Page 37 of The Twilight Garden

‘You’ve certainly got your work cut out for you,’ said Hannah. ‘How do you even begin something like that?’

‘With a very sturdy pair of gardening gloves,’ replied Gemma, smiling. ‘We’ve spent the last few days trying to clear a patch of stubborn and rather prolific bramble. And if it’s not bramble, it’s thistles, nettles, couch grass… We know there’s a garden under there somewhere, and we’re pretty sure we’re looking in the right place – ish – but as yet, it’s keeping itself well hidden.’

‘But this is the book which should tell you exactly what’s been hidden and where, is that right?’

‘It’s the only history of the garden we’ve found,’ replied Gemma. ‘So fingers crossed. It isn’t the only garden detailed in the book though, so it could only feature on half a page. With any luck it will be several chapters, rich in scope and full of photographs…’

Hannah eyed the book with a new reverence. ‘I hope so too. You will let me know, won’t you?’

‘Of course I will.’ She smiled before giving her watch a quick glance. ‘Sorry, I’d better get going. I said I’d pick Ashley up at ten.’

Hannah quickly issued the book to Gemma’s account. ‘No problem.’ She handed it back. ‘You mentioned she’s been helping you before. Is that Ashley Cousins?’

Gemma nodded. ‘Yes, that’s right – Merryn’s granddaughter.’

‘I thought it was.’ She paused. ‘Right,’ she said, glancing back at the computer screen. ‘There you go then, all done.’

‘How much do I owe you?’ asked Gemma, taking out her purse. The cost of requesting the book from the intercounty library archives had been almost fifteen pounds, but it was a small price to pay.

Hannah waved her hand. ‘I’ve taken care of it,’ she said, lowering her voice slightly. ‘I’ve allocated it to the local history club. They don’t pay for requests.’

Gemma beamed her a smile. ‘You’re a star,’ she said, making a mental note to bring her some of Willow’s brownies next time she visited. ‘I’ll let you know how I get on.’

With her precious cargo safely stowed, Gemma started her car and pulled slowly out of the space reserved for library customers. Now that her ankle had started to heal, she’d been able to resume driving, and she still couldn’t get over the wonderful feeling of being able to go anywhere she wanted, at any time she wanted. Willow, Rowan and to some extent Leo had all been very good about giving her lifts when she’d needed them, but there was much she had missed about being under her own steam – the ability to take her time, for one.

There was so much to see at this time of year. The road into town sat high above the valley floor and the views were spectacular. Spring was upon them and signs of green were everywhere, along with the blossom which dotted the trees as they marched majestically up the hillside. Summer and autumn would have their own distinct clothing, too, but Gemma would welcome those seasons when they arrived, and not before. Neither would she yearn for their coming. Each thing, in its own time… She smiled at the thoughts in her head. Who’d have thought they’d belong to her?

And all the while she drove, there was the thought of the book tucked in her bag and with it the promise of what might yet come into being. It was tempting to open it as soon as she got home, but aside from the fact that she had Ashley helping her today, she knew she would wait until this evening to do so. Partly so that she could share her findings with the others, but also because her research belonged to the quiet evening of a day well spent, with a cup of tea or a hot chocolate, a piece of cake or a muffin and the comfortable companionship of the hours until bedtime.

They had all discussed at length the best way to tackle clearing the area where they believed the garden to be, or rather the merits of speed over care, but in the end they had all agreed that there was a danger in using any kind of machinery to clear the land which they simply couldn’t risk. There was also a cost involved, the money for which would have to be found and would potentially mean that expenditure elsewhere would have to be reduced. But standing on that first morning to survey the task ahead of them, Gemma had felt almost faint with the enormity of it all.

A week later, and that feeling hadn’t really changed, except that they had finally made a start and that was better than no start at all. Plus, the photographs they had already uncovered had at least shown where the boundaries ought to be, and so they were working the left-hand edge of the garden, bit by bit, bramble by bramble, and today would be no different.

After substituting her shoes for the pair of boots she was hardly ever out of, Gemma followed Ashley into the garden, handing her a pair of thick gauntlet-style gloves which were a necessity for tackling the prickly thorns. And the first job of the day would be to clear away what had been cut the day before, ferrying it to an already huge pile in the centre of the garden.

‘I’ll go and get the tools,’ said Ashley, doubling back towards the old farmhouse where they were kept.

Gemma nodded and began to carefully pull the thick stems of bramble away from where they had been working. It was a good way to warm up if nothing else. But there was another reason why they were taking their time over this process: somewhere, underneath all the wild unrestraint, were the remains of the garden, that had once been carefully cultivated and nurtured. And they had no idea what they might find, or when. A tendril of something beautiful which had been struggling its way towards the light, its dormant heart lain buried for years, covered, subdued and hidden, but still very much alive.

Checking where she was putting her feet, Gemma paused for a moment to disentangle her sleeve, grappling with the bramble as it snagged and grasped at her, reluctant to be taken away. A sudden shout rang out through the stillness of the day.

‘Gemma!’ shouted Ashley, waving furiously. ‘Gemma!’

She looked up, wondering what on earth had caused such an outburst. At first, she thought Ashley had found something of note, but then she realised that her stance was not excited, but instead panicked. And even at this distance, Gemma could see how distraught she was. She extricated herself from the bramble, heart picking up speed.

‘You need to see this,’ said Ashley as Gemma approached, her voice urgent and carrying something else too. Something dark and unwelcome. ‘I don’t know what to say…’ she added, trailing off, her hand over her lips.

She shook her head at the look of enquiry on Gemma’s face and wordlessly led her to the farmhouse. To the room where they kept all their tools. Or what was left of them.

Gemma stared around her in shock, astounded by the utter disarray which greeted her. The walls which had once held their carefully collected supplies and equipment were almost bare, the shelves on which they had been sitting torn down, the hooks on which they had hung, ripped out. And the tools themselves… Gemma looked around, anguish rising along with her anger. At first glance a good many of them seemed to have gone, while others lay bent or broken. Packets had been spilled and bags split open. It wasn’t just theft, it was wilful destruction.

‘I don’t understand,’ she said, words strangely unavailable. ‘Who would do such a thing?’

‘Someone sick.’ Ashley practically spat her reply into the debris at their feet. ‘Someone…’ She trailed off, but the look on her face left Gemma in no doubt what she would do to them if she found them. The same as her, no doubt. ‘The door hasn’t been damaged,’ she added. ‘Although I guess it’s easy to open if you know how.’

‘It was definitely locked last night,’ said Gemma. ‘I did it myself.’

It was part of the nightly routine – cleaning off the tools just as Rowan had shown her. To prevent rust, oiling them if necessary, before hanging them back in their designated places. She had liked it. It was order and routine, but it was also care. Care because she had time to do it, care because it was important to preserve the things they had. Care which, ironically, Gemma had never sought to bother about in the past – always too busy, too hasty to finish a job even when she had been doing something she loved. Whoever had done this though, hadn’t just stolen from them, they hadn’t just broken things, they had shouted loud how little that care had meant, how easily it could be rendered useless. And that hurt.