Chapter 15
Tilda stood in the doorway of the oast house wondering if her sister was going to invite her in. ‘We might have a problem,’ she said at last.
Jasmine looked up from the sink where she was washing her hands with a bar of green soap. Tilda had once made the mistake of using it only to be shouted down.
‘Don’t touch that!’ Jassy had cried. ‘It’s expensive stuff and only meant for artists.’
Tilda wondered if it was discriminatory that painters had their own bars of soap but pianists didn’t.
‘Did you hear me?’ Tilda said.
‘What’s the problem? Is it Grandma? Is Reynolds chasing Skinny the cat? I told Marcus he shouldn’t encourage her.’
‘No, it’s not Grandma; it’s Mum.’
Jassy dried her hands on an old checked towel by the side of the sink and turned to face her.
‘Is it about that man?’
‘If you mean Jonathan, yes, I think it’s Jonathan-related.’
‘Is she mad at me for teasing her?’ Jassy’s expression was suddenly that of a six-year-old, and Tilda didn’t have the heart to admonish her even though that had been her original intention.
‘I don’t think she’s mad,’ Tilda said. ‘I think she’s more sad than anything.’ She walked further into the room and, after checking that the paint splats were dried, perched on a stool.
‘Why’s she sad?’
‘Because I think she’s having feelings for this Jonathan and it’s making her sad because she feels disloyal to Dad.’
‘Really?’
Tilda shrugged. ‘I’m just guessing, Jassy. I don’t know for sure, but she’s certainly been in an odd mood.’
‘Should we say something?’
‘You saw how she reacted when we did. I think she’s denying her feelings. I really think she likes Jonathan.’
‘I like him.’
‘Yes. He seems like a good man, doesn’t he?’
‘I like his red hair. I want to paint him.’
Tilda smiled. It always came down to art with Jassy, and her wanting to paint somebody was probably the highest compliment you could hope for.
‘You should,’ Tilda said.
‘Would it make Mum happy?’
‘It might.’
‘I’ll put it on my list.’
Tilda nodded, knowing that her sister lived by her lists. She had daily ones, weekly ones, annual ones and lifetime ones, and Tilda watched as Jassy took a pencil out of her apron pocket and scribbled this newest addition to one of the lists she kept in the oast house.
‘Well,’ Tilda said, jumping down from the stool, ‘I thought I’d let you know.’
‘Thanks,’ Jassy said. ‘Hey – you’ve been sad too.’
‘Have I?’
‘Uh-huh,’ Jassy said as she retied her scrunched-up ponytail and grabbed a couple of brushes from a nearby jar. ‘Are you in love with Jonathan too?’
‘Very funny!’ Tilda said. ‘Of course not.’
‘Someone else?’
‘What on earth makes you say that?’
Jassy shrugged. ‘You’ve been mooning about, looking miserable.’
‘Rubbish!’
‘You so have!’
Tilda frowned, knowing that she wouldn’t be able to escape Jassy’s scrutiny unless she fed her something.
‘It’s my music – that’s all,’ she said.
‘Yeah?’
‘Yeah. I’ve just got some stuff going on. Nothing to worry about.’
‘Okay,’ Jassy said, seeming to take her at her word.
Tilda hovered by the door for a moment, wondering if Jassy would press her for more, but she didn’t. She’d picked up her brushes and was leaning over her CD player. A blast of rock music filled the building a second later. An abstract painting was on its way, Tilda thought with a grin, and she made a hasty retreat.
Vanessa held up the swatch of material and waited for Elouise’s response.
‘What do you think? Too dark?’
Elouise grabbed a pair of diamanté-encrusted glasses from a nearby table and examined the swatch.
‘No, I like it. It’s prettier than the other one.’
‘It’s also more expensive than the other one,’ Vanessa confessed, trying to calculate how much it would cost to cover the sofa with the fabric.
Elouise waved a hand in the air. ‘Don’t worry.’
Vanessa smiled and made a note in her book. Elouise wasn’t constrained by budget, that was for sure. The beautiful Georgian house she’d recently moved into in Elhurst was being lavished with the very best in interior design, from luxurious fabrics to bespoke furnishings.
‘Vanessa?’ Elouise said. ‘I’ve heard some rumours about young offenders working at Orley. Is it true?’
Vanessa swallowed hard. She liked Elouise and was loving working on her house, but if she was about to give her an ultimatum then Vanessa would be forced to leave.
‘Yes. It is true.’ She held her client’s gaze, wondering which way this would fall.
Elouise slowly nodded. ‘Good for you,’ she said.
‘You approve?’
‘Well, of course I do! I used to work on a community project in East London. Making gardens, planting trees, creating wildlife corridors.’
‘Really?’
‘Don’t tell Geoffrey,’ she said in a hushed tone. ‘He’d have a fit. He’s a terrible snob and thinks I was working on some posh charity committee.’
Vanessa couldn’t repress a smile and she was still smiling as she parked outside the village shop. People never failed to amaze you, she thought, getting out of the car. She’d been bracing herself for a reprimand from her client but, instead, she’d got a wonderful insight into another side of her.
Crossing the pavement, Vanessa caught sight of Jonathan’s card in the window, his beautiful blue handwriting making her heart skip a beat. She was still feeling pretty shaken after their fight. Well, ‘fight’ was too strong a word perhaps, especially since it had all been one-sided. She’d probably gone and blown their friendship after that outburst.
Quickly buying a loaf of bread and some eggs, Vanessa left the shop and drove the short distance to the other side of Elhurst, pulling up alongside Beeches, Jonathan’s home.
A moment later, she tentatively knocked on the red front door and waited before knocking again, but nobody answered. Of course, she should have guessed he’d be out during the day. His van wasn’t there and it was most likely that he was working somewhere, but oh how she wished he was at home because she felt as if she was carrying around a great weight in her heart. She wanted to do nothing more than talk to him, without screaming or blaming him for something that wasn’t his fault.
Walking back to her car, she determined to call him later. With any luck she’d be able to smooth things over, because losing Jonathan’s friendship was the very last thing she wanted.
Laurence was taking a mid-morning break from his work and decided to stretch his legs in the garden. What a great joy it was to be able to down tools and walk outside into the midst of so much beauty, he thought. May he never take it for granted. He didn’t think he would, after his years spent in an office where lunch breaks were inevitably spent at his desk and mid-morning breaks were unheard of. Even if he had been able to take a proper break, there’d been nowhere to go. Well, nowhere he could inhale the sweet aroma of a hundred different flowers and soak in the richness of the landscape.
He was just heading back to the house when he saw Jassy.
‘Where’s your dad?’ she asked him without any preliminary niceties.
‘He’s not with you?’
She shook her head. ‘I thought we were going to be sketching in the garden today, but he hasn’t shown up.’
‘Oh. Well, he’s bound to turn up sooner or later.’
Jassy stepped into line alongside him. ‘I’m sorry about your mum,’ she said.
‘Pardon?’
‘Tara,’ Jassy said. ‘Th
at’s a pretty name.’
Laurence stopped and turned to face her. ‘Dad’s been talking to you about her?’ he said, unable to hide his shock.
‘Not much. Just said she’d died and that he often thought of her. Especially at this time of year.’
‘Really?’
‘She liked to walk in the garden and collect flowers for the house.’
Laurence swallowed hard at that particular memory of his mother. She had loved to fill endless jam jars with anything from marigolds to cow parsley. There was nothing too ordinary or too common. Anything that had a bloom was a thing of beauty in her eyes.
They reached the front door together and, without so much as a goodbye, Jassy disappeared up the stairs, leaving Laurence dumbfounded in the hallway. He stood, feeling utterly lost as he tried to imagine the scene between his father and this girl. It was so unfair, he thought. Why had his father trusted a stranger with his deepest-felt emotions when he wouldn’t breathe a single word to his own son?
Laurence returned to his office, but he felt much too agitated to work. Still, he sorted out a few spreadsheets and rang a client, but abandoned his desk as soon as he saw his father’s car in the lane. He’d recently bought himself a little runaround. There hadn’t been the need for a car in London, but Laurence was pleased that his father could enjoy some independence now.
He waited a few moments until he heard Marcus entering the north wing and went to meet him in the kitchen, where he found him boiling the kettle.
‘Where’ve you been?’ Laurence asked.
‘I took Skinny to the vets to give her the once-over. Why?’
‘Jassy’s been looking for you.’
‘Oh, right. I forgot. I’ve got an appointment, haven’t I? She’s a very demanding teacher.’
‘Dad?’
‘What?’
‘I spoke to Jassy. You’ve been talking about Mum. To a stranger.’
Marcus frowned. ‘Jassy isn’t a stranger.’
‘You know what I mean.’
‘No, I don’t. What do you mean, Laurence? What’s eating you up about this?’
‘You have to ask? You really have to ask that?’ He cast his eyes up to the sky in desperation. ‘You’re talking to Jassy about my mother, but you won’t talk to me.’
His father held his hand up between them. ‘I don’t need this.’
‘No? Well, you’re getting it,’ Laurence said.
‘Jassy and I talk. Why have you got a problem with that? You were always telling me to get out and make friends when we were in London and now I’m doing it and you’re chastising me.’
‘I’m not chastising you and you’re twisting this around.’
‘Let’s not do this,’ Marcus said. ‘I really don’t want to do this with you.’
‘You can’t keep running away from this. You’ve got to face it.’
His father gave him a look like no other look he’d seen before. It was a desperate, haunted sort of expression that seemed to beg Laurence not to press him on this matter.
‘There’s nothing to face,’ Marcus said slowly. ‘There’s nothing to face and there’s nothing to say.’
‘You’re lying to me. You’re hiding something, I just know you are.’
Marcus simply shook his head and walked out of the kitchen without having made his cup of tea.
Vanessa’s hand hovered over her mobile. All she had to do was press a button, but she was so nervous that she could barely even pick the phone up for shaking.
You’ve got to do this, she told herself. You’ve got to put things right otherwise you’ll be miserable.
She reached for the phone.
‘Jonathan?’ she said a moment later. ‘It’s Vanessa.’
‘How are you?’ he asked her kindly.
‘I’m good. Thank you. How are you?’
‘Fine.’
There was a pause.
‘Vanessa? Was there something—’
‘I’m sorry,’ she blurted. ‘I wanted to say sorry for the other day. In the garden. The whole bench thing.’
‘You don’t need to—’
‘Yes I do. I was really rude and I’m so sorry. You’ve been nothing but kind to me. I guess I was just feeling a little bit raw after what the girls said.’
‘It’s okay.’
She took a deep breath. Her eyes were closed and she wished that there was an easy way to get through this, but it seemed like there wasn’t.
‘I’m still a mess,’ she said quietly. ‘I’m still working things out, you know?’
‘I know,’ he said, his voice gentle as it always was. ‘There’s no need to explain it to me.’
‘But I want to. I want you to understand.’
‘I do.’
She took a moment, nodding even though he couldn’t see her. ‘We’re still friends then?’ she asked.
‘Of course we’re still friends, silly!’
She laughed, relief flooding her. ‘That’s good.’
‘Listen,’ he said, ‘I was thinking of taking a walk this evening. Just into the valley. Maybe along the river.’
‘Sounds nice.’
‘Would you like to come with me?’
A thousand thoughts somersaulted through her mind at the implications of such an invitation. It would be so easy for her to read something into it and to start getting anxious all over again about what Oliver would make of it. But Oliver wasn’t there and she was, and this wonderfully kind, sweet man was asking her to go on a walk with him.
‘I mean, don’t worry if you’d rather not.’
‘No, I’d love to.’
‘Really?’
‘Yes.’
‘Okay. Good. Well, shall I call in at yours? Say seven thirty? We can drive into the valley and take a path from further along the river.’
‘Y – yes,’ she said again and then paused.
‘Vanessa? You still there? You still breathing?’
She gave a little laugh. ‘I’m breathing.’
‘Deep breaths,’ he said. ‘Deep breaths and little steps.’
It was just what she needed to hear.
The day passed unimaginably slowly after that. Vanessa had placed the latest orders after her visit to Elouise and had sorted out a pile of fabrics, which had accumulated on the top of a dear little Hepplewhite chair that seemed almost startled to see daylight again.
She tidied some drawers where a pretty assortment of tangled ribbons and homeless buttons lived, and idly flipped through the pages of her notebook where she jotted down ideas for colour schemes but, with every minute that passed, she thought about Jonathan and the agonising moments that separated her from seeing him again. She told herself it was just nerves – that she’d be more settled as soon as they’d said hello and had sorted out the awkwardness between them once and for all – but she knew it was more than that. She was starting to have feelings for him.
She couldn’t stomach a big meal before he was due to arrive and so had a couple of slices of toast with some WI jam that had crystallised rather beautifully in its jar. She then did her best to settle in the living room, looking through an old magazine whilst Tilda sat in the chair opposite her reading a book.
‘Are you expecting someone?’ Tilda asked after a moment, putting her book down and giving her mum her full attention.
‘Why do you ask?’
‘Because you’re all fidgety.’
‘Rubbish!’ Vanessa said, glancing at the clock on the mantelpiece.
‘Is it Jonathan?’
‘We’re just going for a walk,’ she blurted.
‘You don’t need to explain,’ Tilda said. ‘I was just wondering.’
‘We’re friends and we’re going for a walk.’
‘Good.’
They were silent for a moment and then the little clock chimed the half hour and, precisely ten seconds after that, their front doorbell rang. Vanessa sprang up out of her chair, tossing the magazine onto it and fleeing out of the room.
‘Have a nice time!’ Tilda shouted after her.
‘Bye, darling!’
Reaching the front door and grabbing her jacket, Vanessa paused to compose herself. She was aware that her heart was racing, which was ridiculous. Maybe it was just the rush to get outside. But she knew that it wasn’t. She wanted to see Jonathan again and, opening the door, couldn’t help smiling.
‘Hi,’ he said, giving her one of those warm smiles which instantly made the world a better place. ‘How are you?’
‘I’m good. You?’
‘Yep. Pretty good. I hope I’m not late.’
‘Not at all,’ Vanessa said.
‘I lost my watch today and kind of feel a bit odd without it. I removed it whilst clearing out a client’s pond and then their terrier grabbed hold of it and promptly dropped it right in the water.’
‘It wasn’t waterproof?’
‘Apparently not.’
‘Oh dear!’
‘That watch has seen a lot of gardening action. I’m going to miss it. Do you wear a watch?’
Vanessa pulled her sleeve back to reveal a slim gold watch.
‘Wow,’ he said. ‘That’s a beauty.’
‘Nineteen thirties,’ she said. ‘A wedding gift from my parents. I used to be afraid to wear it but, as one gets older, one realises that it’s important to live in the moment and enjoy things.’
‘Absolutely,’ he said. ‘Like this evening. It’s too perfect to stay indoors.’
‘I agree.’
They walked out of the east gate into the lane where Jonathan had parked his van and he went round to the passenger door, which he held open for Vanessa before running round to his side.
‘Excuse the mess,’ he said, removing a plant pot from the footwell. ‘The van’s a glorified potting shed, I’m afraid.’
Vanessa smiled. She liked it. It smelled of the earth and all things green.
He started the engine and they drove the short distance along the valley, where they parked by the side of the road and got out opposite a tile-hung cottage.
‘I love that place,’ Vanessa said. ‘It’s like one of those divine Helen Allingham paintings – you know, the Victorian watercolourist?’
Love in an English Garden Page 18