Sowing Secrets

by Ashley, Trisha

  ‘It’s all worked out very well,’ Carrie said, ‘them getting on like that. You’ve not so much lost a cottage as gained a—’

  ‘Please don’t say brother,’ begged Nia. ‘Remember?’

  ‘Oh, yes—though, actually, I do find it hard to—and then there was that big handsome blond man…’ She stopped, looking embarrassed.

  ‘You saw Tom?’

  ‘Only briefly, getting out of his car,’ she said regretfully.

  The second cream horn was getting to me and I began to feel really sick.

  ‘Anyone want the detox diet book?’ I offered. ‘And what am I going to try next?’

  ‘I’ve got a copy of Atkins—even that can’t be as extreme as detox,’ suggested Carrie.

  ‘OK, I’ll give it a go,’ I agreed, and she went to fetch it. It was a very ancient-looking copy, the pages loosening with age. I think my pages are too, so it might be the ideal book.

  ‘Give it up,’ Nia urged me.

  ‘No way—it’s only a few weeks before I go out, and Mal’s expecting Svelte Me, not Thundering Great Carthorse Me. Not,’ I added bitterly, ‘that the holiday is going to turn out quite like I thought, because his mother’s invited herself on it. He thinks it will be good because I can drive her around and look after her while he’s at work!’

  ‘He can’t do that to your second honeymoon, the swine. It’s—it’s unfair! He owed you this holiday,’ Nia exclaimed indignantly.

  ‘And the wedding vow ceremony—so romantic,’ Carrie agreed.

  ‘Well, I presume that’s still on: we’ve got several days to ourselves after Mrs M. goes home.’ I brightened. ‘Perhaps he’ll take some time off work then.’

  ‘It’s probably a sign that Mrs M. accepts you’re married to her son at last, if she’s agreed to stay under the same roof with you,’ suggested Carrie. ‘I mean, if you’re driving her round and everything, she can’t ignore you, can she?’

  ‘I wouldn’t put it past her,’ I said gloomily. ‘And another thing: how can I wear a decent swimsuit when I’m practically deformed?’

  ‘You’re only a bit plump, for goodness’ sake!’

  ‘Nearly spherical, and with huge long arms like an orangutan!’

  Nia rolled her eyes and said, ‘Last time it was your tiny, pea-brained head! For God’s sake, stop getting fixations about the size of your body parts—there’s nothing wrong with you!’

  Only Carrie was sympathetic: she said it was strange the way if you looked at something long enough it started to seem odd and out of proportion, and sometimes when she was trying to spell a word the more she thought about it, the odder it looked.

  This could account for some of the weirder spellings on her menu blackboard: I’d already noticed that today’s specials included ‘Current Buns’, ‘Mades of Honour’ and ‘Ginger Parking’.

  I made the bed up in the turret room with Rosie’s old Flower Fairies bedding. Well, Gabe did say he wanted to get in touch with his feminine side.

  I’ve had a quick look at the Atkins diet and it looks easier to follow than the detox: I can basically eat anything I want, so long as it’s protein and the odd leaf. There has to be a catch somewhere.

  I will officially start it on Monday, but I have transferred anything non-Atkins from my fridge and freezer to Fairy Glen’s, ready, so perhaps the next TV series will be Fat Restoration Gardener? Can’t see it, somehow.

  Friday started fine, with the thought of Rosie coming home later to give me something to look forward to.

  I worked all morning in the studio, and had just got back in for lunch when the doorbell rang, and there, to my complete astonishment, stood Mrs Morgan!

  This was a first: she’s never visited me when Mal’s not here before. I probably goggled at her, for she said quite sharply, ‘Well, Frances, are you going to keep me standing here in this sharp wind, or invite me in?’

  There was an old Volvo saloon parked in the drive, and an elderly woman with a frizz of pepper-and-salt hair seemed to be having a picnic in the driver’s seat. She gave me a severe look as she unscrewed the lid of her Thermos.

  I dragged my attention back to my mother-in-law. ‘Of course, do come in. But isn’t that your friend outside in the car? Wouldn’t you like to bring her—’

  ‘She’s not coming in: this won’t take long,’ she stated, and, stepping past me, inspected a chair carefully for unspecified filth before sitting on it.

  ‘Tea?’ I offered, politely baffled.

  ‘No, thank you. I mustn’t keep my friend waiting too long.’ She paused, eyeing me doubtfully, but that may have been fear that I was about to explode out of my clothes like the Incredible Hulk. I knew I shouldn’t have had the second cream horn.

  ‘As you know, Frances, I consider your marriage bigamy in the eyes of the Lord. The bond of wedlock is for ever. However, Maldwyn has made a commitment to you, and therefore I cannot be happy about the ambiguity of the current situation.’

  ‘I’m not ecstatic about it myself,’ I agreed, though I wondered where the ambiguity came in. ‘But it is only six months. I’m so glad you’re coming out to Grand Cayman too,’ I added, lying heroically.

  ‘I felt it was my duty to try and instil some degree of propriety. I am deeply disappointed in Alison: when she helped Maldwyn to get this contract, she should have considered how it would look with them both living on the same island, especially when you remained at home.’

  ‘On the same island?’ I stared at her, what she’d just said sinking in. ‘You mean Alison is working on Grand Cayman too?’

  ‘Maldwyn assured me that you knew!’ she said, staring at me in some astonishment.

  ‘Knew?’ I sank down on the nearest chair, my knees weak. ‘Of course I didn’t know! And I’m certainly not happy about it, either!’

  ‘He definitely gave me to understand that you both knew about and condoned the situation,’ she said doubtfully. ‘But I told him that he should either have refused the contract or arranged to take you with him: when we arrive there will be three Mrs Marches on the island, which I consider open to misinterpretation and vulgar speculation.’

  That will make two Mrs Marches too many, by my reckoning, but in a strange sort of way Mrs M. seemed to be taking my side.

  She got up and hooked her small hard handbag over one arm. ‘That’s all, I think, Frances: just so long as you realise that I’m not approving your marriage to my son by my actions.’

  ‘I understand,’ I said, though quite honestly I’m not sure I’m entirely following her reasoning. ‘And…thank you.’

  ‘Give my love to Rosie,’ she added, as though the words had been extracted from her by extreme torture, though the slight softening of her adamantine façade gave her away. ‘Tell her to come and see me soon.’

  Outside, her friend seemed to be asleep at the wheel, covered in crumbs, but jerked upright when Mrs M. got in and slammed the door.

  I didn’t wait to see them off but went straight back in to call Mal…whatever time of the day or night it was over there.

  * * *

  ‘But you knew!’ he protested faintly when I finally got him on his mobile. ‘I told you when she landed her job here, and then when she told me about this contract.’

  ‘No, you didn’t! I’m certain you didn’t—and what’s more, you haven’t mentioned her once since you’ve been out there! What am I supposed to make of that?’ I demanded furiously.

  ‘Haven’t I?’ he said innocently. ‘I’m sure I must have, because it certainly wasn’t a secret I was keeping from you, Fran! And, actually, our paths have hardly crossed since I got out here—much less than they used to at home. It’s not like we’re working at the same place, or move in the same social circles, darling. I don’t know why Mother is in such a state about it, or why you’re so bothered about it, either: Alison and I are just friends now.’

  Words failed me—which is just as well, because he had to go at that point. I expect I will have more to say when I’ve had time to think it
over.

  I went up to Plas Gwyn for tea, and of course poured it all out to Nia and Rhodri, who were suitably indignant on my behalf. I am feeling more and more unsettled the more I think about the whole thing, and I’m very sure he did keep it a secret, whatever he says!

  But Mrs M. knew…maybe because she has always kept in touch with Alison. It sounds as though Alison has shot herself in the foot this time, though, and that despite my Scarlet Woman past I may yet rise in Mrs M.’s esteem.

  Then again, I might not.

  We all pigged out on buttered fruity bara brith, which Nia had bought from Teapots. These pleasures will be denied me from Monday: the butter might be OK with the Atkins diet, but not on bread.

  After tea we had a walk round to see how everything is coming along. I’d already noticed some changes, like the signs along the drive directing cars to the car park, and a couple of information boards.

  The planning permission is being looked on favourably, and hopefully is about to be passed, the electrics and plastering in the café and gift shops are finished, and two out of the three workshops have got tenants ready to move in—a woodworker and a weaver. Everything’s nearly ready in the garden, the sarcophagus and gryphon manhandled back to their original positions, and Aled has been persuaded to trim all the trees into less lewd shapes.

  Even a temporary Portaloo block has been put in the car park, screened by a hedge, until more permanent arrangements can be made.

  Rhodri and Nia were like a pair of excited schoolchildren, interrupting each other all the time. Clearly they are having fun, and I tried not to feel as if they were at the start of a new and wonderful relationship, while mine was thrashing about in its death throes.

  Got back to a long and placatory email from Mal. I have decided to pretend to Rosie that I knew all along about Alison being there and didn’t mind in the least, or she will worry and maybe tell Tom my marriage is on the rocks and I’m up for grabs.

  And on the subject of big blond surf dudes, there was another sketch in the post, a self-portrait. He was partly hidden by a large surfboard, but clearly in the rude nude. The caption was ‘For surfing, strip down to the bare essentials’.

  From what I remember, he was definitely boasting.

  Go, Lovely Rose

  Rosie arrived home, her car crammed to the roof with stuff, and although I was desperate to see her again—the first time since the miscarriage—we ended up crying all over each other the moment she stepped through the door.

  ‘You won’t try and get pregnant again, will you, Mum?’ she implored me tearfully. ‘Promise me you won’t!’

  ‘I didn’t actually try in the first place, darling, it just happened,’ I said evasively, because although mentally I’ve accepted that I’m not going to have another baby, part of me would like another little accident to happen…

  ‘You’re not promising,’ my first little accident said, looking at me accusingly with those changeling grey-green eyes. ‘Aren’t I enough?’

  ‘Yes, of course you are!’ I assured her, giving her a big hug. There didn’t seem to be any point in trying to explain that I would still love her just as much even if I did have another baby, since Mal has made his feelings plain.

  Fortunately she was distracted at this point. ‘Who is that man in the back garden?’

  ‘He’s delivering some well-rotted manure—didn’t you notice the Land Rover and trailer in the lane? Gabe Weston was having a load delivered to Plas Gwyn, ready for work to start on the rose garden up there, and he asked him to drop some off for me too. The roses down the trellis between us and the Wevills have taken a bit of a hammering lately—they hacked the tops off.’

  ‘But he seems to be doing the mulching too,’ she said, looking out of the back window.

  ‘Apparently Gabe asked him to, and he insisted.’

  ‘But why? You’re not an invalid, Mum—you said you were totally well again!’

  ‘I am, darling. It was just a kind thought.’

  ‘I don’t see why he’s sending you presents, either,’ she said suspiciously.

  ‘Rosie, it’s just a kind gesture from one gardener to another. We share an interest in roses, and when he came to see mine he stayed to help me prune the Mermaid—he thinks it will recover.’

  ‘Did you say the Wevills chopped it down? Gran’s right, they are mad!’

  She seemed satisfied, and went off to unload the car and re-sort her belongings ready for her trip with Bigblondsurfdude, while I took the Man with the Mulch a cup of tea.

  It really was kind of Gabe to think of me—or perhaps he was just concerned for my roses.

  I made a huge vat of spaghetti carbonara, one of Rosie’s favourites, and a big Pavlova for afterwards, though I had to use frozen raspberries.

  While we ate Rosie put me through one of her third-degree interrogations about Mal, asking awkward questions like how could he go off and leave me just after the miscarriage if he really loved me, and whether I still loved him, which I did my best to fend off.

  It wasn’t easy, since I’ve asked myself the same things over and over again, and finding out about Alison being over there hasn’t exactly helped, either.

  But of course I do still love him—when Dr Jekyll is in the ascendancy. Let’s hope Mr Hyde stays out there when he finally comes home, because I’m sure he and Alison would make a wonderful couple.

  My assurances can’t have rung very true for, seemingly satisfied that Mal had more or less abandoned me, she embarked on a sales pitch for Bigblondsurfdude. Apparently he talks about me all the time (must be boring for everyone), and was just the sort of father she wished she’d had.

  ‘Except he’s not,’ I pointed out firmly.

  ‘He might be,’ she argued, pouring out more elderberry wine. ‘In fact, he says he’s sure he must be.’

  ‘Darling, it’s very nice of him to wish you were his daughter, but I’ve told you that it’s extremely unlikely. But if you do want to prove it for certain I think I could afford one of these new paternity test things. Doesn’t it cost a couple of hundred pounds? Well, I’ve been selling loads of cartoons lately, so—’

  ‘Tom’s already suggested it,’ interrupted Rosie. ‘But it was me who didn’t want to in case…well, in case it wasn’t him. He’s such fun—not like Mal, who always treated me like something he had to put up with!’

  ‘Now, Rosie, Mal is very fond of you, he’s just not the fatherly sort and he doesn’t show his feelings easily. But if you do change your mind and want to do the test, just let me know,’ I offered, not entirely altruistically, because at this stage I really would like to be certain one way or another myself!

  ‘Why did I have to be born at all?’ Rosie said gloomily, and went upstairs to pack for her surfing weekend, while I cleared away and then brooded over another glass of wine.

  This mother business seems to get more difficult as they grow up, not less.

  When she came down again she seemed to have cheered up, and offered to make us cocktails using a bottle of absinthe she’d brought with her.

  She described it as a sort of Pernod, but it must have been rather stronger because events were a little hazy after the second one. I was definitely not at my best when Tom rang the doorbell at some unearthly hour of the morning, fresh as a daisy after an all-night drive up from Cornwall. I opened the door half dead and with my hair in my eyes.

  ‘Fran!’ he cried, embracing me with enthusiasm, and since I needed both hands to hold my dressing gown shut it wasn’t easy to fend him off.

  ‘For goodness’ sake, come in!’ I said, as a light snapped on at the Wevills’, sending a shaft of questing illumination into the night. They’d counted him in, and if I had anything to do with it they would count him out again almost immediately.

  I left him in the sitting room while I went to wake Rosie up. She looked positively angelic asleep. Did I really want my only child to go off surfing with Tom, who was always verging on hyperactive, slightly crazy and not terribly bright?


  ‘Why are you standing over me like Bride of Frankenstein, Mum?’ asked Rosie sleepily.

  ‘Tom’s here.’

  She woke up completely, looking as fresh as if she’d slept for hours. ‘It doesn’t seem to be five minutes since I went to sleep! Tell him I’ll be right down.’

  ‘Tell him yourself, darling—I’m going to put my warm dressing gown on. I’m freezing, and I seem to have lost the belt to this one.’

  And what’s more, I didn’t particularly want a tête-à-tête with Tom while half-clothed, though I didn’t mention that.

  When I’d watched the tail lights of Tom’s car disappear into the night I went back to bed, but I couldn’t sleep for thinking about great waves crashing on to Rosie—and sharks. I’m sure someone said they’d seen a Great White somewhere off our coast recently, and I sincerely hoped it wasn’t anywhere near Wales.

  I had to get Gabe’s number from Ma so I could thank him for his gift.

  ‘We’ve made beds for each other now, which seems fair, doesn’t it?’ he said, his deep, golden-toned voice sounding amused, and I immediately felt a bit guilty about the Flower Fairies. ‘I thought it might give the Mermaid a boost,’ he added.

  ‘If that doesn’t, nothing will.’ I paused, wondering what quality it was about his voice that sent shivers up and down my spine—and probably that of every other woman who heard him, too. ‘I’ve found a couple more Regency roses, though one is 1819, which is a bit late.’

  ‘Oh, I think we could go up to about 1820, at a push.’

  ‘It’s dark purple, which would contrast well against the lighter ones.’

  ‘Sounds good—what’s it called?’

  ‘Rose du Roi à Fleurs Pourpres,’ I said, carefully reading it out. ‘And I thought of the Burgundy rose—that’s a really old one, and very pretty.’

  ‘I know that one. And how about a Spong?’

  ‘A what?’

  ‘Spong—small, hardy, pink, reminds me of you. Now, don’t tell me you haven’t come across that one?’