The garden is a voyage not only for the feet but also the mind. A different view depending on where you stand. If arriving at the north entrance by the river, you see a mixed lawn of alternating green grass and meadows of wildflowers. But standing on the terrace, perhaps a stop for afternoon tea at The Orange Tree Café,you can see an S-shaped pond nestled among blue and yellow irises growing just inside the water line, bull rushes, white primula, and water lilies. Then as you walk closer to look at the water plants, you will be surprised by one of five stunning flower beds shaped like elegant Victorian fans.
Unable to stop myself, I scroll down to look at the pictures. The pond surrounded by the mosaic border, all vibrant blue and turquoise. Pictures of the rose arcade, a tunnel of white and yellow roses. The last picture, however, makes the breath catch in my throat.
This photograph must have been taken from a third-floor window and shows the whole pond, blue border and the five fans. They are heart-stopping. Purple, blue, pink, orange and red – the graduation of colour from deep to light makes the fans look as if they’re actually moving and unfolding.
But what has me blinking away tears is the reminder of that stained-glass panel above my door – what used to be my door in what used to be my apartment. The moment I’d had my inspiration and felt ideas unfurl and explode in my mind like a fast timelapse video of blossoming flowers.
“It’s you.” Mrs Baker sounds almost unbelieving. “I thought it must be a coincidence, a similar name.”
I shake my head. “It was me.” I do my very best to sound normal. What is normal for this kind of situation? What do people sound like when they see a dream come true after they’ve walked away from it?
“But, my dear, if you did that, what are you doing here in a little garden centre?”
I start putting away pots and tools on the shelf. “But it won’t be a little centre for much longer; you’re going to expand, aren’t you? I like getting in on the ground floor of something andhelping it grow. You didn’t see Hope Gardens when I started.” I hand her the tablet back. “It was all dead wood and creepers.”
“Why couldn’t you have started a workshop for propagation over there?” She scrolls through the article on her iPad.
“It doesn’t matter,” I say briskly, and start wiping surfaces until the pine counter gleams. “We’re going to do great things here.”
A good answer; she gives me a final nod and says no more. Until the end of the day, that is. When we’re locking up, she waits on the pavement, watching me put my things in the car.
“Philip is stopping in King’s Lynn overnight; why don’t you join me for dinner? I have a vegetarian lasagne that needs eating and my husband has a brain haemorrhage if I offer him vegetarian food.”
It makes me laugh, because Mr Baker is indeed a hearty fellow; what the French call abon vivant. He loves good wines and red meat; he talks loudly and laughs even louder. Sue, his wife, almost disappears in his shadow when he’s around. So it’s a nice chance for us to connect while he’s away. I don’t expect much beyond dinner and a nice evening to take my mind off forbidden memories.
So it catches me by surprise when Mrs Baker follows the lasagne with a light lemon posset and a serious face.
“Was it a man?” she asks.
“A man what?” I’m momentarily confused.
“The reason you left that garden in the Brecon Beacons.”
“TheBannau Brycheiniog.” I correct her automatically as the rest of my mind catches up with her meaning. “Why do you say that?” I play for time.
“Oh, my dear, what else could have driven you away? What else is iteverthat breaks a woman’s heart this way?”
So I tell her. Not everything. And no names. But enough. She listens and offers me sympathy and hugs. “I’m not going to give you advice because with relationships, advice doesn’t help any, just annoys. So how about another cup of tea?”
“Yes, please, Mrs Baker.”
“No more ‘Mrs’ anything. My name is Sue.”
Sue’s tea is nowhere near Leonie’s rich and aromatic blends, but a pot of PG Tips is never not welcome. We drink and laugh, and her kindness makes my heart a little less sore.
The next day, Sue Baker prints copies of the article to hand out to prospective customers. “You’ll never again have such a chance to learn from someone like Evangeline Palmer.”
After checking with me, she also contacts the local radio station. They invite us for a short interview.
“Local?” I check when the producer calls me. “You’re sure we won’t be heard outside South East England?”
“Ha. I wish,” she answers. “We’ll be lucky to be heard outside Suffolk.”
So I agree on the condition that all the questions will be about the garden centre, not me.
In all this, I forget – or neglect – to apply the filter to my emails. So it’s no surprise that I get another email from him.
Chapter Forty-nine
