A Secret Garden Read online

  The following morning, slightly fuzzy, Lorna had walked through the garden towards the steps where she and Anthea had agreed to meet and unexpectedly her heart had lifted a little.

  Dew sparkled on the grass and the sun cast long shadows across it. It was looking glorious. The hasty plantings done before the garden being opened had settled in and were beginning to flower. Bright phlox, scarlet crocosmia and white tree poppies filled the borders. She loved the garden and wouldn’t leave it just because of a man.

  And it would be fine. She could go back to how she had been before Jack. It was only a couple of months of her life, after all. Easy enough to forget all about. All she had to do was put Jack out of her mind. But the trouble was, making that resolution just put Jack right back into the forefront.

  Kirstie was there when Lorna arrived. ‘I’m sure you won’t find anything of value,’ she was saying to Anthea, obviously still not sure how to address her, ‘but if you’d like to check—’

  ‘I’ll volunteer for skip-diving,’ said Lorna, forcing herself to sound upbeat.

  ‘Great! So do you mind if I leave you to it?’ said Kirstie, desperate to get away. ‘Leo and I are going to source some statues to go on top of the plinths by the gate. There’s a reclamation yard in Somerset that has some on their website.’

  When permission to depart had been given, Anthea said, ‘In my day one bought things, now apparently the word is “source”.’

  Lorna clambered towards the rim of the skip. ‘Here, take this,’ she said to Anthea. ‘I don’t know what’s in here, maybe rubbish, but I like the folder.’

  ‘What else is in there?’ asked Anthea. ‘I must say, I’m very tempted to get in too. People throw away such wonderful things.’

  ‘Well, there’s lots of what could be old pictures but they’re unframed and grubby,’ said Lorna.

  ‘Oh, goodness,’ said Anthea. ‘Kirstie could have been throwing away works of art. Do I have to get in there?’

  ‘Well, if you’re up for it!’

  Anthea was up the stepladder and over the top before Lorna could stop her.

  Half an hour later, Lorna and Anthea were still flinging sheaves of old papers out of the skip, Anthea exclaiming with enthusiasm every time. At last the skip was empty and there was a huge pile of paper next to it.

  ‘So, is there anything precious of yours we’ve rescued?’ asked Lorna.

  ‘Oh, none of this is mine,’ said Anthea, reading something intently. ‘But it is fascinating.’

  ‘It’s starting to rain,’ said Lorna. ‘What shall we do? Abandon it or try and get it into the dry?’

  ‘Dry,’ said Anthea. ‘We can’t afford to miss any of this.’

  Lorna found she was enjoying heaving papers about – it was different from anything she usually did. They’d found some cardboard boxes and were filling them with papers, taking them into Burthen House, emptying the boxes and going back outside to rescue more papers from the increasingly heavy rain.

  At last all was safe and, they hoped, not too damp. ‘Tell you what,’ suggested Anthea, brushing rain off her face with a casual arm. ‘Let’s look at them all, and the ones of no interest we can leave here to burn later.’

  ‘Good idea, but didn’t Kirstie say there was a whole bedroom full of stuff upstairs?’ said Lorna. ‘We should check none of it is yours before we start burning things.’

  ‘True,’ said Anthea, her gaze not lifting from the paper she was reading. ‘This is an old plan of the house. We have to keep this.’

  ‘Well, let’s check upstairs,’ said Lorna. ‘Then we can stop for lunch. I’m quite hungry.’ She was glad about this. Although she hadn’t stopped eating, agonising about Jack had severely reduced her appetite.

  ‘Seamus is making soup at my house,’ said Anthea. ‘Couldn’t you go up and see what’s in the bedroom? I’m too gripped by this to want to bother.’

  ‘Well, what did you store here?’ said Lorna. ‘I don’t know what’s precious and what’s not.’

  ‘Furniture mostly. You go up. Leave me here. Then we’ll have lunch.’

  As Seamus thought ‘a little glass of rosé’ was the perfect accompaniment to soup, bread and cheese, they went back to the house feeling a bit more cheerful even if Lorna was yawning. But Anthea’s blood was up. Her plans for sorting through the stuff in the skip were not to be put off by people being heartbroken or in need of naps.

  Before they’d stopped for lunch they’d got everything upstairs to a bedroom which was large and would possibly have been the master had it not been for a huge damp patch in the ceiling with corresponding buckets on the floor. The water must have had to go through the attics and the upper storeys for it to have reached this level. If the roof needed doing, in a house this size, thought Lorna, it would be very, very expensive.

  All around the bucket were boxes and crates of stuff. Some of it was newer, possibly from Anthea’s old house, and some of it had obviously been in the house before. It was mostly papers, but some blanket boxes and chests too. Anthea was fixated on the papers, but Lorna preferred the boxes.

  She’d just come across a large box of shells, all heaped together, all sorts and sizes, when Anthea exclaimed, making Lorna turn quickly.

  ‘Look! I’ve found it! I thought I might.’

  ‘What? What have you found?’ asked Lorna.

  ‘A plan of the house and garden.’ She gestured with her hand. ‘Look out of the window. It’s all there.’

  Lorna hurried over. Anthea was holding the plan up and Lorna, having looked out of the window, burrowed in her pocket for her reading glasses. She scrutinised the plan for a couple of moments. ‘Oh. I see what you mean. The plan must have been done from this level – possibly this room.’ She paused. ‘We can see everything,’ she quietly thrilled. ‘The whole garden and the Dower House.’

  ‘Except the Dower House garden is much bigger than it is now,’ said Anthea, frowning.

  Something stirred in Lorna’s memory. ‘I’ve an idea I’ve seen something – when we were carrying papers upstairs. Something nearly slipped and I caught it.’ She went to the corner where she’d dumped that particular load. ‘Now I’ve seen the plan…’ Rapidly she riffled through the pile, flat now and easier to see. ‘Here it is. It’s a painting. Same view!’

  She brought it to the window so Anthea could see it.

  ‘Well,’ said Lorna after a few seconds, ‘the artist has either been in this room and painted the view or copied the plan and added detail.’

  ‘Look at that little row of saplings,’ said Lorna. ‘Those must be the limes when they were planted. And now they’re huge. And look at the Italian garden,’ she went on. ‘That’s how it should be again, really. Although I was very pleased with the red, black and white garden.

  ‘I do wonder what goes on behind all those self-sown ash and sycamore trees. On the plan there’s a garden but I wonder if it was ever made? Is this a record of what was there then, or a plan for the future? You remember you asked me the other day and I didn’t really care? Now I need to find out!’

  Lorna laughed. ‘So do I. I’ll need some tools though, in case we need to hack our way through all that undergrowth.’

  ‘You keep the tools in the stables, don’t you?’ said Anthea. ‘Why don’t I ring Seamus to pick us up?’ Before she could do anything her phone started to ring.

  ‘Seamus? I was just about to ring you!’

  Then she didn’t speak for a little while. Finally she said, ‘I’m so sorry, Lorna, can we do this tomorrow? Seamus needs me. It’s urgent!’

  As she walked home Lorna reflected that she’d been aware that Anthea rang Seamus whenever she needed him. It was interesting, and pleasing, to know that it was reciprocal. If Seamus needed Anthea, he rang too. It was really sweet.

  21

  ‘Holy shit!’ said Lucien, stepping on the brakes of the van.

  Philly’s eyes snapped open. Panic ripped through her. They were on their way home from Uncle Roderick’s and she’d do
zed off. Now she expected to see an oncoming lorry, tree or something that had made Lucien brake so hard and swear.

  ‘What’s the matter?’ She realised they were very nearly in the lane that led only to their house.

  ‘You see that car ahead? It’s my parents.’

  ‘Oh no.’ Philly didn’t feel like swearing, she felt like melting into the car seat and disappearing. She was going to meet Lucien’s parents. This would have been an ordeal even if she’d had weeks to prepare, and not when she was travel-stained and grubby and wearing their son’s ancient sweater. It couldn’t be worse. She must look like a tramp he’d picked up on the side of the road.

  Lucien didn’t speak as he followed the Range Rover down the track. He veered off when it had been parked in front of the house and took the van round the back, where it usually lived.

  ‘Roderick – or, more likely, Nanny – must have called them,’ he said. ‘Given them my address.’ He glanced at Philly and grasped her hand. ‘But it’s going to be fine. We’ll walk round to the front. Get to them before Seamus.

  As they walked round Philly realised that Seamus would be fine. He was good with people. Although she realised Lucien’s parents probably weren’t quite the same as normal people.

  All too soon they were in front of the house and closing in on their uninvited guests. Lucien’s mother was wearing cream-coloured slacks and had a navy jacket slung over her arm. To avoid making eye contact until she had to, Philly noticed she was wearing driving shoes with gold buckles. She was looking towards the front door so Philly could take note of her expertly highlighted caramel-coloured hair. She decided her look could be defined as casual, and very, very expensive.

  Lucien’s father was wearing pretty much the same as Roderick had worn – obviously the uniform of the upper middle classes: bright red cords and a V-necked cashmere sweater. Although, unlike Roderick, there were no signs of moth. He had very shiny brogues that were probably handmade.

  All this meant that if her hand hadn’t been tightly held, Philly would have run away and hidden in her polytunnel, where she felt safe.

  ‘Hi!’ said Lucien, at the same time as Seamus opened the door.

  ‘Lucien!’ said his mother. ‘Darling!’ She rushed forward and snatched Lucien to her, ignoring Philly.

  ‘Thank God we’ve found you! I can’t tell you how worried we’ve been!’

  Lucien patted his mother. ‘Come on, Ma. You’ve told me exactly how worried you’ve been every time I’ve called. Which has been quite often.’

  ‘But we didn’t know where you were!’ his mother wailed. ‘You could have been anywhere!’

  ‘You knew I was in England, living perfectly happily, and not in a cult or anything.’

  ‘We didn’t know where in England.’ She let go of Lucien and turned her attention to Philly. ‘Is this the Irish girl?’

  ‘I am Irish, yes,’ said Philly, finding from somewhere the strength to speak. She didn’t want Lucien to feel obliged to speak for her. ‘My name is Philly, short for Philomena.’ She held out her hand, unable to do anything about it being slightly sticky from the journey.

  Lucien’s mother took the very tip of her fingers. ‘I’m Camilla Camberley.’

  Lucien’s father strode across. ‘I’m Lucien’s father,’ he said.

  Philly realised it was possible this was the only name he was willing to own up to.

  ‘Now what’s all this going on?’ Seamus had opened the front door and was looking at the embraces and introduction questioningly.

  Lucien got to the door. ‘Seamus, these are my parents. Jasper and Camilla Camberley. Ma, Dad, this is Seamus, who’s very kindly taken me in.’

  His mother gave him a stricken look. ‘Mr – I don’t know your name – we’ve come to get our son back!’

  Philly could tell her grandfather was amused and some of her tension went. He was brilliant in tricky social situations and this was definitely one of those.

  ‘Sure, I didn’t realise we were keeping him under lock and key,’ said Seamus, unabashed. ‘Won’t you come in now? We can’t be having this sort of conversation on the doorstep.’

  Philly mentally scanned the house. How tidy had she left it? Would it now be better or worse? The ghastly swirly wallpaper they’d never done anything about, the woodchip, the orange woodwork: Lucien’s parents would see that and think it was their taste. She felt judged already.

  Seamus ushered everyone into the sitting room. Seeing it through Lucien’s parents’ eyes, Philly thought it looked like something out of a sordid soap opera. There was another swirly carpet with not-quite-matching wallpaper, a huge, comfortable but very worn fake-leather sofa and armchairs, a dark oak sideboard covered with plant pots and motoring magazines. A very marked coffee table in front of the sofa bore witness to meals eaten in front of the television. It was just about as bad as it could be. She wanted to tell them they’d bought most of the furniture with the house, which was true.

  ‘I’ll make tea!’ said Philly in the manner someone might say, ‘I’ll send for help!’

  ‘No,’ said her grandfather firmly. ‘I’ll make tea. You get to know the boy’s parents.’

  Philly didn’t protest; she just hoped Grand had a cake ready to go. There weren’t many situations not helped by cake.

  ‘Do sit down,’ said Philly, and was forced to watch as Camilla lowered herself to the sofa as if it were a dirty lavatory. At least Jasper, Lucien’s father, just sat in the armchair.

  ‘Lucien,’ said his mother. ‘We were so shocked when Nanny called us.’

  ‘Why?’ said Lucien. ‘What could she have possibly said to make you so shocked?’

  ‘Well, for a start—’ His mother shot Philly a look. ‘Is she pregnant?’

  Philly gasped at this. Would she have said that if her grandfather had been in the room?

  ‘No,’ said Lucien, ‘and she has a name. It’s Philly, in case you’ve forgotten already. And I’m in love with her.’

  Philly gasped again and turned a deep pink. She felt ridiculously pleased that he should be sticking up for her so firmly.

  ‘Calm down,’ said Jasper. He reached into his back pocket and withdrew his wallet. ‘These things can be simple to fix, if you change your mind.’

  Philly, who’d been hovering, felt her knees give way and then found herself sitting next to Camilla on the sofa.

  ‘There’s no need to be insulting,’ said Lucien, white with anger. ‘Maybe we should talk outside?’

  ‘No!’

  To Philly’s relief, Camilla held up her hand. ‘We need to speak to…’

  ‘Philly,’ supplied Lucien curtly.

  His mother shook her head. ‘We need to speak to Philly’s grandfather. I’m sure this can be sorted out.’ In spite of her calm words, Lucien’s mother looked ashen.

  ‘There’s no need to sort anything out,’ said Philly. ‘Lucien is a free agent. We’re not keeping him here. If he wants to go back to you, he will.’

  ‘I don’t want to,’ said Lucien firmly.

  ‘You have him under your spell,’ hissed Camilla to Philly.

  Fortunately for Philly, who would normally have laughed hysterically at the thought of having anyone under her spell, her grandfather came in with a tea tray.

  Philly couldn’t decide if his decision to use the best china was right. She didn’t want Lucien’s parents to think he’d made a special effort – they were so horrendously rude. On the other hand, various chipped mugs sporting a selection of advertising and bad jokes weren’t really an option either. Thank goodness there was a very splendid coffee and walnut cake on the tray.

  ‘I’ll go and get the plates,’ said Philly, without bothering to see if they were already on the tray, and fled.

  By the time she came back into the room everyone had a cup of tea and Seamus had a knife in his hand.

  ‘Now, Mrs Camberley, you’ll have a piece of cake? I made it myself and I’d be offended if you didn’t.’

  Philly realised Luc
ien’s mother probably never ate cake and wouldn’t care about offending Seamus, and yet somehow she was saying, ‘Well, only a very small slice. It looks delicious.’

  Seamus’s Irish charm had worked its magic – as far as the cake went, anyway.

  Jasper took a large slice without comment. When Seamus offered Philly a bit she shook her head. She felt as if she could never eat again.

  To Philly it took forever and a day to get everyone served with tea and cake. Eventually Seamus, who had taken charge, said, ‘Now, what can we do for you good people?’

  Camilla and Jasper exchanged glances. ‘Basically, we want our son to come back home with us,’ said Camilla.

  ‘I’m not a possession,’ said Lucien, icily calm. ‘I make my own mind up about where to live.’

  Jasper cleared his throat. ‘I think we need to discuss this in private.’ He glared at Philly and Seamus, possibly forgetting he was in their house and they weren’t in his board meeting.

  Seamus took charge of the situation. ‘Come on now, Philly, we’ll leave these people to their private conversation.’

  ‘Oh, Grand!’ said Philly when they were both in the kitchen sitting at the table. ‘I can’t bear it. They’re going to take him away from me, I know they are.’

  ‘Come now, darling. No need to panic. They can’t do anything he doesn’t want them to do.’ He took her hand. ‘Is it true what Lucien says? That you love each other?’

  Philly nodded. ‘Yes. He told me he loved me when we were on our way home.’

  ‘And you feel the same?’

  She nodded. ‘I really do.’

  ‘Then we must do what we can to keep you together.’

  Philly sighed deeply. ‘I don’t suppose we can do anything. Those sort of people – they think they own the world and can arrange things just as they like.’

  ‘Lucien’s a very strong-minded boy. They won’t bully him into doing anything he doesn’t want to do. You mark my words.’

  Philly heard a car. ‘Oh God! Guests! That’s the last thing we need.’

  ‘That’s not guests, that’s the cavalry and the timing is perfect. I phoned Anthea when I went out to make the tea. She’ll know how to handle these ghastly people.’