Authors: Linda Gillard
Autumn was made bearable for him by his dahlias. Bold flowers with no scent, they collapse at the first frost, but they’re the last big colourful blooms before the onset of winter, gaudy and short-lived, like a firework display. Sylvester gathered bunches of them and brought them into the house where, to Phoebe’s horror, they would shed earwigs. Whenever I see them now – dahlias or earwigs – I think of my father.
There’s a photo of me, standing gap-toothed next to a cactus dahlia, its flowers as big as my head. For many years I wondered if, whenever he saw one, Sylvester thought of the shy, smiling child who’d posed beside one of his giant blooms. I liked to think that he did.
~
Phoebe caved eventually and agreed – “just out of curiosity” – to have Garden Lodge valued. Two agents told us it was difficult to price, but suggested we test the market at around £495,000. They also warned us there would be little interest until the spring. Nevertheless Phoebe agreed to put the house on the market, reassuring herself, ‘I don’t have to accept an offer. I’d just be interested to know, that’s all. Half a million for this place seems bloody ridiculous to me. I’m sure it’s just greedy estate agents, trying to boost their commission.’
It was a start. My mother was at least thinking about her future.
~
Weeks passed and we heard nothing. Phoebe said, ‘I told you so.’ We discussed reducing the price, but the agent advised us to hang on until the spring when things would apparently get moving again, but I sensed Phoebe was disappointed. She was also irritated by my continuing attempts to keep the house tidy for potential buyers, so in the end I gave up and turned my attention to the neglected garden.
Phoebe had let the walled garden become completely overgrown. Renovating it was beyond my modest capabilities, but I’d cleared the paths and swept up fallen leaves so people could at least walk round and see the size of the plot.
The cottage garden, as we called it, was situated at the back of Garden Lodge, enclosed by old outbuildings and glasshouses, a shed, the studio and a gate that led to a rutted lane and the outside world. It had once been riotous with colour and crammed with plants. I could vaguely remember its decline in the years after Sylvester’s departure. The roses had persisted, as did the shrubs. Marigolds, cornflowers and nasturtiums had self-seeded, but gradually the weeds took over. Plants died and weren’t replaced. Phoebe wasn’t interested. She simply passed through the garden on her way to the studio. It was just a thoroughfare to her and probably a source of unhappy memories.
I chose a fine, still November day to make a start. We had no near neighbours, so I decided to have a bonfire. I collected fallen twigs and small branches from the wood and carried them back to the piece of waste ground that once hosted Sylvester’s dahlias. Nothing but weeds had grown there for almost forty years. I forked it over and felt cheered as a blank canvas of damp, dark soil emerged. Soon a robin joined me and, keeping a cautious distance, picked over the crumbling soil for worms. I was glad of the company.
When some ground was cleared, I arranged my kindling to form a sort of wigwam and added some of the driest vegetation. When I struck a match, the dead leaves sizzled and soon a plume of smoke rose straight up into the air. The smell was almost intoxicating and I experienced a sudden craving for sausages. I remembered a Bonfire Night, my father lighting Roman candles and launching rockets from empty beer bottles, while Phoebe handed round charred sausages in rolls. After he’d gone, I was allowed sparklers and a few small fireworks, but there were no more bonfires or
al fresco
bangers.
As I tended my bonfire and contemplated my early childhood, I wondered why I spent so much time thinking about something I could hardly remember. Was I trying to fill in the blanks? Or did I ponder my own childhood because I’d never had a child? No childhood had ever superseded mine in importance, so perhaps I remained shackled to mine, even though it seemed distant, strange, almost forgotten.
I stared, hypnotised, into the crackling flames, looking for answers, but found none.
~
By the time the agent finally rang to make an appointment for someone to view Garden Lodge, I’d almost forgotten it was on the market. The phone call threw me and I must have sounded off-hand, even a little confused.
‘Someone wants to
view
?’
‘Yes. A Mr Grenville would like to view the property.’
‘Is he a serious buyer?’
‘I’ve no idea, but we haven’t exactly been inundated with enquiries, have we? He does have a property to sell. In Bristol. I don’t have any more details, I’m afraid.’
‘I see. When does he want to come?’
‘As soon as it suits you.’
‘Well, tomorrow would be okay. I need to have a bit of a tidy up. Indoors and out. It’s the worst time of the year for viewing the garden unfortunately. There’s nothing to see in January.’
‘I doubt he’ll be interested in the garden. It will be the cottage and the building plot. It’s a great business opportunity.’
But the agent was wrong. Mr Grenville wasn’t looking for a business opportunity.
~
He was punctual. As a damage limitation exercise, I’d settled Phoebe down with a cup of tea and a dvd of
Murder, She Wrote
. At three o’ clock I opened the door to a tall, shabby-looking young man with muddy shoes and over-long hair. Not my idea of an entrepreneur, though I suppose the hair was a bit Richard Branson. I decided he looked the self-sufficient type and must be in search of a family home with a plot of land. Alternatively, he might be casing the joint to see if we were worth burgling.
He held up the agency brochure and, as he extended a large hand, his wide smile was reassuring. ‘Mrs Flint? Connor Grenville. I hope I’m not too early?’
‘Not at all. Do come in. I’m Ann de Freitas and I’ll be showing you round.’
‘Thank you,’ he said, stepping on to the door mat where he scraped his shoes thoroughly. As I shut the door behind him, I realised he wasn’t that young – early thirties maybe, fair, with a high forehead that made him look academic, as did the worn cord trousers and shapeless woollen jumper. Looking at him, I doubted he had the financial resources to buy Garden Lodge. Then I told myself there was no uniform for millionaires. Perhaps they made their money by economising on clothes and haircuts.
I felt unaccountably nervous. This was the kind of thing Jack used to do. Jack was good with people and could talk to anyone. He’d been the one who’d bought and sold houses. I’d decorated, gardened and cooked. I’d been the home-maker, but it had always been a home of Jack’s choosing.
Mr Grenville was still standing on the doormat, waiting for me to show him round, so I pulled myself together. ‘This is the hall,’ I announced superfluously. ‘There’s plenty of storage,’ I added, opening a glory hole cupboard and shutting it again quickly before the contents could tumble out. ‘And through here we have the kitchen.’
‘Have you lived here long?’ he asked, examining me and not the kitchen.
‘I don’t actually live here. I’m staying with my mother until she’s sold the house.’
‘Has she lived here long?’
‘Yes. Since the early seventies. My father renovated the house and garden.’
‘Ah, yes, the garden. It’s very old, isn’t it?’
‘It was the kitchen garden attached to the big house.’
‘Beechgrave.’
‘That’s right. Would you like to see inside the kitchen cupboards?’
‘No, thanks, that won’t be necessary.’
‘The dishwasher’s brand new,’ I said, pointing.
‘Is it?’ He gave the machine a cursory nod, said, ‘That’s useful to know,’ and looked eager to move on.
He showed no interest in the scullery or the downstairs cloakroom, but stood in front of windows, looking out in various directions. The burglary option seemed increasingly likely, though unless he knew about paintings, he would see nothing worth stealing. Phoebe owned a decent art collection which she’d assembled over the years, often buying when an artist was unknown and still affordable, but Mr Grenville ignored the paintings. When we got to the sitting-room and I introduced Phoebe by name, there was no flicker of recognition, so I concluded he either knew nothing about art or was a very good actor.
He viewed each room politely and briefly, showing no inclination to linger until we came to my room with its view of the wood and distant Beechgrave up on the hill. He stood at the window and looked out in silence until I asked if he had any questions. That jolted him out of his reverie and he said, no, he didn’t want to take up much more of my time.
I was starting to feel slightly annoyed, or perhaps it was disappointed. ‘Would you like to view outside? The orangery was converted into a studio for my mother, but it would make a lovely big summer house. Or an office.’
‘Yes, please. I’d really like to have a look round the garden.’
‘There’s not a lot to see at this time of year, but the building plot is sizeable.’
‘Building plot?’ He looked surprised.
‘Well, yes. We assume that’s what most people will be interested in. The walled garden is a nice level plot and the old brick walls are very attractive. Or they would be if you removed all the ivy. But you don’t have to take the land. We’re selling in two lots. The house and woodland are one lot, the walled garden and outbuildings are the other.’
He looked crestfallen. ‘I didn’t realise you were breaking it up.’
‘All the details are in the brochure,’ I said, sounding rather curt.
‘I see. Sorry, I hadn’t really registered...’
I glanced out of the window and said, ‘It’s started to rain again, I’m afraid.’
‘I won’t keep you long. In fact, you don’t even need to show me round. I can explore on my own. I know my way round a Victorian garden,’ he added cryptically.
‘I’ll have to unlock the studio for you. It’s a bit of a tip, I’m afraid. It’s where I work.’
‘I thought you said your mother—’
‘She used to work there until she became ill. She hasn’t been able to paint for some time now, so I’ve taken over the studio while I’m staying with her.’
‘You paint too?’ he asked, following me down the stairs.
‘Yes, though in a very different way. I’m a textile artist.’
‘Obviously a talented family.’
Turning to him at the bottom of the stairs, I said, ‘My father was a passionate gardener and my mother is an artist. I suppose my DNA dictated I’d become someone who dreamed of being a second William Morris.’
‘But instead you became the first Ann de Freitas. An original,’ he added, with such an engaging smile, I was thrown slightly and led him to the back door in silence.
As I pulled on a raincoat, I said, ‘There’s only one umbrella, I’m afraid, but it’s quite large.’
‘Don’t worry about me, I’m used to rain,’ he said cheerfully.
As we went round, huddled under the umbrella, Mr Grenville’s excitement was palpable, but he paid scant attention to the information I gave him, showing more interest in the ancient graffiti carved on the beech trees than the dimensions of the studio. He had a tendency to wander off, his long legs covering the ground quickly, then he’d stand still, apparently impervious to the rain, and stare into space, as if trying to orient himself or imagine something that wasn’t actually there. Several times he looked up towards Beechgrave, then back at Garden Lodge, his brow furrowed.
When he joined me again under the umbrella, his spirits seemed as damp as his clothes and hair. ‘Thanks for waiting. I hope you aren’t getting cold.’
Curiosity finally got the better of good manners. ‘You’re not actually interested in the house, are you?’ He opened his mouth to reply, then thought better of it. To his credit, he met my stern look without flinching. ‘Are you just a time-waster? Or checking to see if we’re worth burgling? We’re not, unless you deal in contemporary portraits.’
‘I’m very sorry. I admit I
am
wasting your time. Really I’m just here to see the garden. What’s left of it.’
‘Why?’
‘It’s a long story.’ He pushed dripping hair back from his forehead and said, ‘I don’t suppose you’d like to hear it, would you?’
I laughed out loud at his cheek. ‘First you admit you’re wasting my time, then you ask if I’d like to know
why
?’
‘I thought you might. It’s a mystery, you see.’
‘A
mystery
?’
‘Yes. Your mother might enjoy hearing about it. She obviously likes mysteries.’
By now I suspected I was dealing with a patient on the run from Beechgrave’s punishing teetotal regime. ‘What on earth do you mean?’
‘
Murder, She Wrote.
That’s what she was watching. My Gran used to love that programme.’
I faltered, overcome by curiosity. ‘And I suppose if I allow you to tell us this story, you’ll want a cup of tea as well?’
His grin was disarming and I suspected he knew it. ‘That would be more than I deserve.’