by Unknown
‘I’ll come by tomorrow, then,’ Dilly said excitedly, accepting his offer of a leg up with something close to ecstasy. She was a girl in love. She looked down at him adoringly, then glanced guiltily at Ellen. ‘Um – would you mind not mentioning it to Mum? You know what she’s like.’
‘Sure,’ she said uneasily.
Spurs caught her eye and gave a silver wink. She wasn’t quite sure how to take it, but it made the hairs on the back of her neck unglue themselves from the sweat there and stand to attention.
As Ellen and Spurs crossed the garden on either side of Otto, Dilly was grumbling about Godspell again. ‘She is so up herself. Mum is a wicked sculptor – everyone knows that – and she had the nerve to bring a list from Ely saying that under no circumstances could Mum add (a) horns (b) warts (c) antennae or (d) fangs to the bust. Frankly, I think they’d do that bland little tombstone-face a favour. She is so plain. It’s no wonder she hangs around in the graveyard.’
Ellen tried to catch Spurs’ eye under the horse’s neck, but he was glaring at the ground.
‘Right – I’m off to the shop.’ Dilly turned left at the gate, assuming an affected coolness now that she was back on open ground. ‘You guys want anything?’
Ellen was about to ask Spurs if he wanted an icecream, but at that moment she caught sight of a black and white shadow springing off the festering lunch and streaking away.
‘Fins!’ She leaped after him.
He fled behind the bunkhouse, shot through the laurels and vanished. Ellen pulled back her hair and laughed with relief – at least he was still nearby. He’d managed to wolf the rest of the ham and pâté, and most of a melted Brie.
She swung back towards Dilly and Spurs and found – in something of a regretful epiphany – that she was staring at two wildly attractive people who looked disturbingly good together. They also looked strangely conspiratorial, glancing guiltily away from a shared whisper the moment they saw her turn back.
I am paranoid, Ellen reminded herself. I am also not ready to fancy anyone. It’s just hours since the Lloyd disaster. Learn, Jamieson, learn.
‘See you tomorrow!’ she called breezily.
Dilly waved happily and set off.
To Ellen’s surprise, Spurs gave her a dirty look as he stomped past her to the workshop, banging the door obviously behind him.
I am no longer interesting, she concluded regretfully. I am a sweaty, dirty blonde who can’t ride a horse, and he’s just met a ravishing, dewy-fresh one who laughs as her pink prancer poses around the village. If wishes were horses, my two remaining ones would be strapped to a glass carriage and getting me out of this animated postcard as fast as their legs could carry them.
As Otto’s hoofsteps faded away, she started to clear the lunch, swatting wasps and glancing around distractedly for Fins. The air was thick with storm flies. This afternoon, she was certain, it had to arrive.
But the sky stayed stubbornly clear, deep blue as she carried the leftover food into the cool of the house, slamming plates into the dishwasher and watching out of the window as Spurs rattled the old petrol mower on to the lawn then adjusted the blades to give it a neater cut.
Angered by his sudden mood-swing and still overheated, she pulled up her T-shirt and gave his freckled back a lengthy, unseen boob flash as he primed the pump. Then she spotted the reflective flash of Hunter’s binoculars positively oscillating and dived beneath the window-sill, banging her head against the cupboard below the sink.
Hoping to find a job that provided at least a little respite from the throbbing heat, she donned her mother’s spotless navy blue Wellingtons and went into the pond to rescue the few surviving plants before it was drained. It was a disgusting, slimy job and the green, foamy water slopped into her boots, running down to her feet and rooting her anger deep beneath the pond bed. She splashed her face and arms with the green sludge as she worked, slowly turning herself into a swamp monster. By the time Spurs had cut the lawns a second time, she was dripping with green gunk.
‘You have no idea how amazing you look,’ he said, as he carried the last box of grass cuttings past her to the gate. ‘Like a garden statue covered in moss.’
‘I’m so flattered.’ She was in no mood to spar.
‘You’re the ultimate pond lifestyle accessory. You should stay there for when buyers come round. Place would sell in a trice.’
‘I’ll stick to cranking up the coffee percolator, thanks.’
‘Not seeing your estate-agent boyfriend tonight, then?’ He dropped the box, stretched out his arms and rolled his head.
‘None of your business.’ She wondered how he knew what Lloyd did for a living.
‘You’re funny.’
Ellen got the distinct impression he wasn’t referring to her wit. ‘What makes you say that?’
‘Oh, no reason.’ He picked up the box again. ‘You’re just funny.’ He stomped off.
What was that supposed to mean?
As the afternoon wore on in unrelenting, humid sunshine, the green algae baked hard on her arms, face and legs. She set up the pump to drain the pond water into a scorched flower-bed and resumed weeding while Spurs went about clipping the hedges. It was no longer companionable work. They tackled their separate jobs at opposite ends of the garden, occasionally casting one another thoughtful glances, which darted away when they crossed. The sun lowered in the sky while they accumulated great piles of foliage and disenchanted tempers.
Having tamed the wild hornbeam at the front of the house, Spurs settled on his favourite bench with another beer, lit up like a bronze in the evening light.
‘Fancy one?’ He held up a second can, challenging her to another dirty-talk duel of sin and insinuation.
The hard edge to his voice told Ellen to steer well clear. Whatever his crisis before he’d ridden Otto, he’d got on his high horse the moment he had mounted and he was still riding around on it. Right now, he was very dangerous indeed, and he was after a grudge match.
Ellen carried on weeding, pulling out pretty much everything in sight and slinging it over her shoulder in the general direction of the barrow.
‘Have you stopped loving me, then?’ he called.
She ignored him.
‘I still love you.’
She decided that she hated gardening. It was dirty, smelly, thankless work that made your knees ache. She was sweaty, she stank and she was covered in scratches and rashes. As pastimes went, it was all toil and soil with no thrills.
She sat back on her heels, ripped off a glove and rubbed her hot face with an even hotter hand, blinking the steamy mist from her eyes. As she did so, she knew straight away that he was alongside her. It was, she imagined, a similar sensation to knowing that a big cat was breathing hotly down your neck – uncertain whether it was about to lick your ear or pounce for its supper.
He had settled beside her and started replanting the perennials she’d been dragging unceremoniously from their homes. Silently and patiently, he collected them from the barrow, carefully cupping the soil around their roots, and buried them back in the peaty soil that had softened to mulch with the pond water.
He was on his fifth delphinium before he spoke. His tone was soft and coaxing, deliberately seductive. ‘What’s up?’
She pulled out a carpet of phlox. ‘Nothing.’
‘Is it Richard?’
She jumped in surprise and turned to stare at him.
‘You mentioned his name. So did Joni.’ He rescued the phlox and started to bed it back in.
She snorted and sat back on her heels again, glancing at him warily. ‘It’s a popular name.’
‘Is he your husband?’
Ellen sensed this was another game. ‘We never married.’
‘But you were together a long time?’
‘What makes you say that?’
‘Horses and married women.’ He laughed softly. ‘Two things I know a hell of a lot about. What was it? Seven years – eight?’
He was good – but h
e wasn’t that good. ‘Thirteen.’
‘Jesus.’ He whistled. ‘You look bloody good for your age.’
‘We got together at sixth-form college when we were sixteen.’
‘And you’ve been together ever since?’
‘Until a month ago.’
‘Ever strayed?’
‘No.’
‘Did you have many lovers before him?’
She rolled her eyes at him. So that was the game. Well, she was happy to let him win. ‘It was Taunton.’
That, at least, seemed to shut him up. He replanted a few semi-massacred lupins. But he had been biding his time: ‘So, let me get this right. You’ve slept with just one man in your entire life?’
Ouch. Victory. And way too personal. She’d been too hot and bothered to see the sting coming.
‘I’ve done enough for this evening.’ She stood up. ‘I need a shower, and Snorkel needs a walk before it gets dark. Thanks for all your help.’
‘I haven’t granted your wish yet.’
‘Yes, you have.’ She pulled the horseshoe nail from her back pocket and handed it to him. ‘You cut the lawn. Three pounds and thirty-three pence well spent.’ She detached Snorkel from her lunge line and walked inside without a backward glance.
By the time she’d showered and changed, he and the mini-tractor had gone. To her surprise, he’d put all her parents’ gardening equipment neatly back into the shed, including the pump. The black pond liner now held just a few inches of green slime and pebbles, and what appeared to be a paper boat floating in the algae. Ellen fished it out with a stray bamboo stick and unfolded it. Something small and metallic fell out and landed by her feet. She read, ‘Only a dark cocoon before I get my gorgeous wings and fly away.’
She creased her forehead, reading and rereading it, trying to remember where she had heard the line before, in a poem or a song.
Then it hit her. It was Joni Mitchell: ‘The Last Time I Saw Richard’.
She took a sharp breath and her tear ducts threatened to convulse. Then she crumpled up the note and threw it back into the slime. He was playing games with her head.
Feeling around underfoot, she found exactly what she expected: a single horseshoe nail. One small piece of metal as hard and twisted as Spurs Belling’s heart. And he wasn’t going to be allowed to hammer it into hers. That was already broken.
She carried it over to the horsehoe, which was lying on the garden bench, and carefully slotted it back into its hole. Then she took the entire thing to the pond and dropped it in.
Ellen’s eyes snapped open at dawn, back on the early shift. She lay listening to the birds, taking in the strange strumming top note.
Who the hell was clipping hedges at this time in the morning?
It only took a moment for waking question to connect with waking answer.
Spurs.
She rolled out of bed and looked out of the window. The first thing she saw was a huge pile of hedge clippings, spread out across the lawn to form the word ‘Sorry’. Apologising with flora and fauna seemed to be something of a village tradition. Then, as she shouldered the window-frame, her chuckling yawn turned into a groan.
‘Why do you need to say sorry?’ she asked five minutes later, as she walked outside with two mugs of tea.
He turned round, stopped the clippers and pulled his goggles on to his head. ‘For coming back.’ His face had caught the sun the day before, his high, reddened cheekbones and freckled nose throwing those pale eyes into even greater relief.
‘And why did you thank me in rose petals?’
That sun-kissed face smiled, happy to acknowledge the gesture, making the red dawn hide bashfully behind a cloud as it realised it was being outshone. ‘Because you bought my lot.’ He put his arm round Snorkel. ‘I was invited in.’
‘And did you take your PlayStation back while you were here?’
The moment Ellen said it, she knew she’d got it wrong. He tilted his head in confusion, utterly baffled. ‘I haven’t played in stations since I was little.’
She pressed her lips to her mug, steam and tannin waking her, furious with herself for cross-examining a man already on a crucifix. She cast her eyes guiltily around her. He’d already weeded the remaining beds and edged them, as well as training the creepers back from the downstairs windows. She turned back to him in amazement. ‘How long have you been here?’
‘A couple of hours. I couldn’t sleep.’
Snorkel hadn’t barked. She was a hopeless guard dog.
‘I apologise if I was a bit full on yesterday,’ he put down the clippers and pulled off his gloves, not looking at her, ‘but from the start, I just madly fell in love with . . .’ he paused ‘. . . this garden.’ He looked up, almost knocking her off her feet. Although apologetic, the silver eyes were as playful as the day before.
Ellen met them, blinked, and realised that they were her ultimate wake-up call: Play with me and you play with your own wounds, they warned. You know me. You know me. You know me. I am bad. I hurt people, just like you do. Let’s be bad together. Let’s be bad together. Let’s be bad together.
She scuffed her toe against the stubbled grass as she handed him a mug. ‘I was in a crabby mood. I hadn’t managed much sleep either. Maybe I’m the one who should be apologising.’
‘You should both be apologising!’ snapped a furious voice. They were greeted by the remarkable sight of Hunter Gardner wearing striped pyjamas and a checked silk dressing-gown, glaring at them over his half-clipped garden hedge. ‘Have you any idea what time it is?’
‘Quite early.’ Ellen cleared her throat.
‘It’s a quarter to six!’ he snarled. ‘And I hardly think you can call this a reasonable time to be running garden appliances, can you?’
To Ellen’s surprise, Spurs immediately apologised. ‘I had no idea it was so early – don’t wear a watch, you see, and I knew we had a lot to do today. I’ll do this later. Hope we didn’t disturb your sleep too badly.’
Hunter gaped at him, then nodded a gruff acknowledgement of the apology. He turned back to his house. ‘And don’t let that blasted dog near my chickens,’ he called, over his shoulder.
Spurs turned to Ellen and smiled. ‘See what a good influence you are on me?’
She narrowed one eye speculatively.
‘Do you still love me?’ he asked, only a hint of mischief in his voice.
‘A bit.’ She yawned. ‘You?’
‘To death – anyone who brings me tea like this wins my heart.’ He took a long gulp.
‘I didn’t think you had one.’
‘Grew it back last night.’
‘I’ll notify the tea ladies of Britain.’
He grinned. ‘So I’m allowed to finish granting your wish?’
She nodded. ‘Yes, please.’
In the intimate, warm cloak of another humid morning, they worked together, clearing away the huge piles of cuttings and weeds to build a bonfire they would light later. They talked quietly, mostly nonsense, the jokes and games of ‘verbal catch’ never allowed to get dark and dangerous as they had the day before; the little snippets of information they passed on about themselves scattered like pearls that dropped naturally rather than being prised from shells.
Working before the sun got up to strength meant that they powered through the tasks, hardly noticing the speed at which they were exerting themselves. It seemed laughably easy, compared with the stings, aches, heat and irritation of the day before.
By the time Hunter marched past to fetch his Sunday paper (as always timing it so that Joel would be unlocking the post-office stores at precisely the time he arrived), Ellen and Spurs were sitting on the bench drinking coffee. They waved at him cheerfully. He lifted his chin in return and managed a squinting, unfriendly smile.
‘I wonder why he never married?’ Ellen mused.
‘Gay.’ Spurs offered her a biscuit.
‘Never! He’s always ogled on my mother.’
‘Is she very bossy?’
&
nbsp; ‘Fairly. She was a school teacher.’
‘There you go. Mother complex. He’s definitely queer – tried to grope Rory at the fête when he was eight. Hunter was judging the fancy-dress contest. Aunt Truffle should have known better than to dress him as a sailor. Asking for trouble.’
‘Was that why you set light to his garage?’
‘Among other things. It was a long time ago.’
‘Do you really have an aunt called Truffle?’
‘Patricia – yes.’
Not long afterwards, Giles Hornton panted past in his jogging shorts, moustache gleaming. ‘Care to join me today?’ he called to Ellen.
‘Another time.’ She waved him on.
He cast Spurs a hard look, and jogged off towards the church.
‘Another admirer?’ Spurs turned to her teasingly.
‘Another?’ She wondered, rather stupidly, whether he counted himself as one.
‘Your date at the Duck?’
‘Oh, him.’ Ellen didn’t want to think about Lloyd. ‘That was just a one-off – I mean, it’s nothing serious.’
‘Too soon after Richard?’ he asked lightly.
She studied his face, wondering if this was a game. But it wasn’t. ‘Yes, too soon after Richard.’
Later, leaning against the ladder while he cleaned the windows above her head, Ellen watched the sky for signs of a storm. ‘It has to break soon.’
‘It will. Tonight,’ he promised.
‘Where do you suppose it is?’ She scanned the horizon.
‘Now? Throwing its weight around in your old neck of the woods.’
‘Cornwall?’ She looked up as a cascade of soapy drips rained down on her. ‘It’ll take hours to get here, then – I took almost four, and I had a jeep.’
‘Storms drive faster than women.’
‘I drive very fast.’
‘I bet you do. But you’re not a woman.’
‘What am I?’
‘You’re Ellen.’ He passed the bucket down, then hopped off the ladder, lit a cigarette and walked away to admire his weeded flower-beds.