Chapter 3 Tilda
TILDA
“Budge up, bed hog.”
I climb back under the covers with a mug of tea, squeezing myself into the tiny space that Flora isn’t taking up.
I woke up at five this morning with the light of the sunrise shining through the curtains, and it took a moment before I remembered where I was.
Then another moment before I remembered that I was stuck here with no money.
I don’t know why – I must be some sort of masochist – but I look up the website for our gardening business, just to twist the knife a little more.
The words Hawthorn and Briar are written in the font I chose so carefully. And – I feel my temper rising – underneath there’s a note, informing customers that we are excited to announce some changes.
“The changes being,” I say to a basset hound, “is that one half of the business has been ousted and is now trapped in the Highlands, and the other half has all the profits, and my money.”
Flora looks at me but says nothing.
I fell asleep googling last night and it turns out there’s nothing illegal about withdrawing money from your joint account which makes perfect sense, really.
I’m the idiot who left it there, thinking I’d sort it once I got organised…
the only trouble is, I’ve never been organised in thirty-four years.
And screaming at Jack that he was welcome to the bloody business before I stormed off probably wasn’t my finest hour, either because he took me at my word, and I was too proud to backtrack.
I signed the papers he sent, waiving my right to the business, even though Poppy – with her lawyer hat on – told me I should push back and ask for some sort of reparation.
I didn’t want reparation, I just wanted to get away from the humiliation of everyone knowing what he’d been doing right under my nose.
Later when I get up, I wander outside to see what state the garden’s in.
It’s overgrown with bindweed and thistles, but underneath there are four raised wooden beds planted with herbs and aromatics.
I crush a leaf between my finger, smelling sweet cicely.
There’s rosemary, a spiky blackthorn bush, and a tangled mat of chamomile.
I run my hand over it and the scent rises into the air.
I never thought of my dad as a gardener, and he was definitely never a cook.
Maybe these were leftovers from a previous owner.
I close my eyes and rack my brains, trying to remember what the garden looked like when I visited as a child, but all I can remember is skipping rope on the little patio, and making perfume from the rose petals that fell from the trellis by the back door.
The good news is it shouldn’t be too hard to get it back to a decent state for selling.
The rest of the cottage though, is tired and faded, the paper over the stone fireplace stained with a grey shadow of soot.
It might be clean but it’s shabby, and packed with a motley collection of furniture and not the cool mid-century kind, either.
Inside, Flora’s staring pointedly at her empty food bowl.
Ten minutes later we’re back at Benruar Stores. I hook Flora’s lead once again, giving her strict instructions not to perform another aria, and head inside for the essentials.
“Morning,” says a voice as I step inside. I look up, feeling the hangover of shame from yesterday. It’s not the same woman thankfully, but a girl of about twenty with a ring through her eyebrow and pink and purple streaks in her dark brown hair.
“Shout if you need anything,” she says brightly.
Five thousand pounds would be a start, I think, grabbing a couple of treats for Flora and some pasta and a jar of pesto for me. I can economise, but Flora has her standards.
I cross everything when I get to the checkout, even though I know I’m using my savings account this time.
It passes without event and I’m on my way to the door when something grabs my eye.
The village noticeboard is crammed full of adverts for yoga classes and exercise bikes for sale, cards offering holiday let cleanings, and dog sitting services.
But the one that grabs my attention says something else.
Seasonal Gardener Wanted
Immediate Start
I grab my phone and snap a photo of the ad to save the number.
Is this a sign from the universe? It must be. Gardening’s what I do. It’s the one thing that makes sense. My heart starts banging against my ribs and I look around, half-tempted to rip it off the board to make sure nobody gets there first and steals the job that could solve all my problems.
I walk outside and unhook Flora, surprising her by taking her across the road and onto the little patch of grass that overlooks the harbour.
The ferry is pulling away, leaving a wake of white foam on the grey-blue water.
Gulls wheel overhead and the village of Benruar feels full of life this morning, with families walking hand in hand along the street and waterproof-clad hikers gathering in a group outside the little coffeeshop.
There’s a bank of dark purple clouds to the north, but the sky overhead is bright blue, and the sun is shining. It feels like an omen.
I copy the number from the ad and paste it into my phone, my finger hovering on the call button.
What would Poppy say? She’s the most rational person I know. She’s the only rational person I know.
It’s a job and the reality is, I need one.
It’s gardening and if there’s one thing my employment history tells me, it’s that trying to do a job that isn’t gardening doesn’t end well. I must own the British world record for walking out of jobs on the first day.
It’s seasonal, so there’s an end in sight.
I need something on my CV that puts a bit of distance between me and Hawthorn and Briar before I head back to Glasgow, find a place to live, and start over. Plus, I need to keep Flora in peanut butter flavoured dog treats.
She nudges me with a hopeful nose as if she can read my mind.
“Okay, okay. You eat this, I’ll make the call.”
If I don’t do it now, I know I’ll talk myself out of it. The blood rushes in my ears as I hit the call button.
Five minutes later and I’ve got an interview with somebody called Georgia for Monday morning, and a promise of emailed directions.
Three days to get to work on the cottage and try not to spiral out of control.
By Saturday night, I’ve established that either my dad was a lot tidier than I remembered – which seems highly unlikely – or there have been magical hands at work, tidying this place up.
It’s taken me two days to be brave enough to open the door to his bedroom, as if I’m somehow expecting him to be sitting in there waiting for me with a disapproving expression.
When I finally do, it’s with a strange sense of anti-climax.
The bed is stripped, the cupboards still full of his clothes, but the place feels weirdly impersonal.
It’s lucky I wasn’t coming here expecting to uncover the truth about what he was really like, because it’s like everything that made this place his has been wiped clean by mysterious hands.
I look out of the window and watch the ferry sailing away for the last time.
It’s a bizarre feeling to know I’m trapped on the island now until the boat returns at 10 a.m. on Sunday morning.
I can’t imagine what my dad was thinking when he moved here…
although the answer was probably simple.
The Scottish Highlands are home to twenty-six distilleries.
I guess if you’re a drinker, there’s no better place to be.
My phone buzzes in my pocket, breaking my reverie.
How’s the clean up going?
Weird.
***
Can’t quite believe that even his bedroom is sort of… sterile?
Well, the sooner you get it sorted the sooner you can get back here. The offer’s still there if you want somewhere to stay xxx
Well, I think I might have made some progress on that front.
Poppy rings straight away and doesn’t even bother with a greeting. “What kind of progress?”
“I saw a job advertised in the village shop, a garden maintenance contract, but there’s a rose garden and a walled kitchen garden and some rehab stuff.”
“On the island?” she asks, confused.
“I need some work on my CV,” I say truthfully, picking a piece of loose paint from the edge of the window frame.
That sounds perfectly feasible.
“And then Tilda MacLean Gardens takes Glasgow by storm?”
“That’s the plan. Six weeks to get the place sorted, sell this place, and then I can finally set up the business properly. I just need some money in the—”
“You’ve got money in the bank,” Poppy jumps in. “Are you sure trying to get the house ready to sell and do a gardening job isn’t going to be a bit much?”
“Nope,” I say, popping the p and trying to sound more confident than I feel. “It’ll look good on my website, renovating some fancy place up here. A bit different. And you know me, queen of multi-tasking.”
Poppy laughs. “That’s one way of putting it.”
“ADHD superpower,” I say, trying to find the courage to admit that I don’t have money in the bank, because someone, aka me, was too clueless to actually move it out of our joint account. “The thing is—” I begin, but Poppy shrieks in my ear.
“Oh, shit. Need to go. Mark says one of the twins has flooded the bathroom. I remember when messy Saturday nights used to mean something very different.”
“Give Cait and Robbie a kiss from me,” I say, laughing as she hangs up.
I blow out a long breath. I’ll tell her another time.
Monday dawns grey and damp. I’ve spent the weekend alternating between writing lists and lying prone on the sofa in a state of panic-inertia. I’ve been a professional gardener for years, and I’m still standing in the bedroom surrounded by discarded clothes, trying to work out what to wear.
I settle on a pair of black jeans and a grey sweater with some boots.