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“You are okay?” she asked him again.
~
Martinson had been Jason’s security chief for such a long time and Gemma had come to appreciate his loyalty to her husband as being as devout as her own. The man worked long hours and antisocial ones, too. He was called upon a short notice to drive or attend functions with her husband. There were, behind the scenes, all the issues of protecting Jason’s business assets, his reputation, and cocooning their lives from intrusive prying media. Martinson did all this without complaining, and she admired the man’s tenacity.
He travelled with Jason as a companion, often abroad, though not to the States, where Jason employed Amando. It probably gave Martinson a much-needed break from her husband’s relentless working life.
As she spent more time in Martinson’s company, and though they conversed in a minimalist fashion, she heard stories about his children. Not his wife. She was a fixture of his life who he didn’t reveal much about. Perhaps she felt neglected or overlooked, but their marriage seemed strong, and he made sure he was there for birthdays, anniversaries, and the big issues. His son was his main concern; the younger daughter kept her mother’s company. His boy, Aaron, was a different matter, and Martinson worried about his son.
“Football, Mrs Lucas, bloody football. He?
??s convinced that he can make a career out of it. Won’t do his schoolwork, thinks it’s all unnecessary. I wish I hadn’t taken him to all those after-school clubs and weekend practices now,” confessed Martinson on one long journey.
As the child hit adolescence, the problem grew worse, and he had failed tests and missed deadlines for homework. During the summer holidays, while Joshua learnt to sit up or roll about, issues came to a head that involved Gemma directly, something she wouldn’t have anticipated.
Gemma had thought it was the birds when she came to inspect the vegetable garden on the Friday afternoon. The raspberries decimated, the strawberries had vanished, and even the tart gooseberries were missing. The netting remained in place, although untidy and unsecured in places. She tutted, wondering if Blythewood bred especially intelligent birds. Then she spotted the footprints amongst the trampled vegetables and the ruined lettuces and cabbages. Staring at the footprints, she couldn’t help noticing the shoe sizes were smaller than adults. Children!
“Thompson, why is my vegetable garden trashed? Who the hell has been stamping all over it?” she barked down the phone to the gatehouse.
There was a pause on the other end of the phone and muffled talk amongst the duty officers. “Umm. Aaron Martinson, Mrs Lucas,” came the reply.
“Aaron?”
The football-mad boy had been “borrowing” the garden and it became apparent it had been going on for several weeks. Thompson rattled off the explanation over the phone.
The Martinson family lived on the Blythewood grounds in an old estate-manager’s house, which had been modernised. A fine property, but it lacked a decent-sized garden. Confined within the perimeter fence and security system, their garden was separated from the mansion’s own by wooden fencing. Aaron had discovered, with the aid of a wooden bench, he could climb over into the palatial grounds. So he did, with two of his friends, and kicked a football about on the lawn.
Nobody had been in the house during the week, and Mrs Harris too busy indoors to notice three boys mucking about outdoors. Security did, as the daring boys explored the wooded area at the back of the property. The CCTV on the perimeter fence picked them out as they beat back the nettles with sticks. They were spied playing their footy, and the duty officer in the gatehouse, having conversed with Thompson, who was in charge of Blythewood’s security during the week, jointly decided it was harmless fun. Aaron was known to them, and he was Martinson’s boy. Nothing would come out of a little running round and letting off steam, Thompson had reasoned. Inappropriately, grumbled Gemma on the other end of the phone.
It would have remained harmless fun throughout the school holidays except they had decided to raid the orchard and vegetable plot for fruit. Immature, unripened fruit, but it was there for the picking, and they gorged themselves.
The garden belonged to Gemma—her domain, her treasure trove of life to control. Jason’s rules did not apply to her horticultural world. The gardeners employed by the estate did the hard graft—the weeding, mowing, and planting—but the master planner who designed and created the scenery, was her. She envisaged the blossom in the orchards, the variegation of the foliage, and the contours of the land. She’d dug down to create sunken rockeries, laid out formal pathways, rosebushes in colourful patterns, and selected the vegetables in her beloved home-grown plot. It was her delight to sit in the midst, with paints, easel, and brush, and capture it all on canvas.
By the time Jason appeared in the evening, Gemma was no longer fuming but she was unhappy with the situation. She wondered if Martinson knew, but suspected he did not. He wouldn’t condone the behaviour or allow his son to trespass on his boss’s property. The security team in the gatehouse had been amiss in their decision-making.
“Playing football?” queried Jason as Gemma broke the news to him.
“Yes. For weeks. But that isn’t what has pissed me off.” She told him about the wrecked vegetable plot. “I’m going to have to replant loads. I was going to make purees for Joshua from the fruit—”
Jason held up a hand. “Okay, you’re pissed off. I will speak to Martinson, and no doubt there will be words at the gatehouse.”
“They shouldn’t think they can get away with it, Jason.” Standing in the kitchen, hands on her hips, she wanted retribution.
Jason ensured she got it. Martinson, upon being informed, had been apoplectic with rage when told about his son’s audacity. He lined up a string of punishments: no football club, grounded, and pocket money docked. Gemma felt sorry for the child as Martinson stood in the kitchen apologising profusely for his son’s behaviour.
“Whoa, Martinson,” said Jason with half a smile on his face. “I have a better idea. My wife does not have the time to spend in her vegetable plot sorting out their mess. They can come and help her. The three of them. Tomorrow morning, here at nine o’clock, and they stay until she’s satisfied.”
Jason delivered his chosen punishment in a fashion that meant it was a command, not an option. Martinson went off to yell at his son and find out the names of the other two culprits. Whatever he threatened them with, the delinquents arrived on the doorstep promptly at nine o’clock.
“Go round the back, and I will join you in a minute,” Gemma told them with Joshua perched on her hip and the sternest face she could muster up. The three teenagers shuffled around, pants hanging off their hips and shoulders slouched.
Thirteen-year-old boys existed in a limbo world. Gemma remembered the stage from her own childhood. Unlike their female counterparts, the boys digging her garden had a childish, almost infantile attitude. Unfortunately, their bodies were changing quicker than their immature minds. Their legs had stretched out into skinny lankiness, their hands toughened up, their voices went up and down as the vocal cords broke, and their oily skin garnered acne. Seeing the world through their juvenile eyes, Gemma discovered the youths were obsessed with sports and revolting ideas. Girls, also, although they were too embarrassed to admit their keenness for the opposite sex. Occasionally, as they dug and turned the soil, one of them would let slip a lewd comment about a girl then snigger.
When they began to muck around and waste time, she snapped at them and reminded them they weren’t going home until she was satisfied. While Jason swam with his baby son in the indoor pool, Gemma took on the mantle of a sergeant major and barked her orders across the carrots and peas. They sneered at her at first, but, as the morning progressed, they became politer, and her ire softened. She explained to them about different nutrients in the soil, what grew when, how important worms were, and they should stop chopping the poor creatures up with their spades.
They asked what Gemma did during the weekdays and she told them little other than she was on maternity leave, a half-truth. Her art-gallery plans hadn’t progressed much. Frustratingly, still nothing from the property agents that suited her needs. Regardless how much she vented her spleen at the agents, she remembered her lesson with Jason. Wait. Don’t rush. It proved a hard stance to maintain. Instead, she painted and built up a portfolio. With Hugh’s assistance, she’d made inroads into identifying candidates for her funds. Yet, she anticipated her art gallery would remain stuck in the early stages for months to come.
As the sun came out and the breeze dropped, they began to sweat, and so did she. Time for a break and a drink indoors.
