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‘Sure I do.’
Rosie wished she had a camera to capture the look of scepticism Ollie had thrown in her direction. His smirk told her he didn’t believe her lame assurance. She watched in silence as he lowered himself onto his haunches and selected a weed from the basket, holding it between his thumb and index finger, its bulb and roots dangling free.
‘This, for instance, is Crocus Sativus, more commonly known as saffron; a particularly testing plant to cultivate in an English garden, but which, under your aunt’s nurture and guidance, has thrived. Did you know saffron is worth more than its weight in gold? And this is…’
‘Okay, okay. You’re right; I have no idea what I’m doing.’ She brushed her long frizzy fringe from her eyes with the back of her gloved hand. ‘And I have to admit that it’s all seems so overwhelming.’
Ollie laughed. ‘Oh, it’s not that bad. I’ve seen worse, much worse. There’s no need to dust off my degree in extreme survivalism just yet. I’m still available on Sundays if you want me to continue with the arrangement I had with your aunt. I’m sad to hear the lodge is being sold, though. I hope you find a buyer who appreciates the time and hard work that hasgone into making this one of the most spectacular gardens in the Cotswolds, as well as the rarity value of many of its plants which your aunt spent a great deal of time sourcing from all four corners of the world. It’s a twenty-four-seven job to maintain it the way your aunt did; not many people are prepared to put in that level of commitment.’
‘I know, I know, but its sale is really the only solution, Ollie. I live in New York, my sister is recently married and will settle in Brooklyn, and my father owns a grocery store out in Connecticut. We can’t maintain this place or visit often enough to make its retention viable. You said yourself it takes a full-time commitment. I’m sorry. The lawyer handling Bernice’s estate already thinks he has an interested buyer, so maybe it won’t be long. I’m just keen to sort out the herb garden really, as a sort of tribute to my aunt – it was her favourite part of the garden.’
‘I know, and the sketches she did! They are truly amazing. A very talented lady, your aunt. I loved spending time in her company. Her passion for all things horticultural certainly shined through. Did you know she opened her garden to the public every year under the National Gardens Scheme?’
‘Yes, I did know that. Unfortunately, I won’t be following in that family tradition. Look Ollie, can I offer you a cup of tea? I’m parched.’
‘Okay, a cuppa would be great. I love gardens,’ Ollie continued as he sat at the pine table in the kitchen, ‘never happier than when I’m hunting down some long-forgotten exotic variety of plant for a particularly discerning customer at the garden centre. More fascinated by botanical varieties than human diversity, that’s me.’
Rosie noticed Ollie’s fingers were those of a talented musician, sparse and deft with which to nip and tease each budand shoot towards the height of its perfection. But his rather serious demeanour could benefit from an occasional smile.
‘I take it that means you love your job at the garden centre?’
‘I do, I do. There’s no way you’d have found me chained to an office desk all day, staring out of a tenth-floor window like a demented bee trapped in a hive. Over at the garden centre, every day is different, and every month my working landscape changes. I get to spend my life outside in the fresh air, away from the recycled bugs and germs that circulate in those hermetically sealed glass cubes they call offices.’
Ollie paused to take a sip of his tea.
‘My body might sustain scratches and bruises from physical exertion, but that’s better than the internal trauma caused by worrying where the next bonus is coming from. I have no need for the crutches of alcohol and tobacco that office workers succumb to, and I get to meet really interesting and passionate people – like your aunt. It’s not a career for the young, though. They want to be footballers or minor TV celebrities these days, like that young man up at the Manor. Unfortunately, girls don’t find shrubs and trees sexy like cooking and baking, but where would those chefs be without the ingredients people like me source? I know it sounds lame but give me a garden full of vibrant violets over a room full of painted peonies any time.’
Ollie looked up from where he’d been staring into the dregs of his teacup and caught Rosie’s eye before looking away and rushing swiftly on.
‘Sorry, you don’t want to hear me drone on. Will you be requiring my services over the summer, Rosie? At least until the lodge is sold?’
‘Gosh, Ollie, yes please. Absolutely!’
‘Are Sundays okay?’
‘Great by me.’
When she saw the smile of delight spread across Ollie’s face, her heart softened and she knew she had made the right decision.
‘Thanks, Rosie. I’ll work hard to get Miss Marshall’s garden back to its former glory.’
‘Thank you, Ollie.’
She watched from the front door as he rambled to the garden gate, settled his tweed cap on his head, slung his corduroy-clad leg over his bicycle seat and meandered off down the road, his knees jutting out sideways as he pedalled.
That evening, as dusk wreathed the sinking sun, Rosie soaked her aching bones in the rose-pink ceramic bathtub. Her nails were splintered, her hands shrivelled dry from their daily manicure of mud and water, and she had a huge bruise on her knee. When the water was cold, she climbed out of the bath and wrapped her aunt’s robe around her naked body, appreciating the soft welcoming embrace it offered in place of the cool, sleek silk of her own.
She paused for a moment to glance out of her bedroom window to the now-delineated skeleton of the herb garden below and experienced a surge of satisfaction at the progress she had made that day. It was a good feeling. However, her overwhelming emotion was one of affection for her aunt; for her passion for gardening and her tenacious cause to amass knowledge and expertise and to pass it on, but also, as she cast her thoughts to herBake Yourself Betterjournal, in the arena of baking, too.
What had Ollie said were his favourite of her Aunt Bernice’s bakes? Lavender macaroons?
She tightened the belt around her waist and trotted down the stairs to the kitchen. She located her aunt’s journal and flicked quickly through the pages to find the one she was looking for, smiling broadly when she found it.
Lavender Macaroons for Lazy Afternoons
Of course you will know, Rosie, that lavender is my favourite plant as it grows in profusion in all four corners of my garden and graces every vase in my home. Lavender has been used for centuries as a herbal remedy to reduce stress and anxiety, and as an aid to insomnia which I know bites at your heels. So please fill the cottage with sprigs of my beloved lavender and maybe jump off the treadmill of life to relax and try out this recipe before taking a seat under the cherry tree to smell those beautiful flowers you and your mother were named after.
Rosie studied her wrinkled hands and her fingernails, her cuticles outlined with circles of stubborn soil and grinned. She had enjoyed getting her hands dirty. The physical exercise and intense concentration – along with her meeting with Ollie – had ensured her mind had not lingered once on the torrent of misfortune that had befallen her fate; her internal dialogue for once was silent, almost meditative.
