The Garden House Read online

  Davy puts down his toast and stretches a hand to her across the table. ‘My dear old darling,’ he says feelingly, ‘what complete and utter shit life is. We shall go together. I’d feel very privileged to share this with you.’

  She takes his hand and holds it tightly. Davy is exactly what she needs right now. Someone who is not afraid to show his emotions, to enter into her loneliness and grief without uttering platitudes or pulling a sad face.

  ‘Thanks,’ she says. ‘The gardens open at eleven so we’ve got plenty of time. It’s about a forty-minute drive.’

  Davy, who is still in pyjamas with an ancient fleece jacket over the top, glances down at himself.

  ‘Why do I feel that there’s a tiny hint there?’ he muses as if to himself. ‘Just one more piece of toast then, and perhaps half a cup of coffee, and then I shall rush away and get ready.’

  ‘It’s open till three,’ says Julia. ‘We could have lunch there.’

  She feels a mixture of excitement and apprehension. How odd it will feel driving the familiar road, parking the car and walking in, remembering which code he’s used. Nancy Fortescue. Sophie’s Place. Moulin Rouge. They each have a special significance. The Garden House was always a bit of a risk, being so close to Tavistock, but after all, anyone might meet an old friend by chance in a garden – and even have a cup of coffee together. After Cakes and Ale was aired there was a little more danger of being recognized but she always wore shades or a hat, and since she and Martin arrived and left separately nobody seemed to be aware of the relationship.

  Julia sighs. Today will be different: no Martin, no codes, no meeting. She’s aware that Davy is watching her and she shrugs and makes a little face.

  ‘Ghosts,’ she says. ‘I’ll take Bertie up the lane.’

  She gets up from the table and Bertie, who has been keenly observing the progress of Davy’s toast, ambles out of the kitchen behind her. Kicking off her shoes and stepping into her wellies, Julia pulls on a jacket and opens the back door. The morning is mild and a blackbird is singing in the shrubbery. As she and Bertie set off together, Julia is humming: ‘We are stardust, we are golden…’ There are no sheep with their lambs in the meadow, no cuckoo calling down in the valley – spring seems a long way off – but the early November day is mild and the sky is clear. It will be a good drive across the moor to The Garden House. She knows that Davy will not be blown away by the immensity of the landscape or even by the charm of the gardens. Davy is a city man but he enjoys a little change. He enjoyed producing Cakes and Ale, visiting the small pubs and cafés on the cliffs and in small villages perched around the Cornish peninsula, and talking to the people whose livelihoods depended on tourists visiting these wild, spectacular places.

  As she walks, Julia’s fingers grip the phone in her pocket. She knows she should block Martin’s number but can’t quite bring herself to do it. It would be like killing him all over again: blotting him out. And supposing El might need to get in touch? They’d always talked about the children: her boys and El and Freddie. Occasionally they showed each other photographs they’d taken on their phones. Photos of Freddie were rare but there were a few of them, and Julia sometimes wondered what might happen if all four of the children were to meet. Right at the beginning, after the divorce, they were both determined that it was foolish to risk any kind of upset, then, after Felicity married again, it seemed important to allow a period of quiet whilst El and Freddie came to terms with the new situation. And so it continued, probably because there was no obvious, pain-free way where they might all come together happily. So they’d made the pact: when Ollie went off to university a plan would be made.

  How odd it is, thinks Julia, as she turns for home, calling to Bertie, to miss someone so much when I saw him so little.

  The thing was, of course, that there has always been the prospect before them, something to anticipate: a meeting, a lunch, a visit to Bristol. And now there’s nothing but her Charlotte Marlow painting and his texts.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Will and El are in the Pannier Market. Nothing has come out of their exhaustive talking or searching the internet apart from a portrait of Nancy Fortescue of Devon painted by Thomas Hudson, hanging in the Yale Center for British Art.

  ‘And don’t tell me,’ Will said, ‘that they popped over to Yale for a quick cup of coffee. Although there’s another here that says “Moulin Rouge. Midday”. I mean, Paris? Seriously?’

  Glancing at El he realized that his amused incredulity was misplaced. She looked bemused, unhappy, and he cursed his tactlessness whilst feeling unsure about how to play this.

  Now, as he follows her along the aisles between the market stalls he wonders exactly what Martin and the mysterious J were really doing. There was never anything romantic in the texts between them. And they weren’t even very regular. If they were lovers then they were having a pretty hard time of it. Will stops suddenly beside a stall selling hand-painted Mediterranean pottery. He picks up a bowl, scarlet and blue with splashes of thick cream paint, and grins to himself. He’s seen something similar on the dresser at the Pig Pen and wonders if El or her father bought it from this stall. It’s definitely not his scene but he knows that Christian would love it. El, who has wandered on, glances over her shoulder and comes back to him.

  ‘These are fun,’ he says, showing it to her. ‘Christian’s birthday is coming up and I think he’d like this.’

  He talks to the stall-owner, looking at the other plates, whilst El stands silently beside him. Luckily she’s brought a linen bag, folded in her coat pocket, and she offers it to him silently whilst he carefully packs the bowl and a plate away. Before he can speak, a voice hails El, calling from across the stall, and he sees a tall man, probably in his early seventies, waving at them. Will glances down at El, who is already waving back.

  ‘It’s Angus,’ she says to him. ‘Pa’s senior partner and oldest friend. We’ll have to say hello.’

  Will can’t see why this should be a problem but understands as soon as El introduces him and clearly can’t quite find the words to describe their relationship. As Will shakes Angus’s outstretched hand he realizes that it’s a tricky one. Since El is reluctant to call him her stepbrother, Will simply smiles. Angus, however, seems to grasp the situation. Perhaps he recognizes the surname; maybe Martin has mentioned him to his old friend. Angus is exclaiming that they must have coffee, that he and Plum were meeting at the Bedford and Will and El must join them. Angus clearly isn’t considering that ‘no’ might be an answer – he reminds Will of his former headmaster – and it’s clear that El is very fond of this old boy with his mop of white hair and wide, angular shoulders. Will smiles and nods, and follows them out of the Pannier Market, across the square and into the big hotel that stands across the road from the church.

  ‘Nice old town,’ he says to Angus as he follows him into the bar. He has to make an effort not to call him ‘sir’.

  Angus beams at him, as if he is personally responsible for Tavistock’s good qualities, and hurries forward to a table by one of the windows. A pretty, fair-haired woman who is sitting there glances up from her phone as Angus approaches.

  ‘Look who I found in the Pannier Market,’ he says happily.

  He stands aside to allow El to come forward and Will sees an odd expression cross the woman’s face: surprise, even alarm. El is already squeezing past the chairs so as to give her a hug.

  ‘Hi, Plum,’ she says warmly. ‘This is great. I didn’t know you were down.’

  She turns and Will braces himself for another ambivalent introduction. He stretches a hand towards this woman – can she really be called Plum? – and smiles at her. Whilst they mill about deciding who should sit where and what everyone should drink, Will is aware that Plum is not relaxed. Her hands flex, she picks up her phone and puts it down again. Angus goes to the bar to order while El sits next to Plum and begins to ask her questions about her family. Angus returns and then the coffee arrives. Angus, to Will’s surprise, kn
ows that he is a pilot, and they talk about that, but all the while Will is conscious of some kind of distraction on Plum’s part. A thought occurs to him. Nobody mentions Martin. Moreover, if Plum and Angus are surprised that Will is staying at the Pig Pen they give no sign of it. Presently the party breaks up with promises that they must meet again.

  As they drive back in El’s car – ‘Your flash car is just so not appropriate for Tavistock,’ she said, laughing – he’s still following a train of thought.

  ‘I suppose,’ he says tentatively, ‘that Plum couldn’t possibly be J, could she?’

  Glancing sideways he sees that El looks first incredulous and then amused. ‘You have to be kidding,’ she says. ‘I told you, Angus is Dad’s oldest friend. We’ve known Plum for ever. Apart from which, she’s been abroad for the last two years. Her husband’s a naval commander and they’ve only just come back from Washington.’ She shakes her head. ‘Why would you think that?’

  He shrugs, staring out of the window. ‘She just seemed as if she’d been caught off balance.’

  ‘I haven’t seen her since Pa died,’ El says, as if that explains it. ‘They weren’t back in time for the funeral and I missed her when she was down last. Some people find it hard the first time they see me. They don’t know what to say.’

  He nods; that could be the reason, although he’s not totally convinced. By the time they get back to the Pig Pen, El is in an odd mood.

  ‘Don’t forget Christian’s present,’ she says, almost waspishly, holding the bag out to him. ‘You’d better pack them carefully so that they don’t break. And I want my bag back.’

  As she goes ahead of him into the house, he opens the boot of his car and stashes the pottery away, wrapping them carefully into a coat he keeps there, folding El’s bag. He guesses that she’s finding this whole business of the texts harder than he thought, not to mention meeting people she hasn’t seen since her father died. Though he was only twelve when his mother died, he can still remember how difficult that whole process was. He locks the car and follows her into the house.

  * * *

  El stands at the table, staring at nothing, furious with herself for behaving like a prat. She was surprised at her reaction when she watched Will choosing the pottery, smiling to himself, taking his time over deciding which pieces Christian might like. It was almost as if she was jealous, which is crazy. And just now she’d been really snide about telling him to wrap them properly. After all, it’s precisely because Will is gay that she can be so easy with him, that he can stay here without being any kind of threat to her. The stepbrother and -sister thing is a bit thought-provoking, but actually that’s not really a problem. It’s surprising, though, how difficult she’s finding it to introduce him to her friends. She knows that Angus, as Pa’s friend and her own legal adviser, knows all about the remarriage, and it’s clear that he remembered who Will is, which made it easier. Not so easy with Plum, but El guesses that she was much more concerned with concentrating on how to be tactful about Pa than to wonder about Will.

  As to Plum being the person who sent the texts, El almost laughs at the thought of it. Plum, who is so good and kind, such a lovely mother, and a devoted wife following Ian around on his naval postings. On the other hand, it’s simply not fair to snap at Will, who is being very patient and kind about all this. She breathes deeply, gets a grip on the emotions that threaten to overwhelm her, and by the time Will arrives upstairs she’s in control again.

  ‘Not quite what I planned for your introduction to Tavistock,’ she says, ‘but never mind. I’m glad we’d already been to Book Stop and you met Simon and Natasha.’

  ‘It’s a great bookshop,’ he says, putting El’s bag on the table. ‘And I loved the Music Room upstairs. I’d like to have a really good browse around there.’

  ‘Pa loved it, too,’ she answers, relieved to be back on a calm footing. ‘He once found a remastered Miles Davis CD and I thought he was going to die of joy.’

  She stops abruptly, realizing what she’s said, and sits down at the table, dropping her head into her hands.

  ‘Sorry, she says, muffled. ‘Honestly. I’m all over the place today.’

  ‘Don’t beat yourself up,’ Will says gently. ‘Think of everything you’ve got through so far. You’ve sorted out the funeral, the house, your pa’s belongings, you’ve moved in and got yourself a job. I can’t think of anyone else I know who would have achieved all that so quickly. Be proud of yourself. Pa would be.’

  His kindness, mentioning Pa like that, is too much for her. El folds her arms on the table, puts her head on them and bursts into tears. He doesn’t touch her, or make soothing sounds. He walks to the fridge and opens it, she hears the clink of glasses, liquid pouring, and then something set on the table beside her. She fumbles in her pocket for a tissue and wipes her eyes.

  ‘Thanks, Will,’ she says. ‘Perhaps it was trying to decipher all those texts.’ She takes a sip of wine and sets the glass down. ‘I wasn’t sure where we might have lunch. I was thinking we might go for a walk and have lunch in a pub but instinctively I just drove straight back here.’

  ‘Well,’ he says, ‘perhaps we could have a sandwich and then go for a walk. Do we need to take a car to have a walk?’

  She shakes her head. ‘We can go down the lane and then cut up on to the moor. That’s not a problem.’

  ‘Good. In that case,’ he raises a glass to her, ‘here’s to Nancy Fortescue.’

  El laughs. ‘I’ll drink to that,’ she says. ‘To Nancy Fortescue.’

  * * *

  Julia pulls into the car park, gets out and looks around her. Nothing has changed. As usual someone is waiting at the visitor reception to check membership cards or to take the entrance fee, there are plants for sale, leaflets. Davy is beside her and she shows her membership card and waits whilst Davy pays his entry fee, then she slips her arm into his and they walk away into the garden.

  He looks around, interested, glancing back over his shoulder towards the old house.

  ‘So this is where you used to meet?’ he asks. ‘Why? Why here? I can see the point in the summer but,’ he shakes his head, ‘all year round?’

  ‘I think it’s because it’s where it all started,’ she says, steering him towards the Acer Glade. ‘We met by chance in the tearooms and then again by the Nancy Fortescue.’

  ‘Who?’ Davy sounds startled.

  ‘The Fortescue family created this garden about forty years ago,’ Julia tells him. ‘They bequeathed it to a trust, which still looks after it. Nancy was a member of the family. On the lake in the Jubilee Arboretum there’s a lovely little wooden rowing boat named after her. That’s where I met Martin the second time, also by chance. He was sitting on the bench there. We used to go to other places but this was our favourite. Martin used to make up crazy names for places in the garden. He was a complete nutter in some ways, but that’s why I loved him.’

  Davy presses her arm closely against him. ‘I can get that.’

  ‘I know,’ she says. ‘That’s why I knew I could tell you. I wish I’d done it earlier but somehow we seemed to set this vow of secrecy on it. It sounds a bit silly now but that way we felt that nobody could be hurt.’

  She guides him along the paths, past the Summer Garden and the Quarry Garden, and he glances at the little stone structures, slate-roofed, trying to imagine what this must be like in all its summer glory. Because it’s been such a calm, mild autumn, the Acer Glade is still a blaze of colour: red, crimson, orange.

  ‘Wow,’ says Davy. ‘Seriously wow.’

  She smiles, pleased with his reaction. ‘This was one of Martin’s favourite places. I bought him an acer in a pot for his birthday one year. I hope El looks after it. I suppose she’ll sell the cottage.’

  Davy glances at her. ‘Couldn’t you phone and ask her?’

  Julia frowns, shakes her head. ‘The thing is, she doesn’t know about me. How do I explain myself? Especially if she’s found Martin’s phone and all our texts. I sim
ply can’t decide whether it’s best if I come blasting out of the woodwork or stay where Martin wanted me, incognito. What would you do?’

  Davy thinks about it, frowning, as she guides him on through the Rhododendron Walk, then he shakes his head.

  ‘I honestly don’t know,’ he says.

  ‘They were so close, you see. El stuck with him through the divorce and after it, despite her mother’s annoyance with her. Felicity thought Martin should have been cast out, but El was faithful and I think Martin found it impossible to tell her about me. He feared she might be hurt that he’d found someone else and then, of course, the longer it went on the worse it got. And, to be honest, I didn’t really want to explain to the boys. It all sounds crazy now.’

  ‘But you’re still worrying that she has his phone and your texts?’

  Julia nods. ‘Our texts were deliberately short and to the point. After all, the boys were around and anyone might see a text pop in. Even so, she must wonder who they’re from. Especially as they were kind of cryptic. I should have done it straight away, I suppose, but I didn’t have the courage. I kept thinking that Martin might not want her to know, especially as he died so tragically. She must have been out of her mind, even without me showing up.’

  ‘And the longer it goes on the more difficult it gets,’ says Davy thoughtfully.

  ‘Exactly. I’m hating it, and I can’t bear to think she’s distressed about it, but how do I explain myself? How do I text? “Hi, El. My name’s Julia. Your dad and I were lovers. How about meeting up for lunch?”’

  Davy lets go of her arm and puts his own around her. ‘Stop it,’ he says. ‘You’re tearing yourself to pieces.’

  Julia swallows down her distress. ‘Sorry,’ she replies. ‘But can you see what hell it is? I don’t feel I even have the right to mourn him, yet I loved him so much.’