Chapter Twenty
“Can we talk later, when we’re done here?” Osian’s eyes sweep over the nearly clear land that used to be the wilderness.
The truth is, my excitement about the garden, the fans… yes of course I’m dancing with joy about that. But that’s not all.
What does he want to talk to me about? It can’t be the garden otherwise he’d have told me right now.
Five days ago, when we stood looking over the railings, discovering the fans and possible pond, he was so enthusiastic, he forgot his usual reserve and smiled.
Well, almost smiled. But half a smile is better than nothing and it’s a huge change.
Inside me, there’s a deep hunger to believe this is because of me.
This thought adds to my excitement – no, it brings a different kind of excitement: the jittery, can’t-sit-still kind. It makes me keep looking into mirrors. During the days while we work, I keep checking around to see if Osian is there.
He doesn’t help. He makes things worse by helping me a lot.
He might not have my ‘psychic vision’ as he calls it, but he’s very practical.
For example, he talks to others in Kendric House, and before I know it, everyone offers help.
Evan is the first to mobilise. He gets me three teenagers from the village – three strapping lads who follow the tractor and pick up any fallen branches or twigs so the soil is properly clean.
Llewellyn takes pictures and, using my measurements, prepares 2D and 3D models of the gardens and puts them up on the walls of the ballroom.
That way, I can mark up what needs doing, and by whom.
The boys can check to see what to do each day.
Haneen cooks her delicious sausage and mash for all the helpers.
Wyn – the boy who hopes to be Llewellyn’s student – takes endless photographs and videos of the work because he’s sure we’ll use it on a garden website.
There’s a real energy about the gardens. Various people keep coming out on the terrace to watch as the wilderness gradually shrinks.
And Osian? The thoughtful, caring man who initiated all this help?
He takes Ricky and the boys under his supervision and makes sure the flowerbeds in the fans are dug up carefully by hand.
He even lends them his set of trowels and teaches them how to pull plants up by the root carefully, without disturbing the slates.
It’s exactly what I would have asked them to do, but he understands me even before I speak and just does what’s needed.
He even reminds me to take breaks, to keep hydrated, to stop late afternoon so I’m not too exhausted.
As I said. He helps a lot.
Which doesn’t help me stay away or keep my emotions distant.
Today, the fourth day of land clearance, all the dead stuff is gone and we’ve exposed the soil, all clean and ready for planting.
We’ve also found more trees. They’d been hidden under creepers and camouflaged by bushes, but there are nearly twenty-five of them.
It’s anybody’s guess what they used to be; now they’re mostly dead stumps.
Cypress and monkey puzzles are the only ones I recognise.
So I’ve hired a specialist tree surgeon to check them out and tell me if they can be brought back to life.
He now comes to find me just as I’m on my way to find Osian. We’re trying to clear out the pond. Yes, there was indeed a pond, and with the bushes gone, the long S shape is very clear. Osian and two of the boys are down inside it, shovelling out dirt and debris, hoping to find tiles.
“Evie?” Noel, the tree surgeon calls me just as I reach the edge of the pond.
“Yes.” I turn to him.
“Just about done here.” He unties an impressive toolbelt and flings it over his shoulder.
“I’ve finished this lot.” He indicates the four broken trees.
“They’re sweet chestnut; hardy and should make it.
I’ve reshaped and cut them back to a more reasonable height so they’re more stable.
The cypresses and monkey puzzle trees are fine too, but the rest are dead. They need pulling up.”
It's nothing I hadn’t suspected myself.
“Have you managed to identify any of the dead ones?”
It’s the reason I hired him and am paying his hefty ￡400 per day.
“It’s a miracle that anything has survived at all.” He pulls a tablet from the pouch at the front of his overalls. “One of the dead trees was a lilac. Right there on fan three.”
We’d labelled the fans one to five so we know what we’re talking about. Noel points to the third, where two dead trees stand five feet apart.
“And the other?” I ask.
“Hard to tell. It’s been dead a long time. If I had to guess, either a Callery pear or a purple leaf plum.”
Osian has come to the edge of the pond and looks up at us. Clearly he too wants to know about the trees. He looks questioningly at me, expecting me to work out the answer.
This one is easy because the sister tree is a lilac. A beautiful colour which I’m starting to suspect was a clue to the colours of the fan behind it. “Purple leaf, I think.”
Osian places two hands on the border of the pond, pushes himself up over the edge and comes to stand beside me.
“The others…” Noel holds the tablet so I can see the diagram.
“At the edge of your pond is a golden rain. There’s also a corkscrew hazel.
” He points to different locations as he lists his discoveries.
“Copper beech, a sweetgum and that one over there might be a Catalina blue. It’s been long dead but the way it’s spread I think it must be. ”
When Noel’s walked away, Osian turns to me. “So?” he asks. “You have your colours?”
Indeed I have. Purple, blue, yellow, red or orange, and obviously pink. I’m about to tell him when a sudden gust of wind blows something into my eye.
Have you ever tried to get something out of your eye with dirty fingers?
No? Neither have I.
It’s very hard work with the back of my hand. All I seem to be doing is pushing whatever it is around under my lid where it stings.
“Let me.” Osian grabs my wrist and gently moves my hand away from my face.
Then, taking a clean tissue from his pocket, he holds my head in place with one hand and uses the other to dab the corner of the tissue on the rim of my lower eyelid.
This is the second time he’s had to touch my face.
To treat an injury, but today it feels very different.
Not only because he broke down his do-not-touch boundary and moved close into my personal space; both times he’s shed his reserved air and become tender and caring. What’s different this time is me.
What I mean is, I’m reacting to him as a man. Everything from the way his strong hands hold my face. The warmth that wafts from him, the smell of his skin. He’s so close, I can see the fine hairs at his temple.
“That’s the rain they were predicting on the news.” He suddenly steps away. “Try blinking, now.”
I blink a few times. Yes, my eye is fine. I hadn’t even realised that he’d already removed whatever it was in my eye.
Raindrops hit my face. A couple, then more, and the wind gusts with a shower. No more work today.
The teenagers drop their trowels and rakes and hurry away, pulling hoodies and jumpers over their heads.
Wonderful, the tools will be lost in the mud. Do these kids even know how expensive everything is?
“Stop. Everyone.” Osian’s voice rings, loud and commanding. The teenagers halt as if hit with a magic wand.
“Don’t leave the tools out. Collect everything and take them back to the terrace. Or no dinner for anyone.”
I could hug him. Except he’s now retreated back into his usual no-touch zone. So my only ‘hug’ is verbal. “You’re much better than me at controlling the crowds. I thought I was going to have to run around in the rain and collect everything.”
“I’ve spent my life being shouted at by coaches,” he says, climbing out of the trench. “You learn what makes people obey.”
“I can’t believe how generous you’ve been. With your time and energy. How can I ever repay you?”
He doesn’t answer, and instead looks around to make sure the young people have done what he asked. Then at the ground, then at the house in the distance.
“I mean it. Thank you.”
“Come on. We’re getting wet.”
As we hurry across the damp ground towards the terrace, I can’t help feeling a secret satisfaction because I’ve discovered something about him. Osian James might be a caring tender man, also a capable man who can shout at teenagers, but he has a weakness. He doesn’t like being thanked.
Five minutes later, I get a chance to test my theory. We’ve just burst through the terrace doors into the conservatory, the rain outside really coming down now.
“You truly have managed a small miracle,” Llewellyn says, peering through the glass at the now-cleared garden.
“Couldn’t have done it without Osian.” I smirk up at him.
“Shut up!” It’s not Osian who says this, but a new and slightly squawky voice.
Leonie and Llewellyn laugh.
“Who’s this?” Osian asks, leaning over a large cage.
“Johnny Cash,” Leonie answers. “He’s a Quaker parrot. Rescued from some private club in South London. My friend Sandra gave him to me because she thinks being in a beautiful place like here would help him.”
I walk over to look into the cage. The parrot is a beautiful lime green, but his wings are tipped with blue feathers. “Why’s he called Johnny Cash?”
“None of your business,” the bird shouts.
Everyone falls about laughing.
“That’s what they called him at the bird charity where he was initially taken. He keeps saying the word cash, so they called him—”
“Cash only,” the bird interrupts, sounding exactly like a threatening gangster.
“And they hoped he’d transition to song lyrics?” Llewellyn is still laughing.
“Hours of fun,” Osian says, stepping away from the cage. “But I need a shower.”
“Me too.” I grimace at my own muddy clothes.
“And we need to talk,” Osian reminds me.
“Buy her a drink. Buy her a drink,” the bird squawks.
Even Osian laughs this time. “I can take a hint.” He looks at me. “How about the Caradoc Arms?”
The smile on my face has nothing to do with Johnny Cash.
“Half an hour!” I promise, heading towards the stairs. “Meet you by the front door.”