of demarcation. The only bedroom has space enough for a double bed, a dressing table and a chest of drawers.

  The bathroom is basic to say the least: loo, bath with a shower over, small washbasin with a mirrored cabinet, and a heated towel rail. The common perception would be that there is hardly room to swing the proverbial cat, but for Grace, it’s enough.

  As she unpacks it becomes clear that there is no way the built-in closet will hold all the clothes and shoes and bags she has accumulated during her spells of retail therapy. A severe pruning is called for.

  She invokes the 80:20 rule ruthlessly, and before the end of the day the local charity shop has benefited from a generous donation of her superfluous designer goods, some still with their original price tags attached.

  Looking around the flat, clean, tidy, devoid of all the extraneous fripperies that served no purpose other than to gather dust, Grace has an epiphany. Most of her stuff is gone, and she doesn’t miss it.

  She’d spent too much money on things she didn’t need, didn’t even want, bought simply for show, for the fleeting ephemeral glow of satisfaction at owning something exclusive and expensive, and now she is rid of it she feels physically and spiritually lighter. She is going to start this new simpler phase of her life with a clean slate, kettle and coffee, somewhere warm to sleep, hot water on tap, a flushing toilet and a wine shop around the corner. All the fundamentals of civilisation without the frills. What else does she need?

  Mr Pickles, her fat and lazy grey tom cat gives his own seal of approval, stalking around the flat with his tail in the air as if he owns the place, taking up a vantage point on the back of the sofa to watch Grace work, to groom himself while he waits for dinner time to come around.

  A scene of cosy domestic bliss.

  She could have afforded a bigger place in a more affluent area, because lucky Grace sold her business as a going concern, her flat for more than the market value, and has lived frugally at Alec’s for the last ten months or so, and her bank balance is fat and healthy.

  In fact, she could have had the pick of any of the properties on the agency’s books and might well have if it hadn’t been for an unremarkable pair of French windows set into the rear wall of this flat, or more specifically, what lay beyond them.

  The moment she laid eyes on them she knew that Fate had gifted her this place, and there was no way she could turn it down.

  Why so special?

  The windows open onto a tiny balcony overlooking a communal garden – a postage stamp area of grass, a barbecue and a whirly, nothing remarkable there, but over the fence, beyond the houses in the next street, almost out of sight except to eyes drawn to it, she can see a high stone wall surrounding what looks like a long neglected overgrown garden, and the instant Grace sees it, her only thought is for Colin McLeod, hard at work tending to his beautiful roses, and the peaceful solitude of the garden of stones.

  She signs the lease without hesitation, goes home to Alec’s place and packs her stuff.

  An intense late summer shower tumbles big fat rain drops from purple green clouds to batter the rooftops, overflow gutters, put a shine on the dull grey slates and fill the potholes with greasy puddles.

  Then, as if a tap has been turned off, the downpour stops and the sun comes out, painting a rainbow against the gunmetal grey, a glorious arc of colour pointing the way to that elusive crock of gold. Every blade and leaf of foliage in the surrounding gardens is rejuvenated, glowing in contrast against the bruised sky.

  Grace is too busy charting on a street map how she will reach the abandoned walled garden behind her flat to pay the weather too much attention. Cloudbursts are common enough at this time of year, particularly if the day has been warm and humid.

  She traces a route with her finger.

  “There doesn’t seem to be any direct access through the garden, nor any connecting back streets or
alleyways,” she says to her disinterested cat. “I will have to stick to the main road and the side streets and go the long way round, a walk of about a mile and a half in total. Not far, and provided I don’t get lost, it should take me about half an hour.”

  Clad in her bright pink Wellington boots and waterproof coat, and carrying both map and an umbrella, Grace lets herself out of the front door of the building in which her flat is but one of eight, turns right, and sets off along the patchily drying pavement.

  She follows the map, sticking to the faint pencil line drawn on it, and there it is.

  Taller than she is by at least five feet, a rough hewn granite block wall topped with a short spiked railing. No chance of climbing over that, especially not in wellies and carrying a brolly.

  “Find the gate. Big walls always have a gate.”

  A corner, a turn, and more of the same; blank grey stone stubbornly unbroken by any means of access.

  Running close to the wall is a flattened strip of earth and stones, scuffed bare over the years by the feet of thousands of children as they take a shortcut from the housing estate to the local school, discarding Coke bottles, fizzy drink cans, empty crisp packets and other sundry detritus along the way. The modern day equivalent of a Hansel and Gretel trail of breadcrumbs.

  The face of the wall is spray painted with garish graffiti tags, misspelled swear words and the occasional stylised willy. All very artistic, but there is still no gate to be seen.

  Onward to the next corner which takes Grace into a short street with a rough unmade up road and a row of neat cottages, each with its own small front garden. A woman with shopping bags at her feet is letting herself into her bright red front door. Maybe she knows if there is a gate. Grace trots across the road, hailing the woman.

  “Excuse me!”

  The woman turns to see who is calling.

  “Sorry to bother you,” Grace says. “But I was wondering … this place …” She indicates the high stone wall across the way. “Do you know anything about it?”

  The woman looks at her, head cocked slightly to one side. “It’s The Larches,” she says, as if everyone already knew.