He bent down to pick up the now-empty saucer and placed it in the sink to wash. When had things last been good between him and his father? Laurence wondered. Really good, and not just tolerable? When had they last had a real conversation that wasn’t just about what was in the newspapers or what was on the television – about something that really mattered? Laurence genuinely couldn’t remember, but it was probably a long time ago, certainly before his mother had died and probably on one of his rare weekend trips down to Kent. Then again, his mother would have been there, presiding over everything and lightening every moment with her warmth and humour.
Laurence was beginning to wonder if he’d ever really had a normal relationship with his father. Maybe he hadn’t. What did he really know about his dad? He certainly hadn’t known that he’d once had a pet cat.
And where on earth had that new cat come from? The scrawny thing was getting more attention than he was.
It was ridiculous, Laurence thought. He was even jealous of a cat now.
Tilda had woken up in a bad mood. She’d gone to sleep in a bad mood too, tossing and turning in anger at what Laurence had said to her. What right did he have to come wading into her life like that? Mind you, she couldn’t help feeling that she’d encouraged him by going out into the garden at midnight and taking his hand on the way back to the house. Perhaps she’d given him the wrong idea. Perhaps she’d created a feeling of intimacy and he’d felt he could say anything to her. Well, he couldn’t.
It was just as well that Tilda didn’t have any pupils until later in the day, because she was feeling too grouchy to teach. Her mother was sitting at the table in the kitchen, flipping through a lifestyle magazine, when Tilda entered.
‘Look at these horrible chairs,’ she said as Tilda approached. ‘Can you imagine anyone wanting to have them in their home?’
Tilda looked at the lurid green plastic chairs. ‘Not everyone likes Chippendale, Mum.’
‘Imagine these at Orley. No, don’t! The mere thought gives me indigestion—’
‘Mum,’ Tilda interrupted.
‘Yes, dear?’
‘Laurence said there were some people out in the walled garden yesterday.’
‘That’s right.’
Tilda waited for her mother to elaborate. ‘And?’
‘What?’
‘What were they doing?’
‘Gardening, darling.’
‘But we can’t afford one gardener, let alone several.’
‘I know.’
Tilda shook her head in exasperation. ‘Are you going to tell me what’s going on?’
Her mother smiled at her. ‘It’s a special group who will be working here from now on under the guidance of Jonathan Dacre. I met him in the village.’
‘And what do you know about him?’
‘Jonathan?’
‘Yes. Have you done a background check on him? Got references or something?’
Her mother laughed lightly. ‘He’s a gardener with years of experience. He was putting an advert up in the village shop.’
‘Anyone can put an advert up in the shop.’
‘And he’s working with Rod – an ex-policeman.’
Tilda frowned. ‘An ex-policeman?’
Vanessa chewed her lip. ‘Look, your grandma doesn’t know this yet—’
‘Know what?’
‘About the group. The team, Jonathan calls them. They’re—’
‘What? What are they, Mum?’
‘They’re young offenders.’
‘Oh, Mum! Are you sure it’s safe having them here?’
‘Of course it is. They’re amazing people, Tilda. They deserve a second chance.’
‘I’m sure they do. But here at Orley?’
‘Darling, if everybody had that attitude – and a fair few people do – then these people would never get an opportunity to change. Jonathan told me that they’ve been turned down countless times and I can understand why, I really can, but think of the difference you can make by giving these people a chance.’
‘Mum, that’s really admirable, but I can’t help being a bit worried.’
‘You don’t need to worry. Jonathan’s a really great guy. Rod too. And you should see the work they’re doing. We’re lucky to have them.’
‘Well, if you’re sure.’
‘I am,’ her mother said. ‘I really am. You should come and meet them. There’s a girl – Jenna. I’d like you to meet her.’
‘Okay,’ Tilda said.
‘Good. Now,’ Vanessa said, getting up, ‘I suppose I’d better let Jassy know what’s going on too. Is she in the oast house?’
‘I guess.’
‘I can’t remember the last time I had a conversation with that girl. She’s always preoccupied with one of those paintings of hers.’
‘She’s getting good. Have you seen the latest abstracts?’
‘No, I haven’t,’ Vanessa said. ‘I’ll take a walk and see if I can catch her. I suppose Mr Sturridge is out there, is he?’
‘Laurence’s dad?’
‘Yes.’
‘He does seem to be spending a lot of time with Jassy.’
‘I know,’ Vanessa said. ‘I can’t say I’ve warmed to him yet, and I have tried to make conversation with him. He’s a little tricky, don’t you think?’
Tilda’s ears pricked at her mum’s use of the word ‘tricky’. Wasn’t that how Laurence had described his current relationship with his father? Tilda couldn’t help wondering if she’d perhaps been a little harsh with him the night before. He’d only been trying to help her after all, and if he was having his own troubles, it had been doubly kind of him to want to reach out to her with advice.
Yes, she thought, she’d been unkind as well as ungrateful to Laurence, hadn’t she?
Vanessa pulled on a cardigan before leaving the house. The sun might be shining, but the spring air was still cool. She walked towards the oast house, smiling at the cheerful yellow and red tulips. It was the time when one could dream of glorious things for the gardening year ahead, when seeds could be planted and new borders created. Vanessa was already planning a new lavender path in the south garden and was hoping to buy some more climbing roses for the south face of the house and some more bush roses. Roses were always so glorious to have in the house and were much too extravagant a thing to buy from a florist.
That was another of the great luxuries of having an old house and beautiful country garden, she thought: there was always something to cut for a vase and she got infinite pleasure from browsing the borders for colourful blooms to place around the house. She adored matching the right flowers with the right vase; there was a glorious collection of vases at Orley, from blue and white Chinese pieces and handmade studio pottery to the most delicate English porcelain and the finest crystal.
Vanessa made sure that the borders had plenty of flowers to cut each year. There were majestic giants like lilies and gladioli, and blowsy beauties like roses and peonies, as well as the more delicate glories of sweet peas and pinks. There was always something, even in the depths of winter when vibrant berries in reds and oranges could be matched with evergreens to bring a bit of cheer to a bare windowsill.
The garden had been a special sort of sanctuary for her when Oliver had been ill and, in the moments he’d been sleeping, Vanessa had strolled down the pathways, taking comfort from the flowers and the trees. And she’d always bring something back with her to place on Oliver’s bedside table.
Yes, the garden was a special place and Vanessa felt happy that she was able to share it with Jonathan and his team. She wasn’t going to let the ever-cautious Tilda sow seeds of doubt in her mind. It was much too lovely a thing to keep to oneself. That had been one of the reasons for hosting the summer fete – to allow the locals to enjoy the garden when it was at its very best. But that had only been for one day a year.
Vanessa pondered this for a moment on her way to the oast house. East Sussex and the bordering county of Kent were well known for their ga
rdens, from Vita Sackville-West’s Sissinghurst to Christopher Lloyd’s Great Dixter, from Nymans to Standen. Visitors to the region were spoilt with what was on offer. Could Orley really compete with such gems if they decided to open it to the public? Vanessa smiled. Of course it could, because it had one advantage that none of the other properties had: it was Orley.
She took a deep breath as she looked out across the south garden and the view to the hills beyond. This valley was a special place and Orley had one of the best vantage points. Perhaps they should share that. Maybe she should talk to Jonathan about it.
She had once suggested opening the gardens at weekends to Oliver and he’d been interested in the idea initially, but had backed down completely when Dolly had made her thoughts known.
‘You want to invite the public in every weekend?’ Dolly had barked.
‘Only between April and October,’ Vanessa had said.
How disappointed she’d been when Oliver hadn’t supported her scheme. There’d been several other occasions over the years when she and Dolly had played tug of war with Oliver’s loyalty, but Oliver wasn’t around now, Vanessa thought, and she certainly didn’t have to ask Dolly’s permission before making decisions. If Vanessa wanted to open the gardens to the public or start the summer fetes again then she jolly well would.
Reaching the oast house, she heard the uplifting notes of a Vivaldi mandolin concerto.
‘Still life,’ she said to herself, knocking on the door before entering.
‘Mr Sturridge!’ she said in surprise as she came face-to-face with Marcus.
He cleared his throat. ‘Mrs Jacobs.’
‘What are you doing out here?’
‘Isn’t that obvious, Mum?’ Jassy said. ‘He’s painting. He’s not very good yet. He’s still learning about perspective.’
Marcus chuckled. ‘Your daughter is very honest.’
‘I know,’ Vanessa said, taking in the fact that Marcus Sturridge was standing behind an easel and wearing one of her daughter’s paint-splattered aprons.
‘Did you want something, Mum?’
Vanessa had walked into the room so that she could get a look at what Marcus Sturridge was painting.
‘Did I what, darling?’
‘Did you want something? Only, we’re rather busy as you can see.’
‘Oh, right. Of course.’ Mr Sturridge was indeed painting, and it wasn’t a bad effort either. ‘The garden.’
‘What about it?’ Jassy asked.
‘We have someone working in the walled garden now. Jonathan Dacre and his friend Rod. They work with a group of young people and they’re coming twice a week.’
‘That’s nice,’ Jassy said.
Vanessa cleared her throat. ‘They’re young offenders.’
Jassy frowned and Marcus did a double take.
‘What does that mean?’ Jassy asked.
‘It means they’ve been in trouble.’
‘What sort of trouble?’
‘Drink, drugs, crime.’
Jassy seemed to consider this for a moment. ‘And does gardening make them feel better like painting makes me feel better?’
Vanessa smiled. ‘I think it does,’ she said. ‘I hope it does.’
‘That’s good.’ Jassy returned to her painting. Vanessa caught Marcus’s eye and he did something he hadn’t done before: he smiled at her.
Chapter 12
The primroses and cowslips were a distant memory, and the daffodils which had smiled upon the garden for so brief a time were over just as the first roses were beginning to open. They seemed to be getting earlier each year, Vanessa thought, remembering how she’d seen the first pink buds of the Old Blush China roses begin to unfurl in March. Now that it was the end of May, they had been joined by several other beauties which lit up the south garden with wondrous colour.
The stately irises had put on a marvellous display too this year, with their vivid purple and ghostly white flowers and the rich chocolate blooms that her husband had been particularly fond of. The fruit trees in the walled garden were smothered in delicate blossom, giving the appearance of low-floating white clouds when viewed from a distance and, everywhere, the tiny blue flowers of forget-me-nots threaded their way around the garden in a floral river.
The countryside had been a joyous sight too: the woods glowing with bluebells, the scent filling the air with heady perfume. Vanessa could never get enough of them, walking through each day and drinking in their beauty.
Jonathan and his team had made excellent progress in the walled garden. Each of the raised beds was planted with a fine array of vegetables and Vanessa smiled as she recalled the day – just a few weeks ago – when he’d arrived with his trays of plants which took up the entire back of his van.
‘Somebody’s been busy,’ she’d said.
‘That would be me.’
‘What have we got here?’
‘All sorts of things,’ he said. ‘Beans, peas, cabbages and kale, salad crops, squashes and carrots. A little a bit of everything really.’
And now they were all in the ground, planted with care by the team. Walking around the walled garden today, she marvelled at how everything was so neat.
Vanessa had joined them on and off over the last few weeks, helping where she could, but her daughters had yet to meet everybody. Vanessa had to admit that she was rather upset by that. Still, this was her project, and her daughters had their own lives to lead and she had to respect that. Just because Tilda and Jasmine were still living under her roof, it didn’t mean that they had to be involved in everything that Vanessa did or every decision she made. Still, it would have been nice if they’d shown some interest, other than Tilda’s initial warnings about Jonathan and how they didn’t really know anything about the man.
Vanessa had managed to forget her daughter’s caution until an incident in the post office just the week before. She’d been standing behind two elderly women who were waiting to collect their pensions. They hadn’t turned round to see her behind them and had been gossiping quite happily.
‘I can’t believe she did that,’ the first woman had said and Vanessa instantly wondered who they were talking about and what this woman had done.
‘Mind you, she’s a Londoner. She’s used to that sort of thing, isn’t she?’ The other woman declared and Vanessa had tried to guess the identity of this particular Londoner. Perhaps it was Elouise, Geoffrey’s wife, whose house she was giving a makeover.
‘But criminals, for pity’s sake!’ the first woman said, and then Vanessa had known that they were talking about her.
‘They call them young offenders,’ the second woman corrected, ‘but a criminal is a criminal.’
‘Serve the family right if Orley Court gets burgled.’
‘It would that. But what if they come into the village? I bet she hasn’t thought about that. As long as she’s getting free labour, she’s not thinking about anybody else.’
At first, Vanessa was too dumbfounded to react, but then she found her nerve and her voice.
‘I really think you should keep your opinions to yourself,’ she said, and the two women turned around looking suitably shocked.
‘We didn’t know you were standing there, Mrs Jacobs,’ the first woman said. Vanessa recognised her as Mrs Lancaster who did the flowers at the local church, but she didn’t recognise the second woman.
‘Oh, and it would have made a difference if you had, would it?’ she countered.
‘Of course,’ Mrs Lancaster said. ‘We wouldn’t dream of talking about you—’
‘Just think,’ Vanessa interrupted, ‘if one of those criminals was your son or daughter or grandchild. Wouldn’t you want them to be given a second chance? Don’t you think they’d deserve one? We can’t just write these young people off, you know. They’re our future! And to think that you’re Christians! Where’s your compassion?’
She’d left the shop, desperately blinking back tears that had been threatening to spill, and yet, at the same time, a
tiny niggle of doubt assailed her because, just the day before, Dolly had said she’d lost a little jewellery box in which she kept a gold necklace Oliver had given her. But that couldn’t have anything to do with Jonathan’s team, could it? None of them would have sneaked into the house and stolen anything, would they? She’d quickly dismissed the idea.
Now, watching Jonathan and his team in the garden, her heart filled with love and pride. She was getting to know a little bit more about each of them as the weeks went by and had now met Ryan and Andy too. They were all hard-working, but had a tendency to get distracted. Jonathan and Rod had a full-time job on their hands keeping them all on task, especially with Andy who seemed to be a bit of a joker and liked nothing more than to recount stories which were highly amusing, but highly aggravating to Rod, who would slap him down with a reprimand and tell him to put his energy into the earth.
Vanessa was doing a bit of light weeding with a hoe when Jonathan approached her.
‘You okay?’ he asked.
‘I’m fine,’ she said, smiling quickly.
‘You looked thoughtful. Something on your mind?’
He was very attentive like that. He seemed to be able to read her so well; she knew that there was no point in hiding anything from him and so she took a deep breath.
‘It was something I heard. In the village,’ she said.
‘What? What did you hear?’
‘It was about the kids. Two women were talking and they weren’t happy about them being here.’
Jonathan frowned. ‘And you let that upset you?’
She took a deep breath. ‘I guess I did. I mean, I have.’
‘Don’t,’ he told her. ‘You’ve got to shut all that noise out. Keep your head down and just get on with the work. Accept that your vision of the world doesn’t always line up with everybody else’s.’
Love in an English Garden Page 13