A Secret Garden Read online

  ‘I must say, it would be nice if more of the house was in use, wouldn’t it? It’s such a huge place, with a massive garden and currently it’s just Peter and the staff.’

  Lorna gave a tiny sigh. ‘Yes, it would be nice if it were used more. Maybe Kirstie will open it all up and there’ll be weekend house parties and things.’

  ‘Weekend house parties are very good for the market,’ said Philly. ‘Lots of new money circulating.’

  ‘It would be good for the town generally, actually. The fact that the house is within walking distance of the town means they probably would shop a bit and go to the pub…’ Lorna fell silent at the thought of Kirstie presiding over social events at Peter’s side.

  ‘You don’t sound terribly pleased about it though,’ said Philly.

  4

  Philly was pleased to see Lorna already by the back door when she arrived at the house on the Friday before the dinner party. She was a bit anxious about the job but as a hundred pounds represented a good chunk of polytunnel money she couldn’t have turned it down.

  ‘Hi, Philly!’ said Lorna. ‘I can’t remember if you know Doreen? She’s found all the big vases for you and I’ve had a good old prune and cut a lot of material. It’s all in the stable. Will you be all right in there? The light isn’t brilliant, I’m afraid.’

  ‘The vases are there too,’ said Doreen. ‘I thought three big arrangements each for the dining room and drawing room – that’s always what her ladyship does.’

  Philly nodded, unsure if Anthea was really a lady, or if ‘her ladyship’ was a nickname. ‘I’m sure if that’s what she does—’

  ‘And a big one for the hall table too,’ said Doreen. ‘Just as well you came today, it’s a lot of work.’

  Lorna looked discomforted. ‘I’ll see if I can get you some more money. If it’s two days’ work you’re doing, it should be more than just a hundred.’

  Doreen pursed her lips. ‘Good luck with that. I suggested the guest bathrooms all needed new shower curtains and he said, “Can’t you wash them?” Well, of course I can, but is that the best use of my time when we’re expecting a houseful of visitors? No, is what I said.’ She paused. ‘I’ll send Reg down to B&Q and add the cost to the grocery bill. Anyway, if you’re OK here, I’ll get back to finding half-decent sheets. Thank goodness they’re all going to the pub for a meal.’ She looked at her watch. ‘They’ll start arriving after six, Peter thought. Just hope I’m ready.’

  ‘Do you know how many are expected?’ said Philly as she and Lorna walked to the stable.

  ‘I don’t know exactly because I don’t know how many locals are being invited,’ said Lorna. ‘But there are three couples staying, so that’s six. Me and Anthea, eight, plus, presumably, men for us to talk to, which would be ten.’ She paused. ‘Quite a lot.’

  ‘I’ll keep it big and simple,’ said Philly, excited at the prospect, ‘and then maybe, if there’s the right material, I’ll do posies for the guest bedrooms.’

  ‘That would have you in Doreen’s good books forever!’ said Lorna. ‘Here we are.’ She opened the door to the stable in which there was a long table, covered in flowering branches of various trees and shrubs. ‘I’ve gone big – you don’t want to be fiddling around too much.’

  ‘They smell heavenly!’ said Philly. She picked up a branch of something that looked like pink blossom. ‘Is this New Dawn?’ she asked.

  ‘Probably,’ said Lorna. ‘I didn’t plant it. It could be another variety of bodnantense. We’re lucky it’s still out. Where would we be without the jolly old virbunums?’

  ‘A bit stuck for colour in the winter, not that we need to worry about it now,’ said Philly. ‘Oh, magnolia! How extravagant to have branches of it!’

  ‘It needed hacking back. And it’s where no one sees it, so if it suffers a setback next year, it won’t matter.’

  Philly picked up another branch, covered in coral-pink flowers this time. ‘Oh, and I love this pink Chaenomeles – what Grand calls japonica. I could just put this in a vase on its own if there’s something faintly Japanesy – and it’ll look wonderful.’ She saw Lorna looking at the heap of plant material. ‘I’ll be fine here, Lorna. I expect you want to get on with something.’

  Lorna shrugged. ‘I haven’t much on, if you’d like me to give you a hand.’ She looked faintly embarrassed. ‘I asked Peter for some more money, as you were doing the flowers as well as waitressing and he gave that bewildered look as if I’d suggested there might be Martians landing in the park. I thought I’d get Anthea to ask him.’

  ‘No need, a hundred is fine.’

  ‘Well, I’m going to help you. I can go out and cut anything you’re short of. Oh, and there are masses of tulips. I didn’t pick any because sometimes they go flop.’

  Philly picked up one of the vases. ‘Although they’d be OK in here. At least, they should be. It’s deep enough.’

  Together, they got the flowers done, both women enjoying the process. They ended up with some wonderfully dramatic arrangements and enough small posies for the guest rooms and their bathrooms. When Doreen saw them, she nodded. ‘Flowers will do a lot to disguise the general shabbiness.’

  ‘Isn’t it called shabby chic these days?’ said Philly.

  Doreen snorted. ‘I think plain “shabby” covers it.’

  The following evening, Philly turned up earlier than necessary at Burthen House, in case any of the flower arrangements had dropped in the night. She found her way through several back passages and reached the kitchen. She opened the door and was instantly reminded of one that might feature in a period drama set in the thirties, when it would have been full of maids with lacy headbands over their eyes and men in tailcoats. It seemed to have made no concessions to the twenty-first century, and not that many to the twentieth.

  At the same time as she took in the antiquation of the kitchen, she realised that the chef, currently looking wild-eyed and more than a little demented, was the floppy-haired boy from the cheese stall.

  His hair wasn’t floppy now; it was literally standing on end, as if desperate fingers had pulled it upwards countless times. As she crossed the room towards him he looked at her with eyes that seemed unable to take in anything.

  ‘Hello?’ she said. ‘I’m Philly. I’m here to serve at table and do a bit of washing up.’

  He took in that he was looking at a fellow human being and frowned. ‘Aren’t you the girl on the flower stall?’

  Colour flooded Philly’s cheeks – she could feel it. ‘Yes, but I do waitressing as well as flowers.’

  He put a damp hand into hers. ‘Lucien. I’m supposed to be the chef but it’s already a disaster.’

  ‘I’m sure we’ll work something out,’ said Philly, hoping she sounded as if she really could help.

  ‘Don’t think so. The f— bloody oven’s broken.’

  Philly was touched that he held back on the expletive he really wanted to use. ‘That’s bad.’

  ‘A disaster,’ he repeated.

  Some part of Philly noted that when he said this, Lucien sounded just a little bit like Craig from Strictly Come Dancing, only Lucien’s voice was even posher than Craig’s.

  Just then a woman came into the kitchen. She was medium height with an hourglass figure. She was very well made-up but her head was supporting a set of rollers the size of baked-bean cans.

  ‘Hi!’ said the woman. ‘Excuse the rollers. I’ve just come down to make sure everything’s OK and you’ve got everything you need? You’re Lucien? My friend said you were amazing, so I really hope you are! I’m Kirstie, by the way.’ She found his hand and shook it.

  Lucien frowned. ‘I’m afraid I have to tell you that the oven has broken down.’

  Kirstie bit her lip. ‘Oh no. What a nightmare! Are you sure we can’t get it going?’

  Philly noted that Kirstie seemed naturally optimistic, someone who wouldn’t accept that an oven really could be broken down.

  ‘I’m afraid not.’

  Lucie
n seemed calmer now, Philly thought.

  ‘Oh God, I should have hired one,’ said Kirstie. ‘Or got in outside caterers who cook it all off-site.’ Then Kirstie looked at Lucien. ‘Although my friend said you were so brilliant, and just starting out—’

  Doreen came into the room, carrying a large cobwebby box. ‘I found this in the staff flat,’ she said. ‘It’s an electric hob.’

  ‘You’re not going to manage on just one of those,’ said Kirstie, who seemed to be accepting reality now.

  ‘We’ve got one at home,’ said Philly. ‘Ours has got two plates.’ Everyone looked at her and she blushed again. ‘I could ring my grandfather and get him to bring it over.’

  Lucien looked at her again and Philly dropped her gaze. She really wasn’t embarrassed – she just couldn’t help blushing. ‘That would be great. But we really need an oven.’

  ‘Can’t we – you – light that?’ Kirstie pointed to an ancient range. ‘We’ve got a few hours, after all.’

  ‘Not me,’ said Doreen firmly.

  ‘Nor me,’ said Lucien. ‘My parents have an Aga but it’s gas-fuelled.’

  ‘Shame,’ said Kirstie, sounding despondent for the first time. ‘I don’t suppose Peter could do it.’

  Doreen laughed and then stifled it with a hand.

  ‘I could have a go,’ said Philly.

  ‘You?’ said Kirstie. ‘I’m not being rude or anything – or at least I hope I’m not – but you must be too young to know about fires. Or could you get your grandfather to do it? I mean, it is really old.’

  ‘No, actually, I’m better at fires than my grandfather.’ Aware everyone was looking at her, she carried on. ‘When we moved into our house – my grandfather and me – we had one of those. It was all there was to cook on for a couple of weeks, before we managed to get Calor gas organised and bought a big four-oven cooker.’

  ‘You are a saviour!’ declared Kirstie.

  ‘I might not be!’ protested Philly. ‘It’s vital to have really dry wood. Or coal.’

  ‘We haven’t got coal – have we, Doreen?’

  Doreen shook her head firmly.

  ‘But we have got masses and masses of dry logs,’ said Kirstie. ‘Peter showed me this vast shed full of it. He told me it was years old, from when several trees came down. It was here when he bought the house.’

  ‘OK,’ said Philly. ‘I’ll have a go. And of course, if I got the oven going, the top would get hot too.’ She looked at Doreen. ‘I don’t suppose you’ve got a spare apron? I don’t want to get filthy – I’ve got to serve dinner later.’

  ‘I’ll get you one,’ said Doreen. ‘And I’ll ask Reg to bring in some logs.’

  ‘So, should I ask my grandfather to bring the electric hob?’ Philly asked Kirstie and Lucien.

  ‘Yes please,’ they said in unison. Philly went to find her phone.

  An hour later, the range was roaring and three electric hotplates were in use.

  ‘Really cool that you knew how to do that,’ said Lucien while Philly finished assembling the canapés. ‘Thanks.’

  At least the warmth of the kitchen meant she was already a bit pink. ‘Pleasure. Glad I could help.’

  5

  Lorna dressed carefully for the dinner party. Her pride was at stake. She was never going to be able to compete with a beautiful woman in her mid-thirties but she didn’t want to look like a hag.

  She’d given her naturally red hair a bit of help – because, the box assured her, she was worth it – and it had come out a pleasingly rich, dark colour. Then she had manipulated her curls with tongs until they had looked deliberate and not just there by chance. She decided she would wear her favourite outfit, never in fashion but never quite out of it either. It was a black, fitted jacket with a high collar and a peplum. She put it with a dark gold scoop-neck top and a long dark green skirt and flat boots. By the time she’d put on her favourite amber necklace, large beads surrounded by silver, with earrings that vaguely matched, she was relatively satisfied with her appearance. It was an outfit she’d been wearing with various changes on and off for years and she always felt good in it. When she looked at herself, standing well back from her favourite, badly lit mirror that was at the end of the hall, she felt she looked OK. She knew proper lighting would ruin this illusion and didn’t risk it.

  She felt she’d already contributed enough to the success of the evening for it to be unnecessary for her to bring a gift. Peter’s wine cellar was one of his hobbies and she had helped Philly with the floral arrangements. She would just go and be her charming self.

  At eight o’clock she put on her ancient black alpaca coat, still as glamorous now as it had been when she’d first bought it from a second-hand shop about ten years ago, and set off across the park to the house.

  Lorna had been single most of her adult life, married only long enough to give her son his father’s name – he wasn’t giving away a lot else – and although there had been partners on and off she mostly attended parties on her own. Yet she’d never quite got used to walking into a room full of chattering people and having to look round, hoping to find someone she knew.

  She usually did find someone and if she didn’t, she’d hit on the shyest-looking person and introduce herself. It was always fine after the first ten minutes or so.

  This time was different. This time she was going to meet the woman who had stolen her man, even if the man in question had never seen her as more than a friend and confidante.

  The front door was ajar and she let herself in, leaving her coat on the sofa in the hall, hoping the fire was going well and she wasn’t going to be cold. Then she opened the door to the drawing room and went in.

  She knew the dinner party was for ten people but hadn’t planned to be the last guest to arrive. She remembered belatedly that two couples were staying with Peter and she now felt late.

  ‘Oh, here you are, Lorna,’ said Peter, rising from the arm of the sofa where he’d been perched next to a very pretty woman easily identifiable as Kirstie. ‘Come and meet the people you don’t know. This is Kirstie.’

  He spoke proudly, as if she were a prize-winning racehorse that he had personally bred. Lorna couldn’t blame him. She was lovely. She smiled warmly at Lorna.

  ‘Hello! I’ve been dying to meet you. I’ve heard so much about you and have been all over your garden. And I gather you told us about Philly, who has been a lifesaver.’

  She said this with so much emphasis that Lorna wondered, if unbeknownst to her, Philly was a trained first aider who’d been required to do CPR in the kitchen. ‘Oh?’

  Kirstie nodded. ‘Bloody cooker broke down. Not only did Philly’s grandfather supply a double electric hob – Doreen found a single – but Philly knew how to get the old Rayburn going so we’ve got an oven.’

  ‘All right, sweetie,’ said Peter, patting Kirstie’s arm, ‘I’ve promised we’ll get a new one, a top-of-the-range range, with at least eight burners and a wok setting. Whatever you want.’

  Lorna had to laugh. Peter’s notorious meanness was going to be seriously challenged. She would probably have put up with the idiosyncratic central heating, the lack of insulation or any modern convenience. If a broken cooker was pushing things too far, she’d probably have only asked for a simple four-burner budget model. ‘Well, I’m very pleased about both those things, first that Philly is such a star – although I did know that – and second that this house is going to get a few mod cons.’

  ‘And your garden!’ went on Kirstie. ‘It’s going to be fabulous.’

  ‘Well, technically, it’s Peter’s garden.’

  ‘Oh, I know that, but much to my disappointment he doesn’t seem very interested in it,’ said Kirstie, taking Lorna’s hand and squeezing it.

  Peter leant over and kissed Lorna’s cheek. The whiff of Acqua di Parma that always worked for her added piquancy to the exchange.

  ‘Hello, Peter.’ Anthea, Peter’s mother, crossed the room towards the group in the middle. ‘You look delightf
ul, dear,’ she said, kissing Lorna. ‘Do you know Bob? He’s the mayor. I expect you recognise him because he’s in every single issue of the local paper.’

  ‘That’s not quite true, Anthea,’ said Bob, who obviously didn’t know Anthea well enough to be completely relaxed in her company. ‘But I am the mayor.’

  He looked like a mayor, Lorna thought, shaking his hand and smiling. He looked at home in his dinner jacket and she was a bit disappointed not to see medals on his chest.

  Kirstie put a hand on her arm. ‘If you’ll excuse us, Anthea, Bob, there are a couple of artists I’d like Lorna to meet.’

  Wondering why, Lorna followed her to where two couples were sitting round a table, chatting. A man, separate from the group, was inspecting the paintings. Lorna hoped the one he was looking at gained his approval as it was one she had persuaded Peter to buy when they’d been to an exhibition together.

  ‘This is Jamie, married to my old friend Nat – so they’re Natalie and Jamie Chambers. Rosalind and Christopher Bloom. Oh, and that’s Jack.’ She indicated the man who had moved on to the next painting, also one Lorna had endorsed. ‘This is Lorna Buckthorn,’ Kirstie went on. ‘She’s restoring the garden for Peter, and doing a whole lot else besides.’

  Lorna smiled at the group, thinking that Peter must indeed have told Kirstie a lot about her and that if she’d met Kirstie in any other circumstances she’d have liked her instantly. It was a shame she couldn’t entirely commit to liking her now.

  ‘Jack,’ said Kirstie. ‘Come and say hello.’

  The man obliged. ‘And this is Jack Garnet,’ said Kirstie.

  Lorna smiled at him. He was a few years younger than her but seemed pleasant. He looked at her and frowned a little. ‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘Kirstie, who is this?’

  ‘Not paying attention, Jack? This is Lorna Buckthorn.’

  ‘Oh,’ he said, ‘you must think me very rude but I thought I recognised you.’ He took her hand and squeezed it.