Authors: Marty Wingate
He pulled up in front of the Wilsons’ just before nine, and Pru jumped out. When she knocked and heard Toffee’s answer, the door opened four inches, showing a narrow strip of Mrs. Wilson’s face. “You’re a little early, dear,” Mrs. Wilson said in a stage whisper. “Mr. Wilson hasn’t left yet. Why don’t you”—she spied Sammy sitting in the truck—“and your friend pop round the corner for a coffee first and come back in thirty minutes?”
“Could we unload now, just to get started?” Pru whispered back. She could feel time ticking away and the mountain of ivy growing.
“No, no, just pull the lorry round the corner, and park by the coffee place. It will be fine, don’t worry. Oh, and here, dear.” Mrs. Wilson handed Pru a key. “You keep that now for all the work. It will let you in the door at the bottom of the stairs right there. You can go through the basement and come out into the back garden.”
Either a lovely surprise or a sneak attack—Pru wondered if Mr. Wilson really wanted anything done to the garden.
“Okay, we’ll see you soon,” Pru whispered and returned to the truck.
“Coffee, Sammy, on me.”
“I’m all yours, Pru,” Sammy said, “but only till eleven.” Pru looked ahead and saw in her mind’s eye a sea of ivy waiting to drown her.
She sat across from Sammy at The Chelsea Cup, coffees on the table, and heard a voice say, “Pru, not hard at work yet?”
Malcolm, it turned out, certainly had been standing on a large box or a ladder in his garden to see over the wall, because he was only about five feet tall. He had a long waist and he stood with his hands sticking into his trouser pockets; he rocked slightly on his heels. “Hello, Malcolm, this is Sammy, who’ll be helping me at Mrs. Wilson’s. Will you join us?”
When Malcolm returned with his coffee, Pru explained, “We’ve been given an early morning break, because Mr. Wilson hasn’t left for work yet.”
“Work?” snorted Malcolm. “Is that what she told you? Well, just as well you don’t have to deal with the old fellow. He’d probably bore you to death with talk of digging up tiny bits of Roman glass or arrowheads or something else. You know, Pru, people aren’t always what they seem. The Wilsons may appear a generous old couple to you, but they can have an ungenerous side, too … Well, you just be on your guard.”
Pru squirmed in her seat at this unwarranted warning. She was, after all, just the gardener. What had the Wilsons done to Malcolm to deserve this?
Malcolm switched subjects. “Say, I looked up your rose rustlers last night, and I was fascinated with what they’ve discovered.” The three of them chatted about lost roses and the toughness of the species, although Sammy’s main contribution was how difficult they could be to remove, as that was his usual involvement.
They finished their coffees just as the conversation arrived at the difficulty of finding a disease-free red rose. Pru thought that surely Mr. Wilson would be gone from the house. “We’d best be off, Sammy. Malcolm, it was good to talk with you. Good luck with the rose black spot.”
It was almost half past nine by the time they got back to the house, and Mrs. Wilson met them at the door. “Oh dear, I wondered where you’d got to. I know you want to get stuck in just as soon as possible.”
Sammy worked up to the moment he needed to leave—hauling in, setting out, planting, and cleaning up the semicircle of pots on the terrace while Pru dug into the mountain of ivy. “You’ll be back tomorrow to help with cleanup?” Pru asked.
“I will. About one, is that all right?” Pru knew to take Sammy when she could get him; although he appeared to lead a carefree life, he seemed to be booked constantly.
Pru took her clutch clip out, ran her hand through her hair, and reclipped, then began to unleash the birch. Digging out the ivy was out of the question—at least with so little time—so she did her best to whack back and cut off the stems at ground level, hoping no one would walk back this far and trip on the stumps. Pru wondered what the shed actually looked like. A fresh swipe of green paint could help it fade into the surroundings. If she cleared enough away, maybe Sammy could paint tomorrow afternoon.
Toffee Woof-Woof heralded Mrs. Wilson’s arrival with a small tray of sandwiches and tea. “Take a break anytime you need to, dear, and come inside, but in the meantime I thought you could do with a little sustenance. I wasn’t sure if you might not be vegetarian—so many Americans seem to be—so I brought one chicken and one salad.”
It was close to five o’clock, and Pru had yet to make it halfway across the mountain when Mrs. Wilson and Toffee appeared with a woof. “What a good job, so much for one person to do. I’m sure you’re delighted to finish for the day, and, as Mr. Wilson will be home by six, you can certainly be off now. You will be able to finish tomorrow?”
Ah, the old fellow.
“I’ll be here first thing … at nine, and Sammy will work in the
afternoon. I thought we’d haul everything away, cut the grass, and give the little shed a coat of paint, if there’s time.” Pru tried to make the pile of cut vines as neat as possible. As she left, she turned around to view the pots on the terrace, squinting a little, trying to blur the scene at the back of the garden in favor of what was closer. Well, it was a start. She left through the basement service entrance.
Pru headed for the Cat and Cask after a shower at home. Just before she got to the door, her cell phone rang …
Mobile,
she corrected herself,
not cell phone.
She answered while still on the sidewalk; although Wilf didn’t have any signs up banning mobiles in the pub, using one inside brought no end of dirty looks from people who had stopped in just for the very reason of getting away from all that.
“Pru, listen,” Jo began.
“Jo, I’m at the Cat. Come down.”
“Yes,” she said quietly, “yes, I’ll come down. That will be better.” Before Pru could ask “Better than what?,” Jo rang off.
Sitting in the corner, leaning against the back of the wooden settle with a pint of bitter in front of her and a bowl of curried pumpkin soup on its way, Pru contemplated the possibility that she could survive after the first year. With another client or two like the Wilsons, and a flat in a cheaper neighborhood, it just might work.
Maybe she could live in Crystal Palace. The actual Crystal Palace, designed by Joseph Paxton for the 1851 Great Exhibition in Hyde Park and moved to South London in 1854, burned to the ground in 1936, but the neighborhood still carried the name. She could fill her window boxes each summer with the pelargonium named in its honor, Crystal Palace Gem, and that could be her signature plant; she could include it in all her gardens.
Pru couldn’t quite see herself living in Crystal Palace forever, though, and when her daydream began to unravel, she welcomed the sight of Jo sitting down across from her. Jo seemed to carry out her property-management duties without ever being observed doing business. Pru had seen her receive phone calls about a property to let, but she always seemed to take care of the matter in a sentence or two, and only three times—four counting today—had she seen Jo dressed in a smart, tailored business suit. More often than not, Jo wore black trousers and cardigans—elegant, and most likely pricey, but casual.
“I heard from the Clarkes today,” Jo began carefully.
The news hit Pru hard and her heart sank. “They’re on their way home,” she said as unwanted tears filled her eyes. “I’ll have to leave. I’ll have to move out, back to the States.” That was all it could be: the worst news—the real occupants of her house
returning. Time to give up. Time to move out.
Jo took a breath as if she was about to speak, stopped, and then started again. “No, Pru—that’s what I was afraid of, that you’d be upset. I believe they were just checking in.”
“You know, I really thought I could do this,” Pru said. “I thought I’d find a job—a proper job. I thought I had something to contribute.”
“I’m sure you’ll have buckets of time before you have to make any decision. I don’t want to see you worry.” Jo patted her hand on the table.
How sweet of Jo to make light of the call from the Clarkes, but Pru didn’t believe it for a minute. Jo could try to soften the blow and bolster her with false hope, but Pru knew that her life in England held on by the slenderest of threads. Pru nodded. “Yes,” she whispered, “buckets.”
“Let the Clarkes enjoy themselves in Italy. And after all, you’ve another new client now,” Jo said encouragingly, “and Damson Hill wasn’t the only CV you’ve sent out recently—there are others. What about that garden in Suffolk?”
“You’re right.” Pru tried to look on the bright side Jo offered. “I’m still waiting to hear from Halstead House. They asked for my references, so I’ve got that far. And I’ve got letters out to Boxgrove Manor and Boars Hall and … a few others. And here in town, with Mrs. Wilson, that makes twelve clients …”
“Too many,” said Jo. “You’re pushing yourself too hard.”
“I have to take what I can get, even if it means cutting lawns or stringing lights. Mrs. Wilson seems interested, and the whole back garden certainly needs doing.”
“Is there a Mr. Wilson?”
“Rumor has it, but she’s steered him clear of the project so far. He’s into archaeology—there are piles of mementos and awards everywhere. It looks like he’s quite active with some group—they dig up ancient British history. I don’t think that’s his job, though. Maybe he fancies himself as an amateur like … what’s that fellow’s name who discovered King Tut’s tomb?”
“There were never any Egyptians in Britain, Pru.”
The next morning, on her own, Pru made sure she didn’t arrive at the Wilsons’ until five minutes after nine. She walked down the steps next to the front door and let herself into the basement.
Not burdened with flowerpots and free of Sammy, Pru took stock of the basement for the first time. The Wilsons had not filled it with the overflow of furniture that Pru expected. Instead, four stacks of boxes lined one wall, and it looked as if Mr. Wilson had
made himself a study and work space for his archaeology efforts: bits of pottery and some flint arrowheads lined the ground-level windowsill, and several page-worn reference books, stacked up carelessly, teetered on the edge of a plywood-topped desk.
An overhead light switched on and she jumped. In the doorway to upstairs was a man, standing head and shoulders above Pru on the bottom step. He had rimless glasses and thick hair that was more gray than brown.
Pru’s throat closed up when she tried to speak. This must be Mr. Wilson—would he think her an intruder?
“Pru?” he asked, his eyebrows lifting as he stepped closer to her. “Are you Pru?”
She nodded, coughed, and said, “Yes, I’m Pru Parke.” She put out her hand. “Hello.”
His handshake was solid. “Harry Wilson, Pru. Not to worry—Vernona told me you would be coming through this morning. I’m just gathering up a few things and I’m away.”
“Mrs. Wilson told you about the garden? Is it all right?” Pru steeled herself for the dismissal.
He moved to his makeshift desk and shuffled through the tower of papers until he came across a small ledger, which he dropped in a pocket. He said, “Jeremy told us not to bother with the garden, and so Vernona was worried that I’d mention this to him and that he wouldn’t like it.” He caught Pru’s blank expression. “Jeremy is the fellow we let this house from.”
“A nice landscape increases the value of a house,” Pru said. “Gardens are always a wise decision—even tidying up the back will make a difference. You might want to reconsider.” A last-ditch effort couldn’t hurt, could it?
Mr. Wilson smiled. “No, you don’t understand—I’m not calling it off.” He glanced up the stairs, a small frown furrowing his brow. “Vernona is still sad about leaving Greenoak, our house in Hampshire. We both miss it. And we did have a lovely garden there. She’s been at sixes and sevens since we had to move out and up to London. And so I’m quite happy that you will make a garden for us here.” He chose a book from the precarious stack, opened the door to the back, and looked out. “You will let the shed be, though, won’t you?”
“Yes, certainly,” Pru said, as they walked up the steps to the terrace.
“I look forward to seeing the results. It’ll be nice having a young person around,” he said, “liven the place up a bit.”
Pru laughed and she caught his smile just as Mrs. Wilson threw open the kitchen door.
“Good morning, Pru,” she said in a rush. “You would’ve been welcome to start early; as you can see, Harry is in full knowledge of my little scheme. He rang me up after you’d left yesterday and we met for a meal at a little Moroccan place near Picadilly, and I confessed all. Harry, are you off? Your bag is by the door, and the taxi may be waiting.”
Mr. Wilson cocked his head toward Pru. “They’ve found a Roman road marker near Bishop’s Cleeve. We’re off for a long weekend—my amateur archaeology group—to help out with the dig. There are indications of a settlement nearby.”
Toffee Woof-Woof and the phone went off at the same time, drawing Mrs. Wilson back inside. Pru deposited her bag on the table, and said, “Good luck on the dig—hope you find something amazing.”
“I’ll leave the garden in your hands, then,” Mr. Wilson said, departing.
Pru made her way to the back and began again with the ivy. It wasn’t long before Malcolm’s head popped up over the wall.
“Morning, Pru, time for coffee?” he asked.
“I’d better not, Malcolm. This has all got to be cleaned out today.”
Malcolm didn’t move, but watched her cut, cut, cut, and then pull out and wind up long pieces of ivy. “Pru, do you know the rose called Highway 290?” he asked. “I read about it online when I looked up your rose rustlers.”
“I do,” Pru replied, as a strand of the vine whipped her in the face. “It’s found all across Texas, at least from the central area south. It’s named for the road that runs east-west from Austin to Houston. Little, double pink flowers. It’s called Highway 290 Pink Buttons.” Pru gave an extra hard yank to one thick stem and almost toppled backward.
“You’re doing an admirable job there, Pru,” Malcolm said. “The place has been overgrown for ages. I don’t suppose you’ve found anything interesting as you clean up.”