Sowing Secrets

by Ashley, Trisha

  ‘Are you making it up?’ I asked suspiciously.

  ‘No, you look it up and see.’

  So I did, and the Spong does exist, though I think I would rather remind him of a rose by any other name, even if it does smell sweet, since Spong is hardly music to the ears.

  Tom dropped Rosie off in the middle of Sunday afternoon but didn’t hang about, thank goodness, since he had to get back to the surf school again. I simply don’t know how he does it, shuttling up and down the country teaching in two places (three, if you count his one-day-a-week stint teaching art in a sixth-form college).

  Rosie looked glowingly healthy but exhausted, which she said was mostly due to the partying till all hours that surfers appear to go in for.

  ‘Tom never seemed to stay still—he’s a real party animal,’ she said, but despairingly rather than admiringly, like the mother of an over-energetic toddler.

  ‘He always was a bit hyperactive and full of boyish high spirits,’ I agreed. ‘Also, although very good-natured, not terribly bright. I don’t ever recall him reading a book when we were going out together.’

  ‘His boredom threshold does seem to be set a bit low,’ she admitted. ‘But he’s a very good surf teacher!’ She got up. ‘I’m going to have a long soak in the bath and then pack up for Granny’s.’

  ‘You could go very early in the morning instead?’ I suggested.

  ‘No, I’ll be fine after a bath and some food,’ she said, surprised. ‘I’m not really tired. Oh, and Tom’s invited me and Colum to go down and surf in Cornwall next weekend—you don’t mind, do you?’

  ‘That’s an awfully long way to drive,’ I began anxiously.

  ‘It’s all right, Mum! Colum can do the driving. He’s got a bigger car than me too.’

  I looked at her sadly. I’d been so looking forward to seeing her, and she was hardly going to be home at all at this rate!

  ‘Mum,’ she wheedled, ‘you don’t think you could just stick my dirty clothes in the machine while I’m in the bath, do you? Only there are a couple of things I’ll need to take with me, and everything’s a bit sandy, or salty, or both.’

  Muttering darkly I loaded the washer, removed the clean clothes, put them in the dryer, and cooked a full chicken dinner—you know, all the stuff you should make them do themselves, only some strange compunction forces you to do instead.

  My reward was the big hug she gave me before setting off for Granny’s, and Ma made her phone as soon as she got there to say she’d arrived safely.

  OK, this is officially the start of the Atkins diet! Rosie won’t be back until Friday, so I’ve got no excuse to cook anything fattening—and at least on this one you can eat all you want (providing all you want is protein and a handful of leaves, of course).

  Out went the fruit: the cupboard now contains more tins of fish than a Norwegian canning factory.

  Work should distract me from eating too. The calendar firm who do my rose one are now extremely keen on the hen idea, and of course want it by yesterday, so I am going to visit a rare-hen breeding centre tomorrow to take photographs and do some sketches.

  Another email from Mal this morning. Since I found out about Alison, he’s been phoning and emailing me more often, but I still feel unsettled by the idea—and the deception. I am absolutely sure he didn’t mention it to me. And while he still seems keen for me to go out there I suspect his motivation has radically changed from when he first suggested it at the hospital, and now he wants me more to look after his mother and reassure her that we’re still an item.

  He’s going to have to reassure me of that too.

  And why does Gabe Weston’s face have a disconcerting tendency to slip into my mind whenever I think about Mal? Is it just because I’m worried about his move to Fairy Glen and the possibility of him finding out about Rosie, so he’s always at the back of my mind?

  Today I received a present from Mal! It was posted in England, and there was a note explaining that his friend Justin had popped in to see him in Grand Cayman and, since he was coming back to the UK for a few days on business, volunteered to send the parcel to me once he got here.

  Justin is an old school friend of Mal’s who has made pots of money and jets about the world doing deals and having a good time. There was a point when he seemed to think I might be a good time, but I swiftly disillusioned him.

  The present was a little hessian sack of coffee beans, which seemed rather disappointing until I tasted it: but my God, once you’ve had the Jamaican Blue Mountain coffee experience, anything else is just burned acorns!

  I’m telling you, this is the champagne of coffees, and I’m now redefining my concept of happiness as a new rose catalogue, the rich smell of Blue Mountain coffee and a plate of freshly baked (non-Atkins) macaroons.

  I suppose Mal’s idea of perfect happiness is neatness, order and good (i.e., expensive) living. Also sailing, fine wine and stamps. If he ever manages to find that elusive Cayman Blue, his cup of vintage vino will runneth over.

  He sounds pretty happy now, so he must have found most of those elements out there already. He does still say he misses me, but doesn’t specify in what way. Nor does he say it very often or with any great conviction.

  It’s odd how he keeps telling me how high the cost of living over there is, and that most foodstuffs are flown in from America, but in the next breath mentions some fancy French-sounding restaurant he’s been to the night before. It doesn’t sound like he is exactly stinting himself, does it?

  Today being Friday I phoned Ma up to tell her to behave herself in Amsterdam, but fat chance.

  Rosie had already left for the vet’s surgery, but Ma said she was setting off home at four, so would be back in the early evening.

  I expect it will be another fast turnaround of washing, ironing and repacking before she vanishes off with the unknown Colum to Cornwall. And of course I am happy that she is off enjoying herself and having all these lovely opportunities, but by the time she returns from Cornwall it will practically be the start of term again.

  I’ll just have to get used to this: after all, I want my daughter to have a life, don’t I? It would be much more worrying if she never did anything and was still living at home with her mum at thirty-six.

  Today’s the day they’re going to shoot the opening scenes of Restoration Gardener too, but I didn’t know Gabriel had arrived until the gate squeaked while I was mixing the first watering can of Up-She-Roses of the year, and there he was.

  Despite the name, there’s never anything particularly angelic about his appearance, and it’s going to be disconcerting if he keeps popping by like this all the time when he lives here. Do I want to be that matey? And what are the Wevills going to make of it?

  He said he’d just dropped in to thank me for the food parcels and the long-life milk I’d left at Fairy Glen, and I told him it was mostly overflow stuff that didn’t fit in with my diet.

  Then he insisted on carrying the heavy cans up to the rose garden for me, although I told him I could do it myself and pointed out that he would be late at Plas Gwyn.

  ‘It won’t take long—and then you could come up to the house with me and watch, though it won’t be terribly exciting.’

  ‘Oh, I’m not coming,’ I said quickly. ‘I’ve got loads of work to do…and, besides, I’m still in my old gardening clothes.’

  ‘You look fine to me, and since you’re not going to be in the film it doesn’t matter, does it? I expect it will all be over in a couple of hours. We don’t shoot it in sequence. The scene where I approach in a helicopter is going to be shot later in the morning, and we’re going to do the bit introducing the house and Rhodri first. I thought you might like to see that.’

  I’m not sure how I found myself driving up to Plas Gwyn with him, wearing my rather muddy jeans and a T-shirt printed with a picture of Angel in Fang Mode—except, perhaps, that he turned out to be a big Buffy fan too, and we had such an interesting conversation that when he pulled up I only vaguely remembered
how we’d got there.

  There were strange people, vehicles and equipment all over the place, as though a nest of mechanical ants had been stirred with a cattle prod. Most of the inhabitants of St Ceridwen’s had been drawn up by some kind of osmosis too, and were clustered on the other side of the ha-ha together with a herd of curious heifers.

  Nia was very pleased to see me since Rhodri had gone to pieces from nerves and she needed some support; and actually Gabe was right, it was quite interesting seeing them shoot the thing out of sequence and in little bites.

  After a couple of hours Gabe vanished to rendezvous with the helicopter and we went to brew tea and calm Rhodri down in Nia’s studio. I don’t know why he was in such a fuss, since they’d already shot the conversation between them, so all he had to do now was look up when he heard the helicopter and then walk forward and shake hands with Gabe after it had landed.

  A woman popped her head in and said, ‘Get into position please, Mr Gwyn-Whatmire!’ and we went out into the courtyard.

  ‘Here he comes,’ Rhodri said, as the faint beating of a helicopter became audible, and ran a distracted hand through his hair.

  ‘Don’t do that, it’s all sticking up now,’ Nia ordered, stretching up to smooth it down. ‘Right, don’t touch it again, just go straight to the spot and stand there looking vaguely intelligent!’

  I think she’s missed her vocation.

  ‘Good luck,’ I said, and we quickly ran back to the workshop, where we waited, brewing more tea on Nia’s little stove.

  Eventually the helicopter took off and vanished, and then Gabe and Rhodri came walking across the courtyard chatting, so we figured it was all over.

  ‘How did it go, Gabe?’ Nia asked as we emerged like troglodytes, blinking in the spring sunshine.

  ‘Oh—good, I think.’

  ‘We seemed to be doing it for hours,’ Rhodri said.

  ‘Yes, but it will all edit down to just an opening sequence. That’s it now until the team arrives for the project itself, and of course we will be coming back and filming the changes just like with the earlier projects. Gardens take years to evolve—this one won’t be any different.’

  ‘Look at the time!’ I suddenly exclaimed. ‘I haven’t done a bit of work yet, and Rosie’s coming back from Ma’s any minute. I’d better go.’

  Gabe insisted on running me home again, since he said he’d persuaded me to come in the first place, and we arrived to find Rosie already unloading her stuff from the car. I hoped Gabe would drive away again, but he got out, obviously assuming he would be introduced.

  ‘Rosie,’ I said reluctantly, ‘this is Gabe Weston.’

  Rosie eyed him suspiciously. ‘Hi,’ she said unenthusiastically, and his eyes crinkled up at the corners in the way he has when he’s amused.

  ‘Nice to meet you,’ he said gravely. ‘I’ve heard a lot about you.’

  Clearly considering the social niceties had been addressed, Rosie turned a severe gaze on me. ‘Where’ve you been, Mum?’

  ‘Just up watching the filming at Plas Gwyn. I wasn’t expecting you until later, darling.’

  ‘I left early. That Mona Wevill came out and tried to be friendly,’ she added, ‘but I told her I knew what she’d done to your Mermaid and I thought she was despicable, and she went bright red and went back in.’

  ‘Good for you,’ Gabe said. ‘But I think the rose will recover, with a bit of luck.’

  ‘And manure,’ I added gratefully.

  ‘I’d better leave you to it and get back up to Plas Gwyn. I take it you won’t be at the Druid’s Rest tonight, Fran?’

  ‘Mum and I are going to stay in,’ Rosie said, quickly and jealously. ‘We want to spend some time together.’

  ‘Right. And you’re off surfing tomorrow, I hear?’

  ‘Yes, in Cornwall with my dad,’ she said defiantly.

  ‘Oh?’ He looked from one of us to the other. ‘I thought your dad was in Grand Cayman?’

  ‘Oh, Mal isn’t my dad, only a step,’ she said airily. ‘Excuse me!’ And off she waltzed into the house with an armful of clothes.

  Gabe looked at me, one eyebrow raised. ‘You didn’t tell me she wasn’t your husband’s child!’

  ‘Well, why should I? And it’s not like it’s some huge secret, because everyone round here knows I had a previous relationship,’ I said defensively, though my voice sounded strange and my heart was hammering so loud I thought he might hear it.

  ‘Right,’ he said. ‘Well…I’d better get back.’ And with a slightly frowning glance at me he strode off to his car, then paused and tossed over his shoulder, rather tersely, ‘Maiden’s Blush.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘An Alba. Pre-fifteenth century, a hardy pink.’

  ‘Oh—Bullata!’ I snapped, and strode into the house, slamming the door behind me. ‘Rosie, where are you? I want to talk to you!’

  Only of course she was unrepentant. I can see that she will brook no supposed competitors, now she has convinced herself that Mal and I will break up, leaving me free to marry Tom and make us one big, happy family.

  Perhaps I told her too many fairy tales when she was growing up.

  Something in the Water

  Nia just called on her mobile, and apparently Rosie popped up to Plas Gwyn briefly yesterday to say hello—and I didn’t even know she’d gone out!

  Nia overheard her more or less tell Gabe that her father was an old flame and I’d taken up with him again now Mal had abandoned me! She said it was very artlessly done, but clearly Rosie does think that Gabe is some kind of threat to her dreams of a fairytale ending, which is not true, since there is no way I’m ever getting back with Tom!

  Besides, the fairy-tale bit was when I met Mal and he swept me off my feet. Of course, he’s spent the next ten years sweeping around my feet instead, but you can’t have everything, and compulsive cleanliness is not the worst fault a husband could have (though, come to think of it, he’s got one or two of those too).

  The Wevills have spent the morning painting exactly half of our shared stone gatepost a dismal lilac, which rather reflects my current mood. When I asked Mal last night if they were still sending him a résumé of my movements, he said they never had done that, only told him any interesting bits of village news, to which I replied, ‘Yes, and I really am Tilly the two-ton tooth fairy.’

  ‘Are you?’ he said vaguely, clearly not paying attention, but there were voices in the background so I expect he was at work.

  Whether the Wevills are still sending him bulletins or not, he seems to have stopped being quite so jealous of my friendships, which is possibly an ominous sign rather than one of maturity. And he barely even tries to seem interested in news of Rosie, the hens, my roses or the events up at Plas Gwyn. In fact, the only thing he shows any interest in is the thorny subject of my weight loss.

  Even when I told him Rosie was off to Cornwall with her boyfriend, to stay with Tom Collinge and surf, he just grunted, ‘That’s nice,’ before reminding me again to put my driving licence on the list of things to take out with me. Presumably this is so I can drive his mother about, although I reminded him that I’m not good with strange cars, especially on unfamiliar roads.

  The time we went to the south of France we nearly had a total marriage breakdown after he insisted I drove one leg of the journey and then criticised the way I did it. Then when we got there I spent two weeks looking like Elephant Woman due to an acute allergic reaction to the sun.

  Colum turned out to be a stocky, spiky-haired young man, not much taller than Rosie, who didn’t say very much but smiled a lot. He was clearly the strong silent type since he somehow managed to efficiently pack her into his car and depart ten minutes after he got here.

  Wish I knew how he did that.

  Rosie asked me rather suspiciously what I was going to do while she was away, and I said work, work and more work—except for Sunday, when I had promised to go up and hide Easter eggs with Rhodri and Nia. Otherwise, I’m going to keep a low p
rofile and hope Gabe has a trusting nature, so he believed what Rosie told him. A weak grasp of maths and a dodgy memory would also be desirable.

  On Easter Sunday I was up at first light and, after tossing a handful of Happyhen into the coop, dashed up to Plas Gwyn to help hide the Easter eggs.

  I was just grateful Nia hadn’t insisted I wear a bunny costume, since anything to do with rabbits makes me think of Con Air: he really should have put the bunny back in the box.

  There was no sign of Gabe even though his car was parked in the courtyard, but while I was doing one of my wider sweeps with my fast-emptying basket of eggs I came across him sitting in the middle of the maze like a minotaur after an earthquake, his chin resting on his knees.

  I walked up to the edge and called, curiously, ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘Thinking,’ he said shortly, his hazel eyes cold. ‘I thought this was one place I would be alone!’

  ‘Sorry,’ I said, backing off. ‘I was only going to put some eggs under the yew hedge, nowhere near the maze—Nia wouldn’t like that. Weren’t you supposed to be helping?’

  ‘I didn’t think you’d need me. I’ll come back in time for the grand opening bit.’

  ‘Right.’ I took a couple of uncertain steps away—for all I knew of him his temperament might be as mercurial as the April weather, and I hoped so because otherwise I was very afraid that he might have started to put two and two together…‘Sorry I disturbed you.’

  ‘Fran…’

  I turned and found him still regarding me sombrely; then that slightly crooked smile dawned and he said, ‘Celsiana!’

  ‘Quatre Saisons,’ I contributed uncertainly, thinking that Four Seasons pretty well summed up his moods. We seemed to be back in sunshine again, fighting a battle of flowers.

  At this rate, I would shortly run out of old roses—I must scour my book and catalogue collection again.

  True to his word Gabe did turn up in good time for the official opening, as did crews from both Restoration Gardener and BBC Wales, who filmed the proceedings and then rolled away again—but not before Dottie had stolen the show.