Rosie’s Garden of New Beginnings

Chapter One

Today Rosie was finally going to say goodbye to The Beatles.

They had taken up most of the available space in the flat for long enough, and now it was time John, Paul, George and Ringo moved out.

Their stuff was strewn everywhere: tea towels, mugs, books, replica guitars, framed posters, not to mention the large metal road signs.

It wasn’t that she disliked the Fab Four; on the contrary Rosie loved all their music, but James’ enthusiasm for collecting had gone way beyond the realms of CDs by the time she’d met him, and although she had promised to love and cherish her husband till death do us part, that promise had not extended to all his worldly goods as well.

Nor did she expect that death would part them as early as it did, and now she was left with his legacy. This morning, with the help of childhood friend and colleague Simon, she had loaded the last box into the boot of her hatchback, and – sorry Macca – they were not coming back again.

‘Well, that’s the lot,’ said Simon as he pushed down the door. ‘Are you sure you don’t want me to come with you? You might need some help unloading all this.’

Rosie raised her eyebrows. ‘Do I hear a suggestion of a weak and feeble woman edging towards the conversation? Because I’m stronger than I look, you know.’

‘Absolutely not!’

Rosie noted that Simon had the good grace to look slightly embarrassed.

‘I just want to make sure…you know…’ He patted the car as though it was a friendly old dog in need of reassurance. ‘I’m always happy to help, and I don’t mind roping in Jesper. He owes me after I helped lug his flatpack furniture back to the flat and put the desk together for him.’

Rosie took his hand and squeezed it affectionately.

‘You’re a star and I couldn’t have coped over the last year without you, but I’m fine.

Really. I’ll just drop these boxes off and then I’m going to do a bit of shopping.

She readjusted her hairband as she spoke, making a vain attempt to keep her unruly curls out of her face.

As Rosie pulled out of the car park behind the block of flats, she glimpsed Simon in the rear window, waving.

She smiled to herself; one day he’d find someone who valued his loyalty and dedication, but as far as she was concerned, she had her memories of her years with James and that was enough for now.

Her task for today was to reclaim the space in what used to be a small second bedroom but which, for many years, had become a junk room.

James’ enthusiasm for The Beatles, combined with his reluctance to get rid of anything, had slowly converted her sewing table into a high-rise storage area, and now, for the first time, the table top was clear and ready to resume its former purpose.

The thought filled Rosie with a new-found optimism, and she sang along to the radio as she drove into the town centre.

Ironically, Radio Classics were having a Beatles-themed hour, and they were playing one of her favourite songs: “Drive My Car”.

She loved the energy and confidence of the lyrics, and continued smiling well after the song ended.

Rosie had already done her research on charity shops, aware that she had a large amount of stuff to deposit.

One of her colleagues at Pennewicks Clothing Emporium who worked in the childrenswear department had recently had to empty her mum’s house and had taken so much stuff to her local charity shop that they’d asked her not to return with anything else.

Therefore Rosie had decided to divide the boxes of Beatles memorabilia between a number of shops, just to be on the safe side.

The final planned drop-off took her to one of her favourite charity shops run by a local charity.

It was a veritable Aladdin’s cave containing everything from the usual books and clothes to kitchenware, furniture, all manner of china ornaments and children’s toys.

After depositing her boxes and exchanging pleasantries with the woman behind the counter, Rosie headed straight over to the clothes aisle and rifled through the dresses hanging on the portable clothes rail.

There was something very satisfying about taking a well-made item of clothing that someone had discarded and turning it into something else.

Big dresses were particularly good as they contained lots of material which gave her scope for alterations.

Today though, nothing caught her eye inside the shop.

However, as she walked back to where she had parked the car, she paused at the newsagent to cast her eye over the cards in the window.

Even in this modern age of digital communication, there was something fascinating about seeing the variety of cards advertising everything from dog walking to piano tuners.

Most were faded and yellowed at the edges with age, but a new one caught her attention:

Garden to Rent

￡10 per month, payable in advance

It didn’t say allotment, or land to rent, it said garden.

The idea intrigued her. Who rented out their garden?

Most people who had surplus garden space seemed to be selling it off to property developers these days.

Maybe they were an elderly couple and could no longer manage by themselves?

She took a picture of the card on her phone and mulled over the opportunity as she meandered up and down the supermarket aisles.

James had always wanted a vegetable patch and they had been saving for a deposit so they could one day sell their flat and buy somewhere with a garden.

He had also joined the waiting list for an allotment, although it had proved to be disappointingly long.

Being close to Haxford train station was an advantage for commuters wanting to get in to London, but it wasn’t what she’d call picturesque.

Not like the Old Town with its quaint shops, Victorian lampposts adorned with hanging baskets and through which the river meandered, creating endless photo opportunities for the summer tourists.

When she and James had talked about plans for the future, he’d gently scoffed at her idea of a cottage with roses round the door and had instead laid out a more practical vision, extolling the merits of organically produced food until even she had become excited about the idea of growing things, even though runner beans weren’t actually what she’d had in mind.

By the time she had reached the supermarket checkout, Rosie’s head was filled with images of colourful perennials, swathes of beautiful lavender, perfumed roses and vibrant spring bulbs.

The weekly shop completed, she headed home and back to reality.

As she opened the front door, she looked around; the hallway now seemed stark and featureless without all its Beatles-inspired adornments.

There were several sets of small holes where she had removed the picture hooks, leaving large expanses of wall painted in a muted colour.

Combined with the beige carpet it created a very dull effect indeed.

Rosie experienced a strong urge to rush out and buy a tin of brightly coloured paint like they did in Dulux adverts, and then almost as quickly dismissed it.

James didn’t like “vibrant daubs” as he put it, and the fashion for feature walls had been dismissed as pretentious when Rosie had suggested they try it in the bedroom.

As she kicked off her shoes, she decided James had probably been right.

In any case, complying with his wishes was reassuring, as though he was still around.

The second bedroom looked unsurprisingly bigger without all the boxes, and Rosie blinked back a few unexpected tears.

These last few weeks had marked the end of a long journey, but now she was free to do what she liked.

It still felt strange though, not having someone else in the flat to confer with and seek opinions from.

Of course, she could always rely on her mum for an opinion on almost any subject, and her opinions were bestowed with or without prior invitation, but it wasn’t the same as having James around.

Rosie had learnt from an early age that no subject was off limits as far as her mother was concerned, including the suitability of her own husband.

She braced herself as she called up her mum’s contact details on her phone.

‘Hello, darling, it’s lovely to hear from you. What are you up to? Have you been keeping yourself busy?’

Katharine Devereux was a great advocate of “doing things” in times of trouble.

Where most people would have a stiff drink, scoff half a box of chocolates while watching their favourite DVD or cry on someone’s shoulder, Rosie would invariably find her mother taking refuge in baking cakes, cutting back foliage in the garden as though it had personally offended her, or marching the dog over Haxford Common.

Rosie smiled. ‘You’ll no doubt be pleased to hear that I’ve been sorting out The Beatles; there are now very few left in the house.’

‘You had beetles! Who did you call in? Don’t bother phoning the council, I’ll give you the number of a private pest control company. My friend from the bridge club has used them, they are very discreet.’

‘I don’t have a pest problem, it’s just—’

‘There’s no need to be embarrassed about it. I expect it’s the damp that attracts them.’

Rosie rolled her eyes even though there was nobody to roll them at. ‘I’m not embarrassed and there are no insects, Mum. I mean the pop group. You must remember the sixties, that’s your era.’

There was a pause at the other end of the phone.

‘If you recall,’ Rosie continued, taking advantage of the unusually long gap in the conversation, ‘James had a vast collection of Beatles memorabilia. You used to comment on it every time you came over.’

‘Oh! Those Beatles. Well, yes, they were rather taking over. ’