The Garden House Read online

  He leans forward again, looking out at the night sky, but he is no longer seeing the stars. He feels the softness of her hair on his skin, her body curled against his, small within his arms, feels her grieving, her sorrow, her loss. He has known her, the real El, for such a short time, but he yearns to be with her again, to hear her voice, to feel the casual touch of her fingers. Momentarily he considers the possibility of abandoning Christian at the airport, of getting in his car and driving straight to Devon, but he knows it isn’t viable. El would not be pleased if he were to turn up at two in the morning, knocking at her door. No, he would have to go home, get some rest, but he could at least text her and see if she could get home early from the bookshop. He could be in Tavistock before lunch if she wanted him.

  If she wanted him…? His heart thumps. Why is he investing so much in this? Why is he presuming so much? He knows what he is beginning to feel, but how can he tell if El feels the same way? She is more than friendly towards him. She is relaxed, happy in his company and, when she was hurting, when she was in pain, she came to him, trusted him. In that moment of intimacy he felt his heart change, open, and accept her. The thought almost frightens him and leaves him unsettled and uncertain.

  Beside him, Christian stirs, sits up and stretches. ‘I need a cup of tea!’

  Will glances at the clock. Donna, the cabin supervisor, is due to call them soon anyway, making sure that her flight deck crew are still awake. Will knows that most of his passengers will be asleep by now, so at this point in the flight the team won’t be too busy and he needs the distraction. He reaches down to the comms panel.

  ‘I’ll see if they’re free.’

  He presses the call button to contact the cabin behind them and starts the complex process of getting tea delivered to the locked flight deck.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  El and Will are driving to The Garden House. They are feeling happy this morning, in a kind of holiday mood, hoping to solve some of the clues and codes. Will arrived in time for supper, not long after El got home from the bookshop, and he came up the stairs to find her kneeling in front of the wood-burning stove, crumpling brown paper to make spills.

  She grinned up at him. ‘The wholesalers wrap the books in this,’ she told him. ‘It’s great for getting the fire going. What was your journey like?’

  ‘Pretty good. The moon’s up already. It was quite eerie seeing it hanging over the moor. It was pretty icy on the roads, though.’

  ‘Luckily the forecast is good for tomorrow,’ said El, shutting the wood burner’s door and standing up. She was looking forward to showing Will The Garden House. ‘I’ve made a proper list of the texts on Pa’s phone.’

  On the table was a sheet of A4 with the letter J and the telephone number at the top, and underneath a list of the clues, as well as the watercolour painting, which had the words ‘Moulin Rouge’ on the back: another clue.

  ‘There must be one of these plants in the garden somewhere,’ El said, ‘though we might need to ask one of the gardeners where it is.’

  There are several texts that begin with the initials NT, which they’ve already decided are National Trust properties, but others are more difficult to decipher.

  Will studied it. ‘Well, we know Nancy Fortescue is there but the others could be anywhere. Still, it’s a good place to start. We’ll take this with us.’

  And here they are, driving out towards Yelverton in the pale winter sunlight. There’s been a chill wind from the east and the high moors are dusted with snow.

  ‘I’ve googled some of the clues,’ El says. ‘It’s really odd, this passion for cryptic codes. I mean, I know Pa loved his crosswords and Sudoku, but the more you look at the texts the more they look like he’s just enjoying the game.’

  ‘Well, perhaps he was. And obviously J was on that same wavelength.’

  El is silent for a moment. It’s still difficult for her to imagine this other life Pa was leading.

  ‘I mean,’ Will adds, ‘that it might have been golf. Or darts. Or a choir. People have hobbies, passions, that they do with like-minded people.’

  ‘Yes, but they still discuss them or refer to them, even if it’s only casually.’

  She knows that Will is trying to reassure her, to try to remove the feeling that she was shut out from a part of Pa’s life, and she’s grateful to him. It’s so good to be with him in this easy unforced way, able to be completely relaxed with him. Coming to terms with Pa’s sudden death, moving to the Pig Pen, starting her new job, all these things are keeping her emotionally in a whirl. It’s such a relief to have him here – calm, thinking along the same lines – without having to wonder more deeply about the oddities of their relationship, about his being her stepbrother, or being gay.

  ‘Have you got the piece of paper?’ she asks suddenly, as she turns on to the road to The Garden House.

  ‘Yes,’ he answers, automatically feeling in his jacket pocket, ‘although I copied it to my phone as well, just in case.’

  ‘Good idea,’ she agrees. ‘It’s just down here,’ and she pulls in through the gateway. ‘We have to pay, I’m afraid. I found Pa’s membership card in his wallet but obviously I can’t use that.’

  ‘I’ll do this,’ says Will, opening the door and getting out. ‘After all, you’re putting me up and feeding me. And driving me around,’ he adds, slamming the door.

  She smiles at that last remark as he walks across to the visitor reception. It’s become a bit of a tease about his big smart car, that she’ll be embarrassed to be seen driving around in it in these country places. But he seems perfectly happy to let her drive and, since she knows the roads and where they’re going, it’s quite sensible. El pulls on her jacket and locks the car, wrapping her scarf around her neck. It’s such a cold morning that Will has borrowed Martin’s fleece gilet, which he’s slipped on under his jacket. He’s coming back with a leaflet, which he shows to her.

  ‘It’s the map of the gardens,’ he says. ‘I didn’t like to say we already had one. Where did you go last time?’

  ‘I went straight to the lake,’ El told him. ‘I was on a quest for Nancy Fortescue so I didn’t bother about anything else. And then afterwards, when she wasn’t there, I kind of lost my nerve.’

  He slips an arm around her shoulder and gives her a quick hug. ‘I know. But I think today we’ll go right round and check everything we can. Then we’ll have some coffee in the tearoom.’

  They study the map together, then set off, looking around them, pointing out the small stone buildings; places where people might meet. Will pulls out the sheet of paper and El slips her arm through his. This is so much better than being here alone. He smiles down at her.

  ‘I can’t wait to see Sophie’s Place,’ he says. ‘Or the Moulin Rouge. Thank God it’s not raining.’

  * * *

  Ever since her visit to The Garden House with Davy, Julia longs to go again. The inhibitions she experienced after Martin’s death, the reluctance, have all disappeared and now she longs to walk the paths they’d loved, remember their conversations and silly jokes, have coffee in the tearoom. This time, though, she’ll go alone. It was good to have Davy’s company but now she’s ready to think about the past, to allow her memories to surface.

  There has been a spell of wet and windy weather but the forecast for the next Friday looked promising and Julia made her plans. An early walk for Bertie, then drive across the moor to arrive not long after The Garden House opened at eleven o’clock. She is quietly excited, pleased that she is able to face up to it at last. It means that she is making some kind of progress, beginning to move forward a little.

  The morning is bright and clear as she drives up out of Holne and on to the moor. She can see for miles; the swoop of landscape down into the wooded valleys and up again to the bony rocks of the tors, which gleam with a faint covering of snow. Black skeletons of twisted thorn trees, a sudden blaze of flowering gorse, the glittering river-water flowing under the old stone bridge at Hexworthy.<
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  ‘If only I could write poetry,’ Martin once exclaimed, gazing round him at the glory of the Wildflower Meadow in all its painterly beauty.

  ‘Have you ever tried?’ she asked him.

  ‘No, no.’ He shook his head in horror at the thought. ‘I know my limitations. My legal mind is a real handicap when it comes to any kind of creativity.’

  Remembering, she smiles, but her heart aches at the thought that there will be no more exchanges. She turns on to the Princetown road, heading for Yelverton, well into Martin’s territory. They’d considered meeting at the Prince Hal or the Two Bridges Hotel but both were risky.

  ‘More risky than The Garden House?’ she challenged him.

  ‘Anyone might meet a friend by chance in a garden,’ he answered.

  The truth was, they simply couldn’t resist it. It was their place.

  ‘And if we meet anyone I know I shall simply say that you are a client,’ he added.

  ‘And if I meet anyone I know?’ she asked.

  ‘Then you can tell them that you are interviewing me for an article.’

  ‘Actually, that’s not a bad idea,’ she said thoughtfully.

  Luckily the problem never arose, although they were both more cautious once Cakes and Ale was aired. Several times she was recognized, but on these occasions Martin was able to slip away unobtrusively and, since they always arrived separately, he often simply drove away, phoning her later to apologize for abandoning her. Sometimes she wondered if subconsciously she was hoping that their cover might be blown and that they would have to go public, but each time she thought about the consequences, the difficulties of creating a joint life with four young people, her spirit failed her.

  ‘What cowards we were,’ she murmurs aloud, as she drives through Princetown and on towards Dousland. ‘Or were we right?’

  Still her heart speeds with anxiety at the thought of El reading those texts and she is just so thankful that they kept them very brief and to the point. She still wonders why El has never been in touch, whether somehow Martin’s phone was lost. She can imagine no way in which she can describe their relationship to his daughter; to try to explain why he kept it secret from her. She might not be able to understand that he was trying to protect her from any kind of hurt so soon after the divorce, and might simply see it as a kind of betrayal. Even if Julia were inclined to try to find some way through, the fact that Martin had wanted it to be a secret continues to prevent her. She feels she would be breaking his trust.

  Driving through Yelverton, pausing at the roundabout, she feels everything is so familiar and yet so different. This time she won’t be checking out the car park to see if Martin’s arrived, nor glancing at her phone to remind herself where they’re supposed to be meeting. There was nothing regular about these meetings and, anyway, they depended on the weather, so it was doubtful that even the volunteers had suspected any kind of liaison. They always staggered arrival and leaving times.

  Perhaps, she thinks, as she drives in through the gateway and parks the car, we simply enjoyed playing an elaborate game. Perhaps, deep down, we knew it would never survive in the tohu-bohu of real family life, but we didn’t want to give it up.

  Julia puts all the windows down an inch or two for Bertie, although the weather isn’t warm, and gets out of the car.

  * * *

  It’s Will who spots the first clue. They’ve walked around the gardens, examining small structures built of stone or wood, where two people might meet, but none seems to match with any of the codes. It’s only when they’ve passed through the Walled Garden and are approaching the stone archway that leads through to the lake that Will stops suddenly and begins to laugh. El looks at him and then around her, puzzled.

  ‘Look,’ he says pointing to the plaque on the wall of the arch. ‘Sophie’s Place.’

  El reads the words on the plaque that say that the Jubilee Arboretum was opened by the Countess of Wessex. For a few moments she is still puzzled, and then she sees the connection: Sophie, the Countess of Wessex.

  ‘Do you think so?’ she asks, beginning to laugh with him.

  ‘Definitely,’ he says. ‘This leads to the lake, doesn’t it? It’s another way of saying they’d meet by the Nancy Fortescue. The same area.’

  ‘This definitely needs a selfie,’ says El, and they pose together whilst she takes a photograph of them both in front of the plaque.

  They pass beneath the arch, still laughing, and El points to the lake.

  ‘That’s where the boat would be,’ she says. ‘I wonder where it is now?’

  They walk around the lake, perching briefly on the bench, listening to the fast-flowing stream running behind them. But it’s too cold to sit for very long and they continue the circuit of the lake and begin to climb the small winding paths that lead up towards the Bowling Green Terrace. It’s El who notices the label attached to a shrub outside a small stone building: ‘Moulin Rouge’. She clutches Will’s arm and points to it.

  ‘Moulin Rouge,’ she says. ‘Remember I told you about Pa’s painting? What a pity it’s not in flower.’

  They look at the little building. ‘Not quite Parisian,’ says Will, ‘but I bet this is it. A good place to meet if it’s raining.’

  El walks into the structure and stares around her, trying to imagine Pa here, and with whom? She’s prey to the now familiar confusion and she gives a little shiver. Will is watching her.

  ‘Coffee time?’ he suggests.

  ‘I’m just trying to imagine it,’ she tells him. ‘It’s weird not knowing who the other person was. But then again, part of me doesn’t want to know.’

  She feels suddenly near to tears and he puts his arms round her, holding her gently.

  ‘Don’t be so hard on yourself,’ he says. ‘This grieving business is really tough and you’re still a beginner. It’s like being a bit crazy all the time. Sometimes you feel normal, other times you feel desolate. Sometimes, when you’re having a really good time you feel terribly guilty. You get these mood swings and it’s totally bloody. Just don’t feel guilty about any of it.’

  She rests against him, knowing that he’s been there, knowing that she can trust him, and she feels him kiss her lightly on the head. Involuntarily her arms tighten around him for a moment, then she straightens up.

  ‘Thanks, Will,’ she says. ‘That just about sums it up. I sometimes forget that you’ve been through it all, too. But you were much younger, so it must have been really hard for you. You’re right. Coffee sounds good. Where are we?’

  He takes out the map and they study it together.

  ‘We’re not too far away, by the look of it,’ he says. ‘This way, I think.’

  * * *

  Julia digs into her bag for her membership card, shows it to the friendly lady at reception, who tells her that the skimmia and the dogwood are at their best, and then hesitates before telling Julia how much she enjoyed Cakes and Ale. They talk about the programme and then Julia wanders into the garden. She still can’t get used to being recognized, and although she’s a very minor presenter – and it doesn’t happen very often – she can see how it might have begun to affect her and Martin’s privacy. She reminds herself that with Ollie starting at uni this term she and Martin were going to go public, that it wouldn’t have mattered, but somehow she can’t believe in it. Perhaps it was, after all, like one of those holiday romances that flourish in a rare and particular atmosphere but wither in the face of reality. She walks the familiar paths, passing their meeting places, pausing beside the lake. At the circle of standing stones – the Magic Circle – she stands gazing down across the gardens to the house at the far end of the avenue, and then walks more briskly back through the arboretum to the tearooms. Perhaps coming here alone wasn’t such a good idea after all, especially now with the garden dressed for winter, and a chill breeze. She’s glad to be inside. There are only a few people and as she looks around she has a sudden memory of that very first time, standing just here, listening to the chatter a
nd laughter of the coach party, and seeing Martin sitting by himself, their glances meeting and his little smile, his hand lifted to indicate the empty chair.

  She stands still for a moment, realizes that a couple at a nearby table are staring at her as if they recognize her. They begin to get up, still staring at her, and suddenly she can’t bear it. Grief threatens to overwhelm her and she turns swiftly away, almost bumping against a young man who has just come in, and who looks at her curiously as she hurries out into the cold winter morning.

  * * *

  Will watches the tall, attractive woman disappear into the gardens and turns back thoughtfully. Her face was familiar and he tries to remember where he might have seen her before. A couple jostle past him, following her, talking together, and he catches a fragment of their conversation: ‘… Braithwaite … television presenter … cakes and ale…’ The friendly waitress is hovering, smiling and asking if Will would like some refreshment and, as he chooses a table, El appears in the doorway, looking around, and he raises a hand to her, forgetting about the woman.

  ‘You won’t believe this,’ she says, as she joins him, ‘but the gardener was telling me that the Nancy Fortescue is taken out of the water and laid up for the winter. That’s why it wasn’t here when I came last time.’

  ‘That’s a pity,’ he says. ‘I’d love to see what it looks like.’

  ‘Well, I can show you,’ says El triumphantly. ‘He told me there are postcards for sale so I went back to the visitor reception and had a look.’

  She holds out a postcard to him: a blue-painted wooden dinghy floating on the lake, with the words Nancy Fortescue painted in white on her bows.

  ‘Did you ask when it goes back into the water?’ he asks.

  ‘Not till the spring,’ says El sadly, ‘though he doesn’t know when. But he’s told me roughly where the Magic Circle is. Maybe we could look for it.’