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She wrapped her aunt’s fluffy robe around her shoulders and headed down the stairs to perform her daily struggle with the Aga to try to elicit some of its warmth into the kitchen as she brewed a pot of English Breakfast tea. While she waited for the kettle to boil, she stared out of the kitchen window to another of her life’s landscapes, this one strewn with the detritus of botanical disarray.
Chaos reigned out there too, where, like her life in Manhattan, once there had been meticulous order – so much so that Bernice had been able to open her garden to the critical eyes of the paying public, as well as the more appreciative visits of gardening enthusiasts who understood the level of commitment required to produce such horticultural splendour.
The For Sale sign was where she’d left it, slung by the back door like a drunken flamingo. It reminded her of the telephone call she had made to Angus the previous day to inform him she had removed the board and wished to delay any sale until she’d had the chance to smarten up the garden a little.
She had to admit that she had been shocked when he’d told her that he had a potential purchaser interested already, one that was happy to take the cottage in its current condition which meant she was wasting her time and energy. But their conversation had moved swiftly on to more personal matters now that he knew she intended to stay in Somersby, culminating in him asking her out on a date! Despite his request being something she had fantasised about since she had left the throw-back solicitors’ offices, she’d been so caught off-guard she had stuttered her acceptance – which had made her sound like a naïve school girl.
An intimate French restaurant had been suggested and Rosie was unsure whether she was excited about the date scheduled for next Friday or terrified. Angus was attractive and he was the type of guy she usually dated. They had many aspects of their lives in common despite the separation of the Atlantic: their educational background, their career trajectory, their preference for sharp tailoring. Perfect! Yet an inconvenient niggle in the back of her mind warned her that he did exude a similar charismatic aura as Edward had, but she quickly quashed her misgivings.
A coil of excitement twisted in her chest as she hugged the china mug and sipped her tea. Dating in the UK had not been on her agenda, but she couldn’t deny that rumble of attraction as she recalled Angus’s broad shoulders, his cobalt eyes and the way he dangled the arm of his glasses from his corner of his full, sensual lips.
However, her anticipation was nothing compared to Emily’s reaction when she had casually mentioned their date to her. She was already planning their wedding at St Peter’s Parish Church. Rosie wouldn’t have been surprised if she had even put a provisional call in to Reverend Hartley.
To divert her circular thoughts from her evening with Angus, Rosie determined that a day of hard physical labour was called for. She glanced at her night attire and across to her stilettos waiting patiently by the back door and realised she possessed not one item of clothing that would be conducive to a full day’s toil in the soil. Stupidly, when she had left for the UK, it seemed she had packed for a night out at a Manhattan soiree rather than Gloucestershire countryside pursuits.
With some trepidation she rummaged through Bernice’s huge oak wardrobe, a chore she had avoided to date as too emotional. She managed to unearth a hand-knitted Aran sweater that would do the job perfectly, coupled with her own black jeans, the Hunter boots and her aunt’s old Barbour to complete the ensemble. She plonked the straw hat onto her bushy locks and strode to the rear of the garden. The early morning sunlight glanced from the sprinkles of diamond dewdrops as she made her way to the ancient summerhouse where Bernice stored her myriad garden implements.
She tried he wooden door, but it was jammed tight. After some exertion with her shoulder to the door, it shot forward, its rusted handle detaching in her hand, and Rosie was sent flying into its cobwebby interior. Her entry had been prevented by an ancient green lawnmower and an even more elderly silver bicycle, complete with greying wicker basket up front, which her aunt had used for her village errands and daily trips to Susan’s shop and the Post Office in Cranbury. Rosie wasn’t altogether sure she could remember how to ride a bicycle.
She could, however, recall teaching Hannah to ride her bike; a pink Barbie cycle with its trainer wheels removed. She smiled at the memory of her beloved mum chasing them along the beach, her short auburn curls streaming in the breeze as Hannah, whohad immediately grasped the technique, shot off towards the ocean. Hannah had always been a fast learner.
Rosie experienced a sharp wave of melancholy and had to struggle to force her emotions back into their tightly sealed box. This day was about physical labour, not psychological introspection and the reawakening of painful memories.
Now that her eyes had grown accustomed to the gloom, she could see that her aunt’s garden shed was a veritable horticultural Aladdin’s cave. A menagerie of implements – the use of some Rosie was unable to fathom – hung from all four walls, the majority dating back to Bernice’s father’s era. In the reduced light, with hedge cutters, pitchforks and numerous vicious-looking scythes, the place looked more like a scene from one of the Texas Chainsaw Massacre movies than an old lady’s storage hut.
She located a wide wicker cloche, a pair of gardening gloves stiffened with age, and what looked like a digging implement, and confirmed her previous decision. If she did nothing else in the tangled emerald chaos, she would finish the restoration of her aunt’s favourite part of the garden: the three-metre square plot of herbs located just below the kitchen window. Each metre square was intersected by raised grassy paths separating the differing varieties. A profusion of weeds choked at the plants, coiling their insistent tendrils around the herbs’ stems, but Rosie felt confident she could distinguish the real thing from the interlopers.
Shafts of light, laced with early May sunshine, broke through the whispering canopy of the cherry tree as she commenced her chosen chore. After what seemed like hours of meditative monotony, she sat back on her heels to survey the painfully slow progress. She removed her straw hat to wipe away the perspiration rolling down her cheeks with her forearm, dragginga smear of mud across the bridge of her nose. Clouds scudded through the turquoise sky and the intermittent bursts of sweet rosemary, camomile and fresh lavender lifted her spirits as she anticipated moving on to the next section containing the coriander, parsley and the lemon mint.
She rotated her shoulders and twisted her neck before once again raising her buttocks into the warm midday air to resume her weeding, enjoying the repetitive but therapeutic work. The physicality of the toil transported her to another, more comforting world. When she shuffled on her knees to the next section, the tang of coriander floated up to her nostrils. She was wondering which recipes called for fresh coriander but would also meet her standard of culinary expertise – basic – when she felt a splat on her shoulder and glanced to her left.
Eugh!
A white splodge of bird poo had landed on the arm of her Barbour, and she was surprised to find tears smart at her eyes. That just said it all, really. A metaphor for her life – even the birds dropped their garbage on her. Was there to be no relief from the onslaught?
‘It’s good luck, that is,’ an amused voice offered from behind her, its suddenness sending a bolt of surprise through Rosie’s chest.
‘What’s so good about having a bird defecate on your shoulder?’ she responded grumpily as she struggled to her feet to face the owner of the questionable opinion who’d taken a swift step back at her sharp retort.
Rosie saw the flicker of alarm on the old man’s face, took in the faded brown cords and ancient leather brogues, his tweed jacket with patches at the elbows, and neatly barbered silver hair parted at the centre and kept in place with a slick of Brylcreem.
‘Sorry, sorry, please ignore my inexcusable rudeness. I’ve been slaving in the soil all morning and I should take a break. What can I do for you, Mr…?’
‘I’m Ollie Bradshaw. I work over at Cheltenham Meadows Garden Centre. Miss Marshall usually supplies us with a selection of plants from her herb garden in late spring. I, erm, I help her out with the heavy work in her garden over the summer months, too.’ He allowed his glance to sweep over the neglected plot and raised his eyebrows. ‘Is she around?’
Rosie met his puzzled expression, his tanned forehead creased into parallel lines, his hands shoved deep in his pockets for fear they would run away, and her heart softened.
‘I’m Rosie Hamilton, Bernice Marshall’s niece.’
She stuck out her muddy glove, realised her error and grabbed the fingers to remove it and offer him her naked palm. Ollie glanced at her outstretched hand in alarm but rallied and managed to grasp her fingertips for a weak acknowledgement. No firm “New York grip” here.
‘I’m so sorry, Ollie. I’m surprised no one has contacted you, but my aunt passed away three weeks ago. I’m over from the US for a couple of months, attempting to smarten up the garden and the cottage for its eventual sale.’
‘Oh. Oh, I’m sorry to hear that. Your aunt was a great lady, Miss Hamilton. Knowledgeable and so passionate about her plants and flowers, but most especially her herb garden.’ His crinkled eyes rested with concern on the square Rosie had managed to clear. Everything about his face was manly; square jawline, strong, well-defined eyebrows, perfectly proportioned nose. Clearly he’d been very handsome when he was young, was still handsome with his all-year-round tan. Even his deeply etched wrinkles added charm. ‘I’ll miss her expert advice as wellas her speciality – her lavender macaroons were to die for. Oh, forgive me, I didn’t mean to...’
He couldn’t meet Rosie’s eyes so continued to run them over the garden, now drenched in spring sunshine, his gaze finally coming to rest on the two over-sized wicker cloches heaped with what Rosie thought were weeds.
‘Big job you’ve taken on.’ At last, Ollie allowed a smile to lift his lips, transforming his features into animated enquiry. ‘Do you know anything about gardening?’
