Coming Up Roses

by Rachael Lucas

  There was a note of finality in her voice, which stopped Miranda from pushing any further. Daisy reached across, inspecting the little aluminium bucket that held her sister’s chips. She recognized it as the sort of detail Elaine would love. Everything was just so, perfectly quaint and designed for people with a hankering for vintage style. Not vintage prices, mind you, thought Daisy, looking at the menu again. It was a blessing, really, that she didn’t have much of a life here in the village, or her savings would have disappeared in no time. Thank God she was going to be getting a regular income from the work on Elaine’s garden.

  ‘Are you staying over? It’d be lovely to have some company – we can maybe watch a film and have hot chocolate by the fire?’ It sounded a bit desperate even to Daisy’s ears. Night after night alone in Orchard Villa was sending her a bit crazy, though. Independence and isolation weren’t all they were cracked up to be and a familiar, comfortable face made her long for a cosy night in, chatting and laughing.

  ‘I can’t, Daise. Got an eight-thirty appointment with the UK sales manager. I’ll get the last train tonight, though, if you’ll walk me up to the station?’

  ‘Deal.’ She swallowed the desire to beg her sister to stay over and get the early train. She didn’t have any overnight things with her, for one thing – and there was no way that there was anything in Daisy’s hotchpotch wardrobe of gardening clothes, floaty tops and jeans that would cut it in a high-powered sales meeting.

  ‘So tell me more about this night out you had with the village girls?’

  Daisy pulled her chair in closer. Miranda placed her chin on steepled fingers, ready for gossip. With her customary confidence, somehow Miranda managed to catch the eye of the young barman, motion with her two fingers, and have a further two drinks materialize at the table in seconds. Daisy thought of the times she’d spent standing at the crowded bar back in Winchester, money in hand, raising her hand and eyebrows hopefully for about ten minutes before anyone would serve her. Somehow her sister had been blessed with a double helping of entitlement when it was handed out.

  ‘Right. Well, there’s Elaine. She’s a lifestyle blogger – hang on,’ Daisy scrolled down on her phone, finding the site and handing it over.

  Miranda scanned a couple of pages of the website with a knowledgeable nod. ‘Very nice. She knows her stuff – 25,000 Facebook fans. Our digital marketing department would snap her up if she was looking for a job.’

  ‘I don’t think that’s on her radar. There’s obviously a lot of money in blogging if you know what you’re doing. She’s got this gorgeous Georgian house on Cavendish Lane, an immaculate garden, the interiors look like something from a Martha Stewart magazine, and she cooks like a dream. Oh, and a handsome Prince Harry lookalike husband who’s head of the local prep school. They moved here a couple of years ago.’

  Daisy took the phone back, slipping it back into her jeans pocket.

  ‘Mmm,’ said Miranda. ‘All sounds a bit too perfect, if you ask me. Martha Stewart ended up in prison, remember.’

  Daisy gave a snort of laughter. ‘I hardly think Elaine’s the prison type. She’s super-posh.’

  ‘It’s never the ones you’d think,’ said Miranda, with a knowing look. ‘There’s no way they could afford a place on Cavendish Lane on a head teacher’s salary.’ She popped a final chip into her mouth with a slightly smug expression, indicating she’d made her final point. Sisters, Daisy thought, could be seriously infuriating.

  ‘I honestly don’t think she’s got a secret career as an arms trader.’

  ‘Whatever,’ said Miranda.

  Daisy pursed her lips and kept quiet.

  ‘What about the others?’ Miranda pushed the wooden board which had held her food to one side and sat back, crossing her legs. She flicked a crumb off her lap.

  ‘Well, there was a group of four women – can’t remember all their names, but to be honest they were pretty unmemorable. As far as I could see they were only in it for the booze and Elaine’s amazing cooking. It was a bit embarrassing.’

  ‘Awkward.’ Miranda pulled a face.

  ‘She didn’t seem to notice,’ Daisy continued. ‘She’s nice, but a bit – unobservant?’

  ‘Just as well, by the sound of it.’

  Daisy thought for a moment. She’d been musing on it earlier whilst working in the garden, and actually there’d been a split second when she’d felt Elaine knew exactly what they were up to, but then the perfect hostess mask had slid back into place.

  ‘And the other one?’

  ‘Jo. She’s actually really nice.’

  ‘As opposed to Elaine, who isn’t?’

  Daisy gave a huff of mock-irritation.

  ‘No, I mean she’s a bit more – well, normal. D’you know what I mean? I can sort of see how she doesn’t know anyone here if they’re all like those skinny locust women. She’s got a teenager, works as a counsellor. She’s got that sort of air about her.’

  ‘What, you mean all Guardian-reader, knit your own yoghurt?’

  ‘No.’ Daisy rolled her eyes at Miranda, wondering if she was being deliberately obtuse. Jo was really lovely – the more Daisy thought about her, the more she felt she was someone she’d really like to get to know. She’d found herself looking forward to their planned drink. Elaine was lovely, but there was a carapace of perfection which was hard to get through. It meant conversations with her never seemed to get beyond a level of polite small talk. ‘She’s more that sort of person who you start talking to and realize half an hour later you’ve told them your life story?’

  ‘Oh, God.’ Miranda actually reared back at that. ‘I know the sort of person you mean. Very nice, but I don’t want someone winkling my secrets out of me by accident.’

  ‘You have secrets?’

  Miranda, who was an open book, laughed at the idea. They sat chatting for a while longer before deciding to get another drink.

  Daisy looked across at the bar. Maybe she could try Miranda’s method. She pointed at the two glasses, raising her eyebrows and smiling, just as a tall, dark-haired man in a suit looked across and caught her eye.

  Shit.

  He gave her a half-nod in greeting, leaning forward to speak with the barman. Daisy could feel herself going scarlet in the face, and there was nothing she could do.

  ‘Daise? You okay?’

  ‘Fine. Fine.’ She reached for her glass to take a nonchalant sip. It was almost empty, with only a sliver of ice melting in the bottom. Flustered, she missed her mouth and the liquid dribbled down her chin and onto her T-shirt.

  ‘You sure you need another?’

  Daisy looked up into a pair of piercing blue eyes. Oh, for God’s sake. It was George, the pasty-eating man from the bakery. His immaculate grey suit was a far cry from the workmanlike jeans and safety waistcoat he’d been wearing the last time she saw him.

  ‘I’m SO sorry. I was trying to order a drink and somehow—’

  ‘Well, you got one. Two gin and tonics, was I right?’ He put down two glasses on the table. Miranda had perked up considerably. Daisy could feel her sister’s Potentially Available Man radar sweeping across the table.

  ‘Daisy, you’re a dark horse.’ Miranda moved her chair sideways, making space. ‘Will you join us? It’s the least you can do as my sister has conned you into getting us a drink.’

  ‘Daisy.’ Ignoring Miranda, he looked straight into Daisy’s eyes, extending a hand in greeting. He didn’t sit down. ‘Very nice to meet you, Daisy.’ He repeated her name gently, holding her gaze. His eyes were pretty impossible to ignore.

  She gave herself a sort of inward shake, remembering the drink slopped down her top. She put a protective hand to her chest, straightening up.

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ she repeated, hearing herself becoming clipped and formal. ‘Let me give you the money for the drinks, at least.’ She reached down into her handbag.

  ‘Not at all.’ He shook his head, stepping back. ‘Consider it a welcome to Steeple St John drink. You can get m
e one back sometime.’

  He headed back towards the bar. Relieved, Daisy watched him walking away. She’d managed not to make a complete idiot of herself.

  ‘I’ll do that,’ she called, slightly too late.

  ‘I’m sure you will.’ The confident reply, with an expression which caused a sensation in her stomach she’d long forgotten, reached her loud and clear.

  Miranda leaned across the table, clapping her hands together in a teacher-like gesture.

  ‘So, Mrs No Men Ever Again, what happened to the vow of chastity? D’you want to explain yourself?’ She took a mouthful of gin and looked at Daisy.

  ‘I – well, I was trying to sort us out with a drink. You need to give me some tips.’

  ‘Tips? Downright gorgeous Irishmen are bringing you gin and tonics when you catch their eyes across a crowded bar, and you want me to give you tips?’

  Objectively speaking, he was quite handsome, thought Daisy, taking a surreptitious look across the bar towards him.

  ‘We haven’t met as such. It’s just this place – I keep bumping into people when I’m out and about.’

  Miranda looked out of the window at Main Street, where a stream of traffic was passing by. Daisy followed her gaze.

  ‘That’s not surprising in a place this size. The odds of finding a good-looking bloke out here in the sticks are pretty slim – everyone here’s either married or past it. I reckon you’re onto something there. Grab it.’

  ‘I’m not interested.’ Daisy stood up to go to the loo, banging her head on an artfully placed metal milk churn as she did so.

  Washing her hands with the expensive soap, then staring vaguely into the mirror as she applied the equally luxurious hand cream, she let herself think for a moment about the mysterious Irishman. He was definitely handsome. Miranda thought he was a catch – maybe she had a point.

  Chapter Six

  ‘Pass us those secateurs, Daisy.’

  Thomas was balancing slightly precariously on a stepladder, head and shoulders inside the skeletal framework of a clematis. Holding on with one hand, Daisy reached down into the long grass where the secateurs lay.

  Armed with the pages of his old planting notes, Thomas and Daisy had set about the garden together. She’d woken to a surprisingly cold April morning, the long grass around the trees of the orchard flopping over as if weighed down with the burden of dew. The sun was shining now, and the overgrown lawn was slippery. She put a foot on the bottom rung of the ladder, holding it steady as Thomas chopped away. He’d refused to have any part of Daisy climbing up and doing it herself.

  ‘Reckon once we clear off the worst of that dead sticky willow, you’ll find these borders aren’t as bad as you think.’ From his vantage point, Thomas was scanning the garden.

  ‘Hope so,’ said Daisy, anxiously. She was more concerned with getting her elderly friend down to ground level. The next stage of their plans could be organized much more comfortably whilst sitting on the old wooden bench on the little terrace. Even with her couple of days a week working on Elaine’s garden, and the writing she was doing by night, gathering together information for a series on her website, they were making good progress, but Thomas was surprisingly stubborn and prone to forgetting his age.

  ‘There we are.’ Thomas threw down a couple of dry, twiggy armfuls. ‘That’ll be much better come July when it flowers. Little and often, that’s what these gardens need.’

  He clambered down from the top of the ladder, pausing for a moment to look up at his handiwork. Daisy took tremendous pleasure in seeing the garden beginning to take shape. She could never be happy in an office, shoving pieces of paper around and never seeing an end result. The few years she’d spent pushing paper had been utterly depressing. Thank God she’d taken a risk and thrown herself into retraining. Even with everything that’d brought, she thought – realizing as she did that the memories were becoming less vivid and painful.

  The garden at Orchard Villa had been ignored by her parents, and by the previous owners. But having been carefully planted by Thomas all those years ago, a lot of the borders had taken care of themselves, and the job was proving less terrifying than Daisy had anticipated. She was cataloguing all the plants, taking photographs of their progress, and had managed to carefully scan Thomas’s beautiful notes and save the images on her laptop. It had the makings of an interesting article – maybe she ought to be keeping a record of it on a blog, like Elaine?

  ‘You pop the kettle on, dear, and I’ll have a go at clearing this long border here.’ Thomas handed back the mug he’d emptied earlier, easing out the stiffness in his back with an alarming crack. ‘Not much fun, this ageing lark, Daisy. I don’t recommend it.’

  Daisy watched Thomas out of the kitchen window as she waited for the kettle to boil. His long years of experience showed in the methodical way his hands wove through the winter-dried foliage, quickly gathering a wheelbarrow-load of leafy detritus for the compost bin. He’d known and loved that garden – and so many others in Steeple St John – all his adult life. He was part of the fabric of the village.

  ‘Tea break.’ She passed him a steaming mug. Thomas wrapped his hands around it gratefully.

  ‘I haven’t felt so useful in years, Daisy. We’re making a real difference today.’

  ‘I couldn’t have done this without you. I really appreciate it.’ She felt a wave of affection for her new friend. If someone had told her that the first new friendship she’d make in her new life would be with an OAP, she’d have laughed her head off.

  ‘So what’s your future plan, young lady? You can’t stay round these parts forever – you should be off adventuring with folks your own age.’

  Daisy gave a sigh.

  ‘I was supposed to be working alongside my boyfriend when I finished college. We had a place lined up in France, working on a historic garden renovation project in a little village in La Charente Maritime.’

  Thomas put his cup down. He looked at her steadily.

  ‘Supposed to be?’

  She took a deep breath. Since she’d arrived in the village she’d been closing it out, refusing to talk about what had happened in any detail, first with her parents, and then when Miranda tried gently to ask why she’d arrived, late at night, her little car stuffed full of boxes, clothes hanging out of hastily packed suitcases.

  She began carefully. ‘We had our bags all packed. Me, my best friend Sylvia, and Jamie. We were the only mature students on our college course and we got on straight away. We shared a house with a couple of other students. It was lovely.’

  She thought back, remembering the nights they’d sat up, filthy and exhausted after long days doing practical work, watching television, drinking wine, and chatting. ‘We were all set.’ She took a moment to sip her tea, shuddering as she continued. ‘And then I walked in on the two of them. They were –’

  ‘Say no more.’ Thomas put a hand on Daisy’s arm. ‘I’m sorry, my dear. You deserve better.’

  His hands were dusty, the knuckles ingrained with dirt from a morning in the garden. She felt another wave of affection for him.

  ‘I’m an idiot.’ She felt her voice waver for a second, and swallowed hard. ‘I trusted him, and Sylvia was my friend. Good old Daisy . . . too bloody thick to see what was going on right under my nose.’

  ‘You can’t blame yourself for the way they behaved, Daisy.’ Thomas shook his head.

  ‘Anyway.’ Her voice was a little bit too sharp, but it felt surprisingly good to have finally got it out in the open. Maybe this was the start of getting over it. She’d been so tired the last few nights, she’d been falling asleep without lying staring at the ceiling, the picture of those last moments running over and over like a film reel.

  ‘So that was that. As my stuff was packed, I just threw it all in the car and drove until I hit Steeple St John. Dad and Mum were going travelling, but they said I could stay in the house.’

  They’d been alarmed, of course.

  Daisy remembered her mum
’s surprised expression. This sort of drama was Miranda’s forte – she’d always been the one allowed free rein on her behaviour, and she’d had plenty of scrapes before she settled down to city life. Daisy had always been pigeonholed as the easy-going sister – she’d had to be. Left to her own devices in childhood whilst Miranda spent a couple of years in and out of hospital being treated for leukaemia, she’d found her solace in the garden. She was too young, really, to understand what was going on – all she picked up on was the atmosphere of anxiety, and hushed voices, though she’d try to eavesdrop in the upstairs hall, lying on her stomach with her ear to the floor, carpet dust in her nostrils. Growing up, Miranda had been fussed over – Daisy had understood why, and loved her sister so much that she didn’t resent it – but she’d always been the easy one, until now.

  But there she was, reliable old Daisy, tear-streaked and humiliated, everything she owned in the back of a beaten-up old Vauxhall, homeless, jobless, and utterly distraught.

  ‘I said to you I thought that Jamie was a bit cocky,’ she overheard her mother muttering as she poured a hefty measure of brandy into a glass.

  ‘She needs a bit of time to lick her wounds, that’s all,’ her dad’s voice rumbled through from the kitchen. ‘She can stay here while we’re in India. You know I think Polly’s too old to be staying with a strange sitter, in any case.’

  As if hearing her name, Polly looked up at Daisy, her eyebrows furrowed. Daisy reached down and stroked the soft fur of her ears. Enjoying the attention, the dog laid her head in Daisy’s lap.

  Her mother had never been much good at whispering quietly. Her voice carried from the hall. ‘I’m not sure about leaving Daisy here looking after the house and heading off on our trip.’

  ‘Maria, honestly. She’ll hear you.’

  ‘Oh David – I don’t mean to be unkind. I just want everything settled – and that includes Daisy.’

  Daisy hid her face in her hands, feeling a wave of nausea passing over her. The rejection, the humiliation – she felt like she was going to throw up.

  They sat down on either side of her, her mum passing over the glass.