‘Fourteen going on four, sometimes,’ explained Jo, smiling after her fondly. ‘She goes from ranting about feminism to snuggling up on the sofa with me watching old Disney movies.’
‘Back at nine – promise!’ The voice echoed through the hall, accompanied by the banging of the front door.
Jo sat down on the arm of the sofa, holding out the two glasses whilst Daisy tipped a generous slug of red into each one.
‘So what’s up?’
Jo closed her eyes, taking a mouthful of wine. She took a deep breath.
‘It’s Martha. She’s been lovely all week.’
Daisy frowned. In her limited experience of teenagers, parents were more often seen hitting the Merlot after a long week of fights over GCSE choices and unsuitable boyfriends. Jo was in a state of angst about her daughter being lovely?
‘Thing is, I’ve been thinking a lot about what I was telling you and Elaine the other night.’ Jo took another sip of her wine. ‘Martha’s my life. I adore her.’
‘And she loves you to bits, too – you could see that tonight.’ Daisy reached over, touching Jo’s arm gently.
‘But I’ve got no choice but to blow her life apart.’ Jo slid down from the arm of the sofa, curling up beside Daisy. ‘I can’t keep this from her any longer, but when I do – what if she hates me, Daisy?’
A tear slid down her cheek. She rubbed it away before continuing. ‘What if she wants to go and live with Tom in Amsterdam? What if she runs away? God, the stories I’ve heard of teenagers on the streets . . .’
‘This is on your terms, remember,’ said Daisy, hoping it sounded comforting. Jo was on a roll now, though. The scenarios she’d been imagining were tumbling out one by one.
‘What if he’s a complete shit to her? What if he tries to steal her?’
Daisy looked at Jo steadily. ‘I can’t see anyone doing anything to Martha that she doesn’t agree to, can you?’
Jo gave a slightly damp smile. ‘True. If she’s one thing, it’s bloody-minded.’
‘And that’s not a bad thing.’ Daisy tipped another measure of wine into Jo’s already empty glass. The reality was that it was a huge thing Jo was facing, but at least she wasn’t alone.
Jo sighed before knocking back the contents of her glass. ‘I have no idea what to do next,’ she said. ‘But the only thing certain is that I can’t ignore the situation any longer. It’s not good for Martha. Or me. Something has to change.’
Daisy had walked home late that evening under a bright moon, through the quiet streets of Steeple St John. Letting herself into Orchard Villa, she’d decided that if she had a choice, she’d choose Jo’s cluttered, untidy little cottage – complete with dusty windowsills and flowers drooping, long past their sell-by date, in a vase of murky-looking water – over the brittle perfection of the Old Rectory.
‘Afternoon tea for two?’
There was a tiered cake stand, the top layer piled with tiny, delicate cream-filled choux pastry buns, the next with still-warm scones, and the bottom with perfectly presented sandwich triangles, each with its crusts cut off. A huge pot of tea and two china cups filled the remaining space on the tiny round table. The Bluebell was famous for its afternoon teas, and Daisy could see why. A sign on the wall announced proudly that the ham in the sandwiches was from local pigs, and the jam home-made from raspberries from their own allotment.
‘Hang on a sec.’ Elaine reached into her bag again, pulling out her camera just as Daisy, her mouth watering, was reaching for a ham sandwich. ‘Would you mind? The light is perfect and this is gorgeous. It’ll make a great shot.’
‘I don’t know how you have the patience. D’you take photos of your dinner every night?’ Daisy snapped her hand back out of reach.
Frowning into the camera, Elaine took a moment to reply, her tone slightly arch. ‘Would you like the honest answer, or would you like me to pretend that I don’t?’
‘If it’s any consolation, it makes some sense to me,’ Daisy said, consolingly. ‘I’ve set my alarm for five in the morning to get the perfect set of photos of the garden. When I was writing up my dissertation, I spent a whole week getting up early to take a whole series of them with Jam—’ She stopped herself, mid-sentence.
‘The ex-boyfriend?’
Daisy poured in the milk slowly, stalling for time, gazing at the whirlpool that formed with intense interest. She really didn’t want to go into a whole conversation about Jamie, but she sensed Elaine was interested.
At least every time she said it out loud, it took a bit of the sting out. It was a moment before she spoke, twirling her spoon as she thought.
‘Jamie and I met in the first week of our horticulture degree. Like me, he’d come into gardening later. There was a gang of older students who’d all been working or off travelling and we got on really well, ended up sharing a house in the centre of Winchester.’ She picked at the fabric of the tablecloth, pulling at a loose thread until it snapped in her hand. ‘Anyway. We’d our future all mapped out until I walked in on him with my best friend – well, very much ex-best friend – in our kitchen.’ She took another sip of tea.
‘You poor thing. What an absolute shit.’ Elaine shook her head in disgust.
‘I know.’ Daisy agreed. And her so-called best friend hadn’t been any better.
Jamie had been so matter-of-fact about it. The image, vivid as a film reel in her mind, was running again. She could see her boyfriend, one hand in his back pocket, kissing her best friend. Sylvia sitting on the kitchen worktop, her long legs wrapped around his waist. Her hands snaking up his shirt, his free hand curled in her hair. The casual way he’d turned on hearing the door open as Daisy walked in to retrieve her forgotten phone.
‘Anyway.’ She shook herself, freeing herself of the memory. ‘I’m well shot of him.’
‘Yes, you are. I wish –’
For the briefest moment, Elaine looked as if she was about to unburden herself of something. She raised a manicured hand, covering her mouth. Daisy leaned forward, inviting her to go on, but she shook her head with a smile.
‘Oh, it’s nothing.’ And in an instant, Elaine’s poise returned. She straightened her back, selecting a scone and slicing it very precisely.
‘Anyone else on the horizon?’ She was buttering the scone now, with an intense focus. Daisy, who’d wolfed down the ham sandwich already, took a drink.
‘For me?’ The thought hadn’t really crossed Daisy’s mind. Remembering their night in the pub, she heard Miranda’s voice in her ears: ‘the chances of meeting anyone in a place this size . . .’
‘Not much chance of meeting anyone in a place like Steeple St John. Everyone’s married, as far as I can see. You’re lucky to be out of all that.’ Daisy cocked her head, looking at Elaine thoughtfully. ‘Leo seems lovely.’
In truth, he was a bit too charming for Daisy’s liking. He’d taken to appearing when she was in the garden, complimenting her on her outfit (which was almost always the same battered pair of jeans and a T-shirt), or her earrings, or the colour of her hair. Jo would probably say Daisy’s discomfort suggested something terrible about the state of her self-esteem – she’d never been much good at taking compliments.
‘Leo?’ Elaine brought her cup to her lips. ‘Oh yes, my husband is the epitome of charm and consideration.’
With a little laugh, Elaine placed her cup back onto the saucer, twisting it round until the patterns matched up perfectly.
There was a note there that jarred, just for a second. Daisy remembered that morning she’d arrived as Leo stormed out of the house, leaving Elaine red-eyed in the hall. Maybe living the perfect existence was more stressful than it looked.
They headed back into the market square. Daisy left Elaine with her starry-eyed stallholder, who somehow managed to juggle flirting with serving customers and starring in a set of photographs. She headed down the hill towards Orchard Villa. Steeple St John was looking particularly beautiful in the spring sunshine. She dodged a gathering of mothers, c
hatting as their toddlers clambered on the War Memorial, their pushchairs parked in a neat, expensive row. The owner of the little gift shop looked up as Daisy passed, smiling a greeting. The pale brick of the clock tower glowed softly in the sunshine, and beyond the houses the Chiltern Hills curved away into the distance. She nipped into the newspaper shop, humming to herself happily, to see if this month’s Gardening News was out.
Daisy had been working every hour she could on the garden of Orchard Villa, taking photographs of her progress as she went, and still fitting in as much work as she could in the beautiful surroundings of the Old Rectory. Not only was Elaine happy to pay a decent hourly rate, which was making a real impact on Daisy’s savings, she’d also handed Daisy a platinum credit card.
‘I want the gardens completely perfect on the day.’
Daisy, who’d been working with plants for long enough to know that the vagaries of weather combined with the unpredictability of gardening meant nothing was ever guaranteed, had wisely said nothing.
‘Ow.’ Daisy winced as a rose branch whipped back from its ties, hitting her in the face. She was tying down the long stems, laying them horizontally to encourage flower growth. She pushed her hair back from her face with her forearm, seeing a smear of blood on her shirt. The thorns must have caught her scalp.
‘Daisy, are you all right?’ Elaine appeared from the kitchen, hair tied back in a neat ponytail, a perfectly pressed floral apron around her waist.
‘Fine. It’s just a scratch. I’m just finishing up for today, anyway.’ She batted at the strand of hair, which was flapping in her eyes again.
‘You’re bleeding.’ Elaine’s brow puckered in concern. ‘Come in for a moment and I’ll make some tea. I’ve got some macarons I’ve just finished photographing for a how-to piece.’
Elaine’s baking was more than enough of a lure to tear Daisy away from the disobedient rose bush. Clipping back the recalcitrant stem, she climbed down from the stepladder and made her way down the flagstone path.
‘You’ve scratches all over your arms, too.’ Tutting, Elaine handed Daisy a medicated wipe from a newly opened pack. Looking up into the long mirror that stretched along the kitchen wall, Daisy caught a glimpse of Elaine’s anxious expression and her own mud-streaked, blood-spattered forehead. She rubbed at the scratches dutifully. ‘It’s fine. I’ll have a shower when I get back.’
Elaine placed a plate of beautiful, pastel-shaded macarons on the table and turned to fetch the teapot. Classical music was coming from the radio in the background, and the only sign of baking was an opened bag of flour, the collar folded down neatly, set against the marble worktop. Elaine’s camera sat to one side. She’d clearly just finished the last of her photographs for the website.
‘Mmm.’ Daisy popped one of the delicious morsels in her mouth, whole. It was nicer than anything she’d tasted from a bakery.
‘Oh, they’re quite simple. I’ll have the how-to up on my website later on; you can give it a try at home.’
‘Okay. I’ll do that if you pop out and tie back the rest of that Rambling Rector before he takes over the trelliswork.’
‘No thanks.’ Elaine laughed as she poured out the tea. Over the last few weeks, Daisy had watched how Elaine threw herself into the creation of her website. Photographing the food, writing instruction guides, and taking pictures of the garden took up huge amounts of her day. She was always happy to stop for a tea break when Daisy finished in the garden, bringing out her latest baking, always beautifully presented on a tray. Leo seemed to work remarkably long hours – he was very rarely around.
The delicate scent of Earl Grey filled the air. ‘You stick to the gardening and I’ll do the cakes. Deal?’
Daisy clinked her teacup gently against Elaine’s. ‘Deal.’
They shared a smile.
Daisy left an hour later, armed with some home-made essential-oil-scented bath salts which Elaine guaranteed would soak away any aches and pains from a day beating the roses into submission. Their fragrance filled the top floor of Orchard Villa as the big claw-footed bath filled with water. Daisy sank in gratefully. It had been a long week – she’d spent all day putting the final touches to Elaine’s garden, ready for the big event. It was amazing how quickly she’d been absorbed into the day-to-day of village life – the Parish Council meetings, the funny little signs on the village noticeboard . . . the other morning there had been a photograph of a runaway hen pinned up there with the words ‘Do You Know This Chicken?’ Underneath, someone had scrawled ‘Answers to the name of Korma’.
Smiling at the thought, she lay back in the deliciously scented water and closed her eyes. It was bliss.
Chapter Nine
Daisy took a last look around Elaine’s garden, picking up a couple of fallen petals from the late tulips. The garden was spotless, the grass trimmed and manicured. Not a blade of grass dared move out of place. Even the Rambling Rector rose was now tied down and stretched out across the trellis, its leaves vibrant green in the early-morning sunshine. Iridescent drops of dew nestled in the leaves of the rows of lettuce. The gravel paths were raked to perfection. She was scared to leave it in case anything fell off in her absence, but today was the big day. Time to hand the garden over to Elaine, and let her take the glory.
‘This is my only day off this week, y’know.’ Ned yawned hugely, stretching his arms above his head. His pale blue shirt came untucked, loosing itself from a pair of battered chinos.
‘As gatekeepers,’ said Flora, with a disapproving look at Ned’s attire, ‘you’re the first point of contact for visitors to the Steeple St John Open Gardens.’
Daisy hid a smile, pretending to scratch her nose, as Ned, pulling a face, tucked his shirt into his trousers and stood to attention. She’d left Elaine’s garden, ready as it would ever be, and headed up in her car to the white gates on the edge of the village, boot loaded with several boxes of colourful fabric bunting. In an operation reminiscent of a wartime mission, Daisy had received a text: The boxes have been delivered – please confirm receipt. Given that they’d been dropped off by the husband of one of the committee members, she’d thought it was a bit over the top – but the Open Gardens were serious business.
‘That’s better.’ Flora clicked her pen, scanning her ever-present clipboard. As president of the committee, she was dressed for the occasion in a navy skirt suit and pale pink flower-patterned blouse, her ash-blonde hair sitting obediently beneath a light blue sunhat despite the early hour.
It was only half past seven on the morning of the late May Bank Holiday Monday. The village of Steeple St John had come to a complete standstill. Only the occasional car pottered down the main street, the usual rat-run of commuters still in bed. Making the most of their day off, thought Daisy, who’d been up since five and was already in desperate need of an infusion of coffee. The sweet smell of freshly cut grass was everywhere, the sound of last-minute hedge trimming echoing through the winding streets. Walking up to Elaine’s house as the sun rose, wanting to be sure that none of the plants had fallen over or died in her absence, Daisy had seen someone from the committee actually sweeping the market square. Everything was expected to be perfect.
Thomas, who was on gatekeeper detail alongside Ned, gave Daisy an approving smile through his moustache. ‘You’ve done an excellent job, my dear. I’m looking forward to toasting you with a glass of Pimm’s later on.’ He adjusted his shirt collar, releasing it from beneath his beige cardigan. Even in the midst of the early summer heat he looked dapper, and today looked likely to be a dream day. Elaine, who’d been stressing out about the forecast, had panic-ordered several gazebos, planning to erect them across the terrace and most of the borders if needed. Daisy had realized it was probably wise just to let her get on with it, and had carried on putting the finishing touches to the garden.
‘No drinking until we check everything’s running smoothly, Thomas,’ said Flora, warningly. ‘Now we really must get on. Thanks for bringing me that bunting, Daisy. Now, Thomas,
we’ve really got to get this lot hung up before half past eight. Come along.’
Thomas pulled a mischievous how-I-suffer face at Daisy as he allowed himself to be shepherded out of Elaine’s garden to complete the final, final, ‘very-much-last-minute, my dear’ checks of the other gardens which would feature in the display.
‘You don’t fancy nipping up to the station cafe and picking up a couple of takeaway coffees, do you, Daise? I’d kill for some caffeine . . .’ muttered Ned, who had been left to set up the folding table where each visitor would receive their guidebook, a map, and the all-important pink sticker (‘You don’t let anyone in without one – not even friends or family,’ Flora had warned Daisy, darkly).
‘Go on then.’ Picking up her keys, Daisy slid into the car and headed up to the station. She was lucky that she’d managed to sidle out of an official role in today’s proceedings, explaining to Flora that she really wanted to be on hand (‘Just in an advisory capacity, you understand?’) in Elaine’s garden. Flora, who was increasingly aware that Elaine’s influence could be of huge benefit to the fundraising side of the Open Gardens, had backed down without comment. The church roof was in a state of some disrepair, and the Parish Council had already raised it as a topic for the next meeting.
‘Here you are.’ Daisy put down the paper cups she’d bought at the station cafe.
‘I’ve got you an espresso, to get you going, and a double-sized latte, extra hot. That’ll keep you topped up for the next hour or so.’
Ned, his arms overloaded with a pile of printed guidebooks, gave her a grateful smile.
‘You are a star, Daisy.’ He dumped the books on the table and fell on the coffee, mock-panting with relief. Downing the espresso like a shot of tequila, he opened his eyes wide. ‘That’s better. I’ve had a bugger of a week – ended up covering on call for one of the others, and last night when I finally could get some sleep, I lay awake half the bloody night.’
With a groan, he slumped down in the folding chair Flora had provided.
Coming Up Roses Page 9