I’m smiling as I pick up my trug.
I love working at Hidcote. It’s in a hamlet in the North Cotswolds, nestled amongst rolling hills, and it has the most beautiful Grade I-listed garden, the first garden-only property that the Trust acquired.
The garden rooms here are formed off a central axis that runs east to west and north to south, and each has a different character. Near the house, they’re smaller and very formal, but as they expand outwards, they morph into more natural areas that blend in with the surrounding countryside.
The property is tiny compared to Berkeley Hall, but I feel so much safer here. It’s such a relief being employed by anorganisation that I respect, trust and believe in rather than finding myself at the mercy of a single powerful individual. I still can’t think about Peter Berkeley without feeling physically sick.
But now my future feels full of possibility. I don’t plan on leaving Hidcote anytime soon, but it’s exciting to think about the opportunities I might have to work at other properties in the future.
I’m finishing work a bit earlier than usual today as in the morning I’m off on holiday for a week in Southwold. I’ve already packed and I’m looking forward to a seaside break in Suffolk, even if there’s a part of me that will miss the gardens here.
‘I’ll be back in a week,’ I tell the little robin. ‘Will you wait for me?’
I talk to birds now. No madness in my family.
I pop by the office to say goodbye to Lottie and collect my things. She’s been reviewing the planting for next year – looking at the balance of texture, height and colour of the foliage and flowers. I’ve learned so much from her.
Right now, she’s sitting at the desk, staring at her laptop screen, catching up on some admin.
‘Isn’t Berkeley Hall the place you worked at?’ she asks casually, glancing over her shoulder at me as I pick up my tote bag.
My chest violently constricts.
‘Yes?’
She returns her attention to the screen. ‘A head gardener position has come up there.’
I frown at her. ‘What are you reading?’
‘Work email.’
‘From the National Trust?’
She nods and I slowly put down my bag.
‘Why is the NT featuring gardening positions at Berkeley Hall?’ I ask carefully. ‘It’s privately owned.’
‘No, we acquired it earlier this year,’ she corrects me.
‘What?’
I feel as though the blood has drained from my body as I read over her shoulder.
I can’t believe what I’m seeing.
It’s been just over two years since I left Berkeley Hall and it took me a good long while to recover. But this year, thanks to a lot of counselling that I finally stopped shying away from, I’ve begun to feel like my old self again.
I was traumatised by what happened – the lack of control I’d had over my job, the power Ash’s father had wielded over both Ash and me, the falling-out with my colleagues, the way Ash turned to Beca, time and time again. Coupled with the pressure of finding somewhere to live and starting a new job, I felt as though I was cracking up.
I’d thought I was prepared for losing Ash. I wasn’t. Looking back now, it’s obvious that I had some sort of breakdown.
My counsellor has helped me to work through not just what happened at Berkeley Hall, but everything in the years that led up to it. I’m still reeling from what we uncovered in our sessions, but my journey makes more sense now.
A couple of months ago, I wrote my parents a letter. Really,it was my mum I most wanted to say my piece to. I was nervous at the thought of her reading my words, or worse, not reading them, but to my surprise she texted within a couple of days to ask to speak.
I can still remember the timbre of her voice, the unnerving hesitation before ‘I’m sorry’ left her lips.
I know how much it cost her to say those two words, but they lifted a weight. I carry hope now for a future where we might have some sort of relationship.
