The Waiting Place

by Irene Davidson

  Chapter five

  the Virgin queen

  “I’m sure you’re not a pervert,” I intentionally emphasised the ‘sure’, as if this thought had never once crossed my mind.

  Yeah, right.

  Surely thinking something once only did not count?

  …I had the grace to feel a little bad for my earlier besmirching of his character -especially given that now, upon donning the specs he looked like a cross between a cardigan-wearing academic and someone’s kid brother, the lenses taking even more years off his already young face.

  Just what I needed.

  Not.

  Now I felt like his mother …and I was trying to scrub my previous visions of him naked in the shower from my memory banks. But those images were proving resistant to erasure.

  Too bad.

  I’d just have to live with them.

  “And if I had turned out to be some fan-boy stalker?”

  His smile was a trifle feral,

  ...he was enjoying this.

  I refused to act as if I felt any discomfort, …which, or course, I did. “Well…,” I prevaricated, before deciding to come clean, “In that case I’d have given you ten minutes to drink your coffee and if after that, I decided you were a stalker I would’ve screamed the house down and you’d have left …probably under police escort.”

  He wasn’t to know that I wouldn’t dream of making such a scene and calling unmerited attention to myself. Still, it might be just an idle threat but it was good for my ego to express it.

  “In the light of my disclosure, you might want to remember that you haven’t exactly presented credentials to disprove the theory,” I reminded him primly.

  I owed him that for the smile.

  “I brought coffee, croissants and magazines,” he fired back, “and …this,” he reached round to a back pocket.

  I tried not to cringe, hoping he was not about to draw a weapon.

  I needn’t have worried.

  He stretched his hand towards me, proffering a bar of chocolate. Belgian, no less. I could tell by the distinctive wrapper. On the ‘Who makes better chocolate, the Belgians or the Swiss?’ debate, I came down firmly on the Belgian side of the divide …I also liked that little fat detective of the same nationality, but that was beside the point.

  I smiled widely, “Yeah, that’ll clinch the deal.”

  Surely stalkers did not think to bring chocolate for their intended victims? With this thought, I extended my hand greedily to accept his gift, not caring that in doing so I pushed aside generations of parental training in not accepting sweets from strangers. Who cared? I hadn’t been a child for quite some years now and I could rewrite the rules any way I pleased.

  I tore off the wrapper and broke a small section off.

  Popped it in my mouth.

  Savoured the creamy, velvety, richness of fine dark chocolate.

  Oh bliss. I could feel myself starting to spin, floating upwards in a moment of sheer foodie joy, like Snuffles -from that old Quick Draw McGraw cartoon- reacting to his favourite doggie treat. Yeah, I liked classic cartoons… so, shoot me.

  “If only I could,” grumbled a certain angel from the depths of my skull, “unfortunately it’s out of my job-description.”

  “Hmgh,” Tom cleared his throat loudly, “any of that for me? Or are you gonna start sniggering like Muttley now and eat it all yourself?” he did a fair impression of Dick Dastardly’s doggie side-kick’s wheezing smoker’s laugh.

  Wow, with that sneering, snuffling laugh he’d got me without me even uttering a word.

  I was in love.

  Of that I was sure.

  This guy was one-in-a-million, a regular KEEPER as my mum would say.

  “About blimmin’ time,” my angel crowed delightedly. “ I swear it was easier to get Elizabeth the First -you know, the VIRGIN queen, to fall in love than it’s been with you. I need a new job …or at least a long holiday.” With that, she blinked out of my head and I was left with sheer blissful silence.

  Thank God for small mercies, I thought.

  A bit of peace and quiet in your own head was something everyone deserved and not a commodity that had experienced much of lately -with the book tour and all.

  I broke the remaining bar of chocolate in half and handed a section across to Tom.

  “So what are we gonna do for the rest of the day?” I asked ingenuously.

  “I have some ideas,” he grinned across, “but how about we finish these croissants and coffee first before we decide anything important.”

  The End …or, more accurately, the Beginning…

  To my readers:

  Hello and thanks very much for reading my book. If you enjoyed it, I’d be thrilled if you’d take a moment to leave me a review at your favourite retailer.

  Thanks again.

  Irene Davidson

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Author’s note: Thank you Virgin Australia (and let’s not forget that errant lightning bolt) for the inspiration for this story. I owe you one -all things considered, my characters might consider inviting Richard and the crew to the wedding.

  Readers, please note: I have taken some liberties with my description of the Melbourne Virgin Australia Lounge -this is, after all, faction …that is to say, fiction with a few facts thrown in the mix and stirred round for good measure …but still fiction nonetheless. What is it they say? …Never let the facts stand in the way of a good story.

  About the Author:

  Growing up in the far south of New Zealand, Adrienne rapidly came to the conclusion that her native home was a long way from anywhere and unless she wanted to spend all her holidays on Stewart Island she’d need to get used to flying.

  With this in mind, she jetted off to school in Tennessee, university in Palmerston North (that’s in the North Island), work in London and holidays in France, gathering material for writing as she went.

  Following a degree in biology, she studied post-grad in Landscape Architecture before producing two beautiful babies; both of whom are now well on their way to being grown-ups.

  Adrienne currently lives in Perth, Western Australia with Tim and assorted fostered and adopted greyhounds that lie around while she writes …the greyhounds, that is, not Tim.

  Other titles by Irene Davidson

  Leaf on a Breeze, (Book 2 in the White Briars series) available as soon as it is completed.

  Connect with Irene Davidson

  Friend me on Facebook

  Website: https://leafonabreeze.com

  A sample of Irene’s next title: Leaf on a Breeze (Book 2 in the White Briars series)

  Contents

  Prologue

  One

  Two

  Three

  Leaflets five,

  Let them thrive!

  Leaflets three,

  Turn and flee!

  Children’s rhyme, various

  Prologue

  Green Jack

  Jack was busy -others might sleep the night away, wasting the hours between dusk and dawn but not him. Sleep was a thing he no longer wanted nor needed.

  Taking a moment to look down at his hands, he marvelled at his appearance, finding this new self so much better than the old. He thought it convenient that his rejuvenated body did not appear to require rest, feeling that some of his best work was done under cover of darkness while others dozed the night-time hours away. Where once he had been flesh and blood, in outward form if not innermost attitude much like all the other folk in the garden, since his rebirth -his second coming- he thought with darkly twisted humour, he was more plant than person. Should he cut himself now, green sap would run from his veins and in place of skin he was covered over with a tightly-woven bark of vines and leaves.

  He did not mind the constant wakefulness, knowing that it set him apart as someone special, someone different from the others -particularly that useless sleeping sylph Liana. She who had dozed away lifetimes. He was better than that. More exalted and of greater impo
rtance than any of them that dwelt either in the woods or beyond its fringes. And while Liana and the woodland folk dreamed, he could get up to all sorts of mischief.

  And that’s just what he was doing.

  He had been looking forward to a chance to show off his skills -and tonight was his night to perform a little trick that he had been practicing and perfecting for some weeks.

  Laying a leaf-covered hand on a branch of one of the most venerable of the orchard’s roses, he concentrated all his energy on encouraging the growth of the vine, willing the poison ivy that made up much of his torso and limbs to creep along and around the old rose’s stalk. The thorns didn’t bother him and as the tendrils twined round each successive twiglet he could feel his grip on the rambler growing, slowly choking life out of the stem. He applied greater pressure, squeezing incrementally until the one shoot was all but severed from the rest of the bush.

  It was an undeniably heady feeling, extinguishing life, even at this level. Not that this was the first time he had taken a life, but that had been many years ago when he’d had an altogether different form. Watching the healthy green leaves of the rosebush turn to sickly yellow he felt a spasm akin to something exquisitely orgasmic, increasing more and more as the silky petals from the flowering blooms dropped lifelessly to the ground.

  He couldn’t yet kill the entire plant but his abilities were growing, slower than he’d like but nevertheless improving with each passing day and he felt the time growing nearer when he could usurp control from Liana and take up the mantel as Master over the Garden.

  Much like the serpent in Eden, he was intent on spreading his particular brand of evil and malice with whatever power he could obtain, sure that once he held sway in the stead of Liana and her cohorts that he would be able to move beyond the garden’s boundaries to bloom to his full deadly potential.

  Well-pleased with his efforts, Green Jack unconcernedly strode away from the sickly plant. He allowed himself the remainder of the night to indulge in his favourite activity of sneaking around and spying on others as they dozed, before spending the day happily hidden in his preferred oak tree –a huge old behemoth that grew on the western periphery of the garden’s borders, close by a field that had once been set aside for travelling folk. These days it was a spot seldom visited by humans or the woodland fey and since his reawakening he had made it his own. That the once-healthy tree was dying by degrees from his constant ministrations was of little consequence to Jack. To him it was nothing more than a convenient place to perch and practice his sinister skills.

  Venturing out the next evening, he was distraught when he returned to the moonlit orchard - intending to gloat over his small victory- to find to his extreme displeasure that Liana must have passed by during the daylight hours. It had to be her …she was the only being in the garden with the power to undo his work. The interfering sylph had apparently healed the ancient bush, putting to rights his hard-won display of prowess and the old rose now stood whole and healthy once more.

  Aggravated, he kicked the thorny bush with his ivy-bound foot before he turned and stalked off into the shadows of the trees that edged the orchard. Knowing that he had greater power towards the margins of the garden’s domain than here in the centre he thought that perhaps he would head on over to the nursery on the far fringes of the woods where he could do some harm that might stand a chance of remaining beyond the morrow. The nursery was a later addition that had been developed within the confines of the garden’s old walls while he had been …absent… -and it was the one other place, besides the church and White Briars cottage that he could go to as he was yet unable to venture beyond the walls. His last attempt to scale the stone barrier that marked the garden’s boundary had ended with the usual embarrassing failure of him being catapulted back into the garden.

  He would not think about that.

  Instead, he thought to himself, he would have some fun and continue practising out of Liana’s sight. No point wasting his precious time working here in the heart of the garden if there was the likelihood that she would stumble upon his little displays. He had thought her too busy with that brat she had borne to the human to notice his handiwork but it appeared she was still maintaining some vigilance in the garden spaces closest to the cottage.

  He shrugged, causing the leaves across his shoulders to rustle. He liked the sound so much that he shook his head a few times, creating a rippling effect in the green mantle that made up his head and torso.

  Smiling meanly, he decided that this small reversal was of little import, he had plenty to keep himself occupied with.

  Whistling for his lieutenants to follow, he disappeared into the shadows of the woods.

  The pair of foxes that were his most constant companions slunk along unhappily in his wake.

  One

  on the road again

  The warm spring morning had brought out all manner of birds, butterflies and flying insects to flit among the hedgerow blooms. As she panted her way out of the village, Sara was pleased to see the hawthorn was in full-flower and to hear the rhythmic song of a yellowhammer trilling it’s familiar ‘a little bit of bread with no cheeeese’ call. Turning her head in the direction of the bursts of sound, she spotted the bright feathers of the songster perched in the top branches of the bushes as she trotted by.

  Although the lane was edged with trees in full leaf, they were doing little to alleviate the heat reflecting off the black asphalt surface of the roadway. Feeling both the warmth and the effects of every single day that she had put off jogging for the past six weeks, Sara puffed her way up the bends of the quiet lane that twisted its way out of the village up towards White Briars’ main entranceway. Having run this way countless times over the years the route was as familiar to her as her own back yard, but familiarity, she thought wryly, did nothing to alleviate the symptoms of weeks without regular exercise. She was absolutely sure that some malign deity had made the gradient steeper in her absence.

  As she approached the final bend of the incline she could feel her lungs burning and her energy levels sapping. Only fierce determination and iron willpower were keeping her from slowing to a walk.

  Following her usual self-motivational routine she had started at the base of hill with “I know I can, I know I can.” This chant normally got her all the way up to the final bend but today, at no more than a third of the way, the words had changed into “…I think I can, I think I can,” altering around half-way to a breathless “…I hope I can, I hope I can,” which had taken her to the final third. But now the hopeful words of The Little Engine That Could became slower and more laboured with each passing footfall. She could barely get the short syllables out at all now, “I’m gonna die, I’m. Gonna. Die,” each sound was uttered in rasping gasps as her breathing became increasingly fraught.

  Head drooping tiredly, she spied the recognisable slight hump in the cracked asphalt that signified her torture was nearing an end. Heartened by the sight, she put on a last brave spurt to arrive at the grassy knoll of the top of the rise, before collapsing in an untidy heap upon the fragrant primrose-strewn grass growing outside the gateway to what Thornden villagers had always referred to as the gypsy encampment. Growing up and living nearby most of her life, Sara had yet to see any gypsies ‘encamped’ in the space, but the field still retained the title as a remnant from some bygone era when she supposed people were less attached to their houses and roamed the countryside more freely.

  The sun must have gone behind a cloud –without its heat she felt instantly cooler. Breathing hard and semi-alert, Sara opened her eyes to narrow slits, wiping sweat away from her brow using the hem of her top before shielding her eyes with the back of one hand. It was not a cloud that had blocked the sun; instead her view was now obstructed by long faded blue jeans-clad legs and sturdy boots that obviously belonged to the male of the species.

  Oh yay, she thought sourly, always good to have an audience at moments like this, especially when she had just bared her stomach and
sports bra to whoever was standing over her, … “Oh please let that be Hamish or someone I know and not some total stranger…” she moaned quietly between gasps, her chest heaving in efforts to regain a tolerable level of oxygen.

  “Sorry to disappoint,” the low male voice that responded did not sound at all like that of her next door neighbour. “I heard you coming up the lane. Couldn’t help but, with the din you were making.” The voice stopped -Sara wished he would have the decency to just leave her alone but moments later he continued, “so, what are you then? The little engine that ran out of steam?”

  “Oh, verrry funny. No, I’m the infrequent jogger that’s dying here,” she wheezed. “So, kindly go away and let me croak in peace.”

  “That bad, aye? And, sorry for the inconvenience but I was here first so if anyone’s leaving, it should be you.” He looked her over, liking what he saw. Her petite body was clad in little more than brief form-fitting shorts, a brightly coloured sports bra -which she’d given him a good eyeful of when she had pulled up the top to mop her brow- and a thin-strapped cotton tank. The outfit had the additional benefit, in his humble opinion, of exposing a lot of lithe limbs lightly tanned from the unseasonal sun.

  “You don’t look in that bad a shape to me but if you’re really dying, as you say you are, perhaps I should give you your final rites before you go.” From the rattling sounds he’d heard coming up the rise he’d been a smidgeon concerned that she might have suffered from asthma but it seemed his concern wasn’t warranted. She was merely out of breath. He was considerably relieved.

  “Gee thanks,” she responded dryly. Recovering a little, she sat up and leaned back on her outstretched arms. Even through half-closed lashes she’d seen him brazenly checking her out and now openly returned the compliment.

  Not too shabby, she thought. Bit over average height. Late twenties, early thirties maybe. Built. Buff. That much was abundantly obvious as he’d taken off his shirt in the heat and was bare from the waist up, the faded jeans riding low on narrow hips exposing some very respectable abs. He was holding what looked a lot like a horse brush in one hand. She wondered why until, belatedly, she noticed a sturdy piebald-coloured horse tethered and cropping on the roadside grass behind him.

  Her eyes travelled upwards. Untidy ash-blond hair that could stand a trim, sun glasses pushed up over his brow. Despite the bright light haloing his head he didn’t look particularly ecclesiastical to her and she couldn’t make out his eyes or any other facial details but he appeared harmless enough so she made an uncharacteristically spontaneous decision to play along with his offer. It certainly made for an interesting change in pick-up lines, if that’s what he’d intended.

  “Might not be such a bad idea, the way I feel right now,” she replied, matching his own lightly flippant tone. “Okay, here goes …Bless me father, for I have sinned. It’s been way too many weeks since my last run and I’m terribly worried I’m about to expire right here, unpardoned for not exercising more regularly.”

  He laughed as he made the sign of the cross with his right hand. “I’m sure your sins are forgiven, my child. Go and jog in peace.” Absolution complete, he stood there, contemplating her still-prone form, “There, that wasn’t so bad, was it? Now, are you going towards the light?” he questioned drolly.

  “No, but if you’d get out of my sunlight, I might improve my tan,” her tart reply was accompanied by a wave of her hand as she signalled for him to move aside.

  “How about I give you a hand up instead,” he put out the hand holding the brush, “oops, forgot I was grooming Cara when you came along doing your Puffing Billy impression,” he dropped the hand for his other.

  Taking affront, Sara ignored his offer and heaved herself to her feet. “I did not sound like Puffing Billy. …Whoever he is,” she declared hotly.

  “Panting Patty? Gasping Gertie? Winded Wilma?” he retorted, turning his back on her, as he picked up where he’d left off when she come huffing and puffing into view. “Take your pick. I don’t mind which you choose.” He unconcernedly continued brushing the horse’s back in long strokes from withers to tail. “Cara and me were thinking we’d have to throw you over her back and get you to the closest emergency room and an oxygen mask.” From his comment, Sara assumed Cara must have been the mare’s name. She could see Cara’s soft black ears twitching back and forth, seemingly listening in on the conversation as she grazed contentedly.

  Sara was in two minds whether to walk away, –she’d have run, but her legs didn’t feel quite up to it yet and she didn’t need the added embarrassment of an incipient case of rubber-legs-, or accept the down-thrown gauntlet of this stranger’s insults. So much for thinking he might be attracted to her and she’d have to fight him off, she thought sourly, though somewhere among those self-same thoughts was the acknowledgement that he had a very nicely toned back to go with those ripped abs.

  She strolled over and laid a hand on the horse’s neck, patting her smooth, warm coat before finger combing the long strands of mane. “It’s none of those. I’m short-of-breath Sara, if you must know. And you?” she tilted her head to one side, as if considering, “Belligerent Bertie? Grumpy Greg? Insulting Ivan?”

  “Ha, ha,” he stopped brushing and looked over the mare’s wide back at her, “You’re surprisingly close, though I’d watch the adjectives if I were you. I much prefer Gypsy Greg to grumpy, if you don’t mind.” His tone altered to one of gentle remonstration, “And, for your information, if you must know, I wasn’t so much ‘grumpy’ as I was a tad worried you might have been having an asthma attack. I have a sister who almost died once from one when we were out trekking in the Kimberleys a few years ago. So the grumpy was more relief that you were merely out of breath and nothing worse.”

  “Ahh,” she nodded in understanding. If she was feeling a mite sorry she’d taken umbrage she wasn’t letting on. Instead, she picked up on his earlier statement. “Gypsy Greg?”

  “Horse,” he spoke succinctly, indicating the solid mare he’d been brushing. “Caravan,” he twisted slightly and pointed across to far side of the field where a brightly-painted barrel-topped wagon was nestled in the shade under a huge old oak abutting the woodland margin, “Me,” he tapped his chest, “equals gypsy. Well, for this summer at least. I’m sort of trying the lifestyle on for size to see how well it fits.”

  Sara had turned in the direction of his outstretched hand, taking in the sight of the wagon. “Wow,” she wasn’t too sure if she was impressed or not and could think of nothing better to say.

  So he was ‘trying on’ the gypsy lifestyle? Nice work if you could get it, she supposed.

  There had been a time in her life, years ago, when she would have liked nothing more than taking off from her humdrum existence and living free, travelling the road and flitting wherever whimsy might take her. But that time was long gone and a dim distant memory. She was a responsible mother and a successful business woman now, with multiple demands on her time that meant a gypsy life was the stuff of daydreams. Still not entirely sure how to respond, she decided to steer the conversation into smoother waters, “You said something about the Kimberleys. That’s in Australia isn’t it? Way out west, so to speak? So are you from there? You don’t sound particularly Australian, if you don’t mind me saying so.”

  “Don’t mind at all. I’ve spent a number of years in Asia and Europe so the accent’s worn off some around the edges. But I can do ‘strine’ when I want to, mate.” He added a strongly nasal twang and a high rising terminal to the last words as if to prove his point.

  She flinched, “That’s okay. I believe you. You’re Australian.”

  “Yep, through and through, but thrilled to bits that you believe me,” his wide grin took the sting off the words.

  “So what made you leave home and come half way round the world to southern England?” She was curious. It seemed these days, that a substantial portion of the population of the British Isles was keen to fly in the opposite direction, intent on living their
version of Summer Bay or Ramsay Street.

  His reply showed her that he was aware of the British penchant for Aussie television serials, “Well, I got turned down for a lead role in Neighbours and I was a mite tired of checking for Redbacks on the toilet seat.” At her taken-aback expression, he snorted with laughter, causing Cara to raise her head and flick her ears in response. He laid a hand on the mare’s neck to calm her and she went back to grazing. “Nah, not really. Can’t stand soapy dramas and I was brought up in suburban Perth where you’re more likely to be in danger from someone driving their big-ass SUV through your front fence than you are from the local wildlife.” He shrugged nonchalantly, “I guess I left home and ventured over here to earn my fame and fortune as a musician. Haven’t quite managed either yet, but I’m enjoying the journey and the scenery on my way.”

  He did not add just how much he had enjoyed the scenery of her lounging on the grass at his front gate; instead, he quit brushing to inspect a hoof, running his hand down the mare’s feathered leg and clicking his tongue to signal that he wanted Cara to pick up her foot, before pulling a hoof pick out of his back pocket and cleaning the underside with practised skill. Once done, he replaced the hoof on the ground to pick up and clean the next.

  Sara admired the speed and ease with which this was all accomplished. As someone with considerably more affinity with plants than animals, she had always admired those who had expertise with the animal kingdom. Generally, she drew the line at the pigeons she bred for sale at the nursery but having acquainted herself with Liana and Hamish’s greyhound, Doug these past two years, she and her son, Matthew had been having discussions about choosing a dog for themselves. So far, both the breed and sex had been hotly debated. They were still undecided but had plans to visit the local rescue kennels in the coming fortnight to check out likely candidates.

  Greg patted the horse’s wide rump. He pulled a metal tether peg from the ground and started making for the open field gate. “Don’t suppose you want to come over and see the place for yourself?” he asked, nodding in the direction of the wagon.

  “Ahh,” Sara prevaricated, “rain check …perhaps another time,” she glanced at her watch, “I have to be back at work in half an hour and I’m barely going to make it as it is.” She knew she would have to forego a post-run shower until later in the evening and make do with a hurried wash if she wanted to be back behind the counter in time to let her newest staff member take a lunch break.

  “Working for the man,” Greg commiserated.

  Sara didn’t bother to enlighten him that the only ‘man’ she worked for was herself. But, in the words of the song, and leaning more towards Tina Turner than Roy Orbison, she acknowledged that she laboured every daylight hour that was available to her and often long into the night. This was the reason that she’d gone so many weeks without running. There just weren’t enough hours in a day for exercise when a trillion things were constantly vying for her limited attention.

  She sighed, “Yeah, something like that.” Reluctantly, she turned back to the road.

  “Perhaps I’ll see you around,” Greg said by way of farewell, his tone hopeful.

  “Guess it depends how long you stay.” Gypsies, by nature, she thought didn’t remain in any one place for long. She was prepared to be unsurprised should the field be empty the next time she ran past its gate.

  “I’m not going anywhere. Not just yet, anyway.” He smiled, showing a nice set of deep dimples as he slipped the sunglasses down over eyes, which she had noticed on closer inspection were a shade of what she had instantly christened ‘wolf grey’. The effect was emphasised even more by tiny flecks of gold glinting around the irises. His nose, she’d also noted looked as if it had been broken at some earlier time and set rather badly; it had a slight kink along the bridge that gave him a devil-may-care appearance. Not a bad thing on that face, she had decided. Excessive perfection got a bit stale after a while and he might have been too pretty without the added fault.

  “I have some gigs nearby so might be around a week or two, …or more. Depends how things work out.”

  He seemed unconcerned that his life was not planned any more than two weeks in advance. Sara couldn’t imagine how that might feel. Her calendar was packed full ‘til mid-autumn, when things might, or might not quieten down a little before the Christmas rush.

  “Oh well, it was nice to meet you, gypsy Greg. But I’ve really gotta go,” there seemed little point in continuing the conversation. It was unlikely their world’s would collide again unless she ran this way in the coming fortnight and the way things were at the nursery she doubted there would another hour free in that time to allow her to get away for exercise. She was also so late now that she would have to hop over the wall at White Briars main gate and take the shorter woodland route back to work instead of the longer way around the lanes. She turned back to the road.

  He watched as she trotted off down the gentle slope, half wishing he’d asked for her phone number. She had a smooth running style, he noted, with long strides for such a petite woman …and a very watchable backside in those tiny shorts, he thought appreciatively.

  Well, Cara mia, what do you think? She’s not too ugly, girl, aye what? But no worries, you’re still my first love,” he chatted amiably to the horse, his arm looped comfortably over her neck as they ambled back in the direction of the van.

  Two

  pub music

  The musician dipped his head in acknowledgement of the crowd’s applause before setting aside his mandolin and reaching to pick up the water glass that Harry, the Thornden Arms’ portly publican had kindly placed beside him. He took a long drink, easing his parched throat. It was dry work, singing and playing for an hour and a half at a stretch and he was overdue a rest, but the crowd had been enthusiastic in their response to his music and he hadn’t liked to stop.

  He sat the glass down on the tiny stage, “Last one before the break,” he warned, to a chorus of disappointed catcalls. Settling himself on a stool before a mid-sized harp, he fingered a few experimental glissandos as he announced, “this is a number you may have heard played by Breton master-harper Alan Stivell, a renowned Celtic-harpist and a profound influence on my music.” There were nods from a few heads at the mention of the name. From this and the response he’d had to his playing, Greg had already surmised he had a knowledgeable audience. He continued the introduction, “It’s something of a musical journey across the Gaelic lands of Ireland, Scotland and the Isle of Man and I first heard it in a pub on the Isle of Skye so it seems entirely appropriate to play it here for you in this auspicious establishment tonight. I hope you’ll like it.” He positioned his hands either side of the harps’ strings, plucking the first notes.

  More than a few of the pub’s patrons were obviously familiar with the music; -at the opening bars there was a considerable smattering of applause and the whoops and catcalls returned to an encouragingly enthusiastic level. Smiling briefly, Greg concentrated on his fingering, aware that the Celtic harp was a tricky beast to play and would require all his attention.

  The piece was long and he was into the final bars when the inner door to the bar opened to admit a face he recognised. It was Sara, dressed this evening in considerably more items of clothing than on their first encounter two days before. Greg tried not to feel disappointed; jogging attire was hardly suitable for a night out at the local watering hole but a man couldn’t be chastised for wishing otherwise, he reasoned. Not that she had exactly glammed-up for a Friday night at the Thornden Arms pub. She was wearing black skinny jeans, a hoodie and bright pink Doc Martens. With her spikey blond, lime-green tipped hair she could have been easily mistaken for a teenager on a night out. The look suited her, he decided, as his eyes followed her lissom form.

  Focused on finding her friends, Sara hadn’t turned her head in his direction and appeared not to have noticed who it was that was providing the music. Mindful of the composition, he kept half an eye on her and half on his harping as she wended
her way carefully and with studied concentration through the crowded room to a table in the far corner. There, a group of people who obviously knew her well, stood and greeted her with the close familiarity of hugs and kisses before shuffling chairs this way and that to make room. She sat with her back half-turned away from him but it looked as if she had been expected as a large glass of orange juice was already sitting on the table before her. After a moment she lifted the full glass to her lips.

  The song ended just as she replaced her glass on the tabletop and was reaching over to snag a chip from a basketful in the centre of the table. Claps, whoops and stomping feet erupted from the other patrons in appreciation. One hand steadying the harp, Greg stood and sketched a quick bow as Sara turned her head to see who all the fuss was about. He noted the moue of surprise on her elfin features as she recognised him and the widening of those bright lavender-blue eyes. Belatedly, she stuffed the chip into her mouth, put her hands together and clapped politely along with the rest of the audience. Greg shot her a smile, quirking an eyebrow at her underwhelming gesture and she responded with a guilty grin, raising her hands to clap louder, swallowing the chip and adding her whoops to the rest. He laughed and stretched out his hands to give another bow, before taking a step backwards and retreating towards the bar. To the chorus of disgruntled sounds, he called cheerily, “the muso needs a beer! I’ll be back in twenty minutes if you can stay around that long!” The crowd yahooed their approval and returned to their own drinks and conversations.

  After a bit of back-slapping and polite conversation from an appreciative fan who insisted upon buying him a beer, Greg turned to survey the pub clientele. It had been a while since he’d played a pub but he liked doing these gigs- it kept the music real.

  Inevitably, his gaze was drawn to the corner table. Sara was staring in his direction and as their eyes made contact she waved a hand to indicate that he should come on over.

  Protecting his still-full glass from stray elbows with his free hand, Greg arrowed his way through the press of patrons closest to the bar then did a sort of slow slalom through the crowds of those seated at tables, arriving with most of his drink intact at the far corner.

  “Hello again,” he greeted Sara.

  “Hi,” she replied. “My friends would like to meet you.”

  ‘My friends’, he noticed, not ‘me’. He couldn’t help the tiny twinge of disappointment at the words -he’d thought he had made a little progress with her at their first meet but now was not so sure.

  Greg glanced around the crowded table. A startlingly beautiful Titian-haired woman who was the goddess to Sara’s pixie sat on the banquette seat cuddling a pretty dark-haired infant on her lap. Beside her, with one arm stretched along the backrest in a manner that denoted both love and protection was a man who had to be the child’s father, the resemblance was so strong. Next to him sat a white-haired elderly gentleman. Greg noted gnarled old hands, blue veined and sun-spotted, with enlarged knuckles that suggested osteoarthritis resting on his knees. But the eyes that surveyed him from under shocking white brows were piercing and evaluating, giving him a studied once-over. Not sure why, Greg smiled pleasantly back before continuing his cursory perusal of the table’s occupants. Another couple with two children: a girl of about nine or ten and a boy who might have been somewhere between five and seven, also snuggling on his mother’s lap, made up the remainder of the group.

  Sara began introductions, “Greg, this is Liana and Betony,” the goddess spoke a greeting in a beautifully musical voice and little girl smiled shyly, gazing up at Greg with gorgeous lavender-blue eyes that were, he thought, interestingly, the exact shade of Sara’s. It was not difficult to foresee that when she grew up this child was going to be a looker like her mother, Greg predicted. “…and Liana’s husband, Hamish; good friends of mine.” Hamish smiled and nodded hello, holding out a hand to shake. Greg leaned across to acknowledge the greeting. “And that’s my Dad next to Hamish,”

  “Arffur Blaine,” the old man held out a gnarled paw, “pleased to meet ya.” Greg shook it, wincing slightly at the firm handshake. “Damn fine music you were playin’ there son.”

  “Thank you Arthur. Glad you liked it.” Greg covertly massaged his hand, hoping his fingers would recover before he played the next set.

  Sara cleared her throat and continued the introductions. “Oh and here’s couple of your fellow countrymen, countrywomen, …ah, whatever …this is Steve and Linda, and their children Alison and Jamie.

  “Gidday mate,” Steve rose to shake Greg’s hand across the glass-strewn table while Linda remained sitting and gave a small wave.

  “Uh, hi,” Greg replied. He was never quite comfortable meeting other Australians –people tended to act as if they should know one another, not comprehending just how expansive the country was.

  “So, where’re you from?” Steve queried.

  “Perth originally, but pretty much all over the place for the last ten years or so,” Greg replied noncommittally.

  “Hmm, never been there …isn’t Perth pretty much the most isolated city in the world? Must feel like you’re like a separate country from the rest of us way over there,” commented Steve, echoing his own thoughts. Greg smiled, hopeful he wouldn’t have to go through the old ‘who do you know that I might know?’ routine. “Linda and I are both Sydneyites but we live in London now.”

  “Jamie and me’re English, not Australian!” protested the girl.

  “And you don’t sound very Australian,” quipped Jamie chirpily on the heels of her denial.

  “James Patrick!” his mother reprimanded.

  Greg thought it amusing that the little ‘Englishman’ and ‘Englishwoman’ pronounced ‘Australian’ as ‘Austrine’, proving their verbal roots were still firmly in the southern hemisphere.

  “It’s okay, he’s not the first to have said that to me,” Greg smiled, staring down at Sara’s amused ‘told ya so’ expression. “Anyway, it’s nice to have made your acquaintance. I’ll leave to enjoy your drinks in peace.” He backed away and made to retreat his steps to the bar.

  “Nah, don’t go yet.” This from Sara’s father, “sit yerself down sonny an’ take a load off them feet.” A stool had somehow materialised, passed overhand from patron to patron until it appeared next to him. Once again, everyone in the group shuffled chairs and tables to make a seat-sized space for the new addition. Bemused, Greg could do little more than sit where instructed, finding himself wedged thigh to thigh with Sara. If he’d looked up at that moment, he might have seen several self-satisfied smiles from faces among the assembly but he was busy keeping his drink from being jostled and not aware of the speculative glances.

  Twenty minutes stretched into thirty as the group, in particular, Liana and Steve questioned him at length about his music. Steve, it transpired, had a rather catholic interest in diverse genres and was well-informed about Celtic, folk and world music but it was Liana who was truly conversant. It seemed to Greg that she had a kind of deep understanding of the rhythms and history of folk music that few others he had ever met possessed. When he asked how she had acquired the knowledge, her husband suddenly joined in the conversation and adroitly changed the subject, something which Greg found a little odd since he had little to say up to that point.

  “So how did you meet our Sara?” Hamish interjected in a lilting Scottish accent. Like the others, he had enjoyed the music but while curious about this stranger in their midst he had a healthy distrust of newcomers.

  Greg caught more than a hint of a ‘big brother’ vibe and answered. “I’m camping up by the woods and she came trotting past. Well, maybe not trotting, so much as gasping,” he turned his head to grin at Sara at the memory.

  Responding, Sara returned his grin with a narrow-eyed stare. “It was at the top of the bendy bit of the lane and I haven’t run for ages. I was just a little out of breath,” she spoke defensively.

  “If by ‘a little’ she means …argh, …argh, …argh,’ Greg wheezed a par
ody of someone desperate for oxygen.

  “Ah, yes, our Sara loves to run,” Hamish chortled, “The first time I met her she was jogging as well. I don’t recall her being out of breath but it took weeks for the bruises resulting from that meeting to fade…”

  “I sense an intriguing story there,” Greg raised an eyebrow.

  “Yes. And since it’s rather a long one, why don’t you come round for dinner tomorrow evening so we can tell you all about it,” this time it was Liana interrupting, “and Sara, you come too, in case we miss any salient details,” the invitation was accompanied by a beatific smile. “Bring Matthew, why don’t you .”

  Greg wondered who ‘Matthew’ might be but didn’t like to ask. Did Sara have a husband, partner, boyfriend who wasn’t here tonight? “I’d love to,” he replied, “but I’m sorry, I can’t do tomorrow. I’m playing an evening gig. How about the night after? Would that be alright?”

  Sara shrugged, “Sunday, yeah, I can do Sunday, long as we’re not too late. It’s a school night.”

  “No its not,” countered Liana. “Monday is the May Day holiday, remember?”

  “Oh yeah, it is too. Well, then dinner on Sunday will be okay.”

  Greg wondered why this was an issue. Perhaps Sara really was as young as she looked? No, she’d said she had to get back to work that day they’d met, so she had to be older. It was just that it was so difficult to tell from her appearance. Her skin and eyes looked teenage-fresh and the short-cropped hairstyle wouldn’t have been out of place on a schoolgirl but he’d thought the slightly cynical world-worn attitude that she displayed suggested someone who’d lived more than a little. The way his thoughts had been leading him since their first meeting , he certainly hoped she was well out of her school years and her teens.

  “Sunday then,” Liana directed a serene gaze towards Sara, “and Sara, perhaps you would be so kind as to collect Greg and bring him to the cottage?”

  Sara had had two years to accustom herself to the diamond-hard will behind the softly-spoken voice and otherworldly countenance that Liana presented to the world at large. “He could walk through the woods, it’s not far,” she objected. “Or ride his horse.”

  “But he doesn’t know the way,” this from a complacently smiling Hamish, who had more than an inkling that his wife was playing match-maker to these two. The least he could do was assist her endeavours. For now, anyway. He would make up his mind over dinner about this Greg character once he had more opportunity to check out his intentions towards their Sara.

  “I guess I could. Okay,” her reply expressing her reluctance, Sara had a strong sense she was being manipulated by these two and did not like it. To Greg, she sounded even more like a disgruntled teen agreeing to do something she didn’t want to under duress from her parents.

  “Lovely. Sunday it is, then. We’ll see you at seven. There’s no need to bring anything.” Liana spoke brightly as she sat back, pleased with her efforts.

  “Especially not flowers.” Sure she was being manipulated, Sara couldn’t help but add the retort, her tone a little surly. This remark triggered several concerned glances from those around the table and pursed lips from her father, but no one commented further.

  Before Greg could say anything the publican tapped him on his shoulder. “You rested enough yet? We’re gonna have a riot here if you don’t play some more,” he turned around to see raised glasses and a roomful of expectant faces, shortly followed by the sound of feet thumping the floorboards.

  Greg rose from the stool, bowing to the crowd. There were loud laughs and catcalls. “No rest for the wicked, I’d better get back to work,” he grinned down at Sara’s slightly petulant child-like face. “Thanks so much for the offer to pick me up for our first date. I’ll see you Sunday evening then, if not before.” He had the satisfaction of seeing her shocked look before he followed the publican back to his instruments. As he wended his way through the crowded room he imagined he could feel Sara’s pretty lavender eyes boring laser-precise holes in his back.

  He played and sang the rest of his set with a lightness and sense of expectation in his heart that he recognised as the beginnings of a new personal adventure.

  Three

  piping the bride

  “If we keep bumping into one another like this I’m going to think you’re following me.”

  “You’re in my village and I was here first, so technically, you’re the one following me,” Sara countered, replacing the dessert spoon she had picked up in readiness to eat her gooseberry and elderflower fool down on the white linen tablecloth.

  “Well, I’m not bothered if you’re not,” Greg smiled. Both the dessert and the woman looked good enough to eat, he thought. She had changed last night’s jeans and hoodie for a prettily feminine dress in a pale floral print. He particularly liked the way the dress played with the neckline, giving a tantalising peek at a little more flesh than the previous night’s outfit. There was a wrap lying over the chair back. Fortunately, in the warm evening air it was redundant. Dressed up, she looked less like a schoolgirl escaping from study prep and more like a woman but as he was still somewhat uncertain as to her age he did his best to keep his eyes from straying to admire the pale mounds of her breasts. The task was not made any easier by the sharply indrawn breath she took just as his eyes dropped.

  Sara raised a glass of cool juice to her lips as she thought of a suitable reply -she had noted the quick flick of his eyes to her chest and was feeling unaccountably flustered- her fingers crept to the chair back to finger her wrap, thinking she might retrieve it but she stayed her hand. She was a grown woman, after all and could handle a little male attention. Still, nothing was coming to her conversation-wise so she drained the drink, stalling for time, all the while ransacking her mind for a safe topic.

  “So this is the ‘gig’ that you were talking about last night?” It was a bit lame, but it would have to do. When he’d said he had a ‘gig’ on Saturday night, she had not thought to ask where it was and had never imagined to see, or more correctly, hear him stridently piping the bride, - an old school friend of Sara’s- into the large airy tent where her wedding breakfast guests awaited. Once inside he’d thankfully put the noisy bagpipes aside and for the last hour had been playing softly in the background as guests ate and drank their way through a sumptuous four-course banquet.

  “Yeah, at least the breaks are a tad more consistent than pub gigs. I’ve got few minutes now while they get ready for speeches and cutting the cake.” He eyed her empty glass. “Can I get you another drink?” He remembered that he had seen her drinking orange juice the previous night, “Do you drink anything other than fruit juice?” There were open bottles of bubbly and red and white wine on the table but he could see that the wine glass at her table setting was unused. The untouched glass did little for his confidence that she was old enough to legally drink alcohol.

  Sara noted the tall glass of sparkling water in his hand.

  “Water,” she spoke shortly. She wasn’t sure what made her say the next words; it wasn’t something she generally shared with people who were little more than strangers. “I’m a recovering alcoholic.” She watched with curiosity to see how he would respond to the news.

  “How long?” he spoke matter-of-factly, as if she’d just told him some minor factoid about herself.

  She was pleasantly surprised at his casual response. Generally, it was at this point that the majority of people she’d ever shared this information with took an involuntary step backwards, as if her condition might be contagious.

  Sara didn’t even need to think to answer this one, “fourteen years, almost to the day.” She’d been five weeks pregnant with Matthew when she’d quit, cold-turkey. Between the awful morning sickness and the dry horrors, it had not been a fun start to her pregnancy.

  “I’m not a big drinker myself these days. I drank more when I was young but I found it was messing with my music so I limit myself to one beer when I’m playing but most of the time I stick
to water,” he brandished the glass. “Lost a few friends when I changed my habits –they thought it was very un-Australian of me.” While he was speaking, he was doing a fast re-evaluation of her age. He knew alcoholics could be as young as thirteen or even younger but fourteen years sober would surely put her in her mid-twenties at the very least. He breathed out a sigh of relief that he hadn’t been guilty of thinking somewhat carnal thoughts about a teen.

  She laughed. “Yeah, well, there’s no ‘one beer’ limit for me. It tends to be all or nothing so I stick with nothing.” She angled her gaze downwards; he’d sat in the empty chair next to her, vacated by a guest gone in search of the facilities. “I like the tartan trousers. Though why not a kilt?”

  “Well, technically, I’m not a Scot and I’d feel a bit of a dweeb wearing a skirt, even when I am playing the pipes. I figure this is close enough and it means no one can look up my dress when I switch to playing the harp.”

  “Word to the wise, don’t ever let Hamish hear you call the kilt a skirt or a dress,” she admonished, holding up a single finger and shaking it from side to side.

  “I’ll take that under advisement then,” he replied glibly, seemingly not too bothered by what the Scot might think of his opinions.

  “I like these flowers,” he indicated the spray of white roses and pale blue hydrangeas in the centre of the table, “I’d swipe them to take for Liana tomorrow but you said last night she doesn’t like flowers.”

  “You will not steal the flowers!” her voice rose indignantly. “I did them myself, and what’s more, I didn’t say that Liana dislikes flowers, just that she has no need of anyone to take any for her.”

  “But I thought all women needed flowers!” he pictured his mother, sister and previous girlfriends, “At least, all the ones I know do.”

  “Not that one. She’s more than capable of providing her own,” if her tone was a little dry, she was not in the mood to apologise. Sara was still a trifle irritated at what she was fairly certain was Liana and Hamish’s manoeuvring of her at the pub. Then belatedly, aware that she was saying more than she ought, she shut her mouth.

  He appeared not to have noticed her slip-up, merely asking, “So you’re both florists then?” It was more of a question than a statement.

  “No, not exactly. Well I am, among other things, but Liana’s more of an herbalist, I guess you’d say, though she’s more than that.” Just how much more was something that had, over the past two years been given out on a need-to-know basis; and he didn’t need to know. “She makes herbal remedies for my shop and does a bit of consulting work every now and then when the need arises.”

  “Among other things? So what else do you do?”

  So, he’d caught that. He was a quick study, she thought. She was relieved his questioning had moved away from Liana. Still, she could see that she’d have to watch what she said if she didn’t want to get caught out.

  “Ah well, I grow those topiary plants to hire or buy,” she indicated several large pots of neatly clipped plants situated at the doors to the tent and at intervals along the tent walls, all decorated with twinkling fairy lights.

  “They’re great,” his glance was admiring, “time-consuming though and a long wait for a profit. Those specimens can take years to mature.”

  “Yes, depending on the species,” it appeared he knew something about topiary.

  “Anything else … You said ‘other things’, plural?”

  Yep, he didn’t miss much. “I run my own nursery, tearooms and garden retail outlet. Oh, and we breed doves for sale as a sideline.” And that’s all she was going to let on. If he made it to dinner tomorrow he’d probably find out about the rest of her ‘interests’, especially Matthew, without her having to add anything more.

  “Whoa, no wonder you never have time to get out and exercise, you’re running around like crazy already, doing all that!”

  “That’s only the half of it,” she couldn’t help but bemoan. “Right now is the silly season and I’m flat out with customers wanting to refurbish their gardens after the winter. We’re open six days a week and doing online orders as well.” It seemed to her that the ‘silly season’ was getting longer every year, and whilst it was wonderful that business was booming, soon there would be no ‘off’ time for her at all. She was not sure how she would cope.

  “Sounds like you need more help.” An idea was starting to germinate in his mind.

  “Good help is hard to find round here. I have Liana occasionally and my Dad even less occasionally There’s Matthew at weekends and a couple of part-timers but the boy I did have helping in the yard has started university over in Bristol and is only available in his holidays now. We’re not exactly the big smoke when it comes to finding qualified personnel.”

  There was that ‘Matthew’ again …Hmmm, Greg hoped he was merely an employee, but then why would he be invited to dinner if he wasn’t something more? “You know, the nursery business used to be big around Perth. My parents ran one north of the city.” At Sara’s bemused expression, “place called Wanneroo - it was all dairy farms, market gardens and nurseries before the city expanded so fast that the suburbs started to take it over. We grew mostly Australian natives and some exotics, but the principles are the same. You plant them, water them, feed them and pot them on as necessary.” He looked at Sara speculatively, “I’m not all that busy at the moment. I could give you a bit of a hand for a few weeks if you’d like. I’m a dab hand at grafting and pruning and I reckon I could trim topiary if I’d a mind to,” he made a snipping scissor-like gesture with his index and forefingers.

  Whatever she had thought he might say, that was the last thing Sara had expected to hear.

  She opened and closed her mouth several times before any sound came out. “Wow. Gosh. Um, can I think about it?”

  “Yeah, mull it over and tell me what you’ve decided tomorrow at dinner. I don’t have any big gigs coming up –a few local festivals here and there but I’ve purposely kept the summer pretty free, so if you want me to give a hand, I could maybe keep the wagon here and borrow a car to drive to the gigs. I could stick around for a month or so if that would help?”

  Sara found herself playing with her napkin, thinking furiously. She desperately needed help and finding someone so unexpectedly with hands-on nursery experience was a huge bonus. Her mind went into overdrive and she was already planning how she might make it work. He could move the horse and wagon next to the nursery, or, even better, relocate into the flat above the shop and live on-site. She needed time to think this through more clearly. To cover her confusion she said, “How much longer are you here tonight? Are you playing for the dancing?” The wedding dance was following directly on the heels of the dinner but Sara planned to skip that part of the evening’s revelries.

  “Nah, they’ve got a band coming in for that. I get to go home soon and see my horse. She misses me when I’m gone.” He made to get up. “Well, I suppose since you don’t need me to change that water into wine I’d better leave you before your date comes back from the loo or wherever he’s disappeared to.”

  He’d had plenty of opportunity to watch the pair while he played and had been trying, with frustratingly little success, to work out the relationship. They had seemed close enough, chatting freely and laughing often, but there had been no hand-holding, kissing or general canoodling and he was curious to know the relationship status. Perhaps this was the mysterious Matthew?

  Sara waggled her glass as she shook her head in denial. “Thanks for the offer but there’s more than enough magic going on round this place without you contributing ..and FYI, he’s not my date, just a friend filling in as a plus-one for the event,” she countered.

  “Great,” he didn’t elaborate, “Until tomorrow then. I look forward to being picked up and taken to dinner.” His smile was pure mischief.

  “Hmpf. I could still give you directions and make you walk if you’re not careful.”

  “I might get lost in the woods and then you
’d feel bad.” He had gleaned from the conversation the night before that Hamish and Liana lived relatively nearby.

  “Ha, not that bad,” she considered him for a brief moment, thinking about him living alone on the edge of the forest, “but I wouldn’t be wandering about in those woods on your own if I were you. Certainly not after dark.”

  He guffawed. “I’ve seen those woods and they don’t look very scary compared to what I’m used to. What could possibly hurt me in there? Killer Teddy Bears? Big bad wolf?”

  “Not quite, but there are a few surprises for the unwary and uninitiated.”

  “Well, I’m not exactly Red Riding Hood and I’ve had some experience with things that bite. Still, if there are extra-scary things, perhaps you could go along with me for protection sometime?” He grinned.

  “Maybe, maybe not,” she would not commit to anything.

  “Oh well, maybe you’ll change your mind once you get to know me better.”

  She ignored that, looking over his shoulder. “Graham’s coming back. Bye now. Say hi to Cara from me and give her a pat. She’s such a sweetie.”

  “She is that. I’ll be sure to pass on your love and slip her an extra carrot from you as well,” he smiled, getting to his feet. “See you when you come to collect me for our date tomorrow.”

  “That’s the second time you’ve said that. Not. A. Date. Mate.” Sara shook her head, picked up her spoon and turned her back to eat her dessert.

  Greg just smiled to himself as he walked away.