Love in an English Garden

by Victoria Connelly

Vanessa tried to hide her face, but it was too late.

  ‘You’ve been crying!’ Tilda was on her knees by her mother’s chair. ‘Is it the Sturridges?’

  ‘No, no,’ Vanessa said.

  ‘Then what’s happened?’

  Vanessa took a deep breath. ‘I know she’s your grandmother, but she can really be a nasty old woman sometimes!’

  ‘Oh, Mum! What’s she said now?’

  Vanessa shook her head. She was always careful not to talk ill of Dolly in front of her two daughters.

  ‘She gave me this.’ She handed the photograph to Tilda, who looked at it, a huge smile spreading across her face.

  ‘It’s lovely. I’ve never seen it before.’

  ‘Neither had I.’

  ‘And this is what’s upset you?’

  ‘Dolly launched into this tirade about the history of the house and how nobody ever thought of selling until I came along.’

  ‘Oh, Mum! Did you remind her it was my idea?’

  ‘No, of course not, darling.’

  ‘I’ll go and have a word with her—’

  ‘Best to leave it, I think.’

  ‘You sure?’

  Vanessa nodded. ‘I think I’ll just try and avoid Dolly for a while. Say the next ten years?’

  ‘That might actually be a good idea!’ Tilda laughed and Vanessa managed to join in.

  ‘When I met your father, I had no idea how huge a part Dolly would play in my life. But the families of these sorts of houses are tightly knit.’

  ‘Do you think you’d have married Dad if you’d known?’

  ‘Of course I would have! I loved your father so, so much. I would have put up with a hundred Dollys to be with him. Anyway, when I first moved here, we were so busy with our own lives and raising you that I really didn’t notice her little ways so much. She would poke her nose in from time to time, telling me how I should be dressing you and what I should be feeding you. But all grandparents are like that, I suppose. I think the real trouble started when your grandfather died. Dolly lost the main focus of her life and fastened onto Oliver and me. Then, when she lost her son, I began to feel the full force of her. I think a little bit of Dolly died when we lost your father.’

  ‘She doesn’t see how hard you work for us all,’ Tilda said.

  ‘It’s not just that. She doesn’t like me; it’s that simple.’

  ‘Of course she likes you. She just doesn’t show it.’ Tilda gave her a weak smile.

  ‘She’s very good at showing her disapproval,’ Vanessa pointed out.

  ‘That’s the way some people are.’ Tilda looked at her watch. ‘Look, I’ve got to scoot. Got a lesson in Robertsbridge.’

  ‘Old Mr Bromley?’

  Tilda nodded.

  ‘How’s it going?’

  ‘He’s tone deaf and hates taking instruction from a young woman.’

  ‘Why does he keep at it then?’

  ‘I think he likes the company,’ Tilda said.

  Vanessa smiled. ‘Have fun.’

  ‘And don’t worry about Grandma, Mum. She hates change. Remember when you wanted to plant a new herbaceous border and she even complained about that?’

  Vanessa laughed. ‘I’ve never known somebody able to find fault in absolutely everything. It’s quite a skill, isn’t it? And one I’m very glad you didn’t inherit.’

  Laurence would never forget the feeling of freedom on waking up on his first morning at Orley. He didn’t have to rush to catch the Tube and make it into the office for an eight-thirty meeting. He could have a leisurely breakfast and venture out into the garden, take a footpath across the fields and up into the hills. He could just be.

  He couldn’t remember the last time he’d done that – let a day unfold. Of course, that way of living wasn’t sustainable and he’d have to get his business off the ground but, for the time being, he’d allow himself a little holiday.

  Walking around the north wing that morning, Laurence couldn’t help smiling. He truly felt as if he’d found a place he could live forever, but he soon began to realise that he wasn’t accustomed to having quite so many large rooms. His London flat had been modest in size. Here at Orley, his father had taken just a living room and an en-suite bedroom for his own personal use, and most of his boxes had been unpacked already. Laurence still had a few to go. But he’d never been much for hoarding and he was rather regretting that trait now because all the rooms looked half empty.

  Heading towards his father’s rooms at the end of the north wing, Laurence thought about what he was going to do next. He’d given each of the rooms the once-over and realised that he’d have to get a bit of work done on a few of them, but he didn’t want to get bogged down with something so serious so soon. He wanted to think of fun things like coffee tables and sofas, maybe even a new bed.

  ‘Dad?’ he called, knocking on the door of his father’s living room.

  ‘Come in.’

  ‘How are you getting on?’ Laurence asked as he walked in. ‘Wow! You look really at home already.’

  ‘There wasn’t a lot to do. Just a few books and CDs. I got rid of most of my things before I moved in with you.’

  Laurence nodded. Like him, his father wasn’t much of a hoarder.

  ‘But you don’t need much at my stage in life,’ Marcus added.

  ‘Dad, you’re not exactly ancient. I think you’ve still got a few good years yet.’

  ‘Maybe, but I’m quite happy to sit with a book or the newspaper. I don’t need things anymore.’

  ‘You know, I was thinking that we could give our new garden a makeover together.’

  ‘Were you?’ Marcus made it sound as if the idea were preposterous.

  ‘It would be fun,’ Laurence said. ‘Remember how beautiful the garden was at Field End? You used to spend hours out there.’

  ‘The garden here’s north-facing.’

  ‘Yes, but we could still do a bit of landscaping and planting, couldn’t we?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  Laurence sighed. It was going to take more than a house move to forge a closer relationship with his father, wasn’t it?

  ‘Listen, I’m going to go out – have a look around and maybe buy some furniture or something. You want to come?’

  His father shook his head.

  ‘Want me to look out for any pieces for you?’

  ‘No, thanks.’

  ‘Dad, you can’t live in a room that’s half bare.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘It looks sad.’

  ‘I think it looks restful.’

  Laurence shrugged. ‘Okay,’ he said. ‘I’ll see you later.’ He paused at the door and looked back at his father, who’d picked up a book and seated himself in a chair positioned by the window. It was the same book and the same chair as in London, Laurence observed, but at least it was a different window and view now.

  It was as Laurence was walking downstairs that he heard it. Somebody somewhere was playing the piano. At first, it was a few hesitant notes, but then a stream of beautiful music floated through the hallway, stopping abruptly as he stuck his head around the door of the living room in the south wing.

  ‘Sorry!’ he said quickly as he saw Tilda sitting at the piano. ‘I didn’t mean – I know this is your part of the house, but I had to see who was playing.’

  ‘I should have shut the door,’ she said. ‘I didn’t mean to disturb anybody.’

  ‘You didn’t. I was just being nosy. Sorry,’ he said. She stood up and shut the lid of the piano. ‘Please don’t let me disturb you.’

  ‘I was done.’

  ‘It was lovely.’

  ‘No, it wasn’t.’

  He frowned. ‘It was. What was it?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘The music – I don’t know much about music. Was it Chopin or something?’

  She smiled. ‘No. It wasn’t Chopin. It was just a little something. Nothing, really.’

  He saw the way she anxiously knotted her fingers t
ogether and looked at everything in the room but him, and then it clicked.

  ‘You wrote it?’

  She shrugged. ‘It’s not finished. It’s not even started, really.’

  ‘Well, you should finish it. It really was lovely.’

  She gave the faintest of smiles. ‘How are you settling in?’

  ‘I’m having problems.’

  ‘You are?’

  ‘Nothing fits,’ he said.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Come and see. I mean, if you wouldn’t mind. I could use someone’s advice.’

  ‘Okay,’ she said, and he led the way out of the living room to the north wing.

  ‘Oh dear,’ Tilda said a moment later.

  ‘See what I mean? I haven’t got enough stuff, and the stuff I do have is exactly wrong,’ he said, scratching his head in despair. ‘All these modern pieces looked great in my flat in London, but they’re not right here.’

  ‘What are you going to do?’

  ‘I’m going to have to go shopping. Got any ideas where? It would be nice to get a few antiques. Not too pricey, though. I’ve kind of spent a lot of money recently.’ He grinned at her.

  ‘Well, there’s the big antiques centre just outside Elhurst,’ Tilda said. ‘It’s a bit more rough and ready than the shop on the main street, which mostly sells overpriced pieces of mahogany.’

  ‘Rough and ready would do me nicely,’ he said. ‘I think I’m too clumsy to justify any purchases in mahogany.’ He cleared his throat. ‘Would you like to come with me? I could do with your opinion. I’ve no idea what I’m looking at when it comes to this sort of thing. I asked my dad if he wanted to come shopping and he – er – well, he declined.’ He paused, feeling a little awkward. ‘We’re going through a slightly tricky time at the moment.’

  She looked startled. ‘So I’m your second choice, am I?’

  ‘No, no! I didn’t mean it like that.’ He raised his hands in the air as if in panic. ‘You’re absolutely my first choice. After all, you’re the daughter of an interior designer and you’ve been brought up surrounded by beautiful antiques. That makes you a tad more experienced than me and my dad.’

  Tilda looked at her watch. ‘I suppose I could come with you. But I’ve got an appointment this afternoon so we can’t be too long.’

  ‘Okay,’ he said, clapping his hands together. ‘Let’s get going.’

  They left the house together, walking round to where Laurence’s car was parked.

  ‘I’ve not met your sister yet,’ he said.

  ‘She’s a bit shy,’ Tilda said. ‘I expect she’s in the oast house.’

  ‘My dad met her there on our last viewing.’

  ‘Yes, she mentioned him. I think she likes him.’

  ‘He said they had a chat,’ Laurence said. ‘I envy your sister that. I haven’t been able to chat to my dad for years.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  He took a deep breath as they both got into the car. ‘Dad’s still struggling with my mum’s death.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘I’m hoping this move might shake him out of himself.’

  ‘You think it will?’

  ‘I’m not sure. We used to live here, you see, and I’m wondering now if coming back was such a good idea. We drove by our old house on the way here yesterday. Field End Cottage.’

  ‘I know it,’ Tilda said. ‘It’s a sweet place.’

  ‘We were all really happy there.’ He started the engine and pulled out of the driveway onto the lane. ‘I guess I’m trying to find some of that happiness again by coming back.’

  ‘It’s a good idea.’

  ‘You think so?’ he asked. It would be good to get her opinion, he thought, because he didn’t have anyone else to talk to about this stuff.

  She nodded. ‘This is definitely my happy place.’

  He turned and smiled at her and then he unwound his window. ‘Well, it definitely has the best air in the world, doesn’t it?’

  ‘The best what?’ Tilda asked.

  ‘Air – the best air!’

  She frowned. ‘I’ve never really thought about it.’

  ‘Says a true local who’s known nothing else in her life.’

  She turned and stared at him. ‘That’s some assumption to make. You think that I’ve only ever lived at Orley and that I’ve never experienced anything else?’

  ‘Did I say that?’

  ‘Not in so many words.’ She shook her head. ‘I’ve been away, you know. I’ve seen places.’

  ‘I’m sure you have!’ he said, glancing at her quickly. ‘You know, there’s something familiar about you.’

  Tilda turned her head slightly away from him, as if pretending to watch the passing landscape.

  ‘We haven’t met before, have we? I’d have remembered.’

  ‘No, we’ve not met. I’ve just got one of those faces, I guess.’

  ‘You haven’t told me what you do. For a living, I mean.’

  ‘I teach music.’

  ‘The piano?’

  ‘And singing.’

  ‘You sing too?’

  ‘A little.’

  They drove up the hill out of the valley, passing the church and turning onto the main street of Elhurst. As it was Saturday morning, it was busy with shoppers walking with children and dogs, and people riding bicycles and horses.

  ‘It’s up here, right?’ Laurence asked, passing the war memorial.

  ‘Yes. There’s parking at the back.’

  The antiques centre was housed in an impressive converted mill and had three floors to explore.

  ‘Where shall we begin?’ Laurence asked as they entered the building.

  ‘The ground floor tends to have the largest pieces of furniture,’ Tilda told him.

  ‘Okay. Are you looking for anything?’

  ‘No,’ she said. ‘We’d be more likely to sell things to the buyers here than to purchase them.’

  ‘You’ve got some pieces to sell at Orley?’

  ‘Don’t get your hopes up. I think Grandma Dolly would kill us if we tried to sell anything else.’

  They looked around, spotting a wonderfully large refectory table that wouldn’t look out of place in a monastery, several huge wardrobes which were probably all portals to Narnia, as well as beds, mirrors, chairs, clocks, sofas and paintings – more than Laurence could ever have dreamed of.

  ‘I think I’ll have to do some maths,’ he confessed after they’d walked around a second time. ‘I’m definitely going to have that bed with the carved headboard.’

  ‘You’re going to have guests?’

  Laurence looked thoughtful. ‘Probably not, but it’s nice to be prepared and I’ve certainly got the room for it.’ He grinned. ‘You know, I spent all those years in London and yet I can’t think of a single person I want to keep in touch with. Is that bad? I don’t imagine I’ll invite anyone down here to visit.’

  ‘You should be careful about that.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I mean, it’s easy to isolate yourself somewhere like Orley. It’s a bit of a bubble. We’re very cut off from the outside world. Mum came down from London, and she had such a huge circle of friends and there were always lots of parties and things, so it kept the place alive but, since Dad died, we haven’t really seen anyone much.’

  ‘I’m sorry to hear about your father.’

  Tilda nodded. ‘Orley isn’t the same without him. He was Orley.’

  ‘All this must be a huge upheaval for your family.’

  ‘It is. These old houses might not seem to change over the decades, but they do. People come and go and leave their marks, their memories.’

  ‘Hey, that’s rather beautiful. You should write that down. It might make a good song.’

  She smiled. ‘You might be right. Anyway, what else is on your shopping list?’

  ‘Ah, yes. So, we’re going for the bed, one of those wardrobes, the second-largest table that we saw and the chairs around
it, the bookcase with the glass front and the side table with the cabriole legs. Do you think they’ll cut me a good deal?’

  ‘I sure hope so, otherwise it might be you selling part of Orley!’

  He grinned.

  Then, as they were making their way towards the desk at the front of the store, something rather strange happened. A woman who looked to be in her early thirties was walking towards them with two girls who looked about eleven and nine. ‘Hey – it’s Tilly!’ the older one suddenly shouted. ‘Mummy, it’s Tilly!’ And she grabbed her mother’s arm and pulled her towards Tilda.

  Laurence looked on in amusement. He assumed that they were either friends of Tilda’s or perhaps two of her pupils. That was, until they asked her for her autograph.

  ‘I hope you don’t mind,’ the mother said. ‘They love your song.’

  ‘It’s no bother,’ Tilda said as she dutifully signed a notepad the mother got out of her handbag.

  ‘This is so kind of you. You know, they both know all the words, and all the moves too!’

  ‘We do!’ the older girl said.

  ‘Really?’ Tilda said. ‘I’m impressed.’ She handed the notepad to the younger girl.

  ‘Oh wow!’ she said. ‘Thank you!’

  ‘You’re welcome.’

  ‘So, when’s the next song out?’ the mother asked.

  Laurence watched as Tilda’s face paled.

  ‘I’m not sure,’ she said.

  ‘Well, we’ll be the first to buy it! Say goodbye, girls.’

  ‘Goodbye, Tilly!’ they chorused.

  ‘Bye!’ Tilda said, waving to them as they disappeared out of the door.

  Laurence cocked his head to one side. ‘What on earth was all that about?’

  ‘I – er – it was nothing.’

  ‘Nothing! They asked for your autograph.’

  She shrugged. ‘I sang a song once.’

  ‘A song that seems to have made you famous.’

  ‘Maybe just a little bit. To locals.’

  ‘I think you’re being very modest,’ Laurence said. ‘What was it called, this song of yours?’

  Tilda sighed. ‘ “Summer Girl”.’

  Laurence’s mouth dropped open. ‘That was you? You were Tilly?’

  Tilda nodded.

  ‘Blimey. I remember that song. They used to play it on the radio all the time. It was really annoying!’

  Tilda stared at him in horror. ‘Thanks a lot!’