A man with snow-white hair, wearing a tweed cap, cords and boots comes out of the front door with a sandy-coloured greyhound. Ward introduces us. ‘Call me Thomas,’ he says when I shake his hand. I ask if I can let my dog out into their garden. Ward had explained earlier this morning that he’d be bringing along his assistant, but could he also bring Spud? That had been my condition; I’ll come if Spud can come too. ‘Of course, Willow is very friendly,’ Thomas says, gesturing to his dog.
‘Are you sure Spud won’t get eaten by that thing?’ Ward mutters to me.
‘It’s more likely the other way round,’ I say, as Spud jumps out of the car and hurtles towards Willow as if to say I might be small but don’t mess with me. Thomas takes us inside while the dogs play in the garden.
‘Well, this is the kitchen,’ he says, and I catch Ward’s eye.
‘No shit, Sherlock,’ he mouths.
The kitchen is a cosy cluttered room, cactus plants and flowers on the window ledge, an old black cooker and shelf of spices next to it holding some eighty bottles.
‘Dread to think how old those herbs are,’ Thomas says, noticing me looking at them. ‘Probably as ancient as me.’
I laugh, asking if he enjoys cooking.
‘I’m exceptional at taking things out of a packet,’ he says.
Thomas’s wife arrives minutes later. She’s learning to play the piano and has just had a lesson. Her name is Penny. She’s medium height, with layered, soft chestnut hair, olive skin and brown eyes. She shakes hands withWard, who mentions that his mother has also taken up the piano.
‘Oh, how exciting. What grade is she on?’
‘Five.’
‘Is that true?’ I whisper as we begin the grand tour.
‘Shush. Grade One,’ he says.
Uley Manor is like a rabbit warren, each room full of character. Paintings line the walls and I am fascinated by the many sculptures in each room; a pair of horses with their jockeys, a cobra, a dog, a camel, a rhino, a fish jumping out of a river, a pair of lovers. The movement and expression in each piece is breathtaking. When Ward and I discover Thomas did them, we lavish praise on him.
Upstairs in the sitting room are photographs of their children. When Ward asks why they want to move, they explain that they want to be closer to their two children who live in London, and besides, the house and garden are too big for them now. ‘But I will miss it here,’ confides Penny. ‘When we first visited this house fifteen years ago I knew it was perfect for us. I’d stopped in this room, right here,’ she says, standing by the window with a view out to an apple orchard. She goes on to describe the village. ‘There’s a gardening club, painting groups, I joined a society that knits clothes for African babies and blankets for refugees.’
Penny shows Ward a black-and-white picture of the two of them on their wedding day. She is beautiful and he looks so happy. Next to this photograph is a recent picture of them arm-in-arm. ‘Don’t know who leans on who now.’ Penny laughs.
‘I’m in awe,’ Ward says.
‘Are you married?’ she asks him.
He nods, before moving swiftly on.
We take a look around the bedrooms, making all the right encouraging noises, until finally we are in a nursery on the top floor, a couple of checked blankets hanging over a cot. ‘My son has just had a little girl,’ says Penny.
I notice Ward staring out of the window. ‘I have a little girl,’ I tell her, making up for his silence. ‘Well, she’s not so little now. Eleven.’
‘Oh, a lovely age.’
‘Yes,’ I agree, waiting for Ward to say something, but he seems lost in his own world. I touch his arm lightly.
He turns. ‘I’ve got a fair picture now, so may we take a quick look around the grounds?’
Penny and Thomas take Ward and me into the garden. Willow sprints across the lawn like an athlete; Spud waddles in his middle age. They tell us about the wonderful walks in this area. Often they take Willow up on the Bury, an Iron Age hill fort. I talk to Penny about the flowers, admiring her cosmos, roses and mauve tree hydrangeas. She seems impressed, so I describe my grandmother’s garden in Cornwall. When we reach the bottom, we turn left by the small pond down a narrow path that leads us into another open space with exotic-looking trees. ‘Come and meet our funny boys in the orchard,’ says Penny. In front of us, behind a gated field, is a group of alpacas, all different colours. In a frenzy of excitement Spud tries to squeeze underneath the gate, unsure what these peculiar camel-like creatures are. Penny assures me Spud will be fine, the alpacas only hate black dogs. Ward and I lean against the gate, our legs touching and neither of us edges away. ‘Do they have a pecking order?’ I ask Penny, watching Thomas feeding them.
‘Oh yes, Big Brown is the boss.’ She points to the caramel-coloured one.
‘And if you’re the boss what does that entitle you to?’ asks Ward, nudging me. We’re still standing unnecessarily close. Being so close to him reminds me of how I used to feel with Dan. Only this time I know it’s dangerous. I edge away.
‘First go at the hay for starters,’ she replies, as we watch Big Brown chewing and munching from a bale.
‘Remember that, Wild. I get first go at the choccy bics.’ He touches my arm again, and I’m ashamed to say I like it, whatever ‘it’ is.
