Sowing Secrets

by Ashley, Trisha

  ‘I don’t, I just assumed that a tiny, run-down, barely modernised cottage with a couple of acres of nearly vertical undergrowth several hours’ drive from London isn’t what you really had in mind.’

  ‘So you think I’m just a time waster?’

  ‘It’s not an impulse purchase,’ I said severely.

  ‘Please?’ he said winningly. It might have been even more winning if I wasn’t seeing everything in shades of deepest black and grey again.

  I hesitated, then turned and opened the door, sensing rather than hearing him following me into the dark hallway. He moved quietly for such a big man.

  ‘You know, I keep thinking there’s something very familiar about you! Have we met?’ he said suddenly from right behind me.

  ‘Met? No, I—yah!’ Totally missing the step down, I plummeted forward with a yelp, only to be jerked back upright by strong hands at the last minute. My shades flew off and ricocheted off the wooden hallstand, and I was certainly glad I hadn’t, since it is one of those spiky carved ones of a bear in a tree: prongs all over the place. I’d have had more holes than a colander.

  ‘Careful,’ he said, setting me upright before picking up my glasses. ‘I’m afraid these are broken and—excuse me—but do you really need them in midwinter?’

  ‘Conjunctivitis. My eyes are sensitive to light,’ I said quickly. Brilliant—hand the girl a coconut.

  ‘Well, there’s none in here and precious little outside now the rain is closing in again.’

  He was looking at me curiously, but I avoided his gaze. ‘Perhaps we’d better press on, then, Mr Weston,’ I suggested. ‘The electricity often cuts off in a storm too, and the daylight will be going before long.’

  I’d have liked to have added that the plague still visited St Ceridwen’s Well on a twice-yearly basis, and how we all hoped the chronic dysentery would clear up once we had mains water, because the stuff we got from the well was so full of nematodes we had to chew every mouthful; but I remembered Rhodri and his hopes for Plas Gwyn just in time.

  Tucking an escaped strand of pinkish hair into my scarf I whisked him through Fairy Glen like Dottie on speed.

  ‘Sitting room. Kitchen—sinks, tap, table. Bathroom—toilet and bath.’

  ‘Interesting colour scheme,’ he commented, deadpan.

  ‘Decayed Elastoplast-pink bathroom suites were the height of fashion in the fifties when my parents put this one in,’ I said stiffly.

  ‘Yes, but most people wouldn’t have complemented it with mauve, magenta and gold décor—or a disco ball.’

  ‘Possibly not. Shall we get on? Stairs…mind your head…Two bedrooms, both minute…’

  ‘The girlie pink one was yours?’

  ‘A long time ago.’ I closed the door firmly and led the way up two steps. ‘Boxroom in the turret with views of the glen.’

  Here I paused for breath and he joined me at the window, slightly too close for comfort since I was backed into the embrasure with nowhere to go but vertically down should the slightly rotted frame give.

  ‘And the glen comes with the house?’ He glanced down at me and smiled. ‘I’d be master of all I surveyed?’

  ‘Well, yes, but you can’t do anything with it: it’s too steep to build on.’

  ‘No one in their right mind would want to build on somewhere with a wild beauty of its own—but I see there’s some flattish land around the cottage.’

  ‘There used to be a sort of rose arbour and tea garden behind the house. There still are roses in the glen but they’ve gone wild, though I think the Hemisphaerica was pretty wild to start with and it seems to love it here.’

  ‘Does it?’ he murmured absently, transferring his gaze from the vista to my face. ‘You know, you really do look familiar—I thought so up at the house. Are you sure we haven’t met before?’

  ‘Certain,’ I said positively, trying to edge away around the wall, but he took another step closer. ‘I probably just remind you of someone. Don’t you find that happens more and more as you get older?’

  ‘I suppose it does.’ He frowned down at me as I shifted uneasily, then suddenly put out his hand and pushed my scarf back. Half-dry hair exploded round my head; I probably looked like a mutant pink dandelion clock.

  ‘What on earth are you doing?’ I demanded, trying to pull the scarf back up again.

  ‘It’s…’ he screwed his eyes up in an effort of memory, ‘Mary? No, Maddie, that’s it!’

  ‘Sorry, my name’s Fran,’ I said icily. ‘Now, if you’ve seen quite enough…’

  But he remained there, big, solid and entirely immovable, one eyebrow raised quizzically. ‘I’ve seen enough to know I’m not mistaken: huge eyes the colour of wood smoke and that hair! It may have been one hell of a long time ago, but I’m sure you said your name was Maddie. Well, well!’

  ‘And you told me you were called Adam!’ I snapped angrily, then went scarlet.

  ‘Did I? Must have been wishful thinking—I’ve never liked Gabriel much. So…?’ He looked consideringly at me. ‘Didn’t we…?’

  ‘Yes, but years and years ago,’ I said hastily. ‘I’d forgotten all about it until I saw a Restoration Gardener DVD recently and realised who you were.’

  ‘Oh? I’d sort of forgotten about you too, but now it’s coming back to me…or some of it, anyway! Didn’t we get loaded and go to bed in my van?’

  ‘Look, I would much rather not talk about it, if you don’t mind!’ I said stiffly. ‘It was a very long time ago, and totally out of character, so I’d be grateful if you forgot all about it again.’

  ‘Well, that’s a novelty at least,’ he said, grinning. ‘Women I’ve never even clapped eyes on have sold stories to the papers saying they’ve had affairs with me, yet you want me to pretend I never met you.’

  ‘Yes, of course I do!’ I said angrily. ‘Maybe you think I should be grateful you remembered me, but it’s not like it’s something I’d want to boast about, is it? I have a family now and obviously my husband doesn’t know anything about you so—’

  ‘OK, I get the idea, Mrs Fran March: I won’t tell if you don’t.’ He leaned forward so close that one damp curl touched my face, and whispered thrillingly, ‘Fear not, fair maiden, your secret is safe with me! How many years ago was it?’

  ‘Too many to count—over twenty, at least,’ I said firmly.

  ‘It’s all coming back to me—and it was quite a night!’

  I pushed past him rudely and he followed after me.

  ‘Sorry, Maddie—’

  ‘Fran!’

  ‘Sorry, Fran!’ His voice still sounded annoyingly amused. ‘I wouldn’t dream of doing any kiss-and-tell stuff. I’ve been the victim of that sort of thing myself. Besides, it wasn’t such a big deal, was it?’

  ‘No,’ I said shortly and perhaps with unflattering emphasis. ‘No, it wasn’t!’

  I was having another ‘Thriller’ moment, what with him almost silently following me through the Gothic gloom, so I stopped to let him pass me on the landing.

  His face looked unfathomably serious, as though he was trying to work out if he’d been insulted or not. He paused uncertainly. ‘Right—so, let’s just start again like we first met up at Plas Gwyn. And much though I’d like to stay and talk to you some more, I’ve got to get off back to London right now.’

  ‘And I need to get home,’ I said pointedly. ‘I’ve got work to do!’

  ‘Oh? What kind of work?’

  ‘Graphic design.’

  ‘Interesting…and look, I love the cottage, so don’t sell it before I come back for a longer viewing, in daylight! An official one this time, with an appointment.’

  ‘That’s entirely up to my mother, but it has only just gone on the market.’ I followed him back down the narrow stairs, noting how his shoulders brushed the walls on either side and his hair formed little spirals like damp silkworm cocoons all over his head. It was odd and slightly unbelievable to think that I had ever gone to bed with this man…and even more to imagine he had
any connection with Rosie.

  Oh God, Rosie! What if they met and he let something slip so that she guessed he was my mysterious gardener? I prayed he would go away and never come back…and then remembered that poor Rhodri, at least, was desperate that he did.

  ‘Mr Weston, what did you think of Plas Gwyn?’ I asked cautiously.

  ‘I think we could be on first-name terms, Fran, don’t you?’ he said, looking over his shoulder at me with a wicked smile.

  One good shove and all my troubles would have been over. The thought might have shown on my face, because he stopped smiling and carried on down the stairs.

  ‘Plas Gwyn is a little gem. I’ll look at the photocopied documents and then make my mind up later, but it certainly made an impression on me.’

  It was pouring again, and when he realised I intended walking he insisted on driving me home. God knows what the Wevills will make of that, but something imaginative, I’m sure, despite the tinted windows preventing them from seeing him properly.

  His last words were, ‘I’ll be in touch—Maddie!’

  I sincerely hope he isn’t seriously interested in the cottage, because there are already more bloody snakes than grass in my little Eden, and the idea of him living here is too disturbing to contemplate.

  And even if we were in agreement about forgetting our one little bit of shared history, I suspect he wouldn’t be able to resist teasing me about it whenever we met.

  I had a horrible feeling my mother would adore him.

  Saturday Night and Sunday Morning

  ‘And then he insisted on dropping me home on his way back to London, because it was raining so hard,’ I told Nia on the phone later. ‘And the Wevills’ car was back on their own drive: it’s odd how it almost never seems to be blocking mine whenever anyone else is around, isn’t it? Uncanny.’

  ‘Maybe they have second sight,’ she suggested. ‘If I hadn’t seen it there myself, perhaps I’d think you were imagining it too.’

  ‘I bet they saw me with Gabe Weston, though since his car has tinted windows they won’t have known who he was, unless news of his visit has got out.’

  ‘I don’t think it has yet: you, Carrie, Rhodri and me are the only ones who know.’

  ‘And Dottie,’ I reminded her. ‘If she hadn’t told Gabe to leave by the tradesmen’s entrance he wouldn’t have spotted Fairy Glen and rumbled me.’

  ‘Well, it didn’t turn out so bad, did it? If he managed to see through that disguise then you clearly made a lasting impression on him, which must be sort of flattering.’

  ‘I suppose so…but he seemed to find it amusing that I wanted to keep it quiet that we’d ever met before!’

  ‘That’s not surprising when you think of those newspaper articles about him, not to mention the paternity-claim stuff! Someone desperately trying to pretend she’d never met him in her life was probably a refreshing change, and he did promise he would keep it secret, didn’t he?’

  ‘Yes, and I’m pretty sure he meant it, only he couldn’t resist teasing me about it. And I sort of inadvertently cast a slur on his performance in bed too…’

  ‘You did? I thought you said you couldn’t remember much about that night.’

  ‘Um…just bits,’ I said, shifting uncomfortably. ‘And I did say “inadvertently”: I didn’t mean it the way it came out.’

  ‘Oh, well, then all you have to do is send him a postcard with “By the way, your performance in bed left a lasting impression on me too”,’ she said helpfully.

  ‘I don’t think so, he might ask me what kind. Nia, when we were talking it was really hard to believe that I’d once slept with him! He was sort of familiar and unfamiliar at the same time. What did you think of him?’

  ‘Tall, attractive, strong, a voice that could charm the birds off the trees, those fascinating greeny-hazel eyes, the cleft in his chin, the way his mouth goes up at one corner when he smiles—’

  ‘I could see that myself,’ I interrupted. ‘And he’s already charmed this bird off her tree once. I meant, what did you make of the man himself?’

  ‘Oh, I liked him. He came back and talked to me this morning after you’d gone, and he certainly knows a lot about old houses and garden design. I told him all about the renovations and Rhodri’s plans for Plas Gwyn, and he seemed really interested. Fingers crossed we make the shortlist!’

  ‘Yes,’ I sighed. ‘And at least if he does I’ve got the worst over with now, haven’t I? I’d only have to concentrate on forgetting we’ve got a little slice of shared past when other people are around—especially Mal.’ I looked up and caught sight of the clock. ‘I’d better go and see how the dinner is doing—Mal’s arriving back any minute so I’m cooking something special. What are you doing tonight?’

  ‘I’m going up to have supper with Rhodri,’ she said, slightly self-consciously. ‘We’re still going through papers trying to find interesting stuff about the garden.’

  Long experience of Nia’s touchy, oversensitive nature has taught me when and when not to tease her, so with great self-restraint I merely wished her good luck and put the phone down.

  Even after ten years I still get a little flutter of excitement when my darkly handsome husband arrives home, anticipating that sweep-you-off-your-feet hug, but this time he just casually kissed my cheek instead, as though he’d been away a weekend instead of six weeks.

  I was a bit disconcerted, but supposed he was tired after the long drive. He wasn’t to know I was feeling especially in need of love and reassurance after the double whammy of the resurgent Bigblondsurfdude and Gabe Weston—and heaven forbid he ever finds out about either of them!

  Unlike his namesake, clearly Gabriel is no angel, but I don’t think he will tell anyone we once knew each other in the biblical sense if I don’t; and I’m hoping Tom has got the message that I don’t really want to see him again, though I may be rating his intellectual abilities slightly too highly.

  I wonder if he’s worn as well as Gabe. He must still be pretty fit if he’s surfing.

  Mal usually brings me little gifts when he’s been away, but this time all he gave me were two bags of dirty laundry, folded and colour-coded, and lots of enthusiastic praise for some IT manager he’d been working with called Sarah. Then he added the bonus ball of an extensive update on his ex-wife’s brilliant career and high-flying prospects, so I began to feel completely peed off; but the good news is she’s been head-hunted by some firm abroad and by now will have left the country!

  Oh, happy day.

  I might have been a little over-enthusiastic about that news until he started going on and on about how much she would be earning, and how slim, toned and smart she was looking.

  I immediately felt fat and frumpy—and somewhat miffed again—so I hardly let him sit down before inflicting on him all the minutiae of my daily existence, which normally I don’t since his eyes glaze over much like Rosie’s used to do at the thirtieth repetition of Neptune the Fishy Father.

  I told him about Ma’s plans to sell Fairy Glen (which elicited a faint interest as to what she was going to do with the proceeds until I said she was going to blow it all on a cruise), Rosie’s assignment marks and Nia’s failure to get planning permission for her pottery. By the time I had got on to Rhodri’s plans for Plas Gwyn Mal had blanked out, though usually any mention of my seeing Rhodri gets the jealous fires raging.

  Piqued, I rambled on to even thinner ice, describing how Rhodri’d contacted Gabe Weston, presenter of the Restoration Gardener TV programme…and after that I might also have mentioned the hens, my latest cartoons and what I had for breakfast that morning.

  In fact, I told him about everything except what was most on my mind—much like the time I didn’t tell him who Rosie’s father was when I had the opportunity. All my sins of omission seem to be on the same subject, but had he been paying close attention on either occasion he would surely have noticed my evasions.

  Clearly none of my abridged budget of news was of any interest to him whatsoev
er, and he didn’t even attempt to make a polite show of it, like I do when he waffles on about boats, android wonder women, or Cayman Blue stamps with exciting misprinted bits.

  The give and take of married life seemed to be suddenly all give, and I was the one doing it.

  ‘Have you been cutting your hair?’ he asked, abruptly breaking into my monologue and taking some notice of me at last, but unfortunately the wrong sort.

  ‘Oh, Carrie trimmed the ends, but it seems to have made it go curlier this time, so it looks much shorter,’ I said casually, and he stared at me suspiciously; but it’s my hair, I shouldn’t have to resort to these subterfuges and evasions.

  When he spotted my mosaic fireplace he said it looked like something out of a cheap makeover programme, which it doesn’t: it’s terribly Charles Rennie Mackintosh. Then he gathered up all his post and went upstairs, and I started to wish I hadn’t bothered cooking his favourite dinner of roast duck cooked the Delia way, with crunchy brown potatoes roasted in the fat, to be followed by mango mousse, especially since I’d had to go all the way to the supermarket in Llandudno for the ingredients. Mangoes don’t grow on trees up the Welsh valleys.

  He couldn’t find fault with the dinner, but instead complained that the wine I’d bought was the wrong one.

  ‘But it’s Chilean Chardonnay,’ I pointed out. ‘It’s what you often have!’

  ‘Yes, but the wrong year, Fran.’

  ‘It seems just fine to me,’ I said, taking another sip—though actually anything would taste good after those ghastly diet bars and shakes, and the flavour of the melt-in-the-mouth duck had been almost orgasmically wonderful.

  ‘Yes, well, you think your home-made wine tastes “just fine” too,’ he pointed out before lapsing into a fit of the sulks that probably lasted until his bedtime, but by then I’d left him to it and was fast asleep.

  Mal seemed to wake up in a better mood, so perhaps he really was just tired from the journey home last night.

  I stuffed the first load of his washing in the machine before breakfast, then suggested we go out for a walk somewhere. ‘Betws-y-Coed? We could take a picnic and flasks and—’