Jonathan gave her a look she didn’t quite understand.
‘What?’
‘Don’t get attached, Vanessa.’
‘I’m not!’
‘I saw the way you kept glancing at her in the garden.’
She felt her face flame in embarrassment. ‘I didn’t mean to stare, but she looks a little like my daughter, Tilda, and I couldn’t help thinking . . .’
‘There but for the grace of God?’
‘Yes. There’s so much luck involved in life, isn’t there? Where we’re born and who we’re born to.’
‘Who our parents get involved with and the friends we meet along the way.’
Vanessa nodded.
‘And the decisions we make,’ he added and, for a moment, Vanessa thought that she saw a dark shadow pass across his face as if he were remembering something. ‘Jenna’s pretty mixed up,’ he continued a moment later. ‘Her moods can be up and down, but she’s special. I’ve got great hopes for her.’ He cocked his head to one side. ‘Where’s that music coming from?’
‘What?’ Vanessa said. ‘Oh! It’s Jassy in the oast house. She’s my younger daughter and she must be painting a still life because she’s listening to Correlli. She likes to listen to Baroque music when working on still lifes.’
‘Really?’
‘And hard rock when she’s painting abstract, and absolute silence when painting portraits.’
Jonathan grinned. ‘Do you think our team would work harder if we played some heavy metal?’
‘They might, but you’ll have me complaining if you do.’
‘And we don’t want to upset our lovely host,’ he said.
She smiled at him but, before she could ask him any more questions, he had returned to supervise the washing of the mugs.
‘Right,’ he said, addressing the team, ‘use the loo if you need it and then straight back to the walled garden. Rod will be waiting for you, so no loitering.’
Vanessa smiled. She loved his bossiness, which was probably just what these kids needed – rules and boundaries. He clearly adored them and she couldn’t help wondering what had led him into this work. Perhaps there was more to this than just passing on his love of gardening. Maybe there was something in Jonathan’s own past that made him reach out to connect with these young people.
Vanessa left them at lunchtime, giving them a bit of privacy to do their own thing, but rejoined them in the afternoon.
‘You know, I’ve really enjoyed today,’ she said when it was finally time to down tools.
‘Good,’ Jonathan said. ‘It’s done you good too, judging by your complexion.’
Vanessa’s hands flew to her face. ‘Really?’
‘You were pale as snow this morning, but you’ve got roses in your cheeks now.’
‘And dirt under your nice nails,’ Jenna pointed out.
Vanessa laughed and then realised that she was still wearing Jonathan’s shirt. ‘Thank you for this,’ she said as she began to unbutton it.
‘Keep it.’
‘I couldn’t.’
‘It’s a bribe really,’ he said. ‘It’ll force you into coming to help us again.’
‘I don’t need to be bribed to help you. I’ve had a really great day.’ She watched as Rod and Nat cleaned the tools with an old rag.
‘Jonathan goes nuts if we leave dirt on anything,’ Oz told her.
‘Tools are expensive,’ Jonathan said. ‘It’s taken me a long time to put this collection together and I don’t want it rusting away through neglect. Make sure you put that stuff on the compost heap before you leave.’ He nodded towards a pile of weeds which had been pulled from one of the raised beds.
‘You’ve got them all really well-trained,’ Vanessa said.
‘Only taken eighteen months,’ he said with a grin.
They spent another ten minutes tidying around the garden and making sure everything was safe and neatly put away for next time.
‘I’m knackered,’ Nat complained as they returned to the minibus.
‘Good,’ Jonathan said. ‘Means you’ve done a proper day’s work and won’t have the energy to get up to any mischief tonight.’
‘I wouldn’t be too sure,’ Oz said. ‘He’s seeing somebody.’
‘Are you?’ Jonathan asked, and Nat gave a sheepish look.
‘Might be.’
‘Good for you,’ Jonathan said and then turned to Vanessa. ‘Thank you for today.’
‘Thank you. I can’t believe how much land you’ve cleared.’
‘We’ll finish off next time and then we can start enriching the beds and planting.’
‘I’ll see you in a couple of days then.’
‘You bet.’ He gave her a funny little salute before leaving via the gate in the yew hedge with his team.
Vanessa returned to the house and wasn’t a bit surprised to see Dolly in the hallway ready to pounce on her.
‘Where’ve you been all day?’
‘Out in the garden,’ Vanessa said.
‘What’s going on out there? That horrible van and minibus have been parked in the lane all day, blocking the road.’
‘They’re not blocking the road,’ Vanessa said.
‘You’re up to something. You’re always up to something.’
‘I’m not up to anything, Dolly.’
‘You’ve got dirt on your face.’
‘I’ve also got roses in my cheeks,’ Vanessa said, undeterred.
‘There’s dirt in your hair too.’
And you’ve got poison in your heart, Vanessa thought, but she didn’t say anything because she wasn’t going to allow Dolly to spoil what had been a wonderful day.
Chapter 10
It was a new experience for Laurence to wake up in the middle of the night and experience total darkness and hear absolutely nothing. His flat in London had been in a relatively quiet street and yet was never completely silent. There was always traffic and the sound of people coming and going, and street lighting that meant he could safely wander around in the early hours without needing to turn the lights on. But, here at Orley, the middle of the night was a strange place indeed, and one of the first things Laurence had made sure he bought was a bedside lamp so that he didn’t stumble across the sloping floorboards of his bedroom or crash into walls he was not yet familiar with.
Getting up now, he wondered when his disjointed sleep had begun and pinpointed it back to the time just after his mother had died. The unreality, the suddenness, the brutal ugliness of it all had disturbed him greatly. He’d had nightmares too when he had actually managed to fall asleep, nightmares which had caused him to wake up sweating. He didn’t have those anymore, but his sleeping patterns hadn’t been quite the same since.
Putting on a pair of jogging bottoms and an old jumper, he opened his bedroom door, praying that the appalling squeak wouldn’t wake his father. He’d have to get that fixed as soon as he could, although he liked the way the old house seemed to talk to him in a succession of squeaky doors and floorboards. He’d heard that old houses breathed and moved, but he hadn’t really paid that any attention until he’d experienced it for himself. Field End Cottage had had a few rattly windows and sloping floors, but it had been nothing compared to Orley.
Doing his best not to step on any vocal floorboards, Laurence decided that he might listen to a chapter or two of one of the audiobooks he had on the go. That might not help him sleep, but it was, at least, a good way to pass the time.
It was as he was crossing the landing that he thought he heard something, and he opened the door overlooking the entrance hall. Music. He could hear music. Somebody was playing the piano and he had a very good idea who it might be.
Running a hand through his hair, he slipped on a pair of trainers and made his way downstairs, listening to the music coming from the south wing. There was a touch of melancholy about it, he thought, as well as intense sweetness. It was the kind of music one could listen to for hours and always find something new, something wonderful to remark upon.
>
He approached the room where the music was coming from. It was much louder now and he stopped and listened to it for a moment before he entered. Sure enough, there was Tilda sitting at the piano. She was wearing a big baggy jumper just as he was – a prerequisite for mooching around a big old manor house in the middle of the night. Her hair was slightly dishevelled, as if she’d managed to get into bed at least but perhaps hadn’t slept well there.
‘Hello,’ he whispered, trying to come into her line of vision and hoping he didn’t frighten the living daylights out of her.
‘Oh!’ she cried, catching sight of him.
‘Sorry!’ he said, coming into the room. ‘I didn’t mean to frighten you.’
‘What are you doing up?’
‘Couldn’t sleep. Then I heard you playing.’
‘You can hear me in the north wing?’ she asked, her face a picture of mortification.
‘Just faintly.’
‘I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to disturb anyone.’
‘You didn’t,’ he said. ‘I was awake anyway. I’m a light sleeper. I used to get up all the time in London and sit and listen to audiobooks in the dark.’
‘Yeah? Which books?’
‘Thrillers mostly. A bit of crime.’
‘I don’t think those kinds of books will ever help you sleep!’
‘Maybe not, but they kept me amused in the wee small hours.’ He watched as she gently closed the piano lid. It was a very expensive-looking grand and a thing of great beauty, though it was obviously much loved rather than a piece that had been inherited and used to place photo frames on.
‘What was that you were playing just then? Was it something you wrote?’ Laurence asked her.
She nodded. ‘A long time ago.’
‘It was lovely.’
Tilda gave a little smile. ‘When Dad was ill, he’d find it hard to sleep some nights and he would ask me to play for him.’
‘What, he’d wake you up?’
‘No, I pretty much couldn’t sleep either. We’d sit up for hours together, talking and playing the piano.’
Laurence took a step towards her and nodded to a sofa before sitting down. Tilda turned around on the piano seat to face him.
‘I was just thinking about my mum,’ he said. ‘I found it hard to sleep after she died. I haven’t really been right since.’
Tilda frowned. ‘But wasn’t that two years ago?’
‘Yep.’
‘That’s a long time to not be able to sleep properly.’
‘Tell me about it!’ He sighed. ‘There’s been a lot of upheaval since then too. It’s not been an easy time for me or my dad.’
Tilda gave him a sympathetic look. ‘How did she die? I mean, if you don’t mind me asking.’
‘I don’t mind. It was a car crash in Kent. A little country road. It had been raining. Dangerous conditions, the police told us, and maybe she lost concentration or control of the car. We don’t really know,’ he said. ‘She died instantly.’
‘Oh, no,’ Tilda said. ‘That’s so sad.’
Laurence sighed. ‘Dad didn’t deal with it well. Isn’t dealing with it well.’
‘I’m sorry. Is that why you moved here? A fresh start?’
‘I suppose it is,’ he said. ‘I thought it would do us both good. We were happy here in Sussex. It was a good life.’
‘And is he happy to be back?’
Laurence shrugged. ‘To be honest, I don’t know what makes him happy these days.’
‘Have you asked him?’
‘Whenever I ask my dad a direct question, he shuts down on me completely. It’s really frustrating. I’ve tried to talk to him so many times, but he’ll just leave the room or clam up.’ Laurence paused. ‘I think we’ve always had trouble communicating. I’ve been thinking about that a lot lately. We’ve never really chatted together. Not like I used to with my mum. Dad would ask how my day went and what the football score was – that kind of thing – but we never really talked about anything meaningful. And I really wish we could. I want to know how he’s feeling and what’s going on in that head of his.’
‘Well, these things take time.’
‘It’s been two years and he spent one of those years travelling around South America.’
‘Really?’
‘Yep! I had no idea where he was. The occasional postcard would arrive, but he’d always moved on by then. There was no way of getting in touch with him.’
‘He obviously needed to escape. When my dad died, my sister escaped into her art and my mum into her work, and Grandma into silence. That was scary. She didn’t talk to anybody. We just couldn’t reach her. It was awful. We didn’t know what to do.’
‘Nobody prepares you for this kind of thing, do they?’ Laurence said.
Tilda knitted her fingers together in her lap. ‘We all knew Daddy was going to die, but it didn’t make it any easier. I think it just makes you sadder for a longer time.’
‘But at least you got to say goodbye.’
Tilda nodded.
‘You could talk about all the things that really mattered too,’ he said.
Suddenly, there were tears in Tilda’s eyes.
Laurence was beside her in an instant, kneeling down in front of the piano seat. ‘Sorry! I didn’t mean to upset you. I should have been more mindful.’
‘It’s okay. I’m okay.’
‘It’s just that I don’t often get to talk about all this, and I guess it’s still very much going round my head.’
‘It’s fine,’ she said, mopping her eyes with a tissue from the sleeve of her jumper. ‘It’s good to talk.’
‘Are you sure?’
She nodded and Laurence slowly stood back up and walked across to the window, drawing the curtains and staring out into the moonlit garden.
‘The middle of the night is a strange place,’ he said, ‘but it can be a great friend. I did a lot of thinking in that year after my mum died. I’d never really had time to think before. But I guess I needed to talk as well.’ He turned around, smiling suddenly. ‘Want to go for a walk?’
‘What?’
‘In the garden. Right now. Do you want to come with me?’
‘No, not really. It’ll be freezing!’
‘It’ll be fun. Come on. Don’t forget I’m new here. This is all still an adventure.’
‘I thought you wanted to talk,’ Tilda said, obviously confused.
‘I do. But let’s talk and walk.’
‘You’re crazy!’
‘Come on!’ he said again, taking her hand as he walked past her.
They crossed the hallway together, through the eerie shadows, to the front door.
‘You’ll need a coat,’ Tilda said, grabbing two from a hook by the door and putting one on. ‘Here – this is a spare.’
‘Your father’s?’
‘No. I think it belonged to the gardener we used to have. It’s got a huge rip up the back so it’ll be a bit draughty, but it’s better than nothing.’
She stuffed her feet into a pair of wellington boots, and they opened the front door and Laurence immediately turned right.
‘We can’t go round that way,’ Tilda whispered. ‘Grandma’s rooms are on the south side and we’ll set Reynolds off if we walk past them.’
‘Shall we go to the walled garden then?’
‘I suppose,’ she said, sounding reluctant and probably thinking that he was absolutely mad.
They tiptoed down the garden path, only speaking again when they were away from the house.
‘Wow – just look at those stars,’ Laurence said, craning his neck back and taking in the enormous expanse of the heavens. ‘I’ve forgotten what a night sky is meant to look like. Isn’t it fantastic?’
‘I guess.’
‘Says somebody used to seeing millions of stars every single night.’
‘Only a madman would come out here every single night.’
‘I used to try and see the stars from my flat in London. I had the
tiniest of balconies outside my bedroom, but there was so much light pollution that you couldn’t see a thing or, if you thought you had, it turned out to be an aeroplane.’
‘Is this what you came out for – to see the stars?’
He turned to look at her. ‘I just wanted to come out because I could. It’s been a long time since I had a garden to roam about in at night.’
‘Well, it’s freezing.’
‘You want to go back in?’
She paused before answering and then shook her head. ‘No, I’ll brave it a bit longer, but can we start walking so I can keep warm?’
They continued towards the walled garden and Laurence glanced back at the great bulk of the house and the comical conical shape of the oast house’s silhouette against the night sky. The outline of the hills looked ominously dark against the star-studded heavens. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d walked in the countryside at night. It must have been when they’d lived at Field End Cottage. He had often sneaked out into the garden on a summer’s evening, climbing up the beech tree and sitting on one of its smooth grey boughs and just staring into the sky until he felt quite dizzy. How long ago that seemed now. The young boy who had climbed trees and jumped over brooks, whose childhood had seemed to stretch to infinity during those long summer holidays – the boy who had been the centre of his parents’ world. Where had he gone? And the family too, and that perfect little life? It was all gone, it had stopped existing; it had morphed into something quite different: the boy was now a man, the father was a recluse and the mother was dead.
Laurence took a deep breath of the cold night air.
‘You’ve gone very quiet,’ Tilda said as they entered the walled garden.
‘Just thinking.’
She turned to look up at him and the moon shone full on her pale face. What a lovely face she had, he thought. So full of warmth and kindness, but sadness too. Just as he was nursing a bruised heart, so was she. That was something else he’d learned from his mother’s death: so many people were carrying great hurts and you never really knew what somebody was suffering. Not until it happened to you. Until recently, Laurence had always been the kind of man to work at full speed and pay very little attention to the emotional needs of those around him. He just hadn’t been aware of them. But he was now.
Love in an English Garden Page 11