Coming Up Roses Read online

  Crossing the little lane, he motioned to the right. ‘That’s one of mine – or at least it was.’

  A pebbled driveway led to a huge Georgian villa with gardens to the side and back. A bright estate-agent sign was nailed to the wooden fence.

  ‘Evening.’ Standing on the perfectly manicured lawn was a fluorescent-coated workman. He caught Daisy’s eye and gave her a smile, clearly relieved to be heading home for the night.

  ‘Evening.’ Thomas nodded, curtly.

  The man, straightening up the sign on the lawn with a shove of his boot, gave them a nod as he headed for the large pickup truck that was parked on the grass verge. Daisy looked up at the sign, taking it in. Acquired by OHB Property Development, it shouted, in bright red writing.

  ‘Property development?’ Daisy looked again at the house and garden. It was perfectly maintained, with not a single leaf out of place. She peered in through the window, where she could see the low lights of the kitchen casting a glow across spotless countertops. ‘Doesn’t look like it needs much done to it.’

  ‘The house is perfect, you’re right.’ Thomas gave a sigh. ‘And that garden – I worked that for years. Know it like the back of my hand. Bloody developers.’

  He turned, and started walking at a surprisingly brisk march. Daisy tugged at Polly’s lead, and she broke into a trot to catch up.

  ‘You’ll have seen it in the papers. It’s happening all over villages like Steeple St John. The gardens in lovely old houses like this one are too big for people nowadays, and the owners can make a fast buck by selling half of them off.’

  Daisy turned back, looking at the houses that lined the lane. Each of them was set back from the road, closeted with a high wall or a thick hedge surrounding a huge garden dating from a time when people had the money to pay gardeners, or the time and leisure to spend their weekends working away at making them beautiful. Nowadays, she knew, everyone was keen on the easiest and quickest way of making the garden look good – and with mortgages going through the roof, selling off half the garden must be a tempting proposition.

  ‘But aren’t there rules about things like that?’

  ‘There’s rules – and there’s rules.’ Thomas rubbed his chin, shaking his head. ‘Trouble is it’s easy enough to get round ’em. Don’t get me wrong – I don’t have a problem with people needing somewhere to live, but there’s enough disused houses sitting around this country. Why they don’t do something with them, I’ll never know.’

  ‘Mmm.’ Daisy had clearly hit a nerve. Much as she enjoyed chatting, she was quite relieved to see that they were almost at the end of the lane and in reach of home, and the sofa.

  ‘Every time I look,’ continued Thomas, who was on a roll, ‘there’s another developer knocking something down or putting something up round here. I can’t keep up. Not to mention bunting and blooming cupcakes and all that Keep Calm and Carry On nonsense in the shops. Whatever happened to fairy cakes? I blame the Americans.’

  Daisy couldn’t help laughing. Thomas’s irascibility reminded her of her dad.

  Polly picked up speed as she reached the foot of Main Street, knowing dinner was imminent. She pulled on the lead impatiently, willing Daisy forward.

  ‘That’s me over there,’ Daisy explained, pointing up the lane towards Orchard Villa in the distance. Knowing he was a gardener, she felt a bit ashamed of the shaggy mess of tangled foliage which hung around the gate, obscuring the archway that led into the Victorian house.

  ‘Orchard Villa? That’s another of mine. Looked after that for thirty years. Absolute shambles that garden is, nowadays.’

  ‘Not for long. I’m going to bring it back to life,’ promised Daisy. That’s the second time someone’s pointed out what a disaster it is, she thought. I must work on the front garden for now, just to get everyone off my back.

  ‘I see you’ve made a start on the rockery at the front. I laid that, you know, back in ’74. They were all the rage back then. And I planted that old wisteria round the door. I’m very fond of that one.’

  Daisy felt herself smiling at him. Despite wanting to get home, she found herself lingering as he asked about the health of the huge mulberry tree in the back garden, as if enquiring after an old friend. It really was lovely to hear someone else feeling the same enthusiasm for the garden that she had. During the last couple of weeks she’d been a virtual recluse, locked away in the house and garden, venturing out only to grab supplies of milk, chocolate and red wine. It was surprisingly nice to chat, even if it was to a kindly old stranger. Perhaps Miranda had a point. Thinking back to her first sight of Thomas, leaning over the gate of the churchyard, she felt a pang of sympathy.

  ‘Would you mind – I’m sure you’re probably busy.’ Daisy knew already that he wasn’t, and that she was asking as much to save him from loneliness as herself. ‘I’d love it if you’d come round some time and give me some tips. I’d like to know what the garden used to look like before the weeds took over.’

  Thomas looked utterly delighted, his pale eyes crinkling at the edges with happiness.

  ‘I would be thrilled, my dear. I’ve got notebooks and records going back to the fifties in my study. I’ll dig them out.’

  Daisy watched from the street corner as Thomas made his way along the road and out of sight in the very last of the evening light. Across the road, the little Indian restaurant was filling up as too-tired-to-cook commuters made the detour from the railway station to pick up a takeaway. There was a constant stream of cars passing by, taking the rat run through Steeple St John to save the extra five minutes it’d take to go via the ring road. It was a peculiar mixture of town and village life – not quite rural, but definitely a far cry from Miranda’s busy, whirling London life.

  Daisy’s phone flashed. Talk of the devil. It was Miranda, probably texting from the loo of whichever posh London restaurant she was in tonight.

  Quite like this internet dating lark. This one’s got a Maserati AND a house in Italy! Xxx

  Daisy headed towards the house as she tapped her response.

  Funny old evening. I met someone too. He’s very sweet.

  Miranda’s reply shot back instantly.

  Fast work. Impressive. Details?

  Well, he’s tall, fair, quite handsome.

  Excellent . . . and?

  Knowing her sister would be hanging on for the reply, Daisy counted to ten and hit send.

  And about 85. Ha ha. x

  Chapter Two

  Daisy stared out of the kitchen window, willing it to stop raining. The wheelbarrow lay abandoned on the mossy patio. What she’d hoped was a spring shower was settling in for the duration. The skies were darkening. Time to curl up with some gardening books, a notepad and some toast. Daisy opened the bread bin, realizing as she did so that after last night’s crisps-and-dips session, she’d ended up finishing off the loaf, absent-mindedly buttering and shoving in the toast in an attempt to blot out the late-night blues which had hit her, three-quarters of the way down a bottle of red and at the end of yet another viewing of The Notebook. She’d done a lot of comfort carb-eating of late. It was lucky, really, that gardening burnt off so much energy, or she’d be twice the size she was.

  Polly raised one retriever eyebrow at her and thumped her tail apologetically. She was settled in her bed, and had no plans to go anywhere whilst the weather was determined to drag them back into winter.

  Daisy closed the final kitchen cupboard with a sigh. She’d searched, just in case there was a forgotten loaf lurking somewhere. There isn’t anyone to buy it except you, she reminded herself.

  Pulling on her dad’s huge waxed raincoat, which covered her from neck to ankles, she grabbed Polly’s lead from the dresser. The dog shrank down into her bed, trying to make herself invisible.

  ‘Up. Come on, you, we’re going to the shop.’

  Saturday was market day in Steeple St John. Water from the tarpaulins covering the stalls was forming a river, which poured down the hill of Main Street, proving
too much for the drains to cope with. Last week the little weekly market had been busy with harassed mothers and toddlers, women with granny-chic wicker shopping baskets, and old men watching the world go by. Today, however, Daisy was one of a handful of damp and grumpy shoppers, hunched under hoods or tucked under umbrellas.

  ‘Nice weather for ducks,’ said a voice from underneath the dripping hoarding of the fruit stall.

  ‘Is it, though? I don’t think I’d like this even if I was a duck.’ Daisy handed him a handful of apples.

  ‘I don’t imagine it is, really. But it’s what I’m supposed to say, isn’t it?’ He gave her a wry smile. ‘You local? Haven’t seen you at the market before – that’s one-fifty, darling.’

  She couldn’t help laughing. ‘Do they actually give you a script of appropriate things to say to customers?’

  ‘Yep. Trade secret –’ he leaned in, with a stage whisper – ‘We’re like hairdressers. We don’t get our pitch until we can recite them off by heart.’ He handed Daisy her change.

  ‘Well, I’m impressed. Ten out of ten – and in this weather, too. I’d be growling at everyone if I was stuck out in the cold.’

  ‘I quite like it. And it’s an opportunity to watch people. Every village has its own character, although they’re all blending into one these days.’ Raising an eyebrow, he motioned to a woman in a distinctive floral-print raincoat, complete with colourful wellies and artfully clashing umbrella. She looked like a walking advert for Boden.

  ‘They think they’re in an episode of the blooming Archers, half this lot. They’ve got an idea of what village life should be and we just see ’em coming. I sell more purple sprouting broccoli than I do potatoes these days.’

  Daisy looked ruefully at her dad’s too-big waxed coat and her filthy gardening boots. ‘I don’t really fit the mould.’

  ‘Dunno, you look good to me,’ he said, with a cheeky expression.

  Startled by an unexpected compliment, Daisy stood frozen for a moment. He was, she realized, quite cute under the woolly hat. Curly dark hair, sharp blue eyes and an interesting-looking hooked nose, which gave him a slightly piratical air. Realizing she was staring, she felt her cheeks growing hot and stepped backwards. He held her gaze, unflustered. Flirting with customers might be part of the stallholder training, but she was most definitely not on the market.

  ‘Oh. Right. Um, thanks.’ Flustered, Daisy hurried off. She could feel his eyes on her as she bent over, trying to tie Polly’s soaking wet lead around the post outside the little supermarket, water pouring off the back of her coat.

  With no customers to be seen, the two women operating the supermarket checkouts were chatting comfortably, leaning across their tills, caught up in gossip as Daisy picked up a basket. They didn’t acknowledge her presence, wrapped up as they were in a debate about something they’d seen on television the night before. Daisy scanned the magazine covers, basket hooked over her arm. Comfort Food, shouted a headline. Yes. That’s what was needed on an afternoon like this – it felt more like midwinter than the beginning of spring. She grabbed a packet of chocolate biscuits, and threw a tin of Heinz tomato soup into her basket along with some cheese and a knobbly loaf of fresh bread. Standing at the till, she was just deciding whether a huge bar of chocolate was pushing it when she heard a voice behind her.

  ‘Not such a good day for gardening, is it?’

  She turned, recognizing the voice. It belonged to her new friend.

  ‘Thomas! How are you?’

  ‘Much better for seeing you, m’dear. Nasty weather, isn’t it? More like January.’

  ‘I’m only out for emergency supplies.’ She waved the chocolate biscuits in explanation before putting them in her bag. ‘I’m planning an afternoon by the fire working out what’s going where in the garden.’

  Daisy took her change, and paused a moment as Thomas bought his pint of milk.

  ‘I don’t suppose – I’m going for a cup of tea in the Bluebell, if you’d like to. No, I’m sure you’ve got to get on, haven’t you?’

  She couldn’t resist. He sounded so hesitant and her soft heart melted at the thought of him sitting there alone in the rain.

  ‘Not at all. I’d love to join you – what about Polly?’

  ‘Oh, don’t worry about her, we’ll sneak her in. I’ve known Elizabeth, the owner, since she was a young lass. She wouldn’t leave Polly sitting outside on a day like this.’

  They made their way down the street. Thomas opened the door to a pretty cafe, with sprigged cotton curtains hanging over steamed-up windows, and charmingly mismatched old school chairs around wobbly-legged wooden tables. It smelt of vanilla, spice and fresh coffee.

  Daisy hovered on the step with Polly. The last time she’d paid attention – on one of her infrequent visits in the last couple of years since her parents made the move from Oxford – the Bluebell had been a grotty greasy spoon which didn’t appear particularly inviting. Now it looked lovely, but definitely not the sort of place that would welcome a soggy golden retriever.

  ‘Bring her in.’ The woman behind the counter gave Daisy a welcoming smile. ‘Just don’t tell anyone from Health and Safety. Come on, girl.’ She beckoned Daisy in. Polly, grateful to be out of the rain, flopped down in the corner behind a table.

  ‘Can we have a pot of tea and some of your lovely lemon drizzle, Lizzie?’

  ‘Course you can, Thomas. You get yourselves warmed up, I’ll bring it over.’

  Daisy wiped the condensation away from the window, looking out at the rain pouring down. It was relentless, the grey sky seemingly holding an unlimited supply.

  ‘This place has gone a bit posh since the last time I was in the village.’

  Daisy fingered the Cath Kidston print curtains, taking in the colourful paintings on the wall, each with a discreet price tag neatly written on a dot of paper in the corner of the frame.

  Thomas leaned in confidingly. ‘Lizzie took over when her parents retired. She’s a lovely lass, got two teenagers and she’s on her own since her husband left. She’s made a good job of it, hasn’t she?’

  Daisy looked around. A couple of other equally damp and grateful-looking shoppers were hugging warm mugs of tea. Radio 4 muttered away in the background, cosily. Colourful signs on the cork noticeboard announced there was a book club that met once a month and a weekly knit-and-natter group, and new cake-making classes were imminent.

  ‘She’s made it the place to be, haven’t you, my dear?’ Thomas stopped talking for a moment as Elizabeth carefully set down a tray, handing them a pretty floral teapot, two mugs, and slices of cake big enough to satisfy even two hungry gardeners. He gave a nod of approval as she stepped back, smiling.

  ‘And you make the best cup of tea in the county,’ said Thomas approvingly, looking up at Elizabeth. Her eyes and nose crinkled prettily as she beamed her thanks.

  ‘I’ve been looking through my notebooks,’ said Thomas, after a pause while they both sipped their tea and appreciated the cake, ‘and I’ve found my gardening notes from my years working at Orchard Villa. When this rain clears, perhaps we can arrange a time for me to come over and we can talk about your plans.’

  ‘I’d like that.’ Daisy, slightly begrudgingly, had admitted to herself there was a fine line between alone and lonely. She’d been there a few weeks, but the only visitor she’d had was her sister, who’d swooped down from London for a night bringing supplies from M&S, flowers, cake and a bottle of champagne which they’d shared while Daisy poured her heart out.

  Watching the raindrops trickle down the window, she realized that she’d jumped at the chance of a cup of tea with Thomas, a relative stranger. She’d thought when she offered him the chance to help her out with the garden that she’d been doing him a favour – but, she realized with a half-smile, she was the one at sea.

  ‘With your lovely red hair, when you smile like that, my dear, you bring me to mind of my Violet. Penny for your thoughts?’

  ‘Just thinking it’s strange the way thi
ngs turn out.’ She cupped the mug in both hands, not keen to talk about herself, but interested to know more about Thomas. ‘Tell me about Violet. Was she from the village?’

  ‘Violet?’ Thomas laughed. ‘Lord, no. Londoner born and bred, was Violet. She’d been married before – we both had, in fact. Back in those days, that wasn’t the done thing. Her sister lived in the little mews cottages just down the back lane from the shop there, and she came out here to hide.’

  ‘What was she hiding from?’

  ‘Her husband. He was a big old boy, and a bit too fond of his ale.’ Thomas shook his head, his lips tightening in a line as the memories came back to him. ‘Nights when he’d had too much, he’d come home, and Violet would get the wrong end of his temper.’

  ‘How awful. Poor Violet.’

  ‘Yes, she’d nowhere else to go. In those days, people just stuck it out or hid when things were bad. But not my girl.’ His eyes brightened, remembering. He sat up a little then, his chest puffing out with pride. ‘She legged it. Took one overnight bag and left him to it. He came looking, one afternoon, but Edith just flat out lied. Told him she’d no idea where her sister was, that she’d brought disgrace on the family by leaving, and he was stupid enough to fall for it.’ He gave a nod of defiance.

  ‘Good for her. And then you two met?’ Daisy, entranced, hugged her tea as she listened to his story.

  ‘My first wife, Sarah, had died. She was only thirty, and I was a couple of years older. I’d been alone for a few years and I didn’t expect to meet anyone again. I met my Violet at the village fête, and we were married within the year.’

  ‘You must miss her terribly.’ Daisy thought back to their previous meeting, and Thomas leaning over the gate of the churchyard wishing his wife goodnight. Her loneliness was nothing in comparison.

  ‘I do.’ Thomas closed his eyes, and Daisy felt suddenly awkward at intruding on his memories.