Chapter 3 Tilda #2
“Don’t give me that look,” I warn Flora, who sighs dramatically from a nest of blankets on the bedroom floor.
I get dressed, crossing my fingers that whoever is doing the interview won’t start grilling me about why I’ve landed up here and left a perfectly good business behind back in Cambridgeshire.
I knot my dark hair back into a messy bun and peer at myself in the mirror.
Three decent nights of sleep have helped a bit with the dark shadows under my eyes, at least. I put on some mascara as a token – make up doesn’t really work when you’re sweating it all off in the garden, so putting it on for an interview feels oddly fake.
I have to remember not to babble nonsense because I’m nervous.
I smile at Poppy’s message as I head for the car.
Break a leg! Let me know how it goes RIGHT AWAY xoxoo
I look at the email again.
Out of the village, turn left at the junction after the village hall and follow the road to the top of the hill, and then keep going until you see the green gates. You can’t miss them!
It’s pretty hard to get lost on an island that’s eight miles by three miles long, I guess.
I drive out of the village, past the rows of little cottages that hug the shoreline and the pretty little church with the cemetery full of ancient, mossy gravestones.
The new village hall stands in a gravel car park, two hanging baskets filled with clashing pansies on either side of the door.
I turn left, and the lane curves uphill, narrower and narrower as we head up an unfamiliar road flanked by pale green hedgerows on tall banks.
I squeeze the van into a passing place and wait as the post van comes the other way, the woman behind the wheel giving me a wave of thanks.
The road keeps going and I feel a flutter of nerves in my stomach.
“Big green gates, she said. You can’t miss them, she said,” I mumble.
I’m beginning to think maybe I have when I spot a flash of green almost smothered by an overgrown hedge. I reverse back, peering into the tangle of knotted wisteria hanging untidily over a sign I can’t read.
The paint’s crazed and flaking but they’re gates, and they’re definitely green, or they were at one point. I climb out of the car and push them open before driving through.
The driveway is a jungle of overgrown rhododendrons, edged with lush spring grass, which is already growing out of control, and dotted with the first crop of yellow dandelions. It’s got a certain Addams Family residence charm, I guess.
And then there’s a sharp dogleg in the road and I gasp in surprise because in front of me is what, once upon a time, must have been an incredibly beautiful country house.
Now, though, it looks like it’s ready for one of those before-and-after renovation TV shows.
There’s a wooden board at one of the windows, and buddleia is growing out of one of the gutters halfway between the second floor and the roof.
The gravel driveway is weed central, and a completely out of control climbing rose has blocked the front door.
As for the planters and hanging baskets, well, they look like they were last tended to in the year 2000.
There’s a jumble of untidy white buildings behind a copse of trees, and a cloud of wispy white smoke curls up from one of the roofs.
The smell hangs in the air, thicker than woodsmoke, and strangely aromatic.
I pull up in the weed covered courtyard and climb out of the van.
It’s the kind of job I love – the chance to bring something back from the brink and make it beautiful again.
Not only that, but I need the money. I just have to persuade them to give me the job.
It looks like a renovation job – the sort of thing I love getting my teeth into.
I can work on the cottage at the weekends and in the evenings and restore this place during the week.
It’s probably being done up to be turned into a fancy holiday let.
I straighten up and check my reflection in the car window, picking off a few stray Flora hairs from my sweater, and tucking a curl of hair behind my ear.
“Okay. Here goes nothing.” I pocket my keys, turn around on my heel, and jump about a foot into the air in surprise.
Standing there in the courtyard is Mr Undeniably Hot but Extremely Sanctimonious, holding a huge metal wrench.
The sleeves of his checked flannel shirt are rolled up, showing off tanned muscular forearms covered with dark hair, and he’s glaring at me with a furious expression.
“You again.” His eyes are fixed on me, and I’m frozen to the spot, like a prey animal.
“I could say the same thing,” I say, trying to regain some sort of upper hand.
His brow lifts and something disobedient inside me goes oh, hello. I curl my fingers into my palms, reminding myself that he might be hot, but he is undeniably a bit of a dick.
“Excuse me,” I say, pulling myself up to my full height, “I have an appointment.”
He opens his mouth to speak then frowns. Giving me the sort of glare that you give something horrible that’s stuck to the sole of your shoe, he turns on his heel and strides off clutching the wrench, climbing into a battered Land Rover, and speeding away in a shower of gravel.
I look around, puzzled. I guess maybe he’s a mechanic or something. I turn upon hearing my name.
“Tilda?”
“Hello. Yes. Hi.”
It’s the blonde girl from the village store who was putting up the sign the other day.
“Okay, this is weird.” She scratches her head and frowns. “You are here about the gardening job, right?”
I nod.
“I’m not going mad.” She cocks her head and looks me up and down. “You’re the girl with the basset, aren’t you? Dave from the boat said you were here for a wedding.”
I shake my head. “Yes, to the basset, no to the wedding.”
“You’re not getting married? I mean it’s okay if you are, it’s—well, as long as you’re not planning a honeymoon in the middle of all this—” She waves a hand in the general direction of the garden.
“Very definitely not getting married,” I say, shaking my head emphatically. “And absolutely not going on honeymoon. Ever.”
She raises her eyebrows and a half-smile curves at the edges of her lips. “Well, this sounds more intriguing by the minute.”
I curl my fingers into my palms in an attempt to distract myself before I start babbling. “It’s a long story,” I say eventually.
“My favourite kind.” She beams. “I’m Georgia, by the way. I’m guessing you’d already figured that out. Come on, I’ll make you a coffee and you can tell me everything.”
I follow her into the house and through a doorway that leads into a massive kitchen, one dominated by the biggest wooden table I’ve ever seen.
Two spaniels are lying on a rug in front of an enormous Aga stove that’s radiating a cosy sort of heat that warms your bones on rainy days.
There are huge bookshelves along one wall, jumbled stacks of plates and crockery on broad open shelves, and the whole place feels like it’s been here forever.
The spaniels look up at me with expressive brown eyes and wag their tails, but don’t move.
Georgia picks up a huge kettle from the back of the Aga.
“Coffee? Tea?”
“Coffee would be lovely, thank you.”
“Okay. Spoons. Mugs would be a help, too. Two secs.” She turns on the tap, and fishes two mismatched mugs out of the big white Belfast sink, washing them under the running water and bringing them, dripping, over to the table.
Then she spoons in instant coffee and slops in milk before pausing with a hand to her mouth.
“Sorry, I forgot to ask if you wanted milk.”
I smile politely. “Yes, milk is lovely, thank you.”
“That’s lucky.” She pushes the mug towards me and sits down on the long wooden bench on the opposite side of the table, motioning to the chair. “Sit, sit. Oh, hang on, biscuits. I bet we have some left.”
She finds a half-open packet of custard creams and wiggles the biscuits up to the top before passing them over.
I take one, even though I don’t particularly like them, because it feels like what I’m supposed to do.
I’m not quite sure if this is the interview, or some sort of strange test they do first to filter people out.
“I love them so much.” She reaches over and pulls the packet towards her, fishing out a biscuit and dipping it in her coffee. “So anyway, sorry about the chaos. I’d like to say it’s unusual, but it’s pretty much the status quo around here.”
She puts the whole biscuit in her mouth and chews unselfconsciously, then swipes away the crumbs with the back of her hand.
“So. Interview. Right.” She picks up another custard cream and waves it in a circle.
“I have to be honest, I haven’t the first clue about gardening.
I wasn’t expecting to have to do this, because I assumed we’d have to find someone from the agency in Glasgow and ship them up here.
But if you know your stuff, I’m going to win brownie points with the boss, and that’s never a bad thing. ”
I smile again, hoping I don’t look completely gormless. I don’t really know what else to do.
“So,” Georgia puts her chin in her hand and looks at me intently, “tell me three things you’re good at in the garden. Go.”
“Well, I’m good at keeping plants alive, fortunately.
And—” I look through the smeared glass of the kitchen window, where a shaggy fringe of Clematis armandii hangs down, clearly untended for years.
“Restoring places like this. I love the feeling when you get to the end of the day, and you can see the story the original gardener was trying to tell when you’re bringing an old garden back to life.
And I love planning planting so the place looks beautiful all year round.
The structure matters, if a garden has good bones, it will look beautiful even in the middle of winter when it’s grey and gloomy outside, and—”