Page 43 of The Twilight Garden

‘I can imagine.’ Willow’s hand was over her mouth. ‘That’s so sad… I’m not sure how I feel about the place now.’

Gemma reached across to her. ‘Don’t worry, it has a happy ending,’ she said. ‘So the first thing Edmund did, rather controversially, and very dramatically, was to raze Brenant House to the ground. He literally had it torn down brick by brick – partly because in his grief he couldn’t stand the sight of it and partly because, through his work as a lawyer, he had grown to become an avid campaigner for reform. Despite his own family’s considerable wealth and that of his in-laws, he hated the dominance of power held by the wealthy landowners of the time and, following Anne’s death, he declared that he wanted no more to do with it and essentially cut himself off from his family. Ironically, he was still pretty wealthy in his own right, but he did at least seem to put his money to good use. He gave up his private practice and instead devoted his time to advocating for the poor, working either for free or for very little. He built himself a modest house on the footprint of the old one, and a few years later he married a local girl, Flora, and they went on to live a long and happy life.’

‘Well, that explains where the house went,’ said Rowan. He turned to beam at Willow. ‘I rather like the sound of Edmund.’

Gemma smiled. ‘I thought you’d approve.’

‘Go, Edmund,’ said Willow, laughing. ‘Although that still doesn’t explain how the place came to be called Thistledown, or a farm.’

‘Ah… that’s because Flora was a farmer’s daughter and it was her who started the farm here. It was also her who developed the garden, so even though the original Brenant House was Georgian, the garden was modelled in the Victorian style…’ Gemma opened the book she had borrowed from the library and found the double-page spread she had shown to Leo the night before. ‘And here it is. Wasn’t it beautiful? Aside from being an amazing gardener, Flora was also a gifted naturalist, and spent a good deal of time writing about, and drawing, the world she saw around her… including the area where the hares gathered every day at twilight to dance with the exuberance of life. She wrote about it in one of her books, illustrating the cover with a picture she called “Hares Leaping”…’ She laid the book down on the table between them, gently, reverently. ‘Isn’t that magical?’

‘Just like the hares themselves,’ said Rowan. ‘They’re sometimes associated with bad luck or thought of as tricky, mischievous devils, but they are also seen as sacred animals, heralds of transformation and change, a symbol of our spiritual connection to the earth. Those are the hares I see.’

Gemma studied his expression. ‘I’m glad you said that because I have a theory about how the farm got its name…’

‘I always wondered about that,’ said Willow. ‘I just assumed it was called Thistledown because we’re on a hill. Isn’t “down” just another name for it? Only the English version rather than the Cornish “Bre”.’

Gemma nodded. ‘It could be that,’ she replied. ‘But did you know that a “down” is also one of the collective names frequently given to a group of hares? Or that thistles are common in this part of Bodmin and, apart from anything else, likely to be one of their favourite foods?’

Willow and Rowan exchanged looks, and it was clear that they did not. Willow looked as if a lightbulb had just gone on above her head, her face lighting up.

‘That’s exactly the kind of name Flora would choose,’ she said. ‘In honour of what could have been her favourite animal.’

‘Well, that’s what I think,’ said Gemma. ‘Although it is just a theory.’

‘A very plausible theory,’ said Rowan. ‘Names are powerful things. You might not always know how a thing is given its identity, but you’d be a fool to overlook it when you do.’

Willow placed her hand over her husband’s. ‘And now we do know,’ she said. ‘Thanks to Gemma.’

‘Thanks to Flora,’ replied Gemma. ‘She was the one who turned this site from one of pain and sorrow into one of happiness and plenty. It’s lovely to think she might do the same for us.’

‘And she’s given us a blueprint for the garden,’ said Leo.

‘She has,’ said Willow, nodding. ‘So for now we do what we can with what we have, and trust that everything we need will follow. And the first task of the day is a trip to the hardware store to buy the immediate essentials. It’s money we had earmarked to pay for other things, but they’ll have to wait. None of us can work without tools.’

Gemma shot Leo a glance but the minute shake of his head he gave her in reply was enough to silence her.

‘I’ll help too,’ said Leo. ‘Just point me in the direction of whatever needs doing.’

‘But this is not what you signed up for when you joined us,’ said Rowan. ‘Are you sure? You’ve given us so much of your time already.’

Leo made a face that was somewhere between resignation and frustration. ‘And until my customer decides what he wants, and where he wants it, if he wants it at all, I’m all yours. I can do what I need to from here, just as well as I can from home. As long as that’s all right with you guys, I’ll help wherever I’m needed.’

‘I think you said Ashley can’t come over today, Gemma, is that right?’ At Gemma’s answering nod, she smiled broadly ‘So…’ She gave Gemma a sheepish look. ‘I reckon the pair of you should crack on. Is that okay?’

Gemma nodded. She could hardly refuse.

There was a different purpose to their working in the garden today. No longer were they blindly clearing the area in the hope of finding something but instead, systematically uncovering and discovering what lay beneath the years of neglect.

The drawings of the garden had revealed that a low wall bordered a pathway running right up the middle of the garden. It was bisected in the centre by another at right angles, thereby dividing the garden into the traditional four quadrants of which the Victorians were so fond. And it was here that they made a start.

It was slow work. The brambles had taken every opportunity they could over the years and huge clumps of them had grown up, along with patches of nettles and grass so wiry it was virtually impossible to remove. And it took almost an hour to reduce a small area of vegetation to ground level. It was only when Leo thrust a spade into the ground to try and split a root that they heard the dull clank of metal hitting something equally hard.

With a grin at each other, they both dropped to their knees, pulling at the stubborn mess as they tried to find purchase on the slippery stems. Yanking with both arms, Gemma almost toppled backward as a clump finally came free, but with it came their reward: the gleam of something paler. They had found the edge of the path.

With something to follow, progress seemed to speed up as they concentrated on revealing the stone flags which gave the garden its symmetry and defining features. Once they had that, they would be able to work out where the flowerbeds had been, the benches, the fountain, the intricate box hedging and the arbour, hiding away with its once rose-scented trellises. All of that seemed an age away as yet, but the promise of it was there, and that was all the motivation they needed.

A pale afternoon sun had found a gap in the thin cloud, highlighting the blue of a watercolour sky, and even though the air was still cool, Gemma was warm, her breath coming in pants. Her muscles were now more used to working hard and she was enjoying the feeling of a body growing in strength, its capabilities waking and stretching just as if it had been asleep. She’d been dormant, she realised, for such a long time, just like the plants and the life around her, and yet it hadn’t always been that way. She used to relish being outside. Having the wind whip her hair around, feeling it burnish her cheeks, turning her eyes to bright sparkles and her skin rosy.