Coming Up Roses

by Rachael Lucas

  When everyone had finally left, Elaine looked at her watch. ‘Four-thirty. And that –’ she slid the garden gate bolt shut with a decisive click – ‘is that.’ Turning back, Elaine gave Daisy a slightly arch look. ‘Charlotte’s nephew seems very nice.’

  Remembering the sensation of his finger brushing against her skin, Daisy gave a shiver. ‘He is.’ She felt a smile curving at the corners of her lips.

  Somehow, though, she didn’t feel comfortable chatting about her plans, knowing what she and Jo had to do to Elaine the next day. As they prepared to leave, Daisy could see Leo outlined in the window of the orangery. He was sitting, completely unconcerned, feet up on the table, reading the weekend newspapers with a pot of coffee by his side. No doubt lovingly prepared by Elaine, she thought, glaring at him pointlessly. What an absolute shit.

  Chapter Ten

  Daisy woke up the next morning sick with anticipation at the thought of facing Elaine. She couldn’t leave it, could she? She had proof that her friend’s husband was up to something. She’d lain awake for hours in the middle of the night, remembering how it had felt to be confronted with Jamie’s infidelity.

  What was worse, though? Walking in and discovering him in the act? Or having a brand new friend point out that they’d pretty good evidence your husband was a total pig? It had been an unsettled night, and she’d woken at six as the first warm rays of sunlight hit her face, feeling the dull ache of dread in the pit of her stomach.

  Shuffling downstairs, pulling her dressing gown around her more tightly, she flipped the switch on the kettle and turned on the radio, humming along to the music in an attempt to fill the silence. Poor Elaine. She’d built her whole existence on having a perfect life, a perfect home. And meanwhile . . . Daisy shuddered.

  She couldn’t just blurt it out to Elaine over coffee. Maybe Jo would know the answer. She picked up her phone, sending a brief message.

  You got five minutes? I need to ask you something.

  She jumped as the mobile started ringing in her hand immediately.

  ‘Jo. Thanks for calling. I’m sorry, it’s really early.’

  ‘It’s fine.’ Jo sounded bright. ‘I’ve been up since six. I’ve got a client at eight.’

  Jo did a lot of her counselling work from the tiny converted garage which was tucked into the side of her little mews cottage. Clients, who often couldn’t take time out of their working days, would visit before they headed up the hill to the station and into the whirling rush of London trains and offices and traffic. Jo was such a calming presence that her little practice was thriving, a constant stream of clients keeping her busy all week long. Daisy, soothed by Jo’s calming voice, found herself pouring out her worries.

  ‘It’s about Elaine. Well, it’s not, it’s Leo. Oh God . . .’ and all the words tumbled out in a rush. ‘Do you think I’d be doing the right thing, telling her?’

  ‘I’ve been wondering the same thing.’ Jo’s tone was quiet, her words thoughtful. ‘I’m not doubting what you heard, but . . .’

  Elaine’s lifestyle was her life. Her entire existence was based on her beautiful house, her perfect husband, her lovely gardens. If I stamp in there and accuse Leo of being unfaithful, thought Daisy, it’s possible it might backfire. Not to mention the fact that – well, is that the sort of thing you can do with a new friend? She sighed.

  ‘I think maybe we should just . . . keep an eye on him?’ It sounded a bit pathetic, but stamping in and setting off World War Three didn’t seem like the best option, either. Not until they had some kind of concrete evidence that Leo really was a shit.

  ‘Mmm,’ agreed Jo. ‘I think our focus has to be on Elaine. We need to be there for her. There’s no harm in keeping an ear out for signs of Leo being up to something.’

  With that agreed, Daisy hung up, sagging down onto the sofa with a groan of relief. She’d never been a great fan of confrontation. She couldn’t help thinking back to the night she’d slunk away from Winchester, filling the car with bags and boxes, not staying around to face up to the aftermath of Jamie cheating on her with their supposed best friend. She shuddered at the thought. Thank God that was all in the past.

  She peered out at the early-morning sunshine, resolving to think about the good things the day held. She had been rather vigorously encouraged onto the allotment committee at the previous Parish Council meeting, with Flora clearly very keen to see her get to work straight away. She’d been instructed to meet Thomas, who’d been a bit vague about their mission, saying he’d explain more on the day. Whatever it was, a bit of gentle pottering around in the peace of the allotment plots had to be better than the alternative. Presenting Elaine with evidence that her husband appeared to be a total shit could – and would have to – wait.

  Swallowing the hint of a feeling that she was being a bit disloyal, she headed upstairs to get changed into her gardening clothes.

  ‘I’m terribly sorry, Daisy my dear, but I’m going to have to love you and leave you,’ explained Thomas as they met at the foot of the lane that led up to the Steeple St John allotments. ‘I’ve been having a bit of trouble with this leg.’

  He pointed downwards, indicating his left leg with a gnarled finger. He was leaning lightly on a walking stick, a black ring-binder under his free arm.

  ‘Oh, Thomas – have I been working you too hard in the gardens?’

  He straightened up, shaking his head vigorously. ‘Gosh, no. No, not at all. Just an old injury. It plays up from time to time. Don’t worry about me one bit.’

  He hitched his beige cardigan back up his shoulder and started walking, one leg dragging with a pronounced limp. Polly strolled alongside them, tongue lolling, enjoying the sunshine.

  They made their way up through the path towards the allotments, Daisy matching her stride to Thomas’s careful one. As instructed, she had brought along an A4 notepad and had a couple of pens tucked away in her bag, as well as a flask of coffee, a couple of sticky Bath buns from the bakery, and a couple of bars of chocolate – just in case. The allotments were reached via a muddy, rutted track, overhung with hawthorn trees, sunlight dappling through the branches. The early summer scent of elderflower and cow parsley blew on the breeze, birds singing overhead.

  ‘Monty, get back here!’

  Daisy watched as, with paws thudding and ears flying, Ned’s unruly spaniel galloped down the path towards them. Polly, still on her lead, perked up, pricking up her ears, wagging her tail in welcome. Monty overshot the mark, bouncing past them in a whirl of lolling tongue and excitement, then springing back to greet the more sedate retriever with enthusiasm.

  ‘Ned, there you are.’ Thomas, pausing for a second, leaned on his stick.

  ‘All right, Daise?’ Ned was strolling down the narrow path that led between the plots. He was shading his eyes against the sun, the sleeves of his pale blue shirt rolled up, the tails coming untucked from a pair of battered brown cords.

  There was a small wood beyond the allotments that had been planted in the year 2000, a regular haunt for village dog-walkers, who appreciated the chance to let their canine friends hurtle around freely without fear of crashing into children playing, which was a concern (mentioned with regularity, Daisy had noticed) in the village park. As a consequence, the path that led up to the woods, flanked on either side by manicured, beautifully maintained plots, was lined with hand-painted ‘Keep your Dog on a Lead’ signs. Monty couldn’t read, and Ned, in his perpetual state of post-on-call exhaustion, clearly wasn’t paying attention. Scenting something exciting on the far side of the allotments, Monty hurtled off across neatly raked earth, tiny cabbage seedlings flying in the air in his wake. Daisy, knowing how much effort went into maintaining a plot, winced. Polly stood by her side, obediently.

  ‘You’d better watch out. That dog’s going to get you in a lot of trouble,’ she pointed out, realizing as she did that she sounded just like Flora. Thomas chortled with amusement beneath his white moustache.

  ‘I told you, Ned, this one will have
you – and the dog – under control in no time.’

  Ned glanced at Thomas before the two men turned to her, laughing. Thomas had made a similar remark the other day, when she’d organized him into hoeing the long border whilst she repotted a batch of young plants.

  She wasn’t sure what was so funny. Mind you, maybe if she just nipped across and popped the young plants in when Ned had gone, the gardeners would be none the wiser.

  ‘Monty. HEEL.’ Ned whistled loudly. Monty’s head popped up from where he’d been nosing around. He was underneath some carefully placed netting, which had been draped across a section of plot to protect the vegetable crop from birds and butterflies.

  But not dogs, thought Daisy ruefully, as Monty, suddenly obedient, lolloped across towards his owner, the blue netting having caught in his collar. It sailed in the air behind him like a superhero cape.

  ‘Monty, you are a Very Bad Dog.’ Ned, crouching down to untangle him from his decoration, looked up at Daisy with a sheepish grin.

  ‘Do you have a lead for him?’ Daisy could hear the slight hint of asperity in her tone. She sounded like her mother. Honestly, though. Ned was a vet, for goodness’ sake. He should be an expert on animal behaviour. Instead he had a lunatic spaniel rampaging around destroying other people’s hard work. She could feel herself frowning in disapproval and worked hard to arrange her face into a polite, neutral expression. Ned and the dog were as bad as each other.

  Ned bent down, clipping a long rope lead onto Monty’s collar, ruffling his ears in sympathy as he did so. ‘Sorry, mate. We’ve got to be on our best behaviour here.’

  He was infuriating. Lips pursed with mild disapproval, Daisy turned, taking a moment to look around the wide sweep of the allotments. Luckily there was nobody else there, which was unusual. Whenever she’d taken Polly for a stroll up there (always on a lead, she thought, reprovingly) the place had always been a hive of activity, gardeners standing around leaning on forks, discussing their plans, comparing notes and swapping seeds. Today, though, the place was deserted.

  ‘Lucky this place is empty, you two, under the circumstances,’ said Thomas, jolting her from her thoughts. ‘Flora’d have your guts for garters. She doesn’t take any nonsense.’

  Thomas opened the folder and removed a crisp piece of paper from a plastic insert. Ned peered over his shoulder, interested.

  ‘Looks like a map of the allotments. We searching for gold?’ Ned looked up, smiling at Daisy. The disobedient Monty stood at his feet, eyes bright, panting happily. It struck Daisy that the two of them were surprisingly similar in looks as well as nature. Monty, his long pale hair ruffling in the light wind, gave a bark of surprise as Daisy laughed aloud at the thought.

  ‘What is it?’ Ned put a hand to his head. ‘Have I got straw stuck in my hair again? Tell me it’s nothing worse.’ He patted his shirt, checking his appearance. ‘D’you know, I walked into the surgery after being out at a difficult calving the other day. Can’t have fastened the overalls as well as I thought, because . . . well, I’ll spare you the details.’ He pulled a wry face.

  ‘Right, you two. You’re here on Parish Council business. If Flora thought you were standing around chatting, you’d be in trouble.’ Thomas’s voice was mock-stern, and his blue eyes were twinkling. He shook the piece of paper.

  ‘I’m not going to be able to help out, I’m afraid. This leg’s a bit of a nuisance.’ Thomas lifted his right leg in the air, waving it back and forth to demonstrate. ‘So I’m afraid you two are going to have to get on with it.’

  ‘You’re not just passing through?’ Daisy looked across at Ned, realization dawning.

  ‘No, no. I’m here on official Parish Council business. I thought it was just us two, though, Thomas.’

  ‘That makes two of us. I thought you and I were doing the allotment thing together.’ Ned and Daisy both looked at the old man, expectantly.

  ‘Sorry, folks.’ A smile appeared underneath his moustache. ‘You two must have had your wires crossed. Anyway, I need your young legs. The committee wants a report on these here allotments.’ He waggled the piece of paper at them. ‘Daisy, did you bring the notepad and pen?’

  She patted her bag, nodding.

  ‘Great stuff. Right, what I need from you two is a note of which allotments aren’t up to scratch. There’s a waiting list a mile long with everyone getting into this whole vintage lark.’

  Thomas handed the allotment plan to Ned. It was a beautifully drawn map.

  ‘Now, Flora’s wanting this back for the meeting later this week, so don’t go losing it or dropping it in the compost heap.’ Thomas looked at Ned with a mock-accusing expression before glancing down at his watch. ‘Is that the time already? I’ve got a game of dominoes with the chaps from the Legion at twelve.’

  And with that, he turned and started making his way briskly down the little path that led to Main Street, and therefore to the pint of bitter that had his name on it.

  ‘He’s made a bit of a fast recovery, hasn’t he?’ Ned nodded after Thomas as they watched him make surprising speed down the hill, his walking stick barely touching the ground.

  ‘Mmm.’ Daisy looked on, her forehead puckered in thought. Hadn’t Thomas said it was his left leg that was causing the problem? She shook her head in confusion.

  ‘Right, then. Shall we get to work?’

  ‘I feel like a poacher turned gamekeeper,’ grumbled Daisy as they headed up to the top of the allotment field, having agreed to work their way through methodically, marking off each plot on the Parish Council map, and noting down any comments as they did so. They’d looped the dogs’ leads around a handy gatepost, leaving them in the shade where they flopped together, comfortably.

  Daisy stepped over a low dividing fence and onto the first plot.

  ‘This one looks like it hasn’t been done in centuries.’ Ned poked at the desiccated remains of a sunflower. A handful of dried-out seeds fell to the ground, getting lost in a tangle of chickweed and couch grass.

  ‘Oh, but look, they’ve started digging over the potato bed there,’ said Daisy, her heart softening. There was a narrow strip of freshly turned earth, and a battered old spade was balanced alongside the rickety shed.

  Ned looked up at her through his untidy thatch of sandy hair, and raised an eyebrow. ‘So that’s a no, then?’

  He gave her a conspiratorial smile and ticked the corresponding part of the plot map.

  ‘Next.’

  Daisy shot him a look of gratitude and they stepped back across into what was clearly a no-brainer. This plot must have been measured out with a set square. Neat rows of broad beans stood to attention against evenly spaced bamboo supports, precisely tied together with green gardening twine. The edges of each bed were closely strimmed and the dark earth was hoed smoothly, with not a stone or a weed to be seen. Daisy bent down, seeing an intricately painted stone, decorated with flowers, nestling in the soil. Leaning in closer, she traced the words with a finger.

  In Loving Memory: William Douglas. Your beloved wife, Flora.

  Oh, poor Flora. Daisy felt a sudden pang of guilt, thinking of the times she’d silently sniggered at Flora’s obsessive control-freakery about everything to do with the Parish Council. She could imagine Flora up here, keeping up the allotment they’d lovingly tended together, filling her days with committee meetings and protests about the village redevelopment . . .

  ‘Ned, look at this.’ She beckoned him over.

  Dropping down to his knees, Ned read the inscription on the stone and recoiled backwards.

  ‘Jesus, Daise. I didn’t have Flora down as the DIY-funeral type.’

  Ned stood up, brushing pieces of grass from the knees of his trousers. His expression was a picture – eyes wide in shock, eyebrows shooting up into the tangle of sandy hair. He shook his head.

  ‘He’s not in the plot, you idiot,’ said Daisy, laughing.

  ‘I did wonder.’ He held out a hand, pulling her up from the ground. The muscles in his arms stood out
under the already dark farmer’s tan he’d gained from days spent working outside.

  Daisy took a step back, bemused by her reaction. That she was even noticing the muscles on Ned’s arms was a definite sign she needed to get out a bit more. It was just as well she had a date with George on Friday night.

  ‘Come on, you.’ Ned tapped at the allotment plan with a biro in mock-impatience. ‘This is my only half-day off this week, y’know.’

  Halfway through, they stopped for a drink from Daisy’s flask, sitting companionably with their backs to the wall of the disused shed where they’d tied up the dogs. The allotments were still empty, save for an elderly couple who’d made their way up the hill with a wheelbarrow, nodding and smiling hello as they passed.

  ‘God, I hope they weren’t on the condemned list,’ said Daisy, looking at the list in Ned’s hand. She leaned across him, trying to see.

  ‘Gerroff,’ he said, laughing. ‘I’m in charge of the paperwork. You’re just the hired help.’ He pulled it just out of her reach, waving it in the air.

  ‘Me?’ Daisy snorted. ‘Without me, you’d be clueless up here. You can’t tell a weed from a wheelbarrow.’

  ‘She’s got a point,’ said Ned to his dog, who wagged his tail approvingly.

  Daisy peered up the hill, trying to work out which of the plots belonged to the couple.

  ‘We didn’t say no to any of the ones up there, look.’ Ned spread the sheet over his knees, indicating a sea of ticks. ‘In fact,’ – he looked at her sideways, a slow smile spreading across his face – ‘we haven’t said no to very much, yet. We’re going to have to up our game for the last quarter.’

  They both turned, then, looking down at the neatly manicured vegetable plots which stretched down towards the low walls of the gardens beyond. There weren’t any which looked like they were ready for the chop. Daisy pulled at face at Ned.