The Garden House Page 16

  She can’t quite understand her lethargy, her lack of purpose. His next text surprises her.

  Send me the photographs.

  El feels perplexed: what photographs? Then she understands him. Knowing his interest, his frustration that he couldn’t come to find Nancy Fortescue or to see the gardens, he would have expected her to have taken some photographs, even spotted some clues to the codes. She’s filled with annoyance that it never occurred to her to do this: that she just walked in and walked out again. Feeling inadequate she texts him back.

  Didn’t take any.

  Almost instantly her phone rings.

  ‘Didn’t take any?’ he demands, as if he is continuing a conversation. ‘Seriously? What were you doing then?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ she says feebly. ‘It kind of threw me, the boat not being there. I’d worked myself up to seeing it and there was nothing there.’

  ‘Nothing?’

  ‘Well, the lake was there,’ she says irritably, ‘covered in a kind of weed, but no boat.’

  ‘And you didn’t ask anybody where it was, or if that’s where it usually is?’

  El has an odd feeling that she might burst into tears. She can’t understand this volatility, that change from expectation and excitement to complete desolation.

  ‘No,’ she says wearily. ‘No, I didn’t think to do that.’

  ‘Are you OK?’

  Will’s voice is gentler now, which somehow makes it even worse. She wants to shout at him: ‘No, I am not OK and I don’t know why,’ but remains silent.

  ‘Listen,’ he’s saying, ‘I can get down next Thursday afternoon, but I’d have to go back early on Saturday morning. How would that be for you? Are you working those days? Didn’t you say The Garden House is open on a Friday? Perhaps we could go together. I might spot things you’ve missed.’

  El closes her eyes tightly and tries not to sound too grateful or too keen.

  ‘I’m working on Saturday this week,’ she says, ‘but otherwise that would be good. I wasn’t thinking clearly. I was just so sure Nancy Fortescue would be there.’

  ‘I can imagine that,’ he says. ‘I’m really looking forward to seeing this place. So you just went and looked at the lake and came out again?’

  ‘Not quite,’ she answers, her spirits reviving. ‘I went into the tearooms and had coffee and cake. It was good.’

  ‘I like the sound of that,’ he answers, and she can hear the smile in his voice. ‘We need to get our priorities right. So I should be with you by about four o’clock on Thursday. I’ll text you just to confirm. Look after yourself, El. ’Bye for now.’

  El puts her phone on the table and as she turns away her glance is caught by the watercolour hanging above the sofa. She goes closer to look at the signature. It’s the same artist: Charlotte Marlow. It hangs amongst a small group of watercolours. Pa liked to support local artists, and she hadn’t particularly noticed any one of them before. It’s a small painting and El lifts it from its peg and turns it over. The label reads: Astrantia. Moulin Rouge. El stares at it, remembering the text. She can hardly believe it. Moulin Rouge is a shrub and almost certainly is at The Garden House. She’s delighted to have cracked one of the clues and instinctively she reaches for her phone and sends a text to Will:

  I’ve found Moulin Rouge and it’s not in Paris, it’s at The Garden House.

  Then she hangs the painting back in its place and goes into the kitchen to make herself some lunch.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  Christmas in the town: Dickensian evening with the town crier, the Christmas lights switched on at six o’clock. The main street is pedestrianized and shops are open until nine in the evening. There are some stalls set up along the pavements, and in the bookshop there are wine and nibbles for the regulars. El is busy serving customers, recommending books, pouring drinks, when Angus and Kate come in together, but she is able to spend a few moments with them before she is required to serve another customer.

  ‘This is fun,’ Angus says to Kate. ‘I like to see everyone getting the Christmas spirit. It’s a pity that Plum’s gone back to London. She would have enjoyed this.’

  He still feels slightly guilty that he pre-empted Kate by telling Plum that Cass and Tom were downsizing and might like the cottage, but Kate has been very calm about it all.

  ‘I hated the thought that Plum knew that you and I were talking about her plans behind her back,’ she told him, ‘but in the end it worked out very well. She’s been very good about it and, to be honest, I think this is the best solution. After all, Ian won’t be ashore that often and they’ll spend his long leaves at their flat in London. I can’t see that they really need to rent anything, with you in that great big house on your own. And I think that it will be just the boost Cass and Tom need to make the crucial decision to sell. Anyway, they might find something to buy quite quickly and then the cottage will be up for grabs again, and if Plum still wants to rent it, she can have it then.’

  Angus sips his wine reflectively. He supposes that his guilt springs from the fact that it seems he has got his own way and will be seeing more of his family. After her visit to Kate, Plum was much more cheerful than she’s been of late, more like her old positive self, and he was relieved though slightly puzzled. He expected her to be irritated by losing the opportunity of renting Kate’s cottage but she was unconcerned by it; other things seemed to be occupying her mind. He raises his glass to Kate, who grins at him. The other plus to the plan, of course, is that in the future Kate might stay with him when she comes up from St Meriadoc. That will definitely be a bonus.

  He watches El dealing with a young mother with two excited small children in tow, and is glad that she’s managing so well. She’s clearly loving working here with Natasha and Simon, and he can see that she’s getting a lot of support from the customers who knew Martin. Mentally he raises his glass to his old friend and partner. Life – and death – is so random; so indifferent. Turning to the shelves behind him, Angus begins to read the titles of the books, to think about Christmas presents, deciding to ask El’s advice when it comes to choosing for his granddaughters, who are much the same age as she is. He thinks about his drinks party; his family at home with him on Christmas Day for the first time for three years. Reasons to be cheerful.

  * * *

  Kate watches his tall, stooping figure with affection. She’s very fond of Angus and is very glad to see him getting his own way. It will give him so much joy to have all his family visiting him, staying with him, even if those visits are random and therefore not necessarily all of them together. To be their base when the ship is in will please him immensely. And, if Kate’s honest, she admits it will be rather nice to stay with him occasionally, to go to the cinema at the Wharf with him, when she comes up from St Meriadoc. Somehow she can’t quite see herself sharing the only bathroom in the cottage with Tom, who has definitely become a very grumpy old man, fond though she is of him. The cottage will seem cramped enough as it is, after the Rectory, without adding guests to it.

  She thinks about Plum. From childhood upwards there has been a sweetness of temperament, a generosity of spirit that has made her much beloved, and it seems hard that one small act has caused her so much pain. Kate can imagine that losing a child is devastating. Coping with your grief alone whilst your husband is at sea must be very hard, and Kate can’t bring herself to judge Plum or Martin for their brief moment of shared comfort. She wonders too about Issy and whether Plum’s guilt is magnifying her fear of her old friend. Watching Issy that morning in the Bedford, Kate could see that she might well be a bit of a loose cannon – someone who simply cannot help putting the cat amongst the pigeons for the sheer hell of it – but she wonders just how much of a threat Issy is and how much harm she might do. She suspects that Issy simply hoped to draw Plum closer to her: to bind her into a conspiracy rather than to expose her. Now, as Kate watches El, busy and happy, it seems inconceivable that she should hear about her father and Plum from a stranger. Bri
efly, Kate thinks about Martin walking on the beach with Julia. How well he kept his secrets, but what if El should discover them?

  It’s with relief that Kate sees Ruth, her old friend and neighbour in Chapel Street, come into the shop with her little dog, Scrumpy. Kate waves and goes to greet her, glad to be distracted from her thoughts.

  * * *

  Finally Cass and Tom arrive. It’s become a tradition on the night that the Christmas lights are switched on to meet in the town, pop into Book Stop, and then go across to the Bedford for supper in the bar.

  ‘It’s such fun on Dickensian evening,’ says Cass, kissing Kate and giving El a hug. ‘On these occasions I can see how much easier it might be to live in the town and walk everywhere. Tom got the last space in the Bedford’s car park. It’s such a pity you can’t come and have supper with us, El, but I suppose you’ll be busy for a while yet.’

  El explains that the shop will be open until nine o’clock and thanks Cass for the offer, but secretly she knows that by the time the shop closes she’ll be more than ready to drive home, have a shower, then listen to her music and read for a while. It’s been a long day and she’s very tired. Nevertheless it’s worth it. She’s loved the friendliness, the party atmosphere, this new sense of belonging. She’s tried to explain it to her mother, who clearly thinks it’s crazy to waste her talents in a small community on the edge of Dartmoor.

  ‘You could be working in publishing,’ she said, ‘or in a literary agency. Lucy has got a job with the BBC.’

  El is sad that her mother is unable to enter into her feelings, to feel any pride in what El is trying to do. Even Freddie, who tries to understand but clearly would rather she sold the Pig Pen and embarked on a career more worthy of her qualifications, is unconvinced that any good can come of her endeavours. But she is determined to keep on with her plan, to try to make a go of things here. She’s grateful to her father’s friends who support her and praise her efforts. And to Will, an unexpected ally.

  She rather wishes he could be here this evening, seeing her in her new environment, amongst her friends. Quickly she gets out her phone and sends him a text. Then a customer claims her attention and she puts her private life to the back of her mind and concentrates on the job in hand.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  There is nothing to see but the infinite. The flight deck is dark. There is no moon. The sea is invisible beneath the black sheet that stretches out from the nose cone to the horizon. Will is leaning forward in his seat, looking up through the windshield, through the atmosphere, to the familiar comforting guardians in his sky. He smiles. On a night like this he could find his way home without a compass. To his right the Plough, on the nose the Little Bear, stretching down from Polaris, the Pole Star: the ever steady, ever north. Tonight, from here, at thirty-six thousand feet over the North Atlantic, one hundred miles off the coast of Portugal, Polaris will take Will home. Christian is sprawled back in his seat. He is ‘taking a moment’, leaving Will to monitor the aircraft. Will can feel it talking to him in the quiet hiss of the flight deck. The engines powering them north are whisper-quiet from up here in the pointy end. Will knows aircraft, is in tune with them, sensing them as they talk to him. It amuses him that he can often feel a problem before the computers will identify it. Tonight, across the switch panels, almost all is dark. Lights out means systems are working as they should and Will has eased the flight deck lighting lower and lower till the stars become vivid in the sky outside his comfortable cocoon and he can see Cygnus in flight above the north-west horizon.

  On a night like this it is as if he can feel the warmth of his mother’s hand in his; remembers them lying on their backs together on a rug, staring at those same stars: a cold chill in the air and in his heart; not a boy, yet not a man either.

  He remembers her calm words: ‘How will you remember me, Billy?’

  He gripped her hand tighter, his response inarticulate. A long silence, then she raised her free hand and pointed to the vastness above them.

  ‘Do you see those stars, Billy? Like a cross in the sky? That’s Cygnus. She looks like a swan flying down the river. See, there is her head, there are her wings, and that bright star in her tail is called Deneb. Perhaps, when you look up and see her flying in the night sky, you will think of me?’

  He looked up at the star swan, still unable to speak. He could see under her left wing another brighter star, almost blue-white, gleaming like a jewel: a beacon in the sky that marked the swan’s position. And speaking both to the stars and to his mother, he said: ‘I will, Mum. I will always.’

  Will looks away from Deneb and the blue-white of Vega, glancing to the left, to the only other part of the aircraft visible from his seat. Out in the ferocious cold the glowing red navigation light on his port wing etches the winglet into the darkness. His eyes lift and move forward across the sky, arching up from the horizon, Libra, Taurus and, further towards the north, Cassiopeia reclining in her chaise longue. If only he could share all this with El …

  This longing floors him for a moment. There was a time, not so long ago, when the idea of sharing this with anyone would not have occurred to him. There were times of quiet, of beauty, when his thoughts would stray to his mother, but no one has ever intruded into his solitude the way El does. He recalls with renewed embarrassment his exchange with Christian earlier in the flight on their way south to Tenerife.

  ‘So how’s your sister doing?’

  It was well meant, casual, and undeserving of the tetchy reply.

  ‘She’s not my sister.’

  He was even more irritated by Christian’s explosive, involuntary laughter.

  ‘Yes, my captain, as you say, my captain.’

  ‘Oh, shut up, Chris.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ And Chris was laughing again.

  Will didn’t intend it, didn’t mean to reveal his feelings to Chris. If he’s honest, he hasn’t even allowed himself to consider those feelings, to consider openly what is so obvious in retrospect.

  He has feelings for El, and they aren’t in the least brotherly. And therein lies ‘The Problem’. Are you allowed to feel that way about your stepsister?

  He knows full well what his stepmother would have to say on that subject, but what about a reasonable person? Whilst he isn’t sure that Christian would consider himself a ‘reasonable person’, he is someone Will can trust, someone whose opinion he values. And so, when they reached a natural pause in the business of operating their aircraft, he broached the subject again.

  ‘The thing is, I rather like her…’ His voice trailed off. Then he looked at Christian, who once more was trying not to laugh.

  ‘Will, how many texts do you send a week? Two, three … ten? Do you know how many you’ve sent in the last twenty-four hours?’

  Will looked sheepish.

  ‘Seriously, mate, I’d have to be an utter idiot not to realize you “like” El. The question is, what are you going to do about it?’

  Will was silent for a moment, and Christian stepped in again.

  ‘I mean, I could tell you not to fish in your own pond, but I don’t think you’re going to listen to me, are you?’

  And that, at least, was true.

  All Will could manage in response was, ‘It’s difficult…’ before falling silent again.

  ‘No, it isn’t.’ Christian sat back in his seat and pulled off his glasses. ‘Come on, Will, if you’d met El before your dad met her mother, who would have raised an eyebrow?’

  ‘Yeah, but can you imagine what Felicity would say if El and I got together?’

  ‘Felicity? Well, for starters she’d be bloody surprised,’ and both of them burst out laughing.

  Will had to admit that Felicity would indeed be surprised. She made it clear from the start that she resented so much of the family’s resources being spent on flight training. She’s never let up on her criticism of his father’s continued and loyal support, never acknowledged that it was Will’s mother who made becoming a pilot possible by
insuring against the possibility of her own early death. He isn’t sure if it was his relief at finally gaining his professional licence, at that certainty of independence that he no longer needed to rely on his father, or perhaps a bloody-minded rebellion against Felicity’s constant disapproval, but either way he and Christian had put on quite a show at her New Year’s Eve party, and she has despised him since then and has worked hard to avoid him as much as possible.

  Christian was watching him, still waiting for Will to speak. Will looked away again.

  ‘It’s difficult,’ he repeated lamely.

  Chris nodded, sighed, and said: ‘Is she worth it? Because if she’s worth it the rest is irrelevant.’

  And that’s Christian: intuitive, direct, logical. He’s always had the uncanny ability to see through Will’s façade, to understand the underlying issues, and to help resolve them. Will knows that Christian has nailed it although it’s the advice he was hoping to hear. El is worth it. Whatever ‘it’ is or would be, she’s worth it. And maybe Christian’s right: maybe this is all a problem in his own head. After all, before their parents married, who would have cared if he’d met this girl who was not his relative?

  Idly, Will calls up the ECAM display pages reviewing the various aircraft systems, looking for tiny changes that might identify an incipient problem. All is as it should be. In his headphone he hears the Lisboa controller call an aircraft in front of them, handing that aircraft over to the French controller in Brest. There are still twenty-seven minutes before Will’s aircraft reaches the same boundary, at least three hours before he is in the car heading home.

  It’s been a long day: an afternoon departure from Bristol, south to the Canaries. It’s one of Will’s favourite routes, and an unusual pleasure to be flying with Christian so soon after their last flight. It’s been a long slog south to Tenerife but the arrival, routeing around Mount Teide, the volcano at the south of the island, was spectacular as usual. And yet, today, he’s found this trip unusually long and irksome. He doesn’t want to be here, he wants to be in Devon.