Coming Up Roses

by Rachael Lucas

  ‘We’ll need to go back up and have another look.’

  He groaned, sensing the lunchtime beer he’d mentioned was slipping ever further away. ‘Come on, then, let’s give it a go. And no making up sob stories about people breaking their arms and having no way of feeding their families if they lose their plot this time . . .’

  ‘But what if it’s true?’ Daisy laughed, brushing damp grass from the bottom of her jeans as she stood up. Looking across, she could see the old stone wall that edged Elaine’s house and beyond that, the curve of the apple trees that marked the beginning of the perfectly maintained potager. Imagining her friend inside, oblivious, Daisy turned away, shutting down the feelings of guilt she could feel rising inside her. Until she had concrete evidence, she couldn’t go marching round there demanding that Elaine confront her husband with the truth. She hid a sigh.

  ‘Let’s get these ones ticked off, then we can head up top and work out which ones are for the chop.’ Ned, striding across the grass paths which divided the allotment, was moving at speed now and she found herself scuttling to catch up.

  ‘Right. All these are perfect. Agreed?’ Pen poised, Ned looked at Daisy for confirmation.

  ‘Yep. Okay, so let’s go back up and see if we can suggest a couple that might need a bit of a reminder to tidy their plots up a bit . . .’ Daisy looked dubious.

  ‘Lovely day, isn’t it?’

  The old man who’d passed them earlier was sitting on a folding deckchair with a flask by his side. His wife was kneeling close by, pulling out weeds from between young broccoli plants. Daisy and Ned exchanged a look of relief. They weren’t for the condemned list, luckily.

  ‘I feel even worse now,’ whispered Daisy as they stood at the far side of a lumpen, half-dug plot which seemed to be a haven for weeds. ‘What if these people are their friends?’

  ‘You’re worse than me, honestly.’ Ned shook his head, laughing. ‘We get all sorts in the surgery, claiming they can’t afford the treatment their pets need.’

  ‘But how on earth d’you turn them away? That’s so hard.’ Daisy thought of Polly’s recent vet’s bill – she’d developed some kind of doggy eczema and it had cost a fortune, but fortunately her parents had paid online. She couldn’t imagine kind-hearted Ned refusing to treat an animal.

  ‘It’s not easy. We’ve got an emergency fund at the surgery, but making the call’s not an easy one.’ He looked across the field, rubbing a stubbled cheek, thoughtfully.

  Being a vet was definitely a vocation. Every time she’d seen Ned, his eyes were dark with shadows, hair standing up on end, exhausted from a night of working. ‘You don’t mind all the stress?’

  ‘Goes with the territory. I knew all this when I took on the job.’ He folded up the piece of paper, absently, until it was a tiny square. ‘My parents were vets, y’see, so I grew up with all this.’

  ‘But you didn’t want to join the family practice?’ Daisy reached across, taking the minuscule folded scrap from his hands, gently unfolding it and smoothing it out. Flora was going to go mad. Perhaps she could photocopy it later on, or get a new copy from the library, and redo all the necessary ticks and things.

  ‘God, no.’ Ned shook his head vehemently. ‘I’d never have been taken seriously. So when I graduated, I applied for a handful of large animal posts across the South East – far enough from my family back in Cornwall that nobody could accuse me of using family ties, close enough to visit.’

  ‘And do you?’ It was interesting to hear more about Ned’s life.

  He laughed, raising his eyes skywards. ‘Every time I get a bloody day off, I seem to end up stuck in a field with you. If it’s not the allotments, it’s the Open Gardens.’

  ‘Not my fault,’ protested Daisy, amused. ‘I’m supposed to be here for a quiet life.’

  ‘There are worse ways of spending a day off,’ said Ned. ‘Come on, we’d better get this lot done or we’ll have Flora on our back. I’ve got a load of paperwork to get done tonight, as well. Nightmare.’ He shook his head.

  ‘We’re nearly done here,’ said Daisy, feeling sorry for him. ‘You get off, and I’ll finish this lot. Looks like these are a matter of just ticking the boxes in any case – they’re all perfectly kept.’

  ‘I was going to suggest a pint as a reward.’ Ned looked torn, checking his watch.

  Not thinking, he unclipped the lead which secured the two dogs. With lightning reflexes, Monty hurtled off down through the allotments, Polly following him at a rather more sedate canter.

  ‘Bloody hell, Daise.’ Ned pointed down the path where, in the distance, a figure could be seen gesticulating wildly in the direction of the two runaway dogs, who were now hurtling across a patch of cabbages. ‘It’s Flora.’

  ‘Monty! Polly!’ They yelled in unison, laughing helplessly as Flora approached.

  ‘For goodness’ sake, you two.’ Flora’s voice carried across the allotments, crisp and disapproving. ‘Can you not read a sign?’ She waved her hands in the direction of the numerous ‘Keep Control of Your Dog’ signs, shaking her head, lips pursed in disapproval.

  Monty and Polly, sensing her ire, slunk back to their owners and sat down by their feet, panting.

  ‘We’ll have that drink another time. I’d get out of here fast if I were you,’ said Daisy in an undertone. ‘I’ll deal with the fallout.’

  ‘I owe you one.’ Ned shot her a relieved smile, clipping the rope lead back onto his dog’s collar. He stood up, pushing his hair out of his eyes.

  ‘You definitely do.’ Flora was almost upon them now. ‘Now go. And take that lunatic dog with you.’

  Ned headed down the hill, Monty orbiting around him like a brown and white satellite, ears and tail flying.

  ‘Daisy, dear.’ Flora, dressed in a pair of neatly pressed jeans and a pale pink polka-dot blouse, had a woven basket in each hand. Daisy braced herself for the explosion.

  ‘I’m really sorry – the dogs got loose and—’

  ‘Oh, never mind,’ said Flora. ‘No harm done.’

  Daisy took a step back in surprise. She’d been braced for impact, but none was forthcoming.

  ‘Have you done the deed?’ Flora looked at her, her sharp eyes narrowing as she looked across at one of the scruffier plots. It was pretty clear that she was behind the decision to kick the negligent gardeners off the allotment gardens.

  ‘We’ve had a look around, yes,’ Daisy began.

  ‘Splendid. Kind of Ned to get involved. He’s a hard-working young man, isn’t he?’ Flora’s voice was approving. ‘Are you rushing off? I’d love to ask your advice about these redcurrants I’ve planted – the leaves are curling most alarmingly.’

  ‘I’d love to have a look,’ said Daisy, relieved. She pulled her hand out of her pocket. The crumpled map was safe for now. She followed Flora up the little hill to the neatly planted rows of potatoes which marked the beginning of her plot.

  ‘It’s an aphid attack. Won’t do any major damage, but you can spray the leaves with a solution of washing-up liquid to get rid of them if you like.’ Daisy straightened up. ‘Your plot is beautiful.’

  ‘Do you think so?’ Flora beamed, her eyes crinkling in pleasure.

  ‘Absolutely.’ Daisy’s eye fell again on the hand-painted memorial stone lying on the earth. ‘Have you been on the allotments for a long time?’

  ‘Well, we’ve had the plot for twenty years,’ said Flora with a gentle nod of her head, indicating the stone. She opened the door to the little green shed, pulling out two folding deckchairs. ‘Have a cup of tea with me before you go?’

  Daisy, surprised to be invited, gave her a smile as she replied. ‘That’d be lovely.’

  ‘My late husband, William, spent most of his spare time up here,’ explained Flora, passing Daisy an enamelled mug. ‘I realized, as I’ve taken over the plot since he passed away, that it was rather a nice escape for him.’ She gave a wry smile. ‘I can be a bit – bossy, sometimes.’

  Daisy opened her mouth to protest,
but Flora continued.

  ‘No need. You know, the only man I’ve met in life besides William who was any match for me was Thomas.’ And with that, the slightest pink rose on her papery cheek.

  Daisy hid a smile as she spoke. She’d noticed Thomas seemed to have a soft spot for Flora, too – whenever he mentioned her it was with a fond, teasing tone. ‘He’s a lovely man, isn’t he?’

  ‘Very much so. And you’ve brought him out of his shell, rather, which is lovely. I gather it’s you and Ned I have to thank for finally getting Thomas along to the Parish Council meetings?’

  Daisy remembered the three of them heading into that first meeting together, her arm linked through Thomas’s, Ned joking that there was safety in numbers.

  ‘He seems to be enjoying it now,’ she acknowledged.

  ‘Well, I’m very grateful to you two young ones for doing this today,’ said Flora, waving across the stretch of allotments that spread out below them. ‘I’ve become very fond of the people up here – it’s a real community. The Parish Council were coming under pressure to provide new plots, but I couldn’t very well come along and start telling people they weren’t pulling their weight.’

  Daisy cringed, thinking of the allotment plan in her pocket. She and Ned had been too soft-hearted to mark any of the plots down as completely neglected, putting a question mark next to only the most unkempt and chaotic. Even as a temporary incomer to the village, she didn’t want to get a reputation as the person who’d chucked people off their much-loved plots. There had to be a solution, somehow.

  ‘I read an article in a gardening magazine recently about people in London taking half shares in plots if they don’t have time to manage a whole one. Could that work?’

  She looked across at the tired, weed-choked plot across the path, where the earth had been half-turned and then abandoned.

  ‘I think it’s a wonderful idea.’ Flora waved across as a man wheeled a barrow up the path towards his plot. ‘Hello, Dave. Daisy here tells me my redcurrants aren’t for the chop after all.’

  The man put down the wheelbarrow and made his way across to them. Ruddy-cheeked, with his checked shirtsleeves rolled up against the sunshine, he stopped at Flora’s shed and pulled out a handkerchief to wipe sweat from his forehead.

  ‘Bloody hard work in this heat, eh, girls?’

  Flora laughed. ‘Dave, this is Daisy.’ Flora looked disapproving, but her tone was amused. ‘I’m still working on getting Dave along to one of the Parish Council meetings.’

  ‘I’m helping out at the fundraising barbecue for the church roof, though,’ Dave protested.

  ‘Yes, and we’re very grateful for that,’ smiled Flora. ‘Our Daisy’s a bit of a gardening expert. We were just discussing clubbing together up here, and helping each other out a bit.’

  Dave gave a thoughtful nod. ‘Sounds like a plan. Jack over there –’ he indicated the half-dug plot she and Ned had stood looking over earlier – ‘his wife’s been in hospital for a bit. Hasn’t had a chance to get up here.’

  Thank God all they’d done was put a question mark next to that plot on the map they’d been given. It would make far more sense to get the allotment workers – who seemed, from what she could see, to have a pretty good sense of community in any case – working together to help each other out.

  ‘I’d love to give people a hand if they need it,’ she found herself saying.

  ‘Daisy, dear,’ beamed Flora, ‘that would be wonderful. I’ve been considering setting up an allotment group up here.’

  ‘Another bloody committee,’ Dave groaned, rolling his eyes at Daisy with a laugh. ‘I’m only teasing, Flora. It’s not a bad idea. My brother’s got a plot over in Beaconsborough – they have a meeting once a month, do seed swaps, that sort of thing.’

  ‘Wonderful.’ Flora turned to Daisy. ‘If you could help us out, dear, we’d be very grateful.’

  With another commitment in her diary, and the roots of village life growing ever stronger within her, Daisy headed for home, leaving Flora hoeing between her courgette plants, smiling contentedly. Now, if she could only work out what exactly Thomas had been playing at, when he’d suddenly lost his limp and hurtled down towards his pint with a redundant walking stick . . .

  Chapter Eleven

  It was Friday night. Daisy stood in the hall of Orchard Villa, trying to convince herself she was completely calm. Five to eight, and she’d been ready for half an hour. She looked at herself again in the mirror. A gallon of her sister’s expensive hair serum had smoothed down the fuzz of red curls which normally haloed her face, and tamed her long red hair into gentle waves. Had Miranda been there, she’d have insisted that her elder sister wasn’t wearing anything like enough make-up, and Daisy would have been dodging helpful applications of bronzer and eyeliner. Instead, Daisy’s green eyes were shaded with just a hint of hazelnut-brown eyeshadow, and a slick of mascara emphasized the length of her lashes. She rubbed a rose pink onto her cheeks, and applied a similar shade of lipstick. Looking in the mirror, she wondered if it was a bit too understated after all and she just looked pale and uninteresting . . . oh God, maybe Miranda’s approach was right?

  She turned to run upstairs, deciding to add a bit more make-up, just in case she looked less understated and more can’t-be-bothered. The home phone started ringing – sod it, whoever it was would have to wait. Walking into the bedroom, she sat down on the bed for a moment, suddenly breathless with nerves. It’d been three years since she’d been on a date with anyone, and she’d never been much good at it before then.

  She swallowed. It was only a date, not a lifetime commitment, she reminded herself. She heard the familiar buzz of her mobile ringing from within her bag. Whoever it was was persistent, if nothing else. She pulled it out, checking.

  Mum and Dad mobile, flashed the screen. Oh God, not now. She tapped the silence button, deciding that whatever they wanted could wait. Or not, as the case may be: a text flashed up moments later.

  Can you ring us when you’re free? Got something to discuss. Mum x

  Knowing her mother, it was probably ‘can you measure the cushions, I’ve seen the perfect covers in a market in Mumbai’, or something along those lines. Daisy wasn’t in the mood to deal with an in-depth conversation. They could hold on, at least until she’d got rid of these first-date nerves. She shoved the phone back into her bag, turning the volume off.

  She’d popped round briefly earlier to check on Elaine – or rather, ostensibly at least, to check on Elaine’s garden. Her friend had been pottering around the kitchen, quite unconcerned, putting the final touches to a collection of photographs of her favourite salads.

  ‘Fingers out,’ Elaine laughed, slapping her away as she tried to pinch a tomato. ‘You look like you need a seriously long bath to get those hands properly clean.’

  Daisy looked down at her still-faintly-grubby hands. ‘I can’t help it! I can’t garden properly unless I—’

  ‘. . . feel the earth. We know.’ Elaine, laughing, completed her sentence. With an unconscious gesture she smoothed down her linen shirt, which remained impeccable as always. She turned away, looking out of the window and across the neatly trimmed lawn, where the allotments stretched away out of sight. ‘I’m glad you do, anyway. My garden looks perfect thanks to you, Daisy.’

  ‘Promise you’ll let Jo and me know how tonight goes?’ Elaine wiped her hands dry on a paper towel, popping it neatly into the bin as she spoke. ‘You can always text from the bedroom,’ she continued, with a wry arch of her brow. She knew as well as Daisy that wasn’t going to happen.

  ‘Definitely not the bedroom.’ Daisy felt a swoop of panic at the thought. She could cope with a date, but there was no way she was ending up in bed with George, no matter how beautiful his cornflower-blue eyes or enticing his Dublin accent. She’d been lured into bed by Jamie’s charms despite her misgivings. This time around she wasn’t rushing into anything.

  The sound of the doorbell brought her back to the present. Too la
te to put on any more make-up now – she stole a peek out of the bedroom window and saw George standing below, running a confident hand through his newly cropped hair before glancing behind him to check his car was still there. Daisy echoed his gesture, putting a reassuring hand to her hair too, running a hand through the unfamiliar smooth waves before heading downstairs.

  She pulled open the door just as George was about to knock. He dropped his raised hand with an expression of surprise.

  ‘Wow.’

  Daisy straightened the shoulder of her jade-green cardigan, lost for words. All the matter-of-fact confidence she’d convinced herself she was feeling had evaporated, leaving her feeling exposed and dumbstruck.

  ‘Hello.’ It’s just dinner, Daisy, she reminded herself. He’s not Jamie. It’s a casual date.

  ‘Daisy. You look beautiful.’ George grinned at her, stepping back to let her out through the door. ‘Shall we?’

  George’s car was an immaculate Audi convertible. Daisy sank back into the leather upholstery and inhaled the scent of luxury. It was so far removed from her own tiny, rusting scrap that it felt like climbing into the first-class section of a jumbo jet.

  ‘This is nice,’ she sighed. Some people might take this sort of thing for granted, but it was rather lovely to be whisked out on a date – with no strings attached, she reminded herself, recalling Elaine’s entreaty that she just relax and enjoy herself without thinking about anything other than the present moment. Jo’s Zen approach had clearly begun to rub off.

  ‘Isn’t it?’ He gave the leather armrest beside him an appreciative pat, and turned on the engine. It thrummed expensively. ‘It’s only ten minutes up to Great Thorndon.’

  Circling the little roundabout at the foot of Main Street, a casual hand on the wheel, George drove up the hill and out of Steeple St John. They wove through the narrow countryside roads, the evening sunshine dappling light on their faces through ancient trees that arched overhead, their leaves vibrant green. Daisy, realizing the wind was creating havoc, grabbed her hair into a ponytail and twisted it round her hand to keep it from tangling.