Evelyn remained seated, toying with the idea of hiding until dark, just to see if anyone would miss her. She would have to find another place to hide. Somewhere the ground was not as hard or littered with broken thorns. The fragrant scent of roses was pleasant enough, but from her position, she could not see them and had to make do with their twisting stems casting her in shadow. She was imprisoned to the spot, bars of needle sharp stems to her left, her mother’s distant fussing voice to her right.
She looked through the spikey stems to spy on Timmins. He had stopped working and was leaning casually on the handle of his shovel. His back was to her, so she was unable to see his weathered face, but she could tell that he was looking towards the entrance of the rose garden. She followed his gaze, eager to see what had interrupted his work.
Standing in the rose archway was a boy she did not recognise. Despite keeping his eyes respectfully lowered, Evelyn could see a deep militant furrow marking his brow. He stood quite still, his serviceable dull clothes and pubescent body a stark contrast to the floral garlands that framed him.
Filled with curiosity, Evelyn lengthened her neck to get a better view. The boy looked too uncomfortable in his surroundings to be a member of the outdoor staff. He must be looking for work. Unfortunately, thought Evelyn, he looked too angry, his chin too stubborn and his stance too militant to please Timmins, who despised insolence in all its forms. It would be best if the boy turned away now and saved himself an ear bashing.
A muscle worked in the boy’s jaw as he lifted his gaze to look at Timmins. To Evelyn’s surprise, he nervously cleared his throat. The subconscious act enabled Evelyn to see what she had not seen before. It was not obstinacy she was witnessing, but paralysing unease at the fear of rejection.
A wave of empathy for him rose up inside Evelyn, filling every empty part of her. She could feel what he was feeling, as surely as if she was standing in his place, every rapid beat of his heart, every breath that he took which did not seem to quench the thirst for air. She felt it all, as she knew the fear so well.
‘What do you want?’
‘To see you, sir.’ The boy jerked his head in the direction of the main house, but Evelyn knew he was really indicating the outbuildings beyond. ‘They said you were working around the front today.’
The gardener began to dig again. ‘You have no business coming around the front.’
‘I was told to, sir.’
‘And they probably laughed behind your back as you left.’
The boy did not leave.
Timmins looked up. ‘Did you not hear me?’
‘There is only one way to wipe the smile from their faces, sir.’
‘I have no work for you. Clear off.’
‘I’m a good worker, Mr Timmins. You’ll find none better.’
‘They all say that.’
‘Or as keen to learn as I.’ The boy walked forward, slipping his cap from his head to reveal black unruly hair, which curled about his ears and stroked his collar as he walked.
Evelyn found herself rooting for him and silently applauding his courage. Her eyes grew wide and she felt, inexplicably, a little breathless.
He was quite handsome for a boy who had yet to grow into his features, with clear skin, a shapely jaw and an attempt at facial hair that only a youth could be proud of. He stopped a few feet in front of the head gardener; his body obscured from Evelyn’s view by the older man’s broad back. She had to make do with seeing glimpses of the boy’s arm, or the side of his head, as he spoke in his recently broken voice.
‘I won’t be any trouble, sir,’ the boy insisted.
‘I have five orphanage boys living in, a visiting journeyman and eighteen permanent workers under me. I need no more like them.’
‘I’m different.’
‘You are no better than all those who have come before you, desperate for work so you can put food on the table.’
‘I’m not looking for work, sir. I want an apprenticeship.’
Timmins snorted. ‘I’ve not taken on an apprentice for years. The training is too hard and long for most.’ He stopped digging and took a cloth from his pocket. ‘More trouble than they’re worth,’ he muttered, wiping his forehead and stuffing it back into his trouser pocket. ‘To train to become a head gardener you have to love the feel of soil in your hands and have a passion to grow, create, experiment and improve what nature has given us.’ He looked closely at the boy for the first time. ‘The hours are long and the work hard, but at the end of the day, when your body is aching for sleep, you will have studying to do.’ He returned to his digging. ‘The pay is poor. You would do better seeking a labouring job at another garden.’
The boy did not move to leave, but Evelyn could see his chin lowering.
‘How many brothers or sisters have you got to support? Five? Six?’
‘None, sir. There is just my mother and I. I know it will be hard, Mr Timmins, but I want to be a great landscape gardener one day.’
Timmins arched his back to ease his muscles and studied him for a moment.
