Page 40 of The Twilight Garden

Perhaps not surprisingly, the rooms which Rowan and Leo were sorting through had fared a little better. If something was already viewed as junk then perhaps it wasn’t possible to make it even more useless, so the things stored there were in disarray, but largely still intact, or damaged in a way that didn’t alter how Rowan had planned to use them. The rooms the women were clearing, however, had borne the brunt of the damage.

A good number of the tools had been stolen outright. Irritating things such as the small hand tools which Willow used all the time – trowels, forks, secateurs and the like. But also missing were the bigger items without which progress with the old garden would be next to impossible. They’d been relying on the shears and loppers to deal with the thick brambles, and without spades and long-handled forks, any digging they did manage to do would be a miracle. They began to make a list of what had gone, nodding with satisfaction each time they could annotate it to show what Rowan and Leo had managed to replace.

Gemma bent down to pick up a pile of broken pottery shards, what was left of the large number of pots which Willow had collected over time. They had all been stacked on shelves, the lengths of which were also on the ground and, as Gemma lifted them, her eye was drawn to a number of screws on the floor beneath them. She held them in the palm of her hand for a moment, thinking. Then, straightening, she studied the walls themselves before slipping the screws into her pocket.

No one gave any thought to how mad it might seem to use a spoon from the kitchen to scoop up fallen seeds, or refill a new bag with spilled compost using an old mug. It was the difference between what most people would throw away and what could be reclaimed. And it was surprising what the combination of time and a fierce determination could do.

By four o’clock, however, they were beginning to flag. The bulk of the work had been done, bigger things tackled first, and now they were down to the detail. The nitty-gritty last bits of tidying which, as tiredness claimed them, it became harder to find the enthusiasm for. But they had done well. It was a place to start from anew.

Leo was the last to finish, meeting them in the old kitchen, standing a broom in one corner which he had used to sweep up the remaining broken pieces of pot. He looked exhausted, tired and dusty, yet his stance was still resolute and a fire burned in the depths of his eyes.

‘Right,’ he said, addressing the room in general, although facing Rowan. ‘I don’t want any arguments because my mind is made up but, from tonight, Mulligan and I will be sleeping here. If anyone thinks it’s a good idea to come on-site again without a welcome, then they can think again.’

Willow’s mouth dropped open. ‘But where will you sleep?’

‘On the floor. I have an old inflatable mattress, and Mulligan has his bed, so… Although if past experience is anything to go by, he’ll decide to share the mattress. And by that I mean totally hog it, of course.’

‘But you’ll freeze.’

‘There’s a fireplace in the third room and we’ve plenty of wood.’

‘There are also single-glazed windows which are cracked in places and virtually falling out of the frames in others,’ she added, giving him a stern look.

Leo smiled. ‘Willow, it might surprise you to learn that I’ve slept in far worse over the years. What do you think I did when I was first setting up my business and had nowhere to live until I built it?’

A hot flush of shame washed over Gemma. She hadn’t known that. Or rather, she’d chosen not to think about it. But where else would he have gone? What else would he have done?

Rowan’s expression was pained, but then he slowly nodded. ‘Thank you, Leo,’ he said. ‘I know you well enough by now to accept that there’s no talking you out of it. But you have all your meals with us, you use all the facilities in the house and you spend the evening with us. You only come out here to sleep. Though I think it’s very unlikely that anything like his will happen again.’

‘And I’ll make sure it doesn’t,’ said Leo.

Gemma could feel the call of the book on gardens all through dinner, knowing that with today’s task now finished, the time had come for her to find out what information it held. She was well aware that she had pinned far too many of her hopes on it, when really there was nothing to suggest that it would provide any more detail about the house and its garden than they already had. But it was a hope, and that had to be worth something. So, as soon as the washing-up was done, she went quietly to her room, retrieved the book and her bag and slipped outside.

A gentle light flushed the garden, the last of the spring sunshine beginning to dim as the sun journeyed towards the horizon, and the air was still and peaceful. She pulled up an old crate and sat down, laying the book on her lap. Just like the box containing Schrödinger’s cat, the book held, while not exactly life or death, certainly a future and an ending all at the same time. Only upon opening it would she find out which it was. She took a deep breath, her finger tracing the image of a garden in full bloom on the front cover. It showed an elegant sweep of lawn to the rear, while in the foreground, a stone bench provided a place to rest a while and take in the scent from the roses which grew alongside it. To marvel in the colours of the flowerbed opposite, and to listen to the hum of bees and the twitter of birds as you did so. Gemma offered up a silent plea and opened the pages.

She flicked back and forth for a few minutes, familiarising herself with the layout of the book, checking its scope, glancing at photos and skimming snippets of text. Then, with excitement mounting, she began to read.

After ten minutes or so, she closed the covers and held the book close to her chest, as if hugging the information she had discovered within its pages. Her first instinct was to rush back to the house and share what she had learned but, thinking for a moment, she reached for her bag instead, taking out her notebook and pen.

Head bent, she was unaware of anything until she suddenly heard footsteps approach and looked up. It was Leo, and he was holding two mugs.

‘I saw you leave,’ he said, handing her one. ‘And I thought you might be here. But I can go if…’

Gemma pointed to another of the crates. ‘No, it’s fine, sit down.’ She lifted the mug to her nose. ‘Mmm, hot chocolate.’ Its warmth was welcome and soothing.

‘Cocoa,’ countered Leo. ‘Made the old-fashioned way. Gently warmed milk, a little sugar and cinnamon. None of that instant rubbish.’

Gemma didn’t have the heart to tell him about the machine she had, now sitting in storage, which made it thick and creamy, just like you could order from a coffee shop or café. Or the array of different flavour sachets she’d had on subscription, each one filled with shavings of real chocolate. She took a sip, surprised at the rich sweetness. The cocoa she remembered from her childhood was bitter and watery. ‘This is lovely, thanks.’

Still clutching the book and her notes, she watched him for a moment. She hadn’t finished writing yet, but perhaps… After all, there had been a time when she’d shared everything with Leo.

‘I found something, just now,’ she said. ‘I don’t want to tell the others yet because I’ve got some sketches I want to make first, but… would you like to see?’

She tucked her notes under her arm and, moving her crate to stand beside his, reopened the book at a page she had already marked. It was a double-page spread. ‘What do you think of this?’ She held the book out flat so he could see it better.

He leaned in to her side, his shoulder touching hers. He stayed that way for a moment before pulling away and holding out his hands. ‘May I?’

She passed the book across, feeling his warmth leave her.