‘S’all right. That’s what I’m here for.’ Miranda’s voice was gentle. ‘Look, it’s not like you’ve got a life in that place. The garden’s been therapy, you’re feeling better – well, you were, anyway –’
Despite herself, Daisy gave a little snort of laughter.
‘And you’ve got that job prospect in Hackney. You did put in the application the other day, didn’t you?’
Daisy nodded, numbly. ‘Yep. Got an email from them yesterday.’
‘I knew it,’ said Miranda. ‘You’re a star.’
Chapter Twenty-two
‘Ladies and gentlemen!’ Flora’s voice was loud and purposeful. She clapped her hands together as she spoke, emphasizing her point. The Parish Council meeting fell silent.
Daisy, feeling rather conspicuous, wobbled on a stool beside Flora. She pulled down the hem of her dress once again. She hadn’t thought about the fact that she’d be propped up on a high chair with everyone peering up at her, and she was fairly certain that the front row had already caught a glimpse of too much thigh for this time of the morning. From the back of the room Ned, looking unusually smart for once, caught her eye, pulling a face that made her laugh. She’d have to ignore him or he’d give her the giggles as usual.
‘Before we get down to business, I want to raise an extra item that isn’t on the agenda.’
There was a scuffling of chairs, and a few people cleared their throats. Flora, who seemed to be embracing the drama, had paused for a moment to allow the significance of her statement to sink in. Daisy, still feeling sick with anger and misery about George’s deception, tried to put those feelings to one side and concentrate on what was happening. It was easier to just put him out of her head. She still had her phone switched off; it sat in her handbag like an unexploded bomb, waiting.
‘Now.’ Flora’s voice fluted across the room. ‘As you may have heard, there has been a worrying development in this dreadful practice of garden-grabbing.’ She pulled a face as she said the words, nostrils curling and lips pursed in disgust.
‘Daisy here, who has already been kind enough to take a place on our allotment committee as a horticultural advisor, has informed Thomas and myself,’ Flora inclined her head in a queenly manner towards Thomas, who was sitting three chairs along from Daisy, ‘that there are indications that a developer is interested in buying Orchard Villa. Daisy, would you like to fill us in?’
‘Oh, um –’ Taken by surprise, Daisy sat up, clutching desperately at the edge of her dress and pressing her knees together. It was a bit like being back at school, where she’d found herself on the debating team – more because nobody else had volunteered, than out of any desperate desire to discuss meaningful events with the sixth form of St Augustine’s School for Boys. Back then, she’d generally ended up eyeing up the most handsome member of the opposing team. Going to an all-girls school had had some major disadvantages. She forced herself to concentrate, looking out at the sea of villagers who were surveying her with interest.
‘Yes. The estate agent has suggested that the potential buyer is very keen. Unfortunately my parents, who own the house, don’t have the same attachment to the garden as I do.’ She looked across at Thomas, who smiled at her encouragingly. ‘And so I just wondered if there’s anything we can do to stop it.’
‘Bloody incomers.’ A voice came from the back of the room, which managed to be both a mutter and somehow heard by everyone.
‘David, that’s neither helpful nor kind.’ Flora’s voice was reproving. Murmurs of agreement, and mildly disapproving tuts, could be heard travelling through the massed group of residents.
‘There must be something we can do.’ A young woman, jogging a pushchair with one hand and with a toddler standing on her knee, looked around the room anxiously. ‘I live in one of the houses on the lane that backs onto Orchard Villa. If they start building there, my children aren’t going to be safe to play outside.’
Somehow this opened the floodgates. People from all over the room started calling out, discussing the situation amongst themselves. Daisy, Flora and the other committee members looked on.
‘Can’t we object on the grounds that the stream might be disrupted? There’d be flooding.’
‘Isn’t Orchard Villa listed in any case?’
‘Don’t think so.’ The man who’d spoken looked at Daisy for confirmation. She shook her head. ‘But the garden’s big enough that they can develop it without any problems anyway.’
‘I thought they did away with garden-grabbing during the last election?’
Voices echoed around the room.
‘Yeah, in theory, but there’s always loopholes.’
‘Bloody politicians. They’re all in each other’s pockets.’
‘Those builders pay ’em off in any case. Promise to make a play-park for the kids and get round the rules.’
Flora stood up, hands poised, ready to clap the meeting back into order, when a clear, reedy voice piped up from the corner of the hall.
‘Don’t know what the problem is, m’self. Folks have got to live somewhere.’
Everyone turned in surprise.
‘Geoffrey Bulmer.’ Flora’s tone was schoolmarm sharp. ‘I’m surprised at you. You’ve lived in this village all your life.’
An old man, his back bent with years of work, gnarled fingers holding onto a wooden walking stick, looked back at her with rheumy blue eyes that were still sharp.
‘I have that, Flora Douglas. But times change. If nothing was ever built, we’d all be living in mud huts.’
‘Well, yes.’ Flora shook her head, raising her eyes heavenwards. ‘Yes, of course. But that doesn’t mean we need these monstrosities built right in the middle of Steeple St John.’
‘You want them kept well out of the way?’ Geoffrey stood up as he spoke, wheezing between sentences, leaning heavily on his stick. The room was silent. ‘Out of sight, out of mind? All right on the outskirts of the village? Am I onto something, Flora?’
‘Yes – no – oh, for goodness’ sake, we are getting completely off the subject. Thomas?’ Flora tutted loudly, turning to Thomas for support.
Thomas gave his dominoes partner a nod of acknowledgement before he spoke. He watched as Geoffrey, having had his say, made his way slowly down the gap in the massed chairs and headed towards the Grey Mare for a pint. Daisy suspected that Thomas was wishing he could head in the same direction.
‘I don’t know the ins and outs. There’s a housing shortage, the papers tell us,’ said Thomas. ‘But it’s not about politics for me. The point is, Orchard Villa has a garden I’m very fond of, which holds a lot of memories. And I’m not sure ripping up that particular garden to build a few expensive executive homes is going to help any of these young folk of the village find a place to live, is it?’
There was a murmur of agreement, people nodding as he continued. ‘We’re here because we’re interested in preserving the best of Steeple St John – not preserving it in aspic, but we need to find a way to make this village a place where people can continue to live safely.’ He looked at the young woman, who was now juggling both of her children on her lap. She smiled at him gratefully as he continued talking, his voice clear and carrying across the now silent hall.
‘And it’s about making sure the village carries on being somewhere with a heart.’
The room burst into spontaneous applause. Thomas, looking surprised, turned to Flora and said, ‘Will that do?’ She beamed back at him in response, reaching across and putting a hand on his arm. He inclined his head towards her, gratefully.
‘Looks like you’ve got a future in politics, Thomas,’ said Daisy, smiling across at him.
The room was now filled with a clamour of excitement and chatter. People were turning in their chairs to talk to each other, nodding with enthusiasm. Flora stood up, giving another clap of her hands to silence them.
‘Right then, everyone. After Thomas’s splendid speech, I think we’re all in agreement that something has to be done ab
out these plans. I suspect that if we all club together, there will be strength in numbers. Daisy, you’ve done a spot of writing for Mrs Thornton-Green’s website, haven’t you? Perhaps you could pen something for the local paper? Might get people talking.’
Daisy winced. How would her parents react if they got wind of her attempts to sabotage their house sale? But they were thousands of miles away. If they could just put off George’s brother, maybe a buyer would come along . . .
‘Excellent stuff. Right, well – back to the agenda. I’d like to take a moment to mention a couple of details pertaining to the village fête. It’s only a few weeks away now, and I’d like to remind you all that entries for the home crafts section are open until the day before, so you can get in your best jams and cakes . . .’
Daisy drifted off as Flora continued to detail the various classes open to all at the fête. She’d been earmarked as one of three judges for the produce competitions – which, Thomas informed her, was a tremendous honour. Never having attended a village fête, she wasn’t quite sure how she’d judge one carrot as being better than another, but she hoped that the other two judges would carry her along.
‘I’d like to thank Daisy for her contribution today,’ said Flora, rousing her from her thoughts.
Daisy smiled out at the now restless audience, who had begun pulling bags onto shoulders, checking their phones, and starting to shuffle their way out of their seats. Flora’s meetings tended to go on for ten minutes longer than scheduled.
‘Well, that’s enough for today. Thank you all so much for coming.’ Flora gave the room a final little clap, beaming out at them delightedly. She’d have made a wonderful Lady of the Manor, presiding over everyone at the garden party. Daisy smiled at the thought. Seeing this, Flora gave her a queenly incline of the head.
‘Penny for your thoughts, Daisy?’
She looked up, feeling Thomas putting his hand on her shoulder. Whilst she’d been daydreaming, and with Flora still holding forth, he’d managed to escape from his chair, clearly heading in the same direction as his friend Geoffrey – towards the pub for a swift afternoon pint and a read of the paper.
Flora twisted in her chair, pausing mid-flow, her face falling. ‘Are you leaving us, Thomas? I was hoping to go over some of these figures I have here about the village fête—’
‘So sorry, Flora. Got an appointment, I’m afraid.’ Thomas gave Daisy the tiniest wink, almost invisibly, and inclined an eyebrow towards the pub. Ned was hovering by the door, pretending to read one of the posters, the ghost of a smile playing at the corners of his mouth. He looked sideways at Daisy.
‘I think Daisy might need to get off, too.’
‘Yes.’ Daisy grabbed her chance, realizing that otherwise she’d be stuck in the empty hall for at least another half-hour, discussing the minutest details of plans for the fête. She scrambled down from the stool, stooping to grab her bag, and started making her way down from the little stage and towards the door.
‘Never mind, I’ll be in touch shortly. Now that you’re judging, Daisy, perhaps we could find a slot for you on the village fête committee, too.’
Daisy gave a panicked, wide-eyed look at Thomas, who had turned back to catch her eye.
‘I’m sure Daisy has quite enough on her plate right now, Flora. We mustn’t overstretch her and take advantage of her good nature.’
‘Of course not.’ Flora picked up her ever-present clipboard and pen. ‘Daisy, thank you so much for your help. Much appreciated.’
‘You’re welcome.’ Daisy gave Flora a relieved smile as she headed out into the afternoon.
‘Thanks for that.’ She burst out laughing as they hit the sunshine outside the hall.
‘Nice dress,’ said Ned, with an expression which suggested he’d witnessed her initial, undignified wobble.
She shot him a mock-frosty look.
‘You’re looking surprisingly respectable.’ She pretended to inspect his outfit. He was dressed, as always, in a pair of slightly battered cords, but these ones looked like they’d been hung up neatly instead of being picked up from the floor and thrown on, and his short-sleeved shirt appeared to have been ironed.
‘We try. Trying to make a bit of an effort.’
‘Oh, yes?’ said Thomas, looking at Daisy with amusement. ‘Who’s the lucky girl?’
Ned raised his eyebrows, shaking his head. ‘I can’t divulge my secrets, Thomas.’
The perfect Fenella, of course. Daisy found herself swallowing a tiny, bitter pill of something she couldn’t quite put her finger on.
Thomas spoke, breaking through her thoughts. ‘Flora would have you on the village committee for committee meetings about committees, if you let her. She doesn’t mess about. Reminds me in a funny way of my Violet.’ He shook his head, smiling fondly. ‘Now off you go and get that article written, young lady. It might just make a difference. Unless you fancy joining me and Geoffrey for a quick one, before you get to work?’
Daisy hesitated for a second. A cool drink in the Grey Mare would be a lovely reward to herself for sitting through the meeting, but on the other hand . . .
‘Are you walking up Main Street?’ Flora’s voice could be heard as she bustled out of the village hall, pulling the door closed behind her. ‘I’ll walk with you, if you like.’ God, she was persistent.
‘I’ll take care of this,’ said Thomas, under his breath, with a knowing expression.
‘Um, no, sorry,’ said Daisy, having had her mind made up. The idea of Flora deciding to join her for a quick gin and tonic and a ‘little chat’ about the fête was too much to bear. ‘I’ve really got to get on. See you soon!’
Giving Thomas a grateful squeeze on the arm as she left, Daisy headed back to Orchard Villa. With the discussion still clear in her head, she might as well write something for the local paper. With any luck, it’d stall George’s bloody brother long enough for the perfect buyer to swoop in and make an offer. Her parents needn’t hear a word of any of this.
Chapter Twenty-three
FURTHER GARDENS THREAT FOR STEEPLE RESIDENTS
Daisy saw the hand-written sign outside the newsagent’s shop when she was only halfway up the hill to Main Street. She’d emailed a 300-word article to the editor, rhapsodizing about the beauty of the Orchard Villa garden and its century-old mulberry tree. He’d replied straight away, keen to get the piece into the Friday edition of the twice-weekly local paper. She’d expected a tiny mention on page six, alongside the usual news about the local football team and the plans for an extension of the railway line from Steeple St John to nearby Wellbury.
But no – she opened the door to the newsagent’s shop. There was a huge headline emblazoned across the front of the Argus, with her name written clearly underneath. It was a strange feeling. Her parents, who’d been far more supportive years ago when she’d studied English literature, had dismissed her horticulture course as a fad – and yet here she was, writing and gardening having collided – and all to stop their house being sold for redevelopment. It was a pity, though, she thought, buying two copies of the paper, that she was hoping they’d never see it.
Daisy headed out of the shop, impatient to see how the article looked in print. She stopped and leaned against the window ledge of the little cake shop, scanning the paper. It seemed to make sense, and hadn’t misquoted anyone from the meeting. There was a photo in the middle of the page, taken at the barbecue fundraiser. She was standing alongside Thomas, Flora, and a couple of other committee members. Ned was in the background, laughing. She’d been captioned as Flora Price, aged 68. She burst out laughing.
Daisy checked the time. The village estate agent had called to say that he had a potential buyer interested in Orchard Villa. Daisy had been up since five that morning cleaning the house until it sparkled, leaving flowers on the scrubbed oak table in the kitchen and each room looking show-home perfect. She was determined to make them fall in love with the place. She crossed her fingers again for luck. If someone would just make a
decent offer, her parents would snap it up and the garden would be saved from destruction.
*
The throng of tourists, travellers, and day-trippers spilled out of the doors of Marylebone station and onto the sunny pavement. Daisy dodged a man trying to thrust a copy of the Metro into her hands, and skipped past the sweet-faced young couple standing by the stall full of religious pamphlets. She marched down Marylebone Road, heading for the High Street. She marvelled at the trees as she made her way along. Year round they stood, breathing in traffic fumes from a never-ending ribbon of buses, taxis and cars, ignored by the commuters who marched past with their heads down, intent on getting to and from work.
Miranda was waiting outside their favourite cafe, tapping rapidly on her iPad. Daisy was almost at the table before she looked up, face breaking into a huge smile.
‘I didn’t order anything besides coffee yet.’ Her sister indicated the empty mug by her bag. ‘Wasn’t sure if we were doing lunch, or going straight to chocolate cake therapy.’
Daisy peered in the window, checking nothing had changed. She sighed happily. Yes, just as it had always been: inside there was a glass-fronted counter stacked high with delicious patisserie.
‘Shall we just do cake?’
‘I hoped you’d say that.’ Miranda stood up, enfolding her sister in a huge hug.
They stayed outside in the sunshine. The High Street had always been a family favourite – as children they’d known that if they behaved while their parents shopped, a trip into town would end with a visit to Paddington Street Gardens round the corner, an ice cream, and a chance to burn off their energy, squealing as they ran through the trees, their parents sitting peacefully on a bench reading the paper.
Talking of which, thought Daisy, reaching into her bag . . .
‘Bloody hell.’ Miranda held the Argus at arm’s length. ‘Front-page news.’
Daisy pulled a face. ‘Yeah, I wasn’t quite expecting that. Thought I might just put a spanner in the works. Didn’t expect major village scandal. It turns out my throwaway comment about the mulberry tree’s got some village tree expert thinking.’
Coming Up Roses Page 24