Coming Up Roses

by Rachael Lucas

  *

  ‘This is so kind of you.’ Twisting her long hair up in a knot, Elaine turned, tipping the water into the pot. Loose leaves, of course, Daisy noticed. Elaine didn’t seem the type to shove a teabag in a mug under any circumstances.

  ‘No trouble,’ said Daisy, kindly. It was only a ten-minute walk up to Cavendish Lane, and having flopped down in the sitting room with a bacon roll and a coffee for half an hour, she felt rather less delicate.

  She’d strolled along the lane, peering into the gardens, sizing them up. There wasn’t one that wasn’t impeccably maintained. Not a leaf was out of place. Clearly either the street had some very dedicated weekend gardeners, or someone was making a fortune keeping them up for the well-off owners.

  ‘Milk? Sugar? I’ve made some shortbread, it’s just cooling over here, look.’

  Elaine pointed to the tiled windowsill. Laid out beautifully on an Emma Bridgewater platter were the most gorgeous hand-made petticoat tail biscuits that Daisy had ever seen.

  ‘Just milk, please. And I couldn’t say no to those, they look divine.’

  ‘Come and sit down, then,’ said Elaine, picking up the teapot and placing it on a floral tray, ‘and I’ll explain.’

  Daisy followed her through to the orangery where a fat ginger cat lay basking in the sunlight. He looked up sleepily, chirruping acknowledgement.

  ‘That’s Hector. Beautiful, isn’t he?’ Elaine patted the sofa, and Daisy sat down beside her, pulling down her shirt to cover a hole where a rose bush had snagged at her leggings. Elaine, as usual, was perfectly turned out in a navy and white polka-dot shirt, red scarf and slim-fitting navy trousers. Daisy ran a hand through her red curls. She couldn’t actually remember brushing her hair that morning after she’d climbed out of the shower.

  ‘I’ve got a proposition for you.’ Elaine waved a hand in the direction of the window, indicating the gardens outside. ‘I’ve had a call from the Parish Council. Someone’s pulled out of the village Open Gardens in six weeks’ time, and the committee have offered me the slot.’

  ‘Wow, congratulations!’ Daisy, who’d been visiting her parents the year before last on the weekend of the Steeple St John Open Gardens, knew what a huge deal this was. The annual one-day event raised huge amounts for charity, but only a limited number of village gardens were featured and spaces were very highly sought after.

  ‘I need this place to look perfect,’ Elaine continued. ‘Obviously, I’ll be doing several features on my website, and with most of the village passing through the garden, I want it to be at its very best.’

  Daisy stood up, holding her cup of tea, and looked out onto the garden. The flagstone patio, flanked with mossy pots full of ferns, and the vibrant green of hostas in shoot, was picture-perfect. Leading on to the grass was the most beautiful curved stone staircase set into an immaculate lawn, edged with weed-free borders which were just bursting with old English cottage garden perennials – foxgloves, frothing yellow achillea just coming into bloom, delicate Alchemilla mollis, each leaf filled with a sparkling circle of dew, bright-leaved early geraniums – all at a stage of growth which Daisy’s expert eye could tell would mean the most breathtaking display in a month or so’s time.

  ‘It’s perfect.’ Daisy turned back, reluctantly. ‘You’ve done an amazing job. I can’t see what you need me to do.’

  ‘Me?’ Elaine laughed, drily. ‘I haven’t a clue about gardening.’

  ‘But – I’ve seen your website. All those gorgeous photos of the plants and the greenhouse and you working in the garden?’

  ‘Oh, they’re my photos, yes. But I don’t do the work – I wouldn’t have a blooming clue.’ Elaine arched an eyebrow in amusement, clearly surprised at Daisy’s naivety.

  ‘I’ve had a chap from Beaconsborough come in twice a week, but he has just broken his leg in a motorbike accident.’

  Daisy, trying to repress her glee at getting her hands on such a beautifully kept garden, turned back to the huge window of the orangery, looking out at the wide sweep of lawn.

  Elaine gave her a dazzling smile. It was, Daisy couldn’t help noticing, the kind that suggested she was used to people saying yes.

  ‘Can we take a look outside?’

  ‘Of course.’ Gathering the tea things and placing them on the tray, Elaine stood up. ‘We can take the drinks outside. I’ll show you around.’

  The garden was beautiful. Its manicured splendour was such a contrast to the chaotic, overgrown wilderness of Orchard Villa’s garden. Daisy felt herself relaxing as she strolled around, taking in the carefully planned border plantings, where she could see thought had been put into making sure that there was colour and interest throughout the seasons. The vegetable garden was a work of art, a perfect potager with raised beds edged with woven wicker and rows of vegetable seedlings standing to attention. But she’d committed to getting the garden sorted out for her parents.

  ‘It’s amazing, Elaine, but I—’

  ‘Oh, please say you’ll help. It would be such fun to have you popping round.’

  Daisy knelt, pulling out a stray weed seedling which had sneakily taken root in the fine gravel of the path. She imagined pottering around, listening to the radio in the huge, wooden-framed greenhouse as she planted up hanging baskets and took cuttings. Everything here was in perfect condition, with no expense spared. And living rent free at her parents’ place was still making a dent in her savings, no matter how frugally she lived. And most importantly, she’d graduated from her course, and needed something on her gardening CV to prove she knew her stuff . . .

  ‘Well, I could maybe manage a couple of mornings a week . . .’

  ‘I’d pay you, of course,’ said Elaine, with the casual air of one who doesn’t have to think about money. She named a sum which would more than cover Daisy’s weekly expenses. That was the clincher – she’d need every penny of those savings when her parents got back, to pay a deposit on somewhere to live.

  ‘Sounds perfect.’ Daisy cast another glance around the garden, this time with a proprietorial air. It was breathtakingly gorgeous, like something you’d see on a Gardeners’ World feature. The house was huge, too. Running a website or being a head teacher must pay an awful lot more than she’d realized. This place must be worth a small fortune.

  Chapter Five

  Daisy spent the morning getting to know the Old Rectory garden. She arrived at eight-thirty, just as Leo, Elaine’s husband, was heading out the door. He slammed it hard behind him, his mouth a tight-set line. Looking up, his expression changed instantly on seeing her.

  ‘Oh hello, Daisy.’ His voice was slightly too bright. ‘You’re visiting early.’

  ‘I’m here for the garden?’ She looked at him with a questioning frown, indicating her fleece sweater, sturdy work boots, and grass-stained jeans.

  ‘Right. Of course.’ He looked at her as if he had no idea what she was talking about. ‘Must get on, I’ve got a meeting before assembly.’

  He strode past, leaving a trail of surprisingly strong aftershave behind him. It caught the back of Daisy’s throat, making her pull a face as she rang the doorbell.

  ‘Daisy! I wasn’t expecting you quite yet.’ Elaine pulled the door open. She looked a little pale, her eyes red-rimmed with tiredness. It was the first time Daisy had seen her looking anything other than perfect: her hair was twisted up in a loose bun, feet bare.

  ‘I’m really sorry – I thought we said half-eight.’ Daisy peered over Elaine’s shoulder at the clock in the hall, checking the time.

  ‘No, you’re right.’ Elaine reached up, patting her hair in an unconscious gesture. ‘It’s just been a bit of a morning, that’s all. Come through.’

  ‘I’m in muddy boots.’ Daisy made to bend down and untie the laces.

  ‘It’s fine.’ Pulling the door closed behind her, Elaine appeared to take a deep breath to steady herself.

  ‘Is everything okay?’ There was definitely something up. Leo had looked distinctly unhappy as he’d headed
out.

  ‘No, no. No, everything’s fine. Fine.’ The tone was clipped, the words final.

  ‘Shall I just let you get on? I don’t want to hold you up this morning.’ And, thought Daisy, she’d be far happier out there with the plants than in here with the weird, frosty, stilted atmosphere. You knew where you were with plants. She’d realized, pottering around the gardens during her time at college, that the comfortable certainty was what she loved about gardening. It had started when she was a child, finding solace in getting her hands dirty first of all, then watching the magic as the seeds she planted grew up – up – up into sunflowers, and huge runner bean plants, before drying out, dying off, and producing more seeds so the cycle could begin again the next spring. Her dad, recognizing his daughter’s need for time alone to process her thoughts, had been happy to foster her love of gardening, despite having no interest in it himself.

  Daisy made her way up to the garden shed, where she dumped her bag and phone, and lost herself for a few hours amongst the plants.

  Pausing in the sunshine for a moment, she trailed her fingers through the low hedge, filling the air with the familiar, soporific scent of lavender. In an unguarded moment, she closed her eyes, an unwanted memory stirring.

  Sun was pouring in through the big Georgian windows, music on low coming from the radio. Flour-covered worktops, lavender-scented shortbread, Jamie’s hands around her waist, grabbing still-cooling biscuits from the rack. Daisy slapping him away, laughingly. Their best friend and flatmate, Sylvia, blonde ponytail curling over her shoulder, looking up from her end-of-term study notes, a frown on her face . . .

  Daisy shuddered, blanking out the picture.

  ‘Daisy?’ Elaine’s voice brought her back to the present.

  ‘It’s nothing.’ Daisy grimaced, giving her head a shake. Elaine was looking around the vegetable garden with a pleased expression.

  She patted the flowers. ‘Smells are so important in a garden, aren’t they?’ Daisy spoke brightly, changing the subject. She didn’t want to think about it. Brush it under the carpet. Put it to one side. ‘I wrote a lot about that in my final-year project during my course. So we want to make sure we involve all the senses here.’

  Safer ground, literally. Daisy felt herself relaxing as with a practised eye she scanned the garden, assessing the levels of foliage growth, checking the structure of the planting.

  ‘I don’t mind what it costs. I just need you to make this place look perfect. I’ve planned a week-long series of articles on gardening for the website to coincide with the Open Gardens. A sort of record of the preparations.’

  Elaine’s eyes lit up with an idea.

  ‘D’you know what? It takes me an age to get all the plant names right. You know this –’ she motioned to the plants, vaguely – ‘stuff by heart, don’t you?’

  ‘It sticks in my head, yes.’ Daisy had been teased all the way through college by the younger students for her encyclopaedic knowledge of Latin plant names. She’d no idea how, but for some reason while her course-mates would be struggling to memorize the complicated patterns of archaic language, she found it simple. Having spent a few years drudging away in an office job, Daisy had eventually decided to follow her heart and retrain as a gardener. It had given her a passion and commitment for the course, which a lot of the younger students hadn’t seemed to feel. That was something she, Sylvia and Jamie had all had in common, as mature students. She shook her head a second time, irritated that she’d let her mind wander back there again.

  ‘Sorry. What were you saying?’

  ‘How would you fancy writing a series on my website? I bet you’d be fantastic.’

  ‘Seriously?’ She’d written a bit for the university magazine, and writing about gardening was pure pleasure for her. The chance to share her thoughts with Elaine’s thousands of readers would be amazing. ‘I’d love to!’

  ‘Shall we start with a trip up to the garden centre next week then? Monday or Tuesday? You choose what we need, and I’ll buy you lunch.’

  Shopping for plants with someone else buying? It sounded like heaven. Much as she loved the back-to-basics of clearing through the wilderness at Orchard Villa, the idea of popping out and buying whatever she needed would be bliss. And lunch into the bargain.

  Right on cue, Daisy’s stomach growled. She’d had nothing but a couple of slices of toast at breakfast, and she was ravenous. If she left now, she’d have time to grab something from the bakery on the way back – and Polly had been home alone for long enough. She was getting a bit leaky in her old age, if she was left in the house too long.

  ‘Tuesday works for me. That sounds perfect.’

  *

  ‘Two beef and blue cheese pasties and a jam doughnut, thanks.’

  Daisy ducked into the baker’s shop just as the sign on the door was being flipped over to ‘Closed’. The other customer, a tall, dark-haired man, was wearing a reflective vest and muddy, dark tan work boots.

  ‘Oh – and a bottle of Evian.’ The accent was Irish – soft and lilting.

  ‘You on a health kick, George?’ The woman behind the counter gave a laugh, handing over his food.

  ‘Something like that. Cutting out the Coke – that’s a start, right?’ Dark eyebrows raised in collusion, he turned to Daisy.

  She gave a vague smile in response. She looked sideways at his reflection in the window as he passed over a jingling handful of loose change. She was trying not to stare, but she’d definitely seen him somewhere.

  ‘I’ll have that last pasty, please.’ She looked up from her bag, pulling out her purse.

  ‘Girl after my own heart.’ He gave her a wink, blue eyes sparkling, and strode out of the shop. Daisy watched as he made his way across the market square, unwrapping his lunch from the paper bag, not waiting to sit down. She paid for her food and wandered down the road, happily tired after a good morning’s work.

  The local paper, the Argus, was waiting for her on the doormat, along with a disapproving Polly. Too old to bounce with excitement at the prospect of a walk, she instead made her intentions quite clear by sloping off towards the back door, glowering. ‘Go on then, off you pop,’ Daisy said as she let her out, one hand rifling in the paper bag for the still-warm pasty. Perching on the kitchen counter, she balanced the paper on the worktop, crumbs spilling down her shirt.

  GARDEN-GRABBING PROTEST

  The front cover of the paper showed a huge group of people, waving beautifully designed and – Daisy noticed – very well-punctuated placards. It was a very Middle England, ‘Up With This We Will Not Put’ sort of protest. The kind, she suspected, that probably came with folding chairs, wicker picnic baskets and a selection of nibbles from the little Waitrose in town.

  ‘“If this village is taken over with horrible red brick modern monstrosities, it will lose all the character that’s been preserved here for 500 years,” a spokeswoman for the Village Preservation Society informed our reporter,’ Daisy read on.

  ‘“I’ve lived in this village all my life and I’m 84 now.”’ She looked more closely at the photograph that accompanied the article, realizing as she did that Thomas was quoted as a village stalwart. She smiled, thinking he’d probably be amused by that title. ‘“Young folk have to have somewhere to settle, and God knows, this place is out of their financial reach. We need a solution to that, but it shouldn’t necessarily lie in ripping up the fabric of the village. Some of these gardens are part of history.”’

  ‘Too right!’ agreed Daisy through a mouthful of food, turning the page to read the final paragraphs.

  ‘Property developer Stephen O’Hara, joint owner of OHB Developments, spoke exclusively to us this week: “Unfortunately whilst many residents of the village have the foresight to see that, with a national housing shortage, we are actually providing a much-needed service in the community, there is a minority who would rather preserve the village, and their memories of life here, in aspic.’”

  Logic told Daisy he had a point, but thinking
of the beautiful garden along the lane which was destined to be torn up, she felt a bit sick. She turned the page, deciding to put it out of her head.

  ‘These are gorgeous,’ Miranda said thickly, through a mouthful of chips. ‘You sure you don’t want anything to eat?’

  Daisy pinched a chip, blowing on it before biting it in half. They weren’t just any old chips, her sister was right. Still not worth almost a fiver, mind you.

  ‘I’d just eaten when you rang to say you were on the train.’

  Miranda pulled a mock-guilty face. ‘Sorry for springing on you with no notice.’

  ‘God, no.’ It had been such a relief when her sister had called, saying she was on the way through for a surprise visit.

  Walking down from the station together, arm in arm, they’d grabbed the last window seat in the Grey Mare pub, just getting there before the swarm of London commuters made their way down Main Street, loosening their ties, nipping in for a quick one on the way home from the office.

  ‘It was funny. I was on Marylebone High Street seeing a client and I just suddenly got the urge to get on a train. I realized as soon as I did that you might have been out, or something.’

  Daisy took a last mouthful of her drink, and looked across at her sister, raising her eyebrows self-mockingly.

  ‘Hardly. My social life in the last month has consisted of one night out and a Parish Council meeting.’

  Miranda gave a snort of laughter. ‘Well, you did say you were planning to hole up here for the summer and lick your wounds.’

  ‘That’s not exactly what I said.’

  ‘Yeah, well, under the circumstances it’s not surprising. You heard anything from him since you’ve been here?’

  Daisy shut her eyes.

  ‘I’ve blocked his number.’