Chapter Three #2
Why does he still call me Evangeline and not Evie as I asked him? In my world, keeping names formal is a sign that he’s not convinced yet.
“Leonie,” he continues, “is one of our profit participant partners. The Orange Tree is her project. She’s restored the old orangery and, as you see, it’s now a beautiful café.”
Something tells me it’s no accident we’ve come here. If Leonie Henderson is a profit participant, perhaps he wants her opinion on me.
“Hello.” I smile up at her. “Nice to meet you.”
“Coffee? Tea?” she asks.
“Oh, whatever is easiest.” This is the wrong time to indulge and ask for my favourite coffee blend. I don’t want to be known as the spoilt TV gardener, the diva who is too cold standing outside in her silk shirt and lightweight suit. Why didn’t I dress like a gardener? Why, why?
As if she senses my anxiety, Leonie’s face suddenly softens and she gives me a very warm smile. “If you’ll take my recommendation, how about almond tea? It’s a smooth Sri Lankan tea with a touch of roasted almond.”
The way she says this, like a friend who cares, makes me feel very welcome, as if what she really likes is to make her customers happy.
That’s why she’s a profit participant – a partner in the Kendric Park project.
Because restoring this beautiful café and suggesting the perfect tea is her passion, just as restoring the garden would be my own passion.
Mr Kendric orders coffee for himself and she leaves us alone to continue the interview.
“There are lots of gardens open to visitors all over the country,” he says. “What would be special about yours?”
So I was right – he’s still waiting to hear something that sets me above other gardeners trying for this opportunity.
As it happens, it’s also the question that goes to the heart of what I want to do. If I’m allowed.
“A garden should not be a generic, off-the-shelf, one-size-fits-all design; it should have a real relationship with its native land.” I glance out the window at the dead bushes. “To make this unique, we need to make it truly Welsh – a celebration of local plants.”
I’ve done my research; there’s an active campaign to restore the Welsh countryside. After decades of being used as an industrial dumping ground, many of its native plants have all but died out.
“If this fits in with your vision, I’d like to include as many local plants as possible, especially rare and endangered ones. We can have Ley's whitebeam, hawkweed, cariad cherry, even Bardsey apple – all of which can’t be found anywhere in the world except in Wales.”
He listens attentively, but his expression gives nothing away.
Pushing my anxiety down, I plough on. “One of the things that interests me about the Brecon Beacons, the Bannau Brycheiniog”—I take care to pronounce it as close to the authentic Welsh, Ban-eye Bruck-ein-iog—“is the drive to regenerate Welsh flora destroyed by industrial waste. We have enough land here – why not create a nursery specialising in these endangered native shrubs and rare varieties? People who are interested in Welsh plant life would come here to learn about them and buy cuttings. We can even offer an educational—”
Leonie comes back with a pot of tea and a plate of shortbread biscuits, but I’m on a roll and don’t stop. I just smile up quickly then go on.
“What I mean is experience days. Visitors can book a workshop where they learn about these native species and practice taking cuttings, planting and care. At the end of the day, they can leave with their own potted plant. In time we can create a nursery specialising in Welsh plants. This will make us a destination like no other.”
“Don’t eat those,” Mr Kendric warns.
I didn’t realise my fingers had picked up one of the shortbread biscuits.
“You don’t want to spoil your lunch.” Then he looks up at Leonie who stayed here as I rambled on.
Oh God, why didn’t anyone stop me? At Styler TV, we have editors and producers who trim a talk that goes on too long.
Here, I’m on my own. My face heats up. I’m back to the joke I used to be at sixteen – the geeky girl who talked to plants more than people.
“Do you still have those delicious sausage rolls?” he asks Leonie.
She grins at me. “Interview going well?”
I blush even more.
“Can’t you tell?” he asks her.
“You never invited any of the others to lunch.”
They both turn to me.
“Evangeline Palmer,” he says. “I think you would be great in this job.”
I glance from one to the other. What? I got the job? Really? Hope and excitement fizz up through me.
“Welcome to the community.” Leonie beams as she picks up the teapot and pours something very aromatic into my cup. “Have the biscuits. It’ll be twenty minutes for the sausage rolls.” And she walks away looking happy.
She’s looking happy? It’s me who should be happy, but part of me still doesn’t believe it.
“Evangeline,” he starts.
“Please no more of this Evangeline – you make me sound like an Edwardian lady. Just call me Evie.”
“All right, and you can call me Evan.”
Aha. So he was being formal because he wasn’t convinced.
“Although, I have to tell you”—he grins at me and for the first time I notice he has deep dimples—“an Edwardian lady would fit right into this house.”
I have no idea what he means but I hold my questions through lunch. When we’re finished he attempts to pay. Leonie refuses.
“I’m your first customer; you have to let me pay otherwise you can’t call The Orange Tree Café open,” he insists.
She shakes her head. “Kendric House community get special concessions.”
“Of course we do,” he agrees, pulling a twenty-pound note from his wallet. “But concession doesn’t mean free, or your business will fail before it starts. I heard you yesterday saying you need a pressure cooker.”
Leonie glances toward me then breaks into a happy laugh. “I don’t think we should argue in front of our new partner.”
“Don’t worry about me. I’m just relieved there’s such an incredible café here. Discount or no discount.”
It’s true. I’m not much of a cook and tend to eat out a lot. An hour ago, before tasting Leonie’s melt-in-the-mouth shortbread biscuit or the hot-from-the-oven sausage rolls in flaky pastry, I was mourning the loss of all those restaurants and pubs in Camden.
“Let me show you around.” Evan leads me out of the café and up a staircase at the back of the house.
“This is the west wing of the house,” he says, pointing down a long, wide corridor. “Your rooms will be here.”
Everything is clean and smells of fresh paint. We walk past a decorative tile border: green and blue leaves twirl in a long ribbon.
“This is gorgeous,” I can’t help saying. “Is this an original feature? I mean, you don’t normally see this quality of décor.” The tiling is elegant and definitely has an Art Nouveau look.
He doesn’t stop but slows down so I can look. “Back in the nineteenth century, many people lived in Kendric House: artists, architects, designers… you name it. They took it in turns to add their own contribution to the building of these wings.”
He glances around the walls and ceiling as we continue walking down the corridor.
“Once, it was a magnificent house. Then it was abandoned for reasons I still don’t understand.
When it came to me a couple of years ago, it was uninhabitable.
We’ve been trying to clean it up slowly.
My own brother was of the opinion that we should sell it.
” His expression tightens at the words. “Property developers would have paid me a million pounds for the chance to knock the house down and build a hotel or shopping centre in its place.”
I look around at the swirling Art Nouveau plaster mouldings and pretty cameos set in the walls here and there, all in white and green. A jade green which seems to be a signature colour in this house. “It would be a tragedy to tear all this down.”
“Exactly,” he agrees with feeling. “So we came up with a different solution. If we can’t afford to restore the property, we’ll share it with people who can.” He stops and faces me.
“That’s why we can’t pay you. Why this job doesn’t come with a salary.”