Secrets of the Tides (42 page)

She shifts uncomfortably, remembering it all as she navigates her car around a huge stone fountain standing in the centre of the driveway, its pale young nymphs staring back at her with dead eyes. She turns away from the white stone faces, uncomfortable under their gaze, and pulls up outside the elegant manor, switching off the car engine and breathing deeply as a fresh surge of guilt washes over her. She should have visited before now. She should have made the effort.

She sits there, rooted to the spot, flooded with guilt and nerves. Fighting the overwhelming urge to turn the key in the ignition and speed off down the driveway, Dora grabs her handbag and steps out into the heat of the day.

It is glorious; the warm air wraps itself around her like a blanket, carrying with it the heady scent of summer and the distant call of a blackbird high up in the trees above her. Her shoes crunch on the gravel, and as she reaches the grand colonnaded entrance of the old house she pauses to look up. The doorway stands before her, dark and forbidding, a gaping black mouth in stark contrast to the lightness of the day around her. She shivers, and then summoning a final burst of courage, takes the steps two at a time, suddenly eager to confront whatever lies inside. She’s come this far. All she has to do now is get it over with as quickly as possible, and then get the hell out of there. She takes another step forward and, before she can change her mind, presses decisively on the doorbell.

A very tall man with braided hair and drooping spaniel eyes opens the door. He peers out at her suspiciously. ‘Can I help you?’ he asks, his eyes flitting nervously up the driveway behind her. It’s almost as if he expects Dora to jam her foot in the frame and barge her way inside, uninvited.

‘Is Cassie here?’

‘Who’s asking?’

‘I’m her sister, Dora.’

The man seems to relax slightly and looks her up and down. ‘You don’t look much like her.’

‘No,’ she agrees. She waits a moment longer, hoping to be invited inside, but the man remains where he is, solidly blocking the entrance until another voice booms out loudly behind him.

‘Who is it, Jacob?’

The ponytailed man jumps. ‘It’s someone for Cassie. She
says
she’s her sister.’

The door is suddenly wrenched open and Dora comes face to face with another man, attractive with smooth, nut-brown skin, unruly curled hair and high Slavic cheekbones. He is grinning at her. ‘You must be Dora,’ he says, offering her his hand. ‘I’m Felix. Felix Reveley-Jones. Good to meet you. Sorry about Jacob here, he’s our resident conspiracy theorist. He thinks everyone who shows up on the doorstep is either a spy or a journalist, ready to put the kibosh on our little Secret Garden project.’

Dora smiles politely and shakes his outstretched hand, not quite sure what he is talking about.

‘Cassie’s expecting you,’ Felix continues. ‘Come on in. She’s probably out the back. Did you find us OK? You drove out from London, didn’t you?’

Dora nods again and looks about surreptitiously as the man called Felix leads her into a grand entrance hall, her heels clicking noisily on the marble floor. There is nothing much in the room: a few muddy boots lined up by the door and an old oak table housing a landslide of unopened post, over which hangs a gilt-framed portrait of a severe young man dressed in black, the whiteness of his dog collar shining in stark contrast to the faded colours of the painting – the man seems to peer into the middle distance, as though contemplating a bleak and unpalatable future. There are grey shadow marks on the walls around, marking where other paintings presumably once hung, but the rest of the hall is empty besides an elegant wooden staircase that spirals away into the upper levels of the house and which is missing a few balusters here and there.

‘Jacob, go and find Cassie, will you? I’ll look after Dora.’

The ponytailed man throws Dora another suspicious glance before disappearing wordlessly through a doorway.

‘Don’t worry about him,’ Felix continues, ‘he’s really very nice when you get to know him.’

Dora smiles and shuffles awkwardly, hoping her sister won’t be too long. Her nerves are jangling. She glances again at the portrait on the wall. The man really does look quite miserable.

‘My great-grandfather,’ says Felix, following the direction of her gaze. ‘The Reverend Robert Reveley-Jones, quite the comedian, apparently.’

Dora smiles despite her nerves.

‘God knows how he wooed my great-grandmother, Lady Catherine Swan, but thank goodness he did, because, well, here we are.’ Felix throws his hands out wide to indicate the enormous manor surrounding them.

‘It’s been a while since you and Cassie caught up, hasn’t it?’ Felix asks, staring at her with open interest.

It is Dora’s turn to be suspicious. She wonders if he’s Cassie’s boyfriend and how much he knows about their past. She blushes at the thought. ‘Yes,’ she says, clearing her throat, ‘it has been a while. A few years.’

‘Well I know she’s looking forward to seeing you and showing you our little outfit here. The Secret Garden is pretty much all thanks to her, I have to say.’

‘So you work here too then?’ Dora asks, still unsure what exactly this ‘Secret Garden’ is that he keeps going on about.

‘Yes, I suppose I do. This is my house. I own the building and the estate. I’m your typical trustafarian, I’m afraid: spoilt little rich kid living the dream off his inheritance. I just don’t have the crusty dreadlocks to prove it.’

‘It’s a beautiful house,’ Dora says.

‘Yes, isn’t it? Of course it was far more beautiful in its heyday, but it suits us fine for now.’

As they are chatting two women wander through the vestibule. They are carrying large boxes of vegetables in their arms and throw shy smiles at Dora and Felix as they walk by.

‘Hello!’ greets Felix, before turning back to Dora. ‘That’s Scarlett and Sophie, our resident cooks. You should stay for dinner, if you can. You’d be very welcome.’

‘Thank you,’ murmurs Dora, wishing Cassie would hurry up, ‘but I should probably get back.’

‘No trouble, another time perhaps?’

Thankfully Jacob is back, sidling into the room with his hangdog expression. There is someone else behind him.

‘Here she is,’ says Felix.

‘Hey, Dora, long time no see,’ Cassie says, appearing from behind Jacob. She moves across to Dora, a smile playing on her lips and pulls her into a hug.

Dora submits herself to her sister’s arms, but she feels stiff and awkward in the embrace.

‘So, what took you so long?’ Cassie asks.

‘Sorry,’ says Dora, breaking free to try and get a better look at Cassie. ‘The M25 was a nightmare . . . terrible traffic.’ The words are out of her mouth before she realises Cassie isn’t referring to her lateness that morning, but rather her glaring absence over the past few years. She blushes and gazes around the empty hallway in panic. It’s going wrong already. She should never have come.

‘God, lighten up, will you? It was just a joke!’ Cassie lets out a sharp bark of laughter, reminiscent of their father, and the sound of it takes Dora straight back to Clifftops; to sitting around in each other’s bedrooms, trawling through magazines for new hairstyles and clothes, gossiping about some new supermodel or another washed-up pop star. She relaxes slightly. She is still Cassie, no matter what has passed these last few years.

‘Sorry, I’m a bit nervous,’ Dora admits.

Felix clears his throat. ‘Well, we’ll leave you ladies to it. It was nice to meet you, Dora. See you again, I hope.’

Dora nods. ‘Yes, thank you. Nice to meet you too.’ She turns back to Cassie. ‘You look good,’ she blurts. It’s true. Cassie is not the pale recluse Dora has imagined on the drive down, but rather she looks fit and tanned, as though she has just returned from a Mediterranean holiday or an expensive spa break. Dora is surprised to feel a tiny tinge of jealousy well up within her. Cassie has always been the beautiful one.

Her sister, however, doesn’t seem to register the compliment. ‘I thought we could go for a walk, if you fancy it?’ she suggests. ‘You know, get out of the house and get some air, if you don’t mind?’

Dora nods. ‘That sounds great. I’d like to stretch my legs and it’s a beautiful day.’

‘Good. Come on then.’

Dora follows Cassie out of the marbled entrance hall and back into the daylight. Her sister walks fast, her long legs striding down the steps and across the drive, before turning down a gravel path running along one side of the house. As Dora races to keep up she notes Cassie is taller than she remembers and she wears her hair pulled back into a single, thick plait that hangs down the centre of her back and glints golden in the sunlight. She is dressed in a white T-shirt, trainers and an old pair of Levi’s; a simple outfit that makes Dora regret her own careful choice of summer dress and kitten heels. She’d thought she’d feel poised and in control but instead she feels fussy and formal by comparison.

They round the side of the building and emerge onto an ornate carved terrace that runs along the back of the house. From its elevated position she can see across beautiful landscaped gardens flowing away down the hillside. Dora makes out the distant glint of water through the trees but instead of heading down towards the lawns, as she thinks they might, Cassie continues her gallop straight across the terrace and down a few more steps before passing through a discreet wooden door set into a brick wall. Dora has to bend slightly to fit through it and she follows her sister blindly, taking three or four more steps forward before stopping dead in her tracks. She shields her eyes from the fierce glare of the sun and looks around in wonder.

They have entered a secluded garden, hidden from the house by high stone walls. It is startling not so much for its unexpected appearance, but for the flood of colour and scent that suddenly assaults Dora from every direction. The garden is in full bloom. Vivid jewel-like shades of ruby and amber, amethyst and jade swim before her. She sees red-hot pokers, tangled fuchsias, roses, sunflowers and the pinkest of asters. Helianthus and the sturdy stalks of sedum and globe thistle stand proudly alongside vivid red dahlias. Along one wall a bold hedge of blue hydrangeas nod heavy flowers sleepily in the sun. At her feet a bank of lavender thrusts its lilac flowers up towards the sky and fills her nostrils with their heady scent. She turns in amazement and glimpses flourishing bushes of rosemary, basil and mint and the blue-green leaves of sage and thyme. Beyond the herbs stands a neat vegetable patch. It bears cane towers laden with twisting bean plants and rows of sprouting green tufts that give away the secret location of onions and leeks and carrots, all carefully tucked away in their soil beds. And beyond these, against one wall leans a ramshackle greenhouse, glinting silver in the late morning sun.

It is beautiful; a picturesque kitchen garden and a tiny, private oasis where, it seems, time stands still. Dora half expects a scullery maid to bustle past her at any moment with a wide basket and scissors readied to select herbs and vegetables for the evening meal up at the house. She is reminded of the secret garden she has read about as a child; the whole landscape seems to hum with life, with colour and sound and scent. Turning in amazement she drinks more and more of it in. She sees fat bees drowsy with pollen wafting past on the breeze; butterflies dancing daintily across the flower beds and somewhere, just below the chatter and hum of insect life, lies the low, steady bubble of running water. This final enchanting sound she is able to trace to a small water lily pond set into the centre of the garden. Beside this stands an archway covered in trailing pink clematis and hidden in its shade is a low wooden bench. It is towards this seat that Cassie moves. She brushes at something invisible on the seat, and then sits herself down, patting the empty space next to her. ‘Come, sit with me.’

Dora moves across to the archway, revelling in the heady perfume of lilac blossom and basil as she goes.

‘So, what do you think of our Secret Garden then?’ Cassie asks. As she speaks she turns back to survey the garden, eyeing the rows of plants before her critically. ‘It’s my little project.’

Dora follows her line of sight. ‘
Your
little project?’ she asks.

‘Yes, the garden here, what do you think?’ Cassie seems amused at Dora’s disbelief.

‘It’s . . . gorgeous . . . beautiful.’ Dora struggles to find the right words to sum up something so tear-inducingly lovely. ‘Did
you
do this?’ Dora indicates it all with a sweep of her arm.

‘Not on my own, but yes, I did. It’s kept me pretty busy over the last few years.’

Dora is amazed. ‘Since when did you become so green-fingered?’

‘I don’t know really.’ Cassie shrugs her shoulders. ‘I just came out here one day and started digging around. It was a wreck. The whole place was covered in weeds and brambles, not to mention all the old junk from the house that had been heaped up over there.’ She points to one corner, near the greenhouse. ‘But as I started to clear a small patch, or dig out a flower bed, it became clear that underneath it all lay the bones of something really special, just waiting to take shape again. Most of the plants were still there, drowning under everything else. They were just hidden, waiting for someone to bring them to life again.’

Dora sits next to her sister on the low wooden bench and takes in the enchanting surroundings. It is hard to imagine the garden in any state other than the one of near perfection she looks at now.

‘It was Bill’s idea, actually,’ Cassie continues.

‘Bill?’ Dora is confused.

‘Yeah, old Bill Dryden. Remember, the gardener from Mum and Dad’s place?’

Of course she remembers him. ‘Bill was here?’ Dora is still confused.

‘Yes. I know. I was surprised when he turned up here. It was a bit of a shock. He said he was visiting an old friend in Oxford and wanted to look me up. Apparently Mum gave him the address here.’

‘Bill Dryden came to visit you
here
?’ Dora shakes her head.

‘Yes. I didn’t know what we’d talk about, to be honest. It was awkward at first. But then we just chatted about Dorset and the house and Mum and Dad, and you, and Alfie . . .’