The Garden House Read online

  ‘Not that we really need them,’ says Kate, hanging Flossie’s lead around her neck outside her coat collar, ‘but you never know.’

  They walk together over the close-grazed turf, discussing families, Christmas and Angus’s party.

  ‘I just want you to know,’ Angus says, ‘that I’m very upset that you’ve stood me up on Christmas Eve. What’s Bruno got that I haven’t, I’d like to know?’

  Although he’s met Bruno and likes him, he’s rather surprised himself to find that this is true. In these last few months, whilst she’s spent more time in Tavistock than usual, he’s become increasingly fond of Kate and he’s disappointed that she won’t be there at his party with all their friends.

  Kate laughs, tucking her arm in his. ‘I can’t just abandon poor old Bruno and my friends at St Meriadoc,’ she says cheerfully. ‘You can’t expect me to do that. I’m coming back for the Boxing Day thrash down on the Tamar, though. Is that any good?’

  He makes a face, pretends dissatisfaction, but inside he’s pleased to think that she’ll be back so soon and, once Tom and Cass are installed in Chapel Street, she might be a more permanent visitor with him in Whitchurch.

  ‘How about New Year’s Eve?’ he asks hopefully. ‘You could stay on after Boxing Day. I might give another party.’

  ‘What a fellow you are,’ says Kate admiringly. ‘Well, I might have to tell Bruno he’ll be spending New Year alone.’

  Angus chuckles. ‘I hope you know what you’re taking on,’ he says, ‘keeping us both happy.’

  ‘Well, you know what Cass says,’ answers Kate. ‘If there’s anything better than one man, it’s two men. Ad infinitum.’

  ‘Sounds like Cass,’ agrees Angus.

  He feels lucky in his friendship with these two women, who make him laugh and keep him young in spirit.

  ‘Being old is hell,’ he says unexpectedly. ‘I was having lunch in a pub recently with an old colleague, and there he was chomping away on a steak and all I could think was that the lucky devil must still have all his own teeth. I mean, sad or what?’

  Kate bursts out laughing and hugs his arm tighter.

  ‘If I’d paid more attention at school,’ she says, ‘I’d quote that thing: “To me, old friend, you never can be old.”’ She shakes her head. ‘That doesn’t sound right. I can’t remember it. Is it Shakespeare?’

  ‘It’s one of his sonnets,’ says Angus. He hesitates and then he says softly:

  To me, fair friend, you never can be old;

  For as you were when first your eye I eyed,

  Such seems your beauty still …

  He pauses, feeling rather a fool, but Kate looks up at him admiringly.

  ‘Wow,’ she says. ‘Get you. I’m impressed.’

  Angus shrugs modestly. ‘Just trying to keep up with Bruno. How many books has he had published now?’

  Kate laughs. ‘This is not a contest.’

  He laughs with her, pauses and strikes a pose, continuing the sonnet:

  … Three winters cold Have from the forest shook …

  ‘OK, now you’re showing off,’ says Kate. ‘You’re frightening the dogs.’

  ‘And I haven’t apologized for pre-empting you with Plum about the cottage,’ he says, tucking her arm back in his own. ‘I hope that wasn’t embarrassing for you.’

  ‘It actually worked out very well,’ says Kate thoughtfully.

  Glancing down at her, he sees that she’s musing on it, as if she’s remembering the talk with Plum.

  ‘Well, I’m grateful,’ he says, ‘for all sorts of reasons. And Plum seems much happier, too. She went back to London in very good spirits. I think you did her good.’

  ‘Great,’ says Kate lightly. ‘In that case you can buy me lunch. Why don’t we drive over to the Warren Inn?’

  ‘Love to,’ he says.

  They call the dogs and turn back, and he feels content. Life is good.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  Nearly a week later, Will is sitting in The Florist in Park Street, drinking an espresso and musing on the series of events that have led him here. His sprained ankle is still painful and he’s not flying, which has given him plenty of time to think about El. The whole thing is turning into a terrible mess. He’s heard nothing from her since he drove away from the Pig Pen, and he’s remained resolute in waiting to hear from her in her own time, even resisting the overwhelming temptation to text. If he’s honest with himself he’s still embarrassed and hurt by her rejection, yet he longs to put things right. He knew he’d been insensitive, underestimating El’s grief whilst he was falling in love with her, and he knew he had been too quick to assume that she felt the same way about him. He’s almost shocked by how much he wants her back in his life, how important she has become to him.

  All week Christian seemed anxious that Will should make the first move. He was oddly insistent that Will should get in touch with El, and then at last, only two days ago, admitted that she phoned when Will was in A & E.

  ‘You said you didn’t want me to tell her about your ankle,’ Christian said defensively when Will was furious that Christian had withheld this from him. ‘And you told me not to call her.’

  ‘But you should have told me she phoned,’ Will shouted. ‘Can’t you see? It makes a huge difference.’

  He was angry, yet the beginning of a wild hope was springing within him: perhaps he could now make an approach. The problem now was that the time gap was awkward. It would be difficult to explain to El why he hadn’t phoned back before this, and the whole situation was possibly in an even worse confusion.

  Still Will hesitated, looking to find the gesture that might put things right: something more than just a text or a phone call to carry them across the divide that had opened between them. All he could do was to continue to study the piece of A4 he’d found still folded in his pocket after their visit to The Garden House, hoping that through these texts he might find a way to open up a conversation with El. This was how he found The Florist.

  The Play Pen is fab. So is The Florist.

  This text was followed by emojis of flowers and glasses of wine. When Will googled the name, florists abounded and it wasn’t until he remembered the wine glass emojis that he added ‘wine bar’. There were several but he saw that there was one in Bristol. He noticed that the previous text was simply initials and a time.

  TM 11.25

  He puzzled over this until he heard Christian talking on his phone to a friend.

  ‘OK. So when do you arrive at Temple Meads? Yes, that’s fine. Let me know if the train is delayed.’

  Slowly Will made the connections: the Play Pen, which reminds him of the Pig Pen. The Florist. Temple Meads. Perhaps all these were connected to visits to Bristol. All the while he was searching for something that he could take to El, a reason for approaching her again in a way that would be acceptable to her. He decided to drive into Bristol and visit The Florist.

  Having found the place, he glanced around the bar and then climbed rather slowly and painfully up the stairs to the first floor and a series of small rooms with sofas, small bucket armchairs and three big windows. He ordered coffee, and now, as he sits on one of the sofas drinking his espresso, he takes the list out and looks at it again. Way down the list he sees another text that neither he nor El paid much attention to. There were, after all, a great many texts.

  Madeleines and Doom Bar. Delicious. Well done!

  ‘Well, obviously cakes,’ El said when she read this. ‘And Doom Bar is a kind of beer. Perhaps they’d been out for a meal. Odd mix, though. Cakes and beer.’

  Will frowns, wondering why it sounds familiar. Cakes and beer. Idly he types the phrase into Google on his phone. The first two pages are recipes for beer cakes and he shudders at the thought. But on the third page he reads: Cakes and Ale or The Skeleton in the Cupboard by Somerset Maugham. Cakes and Ale? Actually Doom Bar is an ale but he wouldn’t expect El to know that. Cakes and Ale. Will sits up straight and sets down his cup. He opens a new pa
ge and googles the phrase.

  The Somerset Maugham book comes up first and then a reference to Shakespeare: Twelfth Night. ‘Dost thou think, because thou art virtuous, there shall be no more cakes and ale?’

  Twelfth Night. Perhaps that was why it sounded familiar. Maybe Martin and J had been to see a production of it somewhere. Scrolling through that reference Will finds a mention of Aesop’s fables from which the phrase had originated, but he still can’t make a connection.

  He groans. Perhaps it was foolish to come here, to keep following the quest, but the need to open a way back to El drives him on. He hits the back icon and continues to scroll through the references.

  Cakes and Ale, a BBC South West Production. Presenter, Julia Braithwaite.

  Will stops, his finger hovering. He is remembering his last visit to The Garden House, that happy day with El: the garden, the tearooms, and the dark-haired woman hurrying past him with the desolate expression on her face. As he sits, holding his cup, he hears again the man’s voice: ‘… Braithwaite … local television presenter … Cakes and Ale.’

  Will sits quite still, staring ahead of him, then he re-sets the page on his phone again. It’s quite easy, after all. There are the details of the programme, a photograph of Julia Braithwaite and a biog: a widow with two sons, works at the BBC in Plymouth, freelance journalist. He knows this woman.

  But Will knows that he hasn’t seen her on television, or read any of her articles. He is thinking furiously. And quite suddenly he remembers. He remembers the funeral: following the family down the aisle behind Martin’s coffin, keeping well back, allowing people coming out of their pews to go in front of him, and as he looked around him, noticing the woman, half hidden behind the pillar at the back of the church. She was watching the procession intently with an expression that was odd; so odd that it caught his attention. Her whole attitude was one of secrecy, as if she had no business to be there, was fearful of being caught out, and yet couldn’t resist this last chance to make a private farewell. Even as he watched, she reached into her handbag, put on dark glasses and as soon as the family party were out in the churchyard she slipped outside, turning on to the little path that leads to Church Lane. By the time he reached the churchyard she was gone.

  Will remembers Julia Braithwaite’s face as she turned back in the doorway at The Garden House, a terrible sadness that was almost panic in her eyes, that touched him. He almost felt as if he were spying on her most private emotions, which was exactly how he felt watching her in church at Martin’s funeral. Will thinks about El, trying to come to terms with her emotions, and an anger begins to rise in him. Suddenly he’s had enough of these games, the confusions. He checks the list of texts again. He guesses that Julia lives within easy reach of the BBC studios in Plymouth and he remembers how he sat with El, checking the codes. After some discussion they’d decided that ‘NTKH the Stables’ was the National Trust property Killerton House, at Exeter.

  ‘It’s got a café called the Stables,’ El said. ‘Pa liked the sound of it, said it was a bit like the Pig Pen, and we went once. It’s great.’

  Now, Will types the number at the top of the sheet into his phone and, without giving himself time to change his mind, he taps out a message:

  Hi. My name’s Will. I’m sitting in The Florist. Could we meet for coffee? Is there any chance you could be at NTKH in the Stables for coffee on Sunday morning?

  Before there is time for second thoughts he presses Send. He takes a deep breath, leans back and swallows the last drops of his cold coffee.

  * * *

  Julia stares at the text, frowning. She is utterly confused. She doesn’t know anyone called Will, she doesn’t recognize the number, yet she knows The Florist and that NTKH is Killerton House. These are places that she’s been to with Martin – they are their special, private codes – which means that Will, whoever he is, must know about them, too.

  ‘What is it?’ asks Davy from across the table.

  They’ve been discussing his new project, a programme very similar to Cakes and Ale, set on the peninsula, and the table is strewn with print-outs, maps, their laptops open.

  ‘It’s a weird text,’ she answers, ‘from someone called Will, asking me to meet him at Killerton House for coffee on Sunday.’

  Davy stares at her, frowning. ‘What?’

  ‘I know.’ She passes him her phone. ‘It’s where Martin and I used to meet.’

  Davy reads the text. ‘What’s The Florist?’

  ‘It’s a wine bar in Bristol. We used to meet there, too. But nobody else knew that.’

  ‘Well, clearly Will does.’ Dave hands the phone back to her. ‘How might he have found out?’

  ‘By reading our texts.’ Julia is thinking about it. ‘Which means he’s seen Martin’s phone.’

  ‘So you told me that El might have the phone. Could she have shown it to this Will?’

  ‘I’m remembering now,’ says Julia. ‘El had a half-brother called Will. Martin told me about it because they didn’t get on very well. Will’s father married El’s mother.’

  ‘That’s a stepbrother, not a half-brother,’ says Davy.

  Julia shrugs. ‘OK, but there was definitely a Will. El’s brother is called Freddie. Could it be him, d’you think? This step-brother?’

  ‘Possibly. Sounds a bit odd if they didn’t get on very well. So you think he’s tried your number on a chance? Do you think El has asked him to?’

  ‘I just don’t know.’ She looks anxiously at him across the table. ‘What shall I do?’

  Davy thinks about it. ‘What does your instinct tell you?’

  Julia tries to be calm, to think sensibly. ‘Part of me would like to. I feel like I’m at an impasse. I can’t quite seem to go forward. I hoped that going to The Garden House last week might help but I just felt more confused than ever.’

  ‘Perhaps El has asked him to contact you, but it’s slightly odd that he doesn’t mention that.’

  Julia is completely baffled by the approach, although she almost welcomes some kind of movement. At the same time she feels very nervous about meeting El.

  ‘Supposing I were to agree to meet Will,’ she says at last, ‘and then El rocks up at some point?’

  ‘But you are in the stronger position,’ Davy points out. ‘You know all about Will and El. Martin talked to you about them. You’ve seen photographs of El and Freddie. They know nothing about you. All they have is your phone number.’

  ‘As far as we know,’ warns Julia. ‘We can’t be totally certain of that.’

  ‘Even so.’ Davy shrugs. ‘What are they going to do? Neither of you were committing a crime. You both merely decided to keep things secret from your children. You might have to tell Will that. After all, that’s what Martin wanted, too.’

  Julia thinks about it. Then she nods. ‘OK, I’ll do it, but I still don’t feel ready to meet El. I can’t see her being happy about it either. It’s too soon.’

  ‘It’s a chance you’ll have to take and trust that Will knows what he’s doing. But you’re not going alone. I’m sure it’s all fine but I’m coming with you. Oh, don’t worry, I shan’t sit in on your chat but I’ll be nearby.’

  Julia is relieved by this suggestion. ‘Thanks, Davy. I’d feel a little less vulnerable, I admit. I could take Bertie, I suppose.’

  ‘We’ll both come,’ says Davy. ‘Safety in numbers.’

  ‘OK,’ says Julia, and she takes her phone and begins to type a reply.

  * * *

  As he drives towards Exeter on Sunday morning, Will still feels the surprise at the speed with which Julia responded to his text. It was a very brief response:

  I’ll be at the Stables at Killerton House at 11 o’clock.

  He respects her for using the proper name rather than the code he’d used. It was as if she was making the point that the codes were for her and Martin. Feeling nervous, he parks his car, wondering if Julia has already arrived and might be sitting in her car watching him. He looks neither rig
ht nor left but walks in, still limping slightly, and glances around. There are people sitting at tables, standing at the counter, but no sign of Julia and he’s glad, now, that he knows who she is and she cannot take him unawares. He sits at a table where he can watch the door and at three minutes past the hour she walks in. To his irritation and anxiety he sees that she has a man with her and a large golden retriever. Julia looks around her, meets his eye and Will immediately stands up as they make their way towards him.

  ‘I’m Will,’ he says at once.

  ‘I’m Julia,’ she says, ‘and this is a friend of mine, Davy Callaghan. He won’t be joining us. This is Bertie.’

  Will smiles. ‘Reinforcements?’

  ‘Hi, Will,’ says Davy. ‘I’ll get the coffee in. What will you have?’

  Will shakes his hand, asks for an espresso, and Davy leaves them, taking Bertie with him. Julia sits down and after a moment Will does the same. Julia is wearing jeans and an oversize jersey.

  ‘This is very kind of you,’ he begins. ‘It was difficult to contact you without it coming as a bit of a shock.’

  She inclines her head, agreeing with him.

  ‘So you’ve seen the texts,’ she says. It’s not a question.

  ‘Yes,’ he says, feeling his way. ‘That was how we knew about you.’

  ‘I have to say that I am uncomfortable with it. It’s like being spied on.’

  ‘Yes.’ He nods. ‘I can see that. But when El found Martin’s phone it was a natural act to check through in case there was anyone who might not have heard. Your texts were rather unusual, she didn’t recognize your name, and she was rather at a loss as to what to do.’