‘Whit?’
‘But, itcouldwork! And the book says these things take as long as they take. What do you think? It’s worth the risk to save them, right? And if it doesn’t work, you can do as you said and rip them out and plant more willows.’
Atholl was nodding again with a contemplative frown. ‘But by then you’ll be long gone and I’ll be in a braw mess sorting out your bright ideas by myself.’ A beat passed between them. Beatrice swallowed. ‘Are you wanting to help me with this digging?’ he added.
‘Of course. Two spades, remember?’
‘Well then, I’ll get the kettle on, we might manage a whole row by dinner time.’
To give Atholl his due, he didn’t blanch at Beatrice’s excited cries accompanied by an exuberant handclap and some kind of rain dance amongst the dying shrubs.
‘Anything to keep you happy. Andbusy,’ he shouted over his shoulder as he approached the workshop door.
The close and building heat of a late summer’s day made the work hard going but the pair kept their spades to the ground and their backs bent. Atholl dug his willow knife into the soil to release the most stubborn roots as each lavender came up one at a time. Beatrice filled the watering can from the trough by the door and damped down the plants’ roots while Atholl backfilled the newly dug, deeper trenches with his homemade compost from the heap behind the willows. It wasn’t long before they were sinking the first rescued lavender into its planting hole and Atholl firmed it into the fresh earth with his boot.
‘So, umm, did you speak to your mum, or your sister yet? About me running off like that?’ Beatrice asked between trips to the water trough with the metal can.
‘It’s no’ their business. And you don’t need to explain yourself to anyone.’
‘Really? You don’t think I should ring them?’
‘No. I do not. They liked you, and that’s enough for family, isn’t it?’
‘Oh.’
Beatrice found herself thinking of Rich’s dad. He’d have demanded to know what was wrong with her and she’d have ended up humiliated by his questions and put in her place by his callous, casual remarks. She could hear him now braying about their lost baby and how she really shouldn’t be trying again so soon because nobody knew ‘what was wrong with Beatrice yet’ and she’d risk losing another child if she recklessly forged ahead with her plan to get pregnant again. Rich had asked him to leave, yet again, and there had been another blazing row on the doorstep. How had they lived with his toxicity for so long, she wondered? How must Rich be managing alone with it now? Had he told his dad where he’d gone or was he making a clean break? She thought of all those years watching Rich eaten up with worry about his father’s dependence on alcohol and all that energy expended hoping for his father’s approval, only to be disappointed time and again. Many times he’d seen Beatrice take the brunt of his father’s casual misogyny and cruelty but he’d always open the door to him whenever he stumbled up their driveway, which told her Rich would probably still be in contact with his dad now. Her heart ached a little and she hoped he’d made an especial effort to talk to, or even visit, his nice, dependable mum in Portugal this summer, the only uncomplicated, loving family member he had left.
But here was Atholl Fergusson with his – she was realising – laid back attitude to family affairs, happily digging at the ground, the topic already forgotten, seemingly secure in the knowledge his loved ones wouldn’t mind Beatrice’s eccentricities one bit.
‘What about Kitty and Gene, do they know… about me?’
Atholl’s look told her that of course they didn’t. It was her news to tell if she ever wanted to.
So they dug on, the branches scratching their skin and the acrid, sappy perfume of lavender roots rising in the now humid, salty air. The thrum of distant combine harvesters and the call of the gulls watching the moored fishing boats being hosed down over the hill at Port Willow jetty accompanied their work.
‘You know, Beattie…’ Atholl began slowly, weighing his words. ‘Mum would understand. My mother’s first baby, my big sister – Ida was her name – was lost when she was only a few days old. My mother was only young at the time and she and Dad grieved sore for her. When it came to the time Ida would have gone to school my mother wanted to do something for her, so she decided to make an inn bedroom into a fairy-tale room, so other wee lassies could sleep there and imagine themselves a princess, turning her grief into someone else’s joy. Gene was born shortly after that, then myself, then Sheila and Kelly came along. We all held sleepovers in that room with our pals when we were wee. And for a long time, that was the inn’s most popular room with the visitors; we were famous for it. But that was a long time ago. It’s old hat now, I suppose.’
‘I like your mum’s imagination, and that she had a way of turning some of her sadness into something else. She must have been pretty resourceful.’
‘She’s no’ one to sit still. She’s a do-er, like somebody else I know.’
Beatrice shrugged and laughed. ‘Who can you mean?’
Atholl laughed too before turning contemplative. ‘So, you said that digging these lavenders could help me somehow?’
She prepared herself for the task of convincing him. ‘Well, they were Gene’s ex-wife’s, right?’
‘They’re no’ divorced. As far as everyone’s concerned they’re still married.’
‘OK, they were his wife’s. He’s been stuck in the past waiting for her to come home, but now we’ve successfully got him cooking again and he and Kitty seem to be getting on well…’
Atholl joined in. ‘And he even came to the ceilidh planning meeting this morning which is more interest than he’s taken in Harvest Home since Lana left, so aye, I’m with you so far, but what’s your point?’
‘I thought we could help him move on if we gave this field a new lease of life. If instead of watching it turn into a desolate bit of weedy scrubland, he could see it flourish from a fresh start too. Maybe maintaining the field was Lana’s job at first, but now that responsibility might weigh on Gene and he can’t face it.’ She indicated the field with her hand. ‘It’s become a rotting relic, a reminder of better times. And you know those tasks that you know youshouldtackle, but you just can’t face? Maybe it’s one of those.’
A niggling, invasive thought arose as she spoke, bringing back thoughts of Richard and all their unfinished business, but she pressed on, shaking the anxious feelings away, trying to convince Atholl.
‘If we can encourage him out here to take care of the field he planted in the first place, it might make him happy – relieved even – and he can move on. We just need to get it freshened up so he can take over, so it isn’t too overwhelming a task for him.’
