Chapter Seven
We have to find a window that shows a better view of his patch, from the base at the point where the two wings diverge.
“Probably best in the room earmarked for the kitchen.” Osian hurries to the last room.
We’re both energised, eager for more discoveries.
He opens the last door into an unrenovated larger room. One side is a large glazed balcony. Osian rips the newspaper on one of the glass panes and we both look down.
Just as I suspected, from this vantage point it’s easy to see how the trees run in three lines radiating from the narrow end at the base of the house and outwards to the far boundary.
“See? All the trees are planted in straight lines with topiary in the middle.”
“My God, you must be clairvoyant.” Osian whistles softly, looking out.
“No need for psychic vision. It’s easy when you’ve worked on lots of restoration projects. You pick up a lot of history.”
“For example?” He invites me to say more.
“Until the mid-1800s, these big estates favoured the Italian Baroque styles, like architectural gardens. The basic designs followed four basic templates: squares, rectangles, circles and triangles.”
His eyes narrow. “All I just heard was, blah, blah, blah, Ginger.”
He makes me laugh, and it’s a full minute before I can pull myself together. “Sorry.”
“Not at all; it’s me who is the amateur.”
“It’s the ‘Ginger’ that made me laugh. From the cartoon?” I check.
He nods, a little surprised. “The Far Side, yes. Not many people know it.”
“I like weird humour.”
“Me too,” he says quietly, and his face softens.
The moment feels mellow and sweet with this shared liking. Forging a new friendship based on a shared taste for surreal and absurd cartoons.
“So.” He clears his throat and turns to the window. “What did you mean about the trees? In simple English, please.”
“Okay.” I answer the unspoken request to change the subject and move back to business.
“Late Hanoverian and early Victorian houses had formal parks in the Baroque style. Very geometric, less natural than we’re used to, now.
And they followed set lines. Your garden down there is a triangle, the trees planted in lines radiating out like the spokes of a wheel. ”
He watches, trying to decipher the shapes. “Yes, I see. It’s easy to pick out the design from above, but how could you tell when we were down on the ground?” He looks at me.
“There are clues, like the spacing.” I trace my fingertip on the glass to point out the regular intervals between trees. “Also, the way the privet seemed concentrated in the middle. It’s always the same. Once you’ve seen enough of these old parks, you recognise the shapes.”
He says nothing for a long moment, watching the land below us. I have the distinct impression he’s arguing with himself.
I leave him to think and walk around to one of the other windows. We’re high enough to see North Park behind.
That’s a huge park I’ve agreed to manage.
Two weeks ago, looking at it on ground level, I had a micro-perspective.
Lots of fascinating small things to do. I’m a dreamer and get carried away with best case scenarios which can distract me from practical realities.
Like my dad used to say, the drunk dreamer in the back of the pub.
The big picture seen from up here is overwhelming in a way I never expected.
Ten acres? That’s the size of… I don’t know…
ten football fields of thick weeds and grasses under a million dead bushes covered by a blanket of ivy.
How long will it take me to dig all that up?
My God, weeds will grow as fast as I can pull them out.
It’ll be like pushing back the tide with a spoon.
Maybe hire people to help, the optimistic part of me suggests.
Are there any unemployed labourers in the middle of the Brecon Beacons?
At ￡100 a day each? That’s five thousand pounds a week. It’ll soak up all my savings in no time at all. I won’t have money left to buy the special – and expensive – cuttings and seedlings I dreamed of.
Suddenly I wish all I had to do was plant a few carrots and cabbages. Small successes. Because ten acres is too much. What if I fail like that guy they had before me?
Then another memory lands on me like a carpet dropped from a top floor window. My resignation meeting at Styler TV.
“You can’t be serious. You want to take on a massive restoration by yourself?” The Head of Productions stared at me, jaw dropping. Then her gaze hardened. “I don’t believe you. You’re making this up.”
When I assured her I was serious, she frowned at me. “I don’t like this kind of negotiation. You could have just asked for more money.”
“I don’t need more money.”
She pursed her lips, then wrote a figure on a sheet of paper and pushed it across her desk towards me.
I glanced at the figure. A 20% pay rise.
“Thank you, this is very generous.” I did my best to look and sound sincere. “But I really want to leave.”
She narrowed her eyes at me. “This is the worst possible time to play this game. With the royal visit, we don’t want to bring in a new presenter.”
“I’m not playing a game.”
“We need time to find a suitable replacement. You’ll have to wait until after the royal visit.”
The royal visit was the biggest reason I needed to be out of there. “Please believe me, I understand the difficulties.”
“No, you don’t understand. Walking out like this shows the worst kind of disloyalty.
In this industry, being reliable is super important.
” She fixed me with a hard look. Her irritation grew into something malevolent.
“No TV company will ever touch you once it gets out how you left us in the lurch. And believe me, it will get out. You can’t keep these things secret. ”
It was a threat. What she meant was that they would make sure my name became poison. That I’d never work in TV again.
She didn’t need to spell out her threats; I’d seen this done to others.
A few words carelessly ‘slipped in’ over drinks and unfair whispers about breach of contract would be enough.
Reliability and confidentiality are everything in the industry.
Any insinuations that I leaked programming plans, that I broke agreements, and my reputation will be ruined.
Two weeks ago, this didn’t worry me because I had zero plans of working in television again.
People in the media cannot possibly imagine anyone saying no to stardom.
I’d been only too glad to leave all that behind.
But now, out of nowhere, a feeling of dread swells inside me.
And the bigger it swells the more it frightens me.
My gaze travels to where my ten acres seem to reach the horizon. A hundred years of neglect. My breathing catches in my chest and gets stuck there. Why didn’t I think of searching out the guy who had the job before me and asking him for his reasons?
If I’ve bitten off more than I can chew – and ten acres is a hell of bite – then what?
What will happen if I fail too? And it’s nearly the end of February already.
I know Evan Kendric said I had a year to generate some income.
To show I had a viable business. But in the world of public gardens, summer is everything.
If I don’t have something ready for visitors in two months…
who’s going to pay to look at dead wood?
My family were right. I’m always too ambitious. Always ready to catch the ball and run before looking to see if anyone will run with me.
I start to hyperventilate.
Oh no, not again. I thought I’d left this behind in London. I came all the way here to put a stop to this feeling.
And it’s not as if I can go back to my old career. No TV company will touch me now.
Air. I need air.
I breathe faster and faster, but the air doesn’t seem to get where it’s needed. I fold my arms on the windowsill, let my head hang down and squeeze my eyes shut.
No air. The floor starts to tilt and sway under my feet.
My dad’s words: “Every pub has a sad drinker sitting in the corner talking about his grand dreams.”
Mum: “Evie, when will you learn to be more realistic?”
Now I’m going to prove them all right. Everyone who ever laughed at me will see me fall.
Suddenly. a firm hand grips my shoulder and stops me falling.
“Hey, hey.” Osian. Somewhere behind me. “What’s the matter?”
I can’t answer.
His hand on my shoulder. “Evie?”
I try to make sound but there’s a whooshing in my ears.
“Evie.” His voice is calm but commanding. “Count to ten with me. One.” His hand slides to the middle of my back and rubs firmly. A circle between my shoulder blades. “Two.” Circle. “Three.” Circle. “Four.” By the time he gets to ten, my breathing begins to follow the same rhythm.
But my throat still feels like there’s a fist in it, and my heart beats erratically.
“Now, I want you to inhale slowly – a long breath while I count to seven. One, two, three…”
My chest fills with air.
“Hold it there.” He keeps the slow circles between my shoulder blades. “Good, now exhale slowly while I count to eleven. Good, keep it slow. Five. Six. Seven. Eight…”
He makes me do it again and again: breathe in for seven, out for eleven, and again until the tightness in my chest releases.
I don’t know how, but he makes the swelling panic dissolve.
When I finally lift my head and straighten up, he curls his arm over my shoulders and squeezes me to his side for a moment, then lets go.
“Better?”
I nod, wishing he still had his arm around me. “Sorry, it was just a bit… I don’t know what happened.”
“Panic attack?”
“Yes.”
“Seen it lots of times before. Hits like an ambush, doesn’t it?”
An ambush, exactly. “Sorry.”
“Want to talk about it?” His face is so full of tenderness and understanding. I have the strongest urge to move into his arms and hold him to me.
I turn slightly to glance up at him.
His body widens. The way men’s bodies do when they’re about to open their arms and embrace you. As if shaping himself to fit around me.
I almost step into him when my mind screams. He’s married, he’s married.
Quickly, I convert the move into an awkward brushing of my hand through my hair and bending down to dust the knees of my jeans which are perfectly clean.
When I look up, he’s moved back a step, away from me. “Shall we go downstairs?”
“Sorry, of course. Good idea.” My words stumble over one another.