Sowing Secrets

by Ashley, Trisha

  He’s trying to involve me in his plans by showing me all the information, which does make it look like a different kind of paradise from the one I already thought we’d got. Hopefully, without snakes or vultures.

  Dear Fran,

  I know you didn’t want me to contact you again, but ever since I saw you I keep thinking about you, especially now—I’m really sorry about the baby.

  Of course I wouldn’t do anything to hurt you, or Rosie, so don’t worry about that, just concentrate on getting well.

  Love, Tom

  Dear Tom,

  Thank you for the lovely flowers and message. It was very kind and thoughtful of you.

  I’m feeling much better already, and will soon be back to normal, which is just as well since I have lots of work I should be getting on with!

  Fran

  I just answered the door to find Dottie on the step, with Rollover breathing down the back of her neck.

  ‘Visit of condolence—heard you’d slipped your foal,’ she said, and thrust a jar of calf’s foot jelly at me.

  Then she mounted Rollover, clicked through her teeth and rode off.

  The jelly looked vile—her housekeeper (or maybe that should just be ‘keeper’?) makes it for these lady-of-the-manor occasions.

  Dottie’s heart is in the right place, I’m just not sure where her brain is.

  ‘The whole village seems to be going Restoration Gardener mad. I don’t know what’s got into the place,’ Mal grumbled. ‘All I wanted was a quiet pint at the Druid’s Rest and it’s all done up with posters saying “Vote for Plas Gwyn!” In fact, every window in St Ceridwen’s Well seems to have one, and there’s bunting across the high street.’

  I glanced guiltily at the small poster in our front window, which he hadn’t yet spotted—Carrie had breezed by earlier and stuck it there. ‘Well, if they do win it tomorrow, it will be a great thing for the village. Lots more visitors equals more jobs at the castle, more customers for the café and gift shop—more everything all round. And even if they don’t, this next programme should still put St Ceridwen’s on the map.’

  ‘Yes, and house prices will probably rocket!’ he said, looking more cheerful, though I don’t know why since we are here for ever, so the house going up in value has no relevance at all. ‘But I knew you would be as garden restoration mad as the rest of them so I thought we could go down to the pub tomorrow night for an hour and watch it there, if you feel up to it,’ he said generously. ‘They’re having a special night. The place will be packed out but we can go early enough to find a seat and a bar snack before the rush starts.’

  ‘That’s a lovely idea, Mal,’ I said, though really I would have much preferred to have watched it up at the hall with Carrie, Nia and Rhodri, and I didn’t much feel like going out at all yet, come to that. ‘And perhaps Ma could come too?’

  ‘Come where?’ Ma said, her gaily-turbaned head appearing round the door suddenly like a benign genie.

  ‘The pub, for the Restoration Gardener programme and celebrations—or commiserations,’ I explained. ‘It’s the vote tomorrow night.’

  ‘Wild horses wouldn’t keep me away,’ she said, ‘but if you are going, Fran, I’ll drive you there and back.’

  ‘It’s not that far,’ Mal said. ‘Time she started to get out and about again.’

  ‘Yes, I’m fine really, Ma—I just feel a bit light-headed and far away.’

  ‘I’ll drive,’ she said firmly.

  ‘Do you think the dogs would like calf’s foot jelly? There’s a jar in the fridge.’

  ‘I’m sure they would love it—what a treat!’ she said, so at least Dottie’s offering would not be entirely wasted.

  We arrived at the pub just early enough to bag a big corner table with a good view of the giant TV screen, which was just as well, because in the end Nia, Rhodri and Carrie decided to come down too, closely followed by the rest of the village.

  Ma beckoned them over as soon as she spotted them, and though Mal was his usual slightly stiff and tight-lipped self at first, he soon thawed out when Rhodri, who was practically incoherent with nerves, began pressing drinks on him. After a couple of stiff whiskies I’m sure he had forgotten his daft suspicions about me and Rhodri—or even that he didn’t like gardening—for he cheered just as loudly as everyone else when the programme started.

  ‘Welcome to a special edition of Restoration Gardener,’ Gabe Weston said, ‘where you vote for the garden you want us to feature in our next series.’

  Then he showed pictures of the three contenders with the numbers to call and declared the voting lines opened. After that, you could hardly hear the commentary for the sound of clicking mobile phones.

  The first two properties (‘Boo! Rubbish! Throw them out!’ shouted the partisan crowd) seemed to have an awful lot going for them, as far as I could see: there already were garden features, overgrown or partly hidden though they might be.

  Then they got to Plas Gwyn (‘Winner—winner—winner!’ everyone chanted) and there was nothing much except grass and lewdly clipped topiary—until clever camera angles and a commentary by Gabe brought out the hidden shapes of what had once been there, so that you could see it appearing out of thin air before your eyes.

  And when he got to the maze he made it sound so fascinating that you felt it would be an absolute crime not to restore such ‘a national treasure’…though actually it was unclear whether he was referring to the maze or to Dottie, who had appeared suddenly through a gap in the hedge looking like a perambulating hay tarpaulin and could be faintly heard ordering the camera crew to ‘Clear orf!’.

  ‘Oh God, she’s blown it!’ Rhodri said, clutching his fair head in his hands despairingly.

  ‘No, I think she might have just clinched it—look,’ Nia said.

  In the background Dottie could still be heard shouting, ‘Hey you—gardening feller!’ before she was faded out and the camera panned to Gabe’s face, smiling.

  ‘For the chance to restore Plas Gwyn—and meet more of the Gwyn-Whatmire family—please phone…’ he said, giving the details, and it might have been just me, but he seemed to be much more enthusiastic and persuasive about Plas Gwyn than the other two.

  ‘So, that’s all three properties,’ Gabe said. ‘All worthy of restoration; all, in their own way, capable of being stunningly recreated to their former glories. Now, the lines are about to close, and while the votes are being counted I will let the owner of the Old Mill, our latest project, tell you what winning the restoration has meant to him and his family.’

  At the Druid’s Rest you could hardly hear yourself speak for the sound of voices demanding drinks, but the second Gabe came back on screen again, an envelope in his hand, the whole room fell silent.

  ‘The votes have now been counted, and I’m about to open this envelope and find out which property you think should be the winner…’ He pulled out a card and looked up: ‘And I can tell you now that the winner is…’

  There was a theatrical pause and I heard an anguished groan from Rhodri.

  ‘The winner is Plas Gwyn in North Wales!’

  The place erupted into noise so that the end of the programme was drowned out, but by then Rhodri was embracing everyone within reach, beaming, and Ma was bouncing up and down like a clockwork monkey, clapping her hands and screeching: ‘Yes! Yes!’

  Nia was looking stunned. I nudged her. ‘You’ve done it—you’ve won!’

  ‘Yes, congratulations,’ Mal shouted across the table.

  ‘I can hardly take it in,’ she said, then made a sudden lunge for Rhodri, whose lips were forming the words ‘The drinks are on me!’, luckily unheard in the din.

  ‘Shut up, you idiot,’ she said, pulling him down. ‘You can’t afford grand gestures and, anyway, everyone will buy you drinks now until they run out of your ears!’

  Which they did, but by then I was safely tucked up at home in bed, exhausted, but filled with a strange mixture of excitement and happiness for Rhodri’s sake that we had b
een chosen and nervousness that for the next few months I could meet Gabe Weston around any corner—though if Ma does sell Fairy Glen to him in the end I might just have to get used to coming face to face with my murky past all the time.

  Restoration fever died down slightly and Ma finally returned home to Cheshire, though whether that was to be tactful so that Mal and I could have a last couple of days alone together, or because she was missing all her chums, I don’t know.

  She left me a large supply of bottled Guinness, someone having told her that it was full of iron, and also a sack of dried apricots, ditto.

  Nia has promised her she will keep an eye on me, though how she will do that while working in her new pottery, having just moved her kiln and everything up there, and simultaneously orchestrating Rhodri’s grandiose schemes, is anyone’s guess.

  Besides, I don’t need keeping an eye on since I’m getting better by the day and will soon be back to normal, especially once I lose this feeling that everyone is very far away behind a sheet of thick glass.

  The hens were glad to see me again instead of the muttering old madwoman in the paisley-patterned wellies. Ma’d been going on about Shania making good broth instead of eating her head off and laying nothing, until finally I burst into tears and said I couldn’t possibly eat one of the girls, it would be cannibalism, so Shania had probably felt a sense of threat.

  It looked like Mal was sincere about clearing his debts and starting afresh, because he sold his car!

  Unfortunately, this meant that he was reduced to driving my old Beetle around for the last few days, and he didn’t like it. (I didn’t like it either—I’m possessive about the poor old thing.)

  ‘What on earth is that smell coming out of the heater?’ he demanded the first time he used it.

  ‘I spilled a cup of McDonald’s cappuccino down the air vent last time I was over at the supermarket, shopping,’ I explained. ‘The whole car smelled lovely for about a week, and then it seemed to go off.’

  ‘It smells like vomit. I’ve got you an air freshener.’ He didn’t offer to buy me a newer car, but I am fond of my old one anyway.

  Mal was busy with last-minute preparations, like laying up his boat for the duration. I expect he still has a huge loan on Cayman Blue, but there is no sign of him selling that yet, and Owen Wevill is going to keep an eye on it for him while he is away. Mal has packed all the papers regarding the mortgage to go with him; it is in his name, since he bought the house before we met, and I suggested the remortgage would be a good time to put the house in joint names. I know it doesn’t matter really, since what is mine is his and vice versa, it’s just this feeling that I’d like my name on the deeds to the home I love too.

  Mal has also invested a lot of energy in rendering the house spick and span after Invasion of Ma, I clearly not yet being up to anything other than a little desultory dusting even were I remotely interested. This early spring clean might have to last for six months, the way I feel now.

  He is still being affectionate and understanding…only now I sense that a slightly critical note has begun to creep in, as though he thinks I am malingering and should be back to normal, especially when he said he knew how I felt (which I’m very sure he doesn’t), but I was to concentrate on getting fit and well while he was away and back to the old Fran that he loved.

  The thin, much younger one, I think he meant. I just wish he’d drop this constant harping on my becoming ‘the Fran he fell in love with’, as though his love were conditional. Even if I lose some weight by the time I go out there—which I fully intend to do, only I feel too tired just yet to even think about it—I am glad to say that I will not revert to the thin, dreamy and trusting thirty-year-old single mother, still living at home, that he married.

  I’ve got more chance of turning into a fairy.

  Bigger Things

  ‘That nice Gabriel Weston has offered me the full asking price for Fairy Glen!’ Ma told me when she called on Mother’s Day to thank me for my card. ‘But I told him I would only sell it to him if you agree too, my love, since you are as fond of it as I am and, what’s more, will be living practically on the doorstep.’

  ‘But, Ma—’ I began to protest automatically.

  ‘You just think about it, Frannie, because he absolutely loves the cottage and wants to make it his home, and he is a gardener so he would look after the glen.’

  ‘Yes, but he might just be saying that. He probably wants to knock the cottage down and build a huge house and landscape all the magic out of the place,’ I said stubbornly.

  ‘I don’t think so, Fran—and I don’t know what you’ve got against him! In fact, I thought you’d be all for it, another gardener, especially since he told me you’d been very nice to him, and he felt like you were old friends already.’

  I bet he did—and if he’s going to make a habit of that kind of remark I’d much rather he lived somewhere else!

  ‘He seems genuine to me, Fran—but there, it’s up to him to persuade you differently if he really wants it.’

  ‘He did send me a lovely bouquet, with a kind message,’ I admitted reluctantly. ‘And so did Tom Collinge. I thought he must have found out from Rosie.’

  ‘Yes, Rosie told me she’s been emailing him,’ Ma said cautiously. ‘And he’s going to visit her, I think.’

  I sighed. ‘I can’t stop them even though I’m not happy about it, though with a bit of luck the whole thing will peter out of its own accord eventually when they see they’re not alike in the least. This isn’t a fairy tale where a fairy scientist waves a magic DNA result and declares them father and daughter, and they live happily ever after.’

  ‘If you say so,’ Ma said doubtfully. ‘What about Mal? All those heavy hints about poor Rhodri got terribly wearing, although I can see why he doesn’t quite believe in your Mysterious Stranger story, Frannie, when you didn’t tell anyone about it until this year!’

  ‘No one asked,’ I said shortly. ‘No, Mal still thinks I am holding something back—probably that it was Rhodri, but that it was just a brief, mistaken fling.’

  (Come to think about it, I am holding something back! But then, should I suddenly start claiming that Gabe is Rosie’s father, everyone would really think I had gone mad, wouldn’t they? It’s much more unbelievable than any of my other stories!)

  ‘He accepts now that what happened before I knew him isn’t really important, it’s what we have together that matters, and I would never be unfaithful to him. He was always a bit jealous, but he didn’t really suspect me of anything before the Wevills moved in and started putting ideas into his head.’

  ‘Those Weevils are slow poison,’ she agreed. ‘Where were they living before, did you say?’

  ‘Some small village in mid-Wales…’ I racked my brains and produced the name.

  ‘Never heard of it.’

  ‘Neither had I, but it does exist. I don’t know why they moved here after Owen retired early because of his Mystery Illness, and it doesn’t seem to stop him doing anything he wants to. Mona does nothing except insinuate herself into the WI, which according to Carrie has suddenly become a battlefield. I’d bet any money that when the dust clears she will be seen modestly accepting the chairwoman’s seat.’

  ‘You’re probably right,’ Ma agreed. ‘Still, at least if Gabriel buys the Glen you will have one nice neighbour.’

  ‘Neighbour as in several hundred yards away up the lane?’

  ‘Close enough—and he’s a cash buyer,’ she said pensively. ‘I could be booking that cruise in no time!’

  ‘I’ll see what he says,’ I conceded reluctantly, since it would be like having a gently ticking bomb permanently on the doorstep. As far as he is concerned I expect the novelty of constantly running into an ex-lover who most definitely doesn’t want to kiss and tell would add spice to his otherwise humdrum country existence, but if he had the least idea about Rosie he would probably be looking for a property on a remote Scottish island instead.

  After this I exp
ected every phone call to be Gabe Weston trying to persuade me that he was the right buyer for Fairy Glen, so it was sort of anti-climactic when there was a huge silence instead. I am in hope that he has thought better of the idea.

  Mal is a whirlwind of activity, organising things for his trip, and has already dispatched a couple of boxes of belongings freight, ready for when he gets an apartment: sheets and pots and pans, CDs and gadgets. I expect I will be constantly missing things in the kitchen after he’s gone, but at the moment I can’t raise much interest.

  He has locked his stamps away with instructions that in case of fire or hurricane I am to rescue them first, but I am much more likely to be sitting on the coop with the hens watching them go up in smoke while clapping my hands in girlish glee. I’m not risking my life for some scraps of printed paper.

  Because he said I wasn’t up to the drive yet, he booked a costly taxi all the way to Manchester airport to catch his very early connecting flight to Gatwick. (The Wevills couldn’t take him, since Mona was having one of her Strange Turns, though how she could be any stranger than she is is anyone’s guess.)

  I haven’t actually driven anywhere since I came out of hospital, so I was glad about the taxi but guilty that I was so selfishly lost in my own woes I hadn’t even thought about how poor Mal was going to get himself and all his bags to the airport.

  We said our goodbyes at home in the cold, dark early hours, and I still found it unbelievable that not only was he really going off and leaving me for six whole months but, however much he tried to conceal it, was happy and excited about it! It’s not that he didn’t do and say all the right things before he left—he did—but the fact that he could just walk away from me and jump into the taxi and go was deeply hurtful.

  I think maybe I was expecting a last-minute reprieve.

  His face and suit glimmered palely inside the darkness of the taxi (and my God, was I glad I wouldn’t be the one having to launder that linen suit at the other end), he waved his arm, and then he was gone.