A Secret Garden

by Katie Fforde

  Then there was an ‘Oh no!’ from the commentator. ‘The favourite’s fallen. It’s all right, he’s got up again but he’s lost his lead. Doubt if he’ll catch up now. It’s anyone’s race—’

  ‘Which horse? Which is your horse?’ Philly had to bellow to make herself heard over the crowd that was now roaring so loudly she could feel the vibration in her feet.

  Lucien shouted something into her ear but she couldn’t hear.

  She squeezed round so she could see the television. There was a big pack of horses at the front and a lone galloper coming up the outside. Some sixth sense told her this was the horse with the great odds that Lucien had bet on.

  She managed to catch the name from the commentator: Baker’s Dozen. She turned back to stand by Lucien and briefly closed her eyes. She didn’t want to see it limp home five minutes after everyone else, and Lucien would need her support.

  ‘It’s Baker’s Dozen, isn’t it? You bet on it because you liked the name and it had great odds?’ He probably couldn’t hear her, she realised, and that was a good thing. He knew what a hideous mistake he had made. He didn’t need her to point it out. She braced herself for his desperate disappointment, glad she was there to drive him home.

  Then his hand became a vice, crunching her fingers together. The crowd was so impossibly loud she could hardly hear the commentary, but the name Baker’s Dozen seemed to emerge. The thunder of the horses sounded like a rockfall getting nearer and nearer. As they shot by, Philly had no clue about who was in the lead.

  And then the roar was coordinated into one great shout. ‘Baker’s Dozen!’

  The commentator called, ‘Baker’s Dozen has won – he’s gone past every other horse—’

  Lucien picked Philly up and hugged her so tight she couldn’t breathe or move. ‘We’ve won!’ he shouted. ‘We’ve won!’

  They jumped up and down like two pogo sticks welded together. Then he kissed her, first her cheek and then on the mouth.

  ‘Come on, let’s claim our winnings. The bookie should be just down here—’

  He was so excited, Philly couldn’t bring herself to suggest the bookie might have done a runner. She berated herself for being so negative but in her mind money was always worked for. You didn’t get it by putting hard-earned wages on the right horse.

  She ran after him, pulled along by his hand, struggling to keep up as he ducked and dived between the groups of people, her heart sinking with every step. She did not have a good feeling about this.

  She fell against Lucien as he drew to a halt suddenly. ‘He was here! The bookie was here.’

  ‘How much was he due to pay you?’ Philly asked.

  ‘Over three thousand pounds.’

  She bit her lip. She should be brave and explain that over three thousand pounds was a huge amount and a small bookie might not be able to find that even if he wanted to.

  ‘Oh!’ said Lucien. ‘There he is. The one in the emerald-green suit.’

  Philly followed more slowly. She was there to pick up the pieces; she hoped she wouldn’t have to stop Lucien getting into a fight.

  However, everyone was being very good-natured though she could see Lucien was patting his pockets in a rather dramatic way.

  ‘You haven’t lost your betting slip?’ Philly asked, wishing her stomach would stop behaving like a washing machine churning over as each crisis was faced and then averted. This last one could be the worst of the lot, the only one that couldn’t be blamed on someone else – the tipster, the horse or the bookie. This was down to Lucien.

  Then he put his hand in his top pocket and pulled out a very scruffy bit of paper that had bright green horseshoes all round the edge. He glanced at Philly, who had a trickle of sweat running down her spine. ‘Had you going there, didn’t I?’

  ‘Time to be smug when you’ve got the money in your hand, Lucien.’

  ‘Whoa there, me darlin’,’ said the bookie. ‘You wouldn’t be suggestin’ I might not pay up, now would you?’

  ‘It’s a lot of money,’ said Philly firmly, emphasising her Irish accent in the hope it would give her a bit of authority. For all he knew, her favourite uncle could be Paddy Power, or one of the other huge bookmakers.

  ‘’Tis, so,’ said the bookie, winking at her, ‘but I’ve laid it all off, and as the favourite didn’t win, the bookies are all happy.’

  She summoned a smile, wishing she knew what he was talking about. But when she saw the wodge of notes he was withdrawing from his inside pocket and beginning to count into Lucien’s hand, her smile became genuine.

  ‘Now,’ said the bookie, winking again, ‘go and blow the lot on getting back on the right side of your girlfriend.’

  Lucien grinned and put his arm round Philly, hugging her to him. ‘I’ll do that,’ he said.

  ‘What that chap doesn’t know is that getting on the right side of you involves doing something very sensible with the money,’ he went on when they were out of earshot.

  ‘What he also doesn’t know is that I’m not your girlfriend,’ said Philly.

  ‘Really? I think we should work on that. I think you’d be a great girlfriend!’ He paused and put his arms round her and pulled her close. ‘Now I’m no longer an itinerant chef but a man of means, will you consider taking me on as a boyfriend?’

  ‘I might,’ she said happily.

  15

  A couple of weeks later, Lorna opened the door and opened her arms. Her son, impossibly tall and good-looking, stood on the doorstep.

  They kissed, embraced, and then she said, ‘How lovely to see you! Come in.’

  Leo lowered his rucksack on to the floor. ‘I’ve got more stuff in the car but it can stay there for a bit.’

  ‘Of course,’ said Lorna, wondering why he needed more than just a rucksackful of clothes. ‘It’s nearly suppertime. Do you want tea or wine?’

  ‘Both!’ Leo grinned fondly down at her. ‘Tea first though.’

  They went into the kitchen. ‘It is a very nice place you’ve got here,’ he said, looking around. ‘I’d forgotten it was so roomy.’

  ‘That’s because you’ve only visited me here once when you helped me move, and it’s not really that roomy, it only has one bedroom.’ She smiled to show there were no hard feelings.

  ‘You’ve made it nice.’ He pulled out a chair and sat down. ‘And you’ve made chocolate cake! You are a mum in a million.’

  ‘Well, I am,’ Lorna agreed, putting the kettle on, ‘but not because I made you a cake.’

  When she’d made tea and they were both eating cake, she said, ‘So, what’s your news?’

  ‘Good and bad. Which do you want first?’

  Lorna’s heart sank a bit. Although she and Leo got on really well, he didn’t visit often and she usually had to invite him specially so an unrequested visit was a bit ominous. ‘Well, let’s have the bad while we’re still eating cake.’

  ‘My job came to an end. It wasn’t my fault, the company folded.’ He sighed and smiled ruefully. ‘And I finished with my girlfriend at the same time. The two were not related.’

  ‘Oh, darling, that’s two bad things. What’s the good news?’

  ‘I’ve come to live with you for a bit! You’re always on at me to visit more so now you’ll have me every day.’

  Lorna took a sip of tea. Of course it was lovely to see him but having a grown-up son living with her wasn’t something she’d planned for. He wasn’t the easiest to share with. He needed space. ‘But, darling, this house has only one bedroom,’ she reminded him.

  He looked a bit deflated. ‘Oh. Bummer. Still, we’ll manage. I can sleep on the sofa.’

  ‘Of course you can stay as long as you need to, but it can’t be a permanent arrangement. The house just isn’t big enough.’

  He frowned. ‘Oh. I’ve got a job interview in Grantminster. It’s not great money but I thought it would be nice to be near you.’ He grinned the grin that had got her to write letters explaining why he hadn’t done his homework on many an occa
sion. ‘With you, actually.’

  Lorna reached across the table to pat his arm. ‘More cake?’

  ‘Yes please. Why don’t you want me? Have you got a man-friend you don’t want me to know about?’ He laughed to indicate he thought this idea ridiculous.

  ‘Of course not!’ She laughed too. ‘But there is only one bedroom,’ she repeated. ‘There is a tiny box room but it would take a lot of clearing out.’

  ‘I always wondered if that Peter didn’t have a soft spot for you.’

  Leo didn’t seem to want to consider lack of bedroom space. Lorna mentally resigned herself to sorting out the box room. ‘Well, he hasn’t. He has a new girlfriend, much younger and prettier than I am.’

  ‘Can’t say I’m sorry. I thought he was a bit of a…’ He hesitated.

  ‘What?’ Lorna prompted.

  ‘A bit of a letch?’ He sounded apologetic.

  Lorna frowned. ‘As you haven’t seen him often since you’ve been grown up, I don’t know how you could have got that impression.’

  Leo raised his hands in surrender. ‘I don’t know! Maybe it’s just because I don’t like the thought of a man getting it on with my mum.’

  Guilt trickled over Lorna as if she were having a full-blown affair with a man the same age as her Leo, which she most decidedly was not. ‘It’s not that horrifying a thought, is it?’

  He shrugged. ‘Well, yes, it is. But don’t worry, Mum, being single is the new…’

  ‘Being single?’ she provided kindly.

  ‘Well, yeah. But you don’t mind, do you? You’ve got lots of friends.’

  She did have friends but not that many of them in this area. Lorna realised that he was probably thinking about when they lived in the small town where he’d grown up: she’d had a wide circle of friends and acquaintances there. But it was much harder to meet people when you didn’t have small children and, although she was perfectly content here in her cottage on the Burthen estate, he was wrong to assume that she hadn’t sometimes been lonely. ‘It’s not quite like it was when we lived in Surrey,’ she said mildly, ‘but I do all right.’

  ‘So where’s the bathroom? Then I’ll get my stuff in.’ Leo got to his feet and stretched, instantly making the kitchen seem smaller than it was.

  ‘Fine,’ she said. ‘But it has to be a temporary arrangement. Until you find somewhere more suitable.’

  As Lorna finished getting supper ready while Leo watched television in the sitting room, which had suddenly shrunk because of his possessions, she realised her joy at seeing her son was marred. She should be thrilled to have him – she was thrilled – but the thought of her nice little house being full of his speakers and computers and stuff that she felt no need for was daunting. And supposing she did want a boyfriend? Was having your son living with you like having a Victorian parent? Would her darling boy turn into Mr Barrett of Wimpole Street if Jack came over? Would they have to have secret assignations? While that did sound quite fun in a way, it was a bit bloody ridiculous. She was in her fifties: surely it was up to her if she had a love-life or not?

  But as she opened another bottle of wine, the first having been shared equally between her, Leo and the casserole, she realised she was jumping to conclusions. He had expressed misgivings about a man getting it on with his mum (she shivered slightly as she remembered how he’d phrased it) but that was in the abstract, surely. If he met Jack and saw what a nice, honourable man he was, he’d think differently. Wouldn’t he?

  A few days later, Lorna got up extra early. It was the day before the great garden and sculpture show and she wanted to be there as early as possible. She had a box of black pansies she wanted to get in before the artwork started arriving, possibly taking her away from her main concern.

  But although it was only 7 a.m. when she arrived, Kirstie was already there with a clipboard, looking agitated.

  ‘It is going to be finished, isn’t it, Lorna?’

  ‘Of course,’ said Lorna, hoping her irritation wasn’t too obvious. ‘I have two women coming at eight to help us with the planting up. My son will be here soon to do sweeping and tidying, and Philly and I are doing everything else. It’s up to the sculptors to get their work into position now.’

  ‘Well, they are doing that. Jack texted to say he’s going to be late.’

  Lorna brushed her hair out of her eyes. ‘Yes.’ He’d texted her, too. She hadn’t seen him since Leo had moved in just under a week ago and was anxious about their meeting. The two men would probably get on fine, she realised, but she was still worried.

  ‘So,’ Kirstie went on, unaware of what was going through Lorna’s mind while she appeared to be listening attentively, ‘I don’t know if I told you but we’ve got Ben Hennessy at the last minute!’

  Lorna frowned. She knew she ought to recognise this name but was currently struggling to place him. Kirstie had said his name as if he was really famous.

  ‘You know?’ Kirstie was impatient. ‘He only won the Turner Prize!’

  Lorna relaxed. Not a well-known celebrity then. ‘Oh! Well, that’s brilliant!’

  ‘Yes. He’s coming over later. We’re giving him and his team lunch, then they’ll decide where his piece should go.’ She paused. ‘Actually it would look great up there, overlooking this garden.’

  Her hand indicated the very spot Jack had chosen. Kirstie knew that; it had been discussed. It should be written on her clipboard. Lorna swallowed, trying to second-guess Kirstie. If she reminded her that Jack wanted that spot, would it make it more desirable for Ben Hennessy?

  ‘Well,’ she said casually, ‘I don’t know the piece but if it’s fairly small it might look OK there.’ She paused. ‘But if it’s substantial the absolute prime spot is by the lake.’

  ‘It is quite big, actually,’ said Kirstie. ‘It’s a modern take on The Burghers of Calais. You know? Rodin? Large figures?’

  ‘I know the piece you mean. I did go to art school.’

  ‘Well, Ben’s isn’t quite like that. Instead of being actual figures, his has shards of bronze, clustered together, reaching for the light.’

  ‘Oh.’ Lorna struggled to match this up with The Burghers of Calais she knew of.

  ‘You don’t think it would be difficult to install by the lake?’ said Kirstie. ‘I mean, it’s quite a steep slope down to it.’

  ‘He’ll be having it professionally installed,’ said Lorna, feigning confidence in this being true. ‘And it would look stunning there.’ Jack’s piece would probably look stunning there too but as she was virtually certain Jack didn’t have a team of installers at his command she wanted him to have the site he could access.

  Luckily, Kirstie smiled. ‘I see where you’re coming from. It could look great there. Reflecting in the water and all that.’ She paused. ‘Peter and I are thinking of buying it. It’s several hundred thousand pounds, of course, but it will increase in value and I do think the garden would be improved by some artwork.’

  For some reason Lorna had always disliked the expression ‘artwork’. To her it sounded like something you’d order from the internet which would arrive in your porch ten days later. ‘Why don’t you buy Jack’s piece? It wouldn’t be nearly so expensive.’

  Kirstie gave her a look. ‘Because Jack hasn’t won the Turner Prize.’

  Lorna shrugged. ‘Nor did Rodin.’

  Although she’d worked in the garden until the light failed, which was very late, and fallen into bed exhausted, Lorna woke early the next day. This was it; this was the day they’d all been working towards. It seemed they had been doing it forever. Although as Lorna stepped into the shower she knew it hadn’t been that long at all.

  She knew that Kirstie had been checking the weather app on her phone obsessively as she paced round the garden, announcing the results of her weather-checks, giving instructions, banging in signposts and supervising installations. But as it changed fairly regularly and nothing could be done about it, Lorna didn’t pay much attention.

  She dressed hurriedl
y, put on a little bit of make-up and, after a quick cup of tea and a bit of bread and butter, set off for the garden. She wanted to be there before Kirstie and her clipboard arrived.

  She was aware she’d left the house in a certain amount of chaos but maybe Leo would tidy up before he joined her. She had decided she did enjoy having him, even though he took up a lot of space by sleeping in the sitting room. But she missed coming back to peace in her little haven when she was tired.

  It was going to be a perfect day, she thought as she walked through the morning mist towards the gate and up the drive. Now, there were huge tubs of flowers in front of the columns of the house and below, evidence of the recently acquired ride-on mower was everywhere. Burthen House and its surroundings seemed to glow.

  Only allowing herself a couple of seconds to appreciate the house’s recent upgrade, she went straight to the Italian garden that was now satisfyingly red and black. Philly had managed to get hold of masses of Queen of the Night tulips a fellow nursery had grown in shallow containers for a garden show. Bishop of Llandaff dahlias with their scarlet blooms and dark foliage, Black Barlow aquilegias, auriculas and dark-leaved bergenias were all filled in with the scarlet nasturtiums and their dark foliage. Both Lorna and Philly were delighted with it.

  Jack’s sculpture, a male figure carrying a lamb, now installed and overlooking the garden, was perfect, she thought.

  She was just trying to decide if she so admired it because it really was a magnificent example of figurative sculpture, where every muscle and sinew of the man was clearly defined, or if it was just because Jack had done it, when he appeared.

  ‘I hoped I’d find you here,’ he said. ‘If I hadn’t, I’d have knocked on your door.’

  Only briefly did she allow herself to think what sort of welcome he’d have got from Leo if he’d woken up to find his mother having breakfast with a strange man.

  ‘Well, here I am. It looks good, doesn’t it?’ She indicated his sculpture, staring, stern and brave, over her black and red Italian garden.