Chapter 3 Tilda #3
“Perfect.” Georgia puts a hand up to stop me before I’ve even got started. “We need to bring it back to a level that will stop the tourist board thinking we’re a safety hazard. And you’re happy working with chaos all around you?”
I look around the kitchen. There’s a laptop on one side surrounded by papers and a huge wooden bookshelf that lines one wall.
Over the Aga stove there are faded photographs in black frames and a thirsty looking spider plant hanging from a knotted macrame hanger.
“Of course. I’ve worked on lots of renovation projects. ”
She laughs. “Oh, this isn’t—well, I suppose you could call it a work in progress. The house always seems to fall to the bottom of the priority list. Anyway, what we need is someone who can bring the gardens back into some semblance of order, so the place looks slightly more respectable.”
“I can do that.” I feel the familiar surge of excitement I don’t get from anything else. “And you’re only looking for someone for the summer?” I don’t really care whether it’s a building project or not. I need a job, or I won’t be able to afford the ferry fare back to the mainland.
“Yeah, the girl we contracted fell and broke both her wrists, so – all being well – she’ll be back with us, but she’s gone to the mainland to stay with her family. You’re living here on Benruar?”
“Until I get some things sorted,” I say, relieved the wedding dress seems to have been forgotten. “I own a house here.” It’s not a lie.
“Excellent. That ticks the box,” says Georgia cheerily. “So, you count as someone from the island, for the paperwork.”
“Do you have references?” She frowns for a second. “And I wonder if we need a CV? Mind you, Amy didn’t have one. But I went to school with her, so I know she’s a gardener. Not that she’s doing much gardening with—” She waggles her hands in the air and makes a face.
Okay, this is awkward. I can’t very well call up my most recent client, because she’s probably in bed with my ex-fiancé.
And come to think of it, the one before that isn’t really going to work, either, because she’s the one who blew his cover when she found out he was two timing her.
Or three timing, if you want to include me in the equation.
“I’m in the process of updating my CV,” I say, hoping she doesn’t guess I’m winging it.
“But I trained with the RHS at Wisley, and I have my full qualification and I can” – I think on the hop, crossing my fingers under the table – “I can give you the details of my most recent client if you want to have a chat with them.”
“That would be amazing,” says Georgia, passing me a pen. “If you want to jot it down now, I’ll get in touch.”
Poppy Thompson, I write, adding her mobile number and email, and passing it back with what I hope is a confident smile. All I have to do is send her a quick text on the way home, so she knows to expect a call. I did sort out her back garden while I was staying there, so it’s only a tiny white lie…
“I’ll ring her now,” she says cheerfully.
I can’t work out if this is the way she does things as a rule – with a side helping of mildly chaotic energy – or if she’s trying to catch me out.
“Great,” I say, smiling in a way that I hope says, I’m completely confident about this, and not, oh shit this could go very wrong. There’s a lot of smiling going on. I send Poppy a telepathic message not to pick up.
“Hello? Hi, sorry to trouble you,” Georgia says, making that talking on the phone face to me as she speaks. “I’m Georgia Farquhar. Tilda MacLean’s given me your number and I’m hoping you’re going to give her a glowing reference and save my life.”
I cross my fingers surreptitiously.
“She is?” Georgia beams. “Yes, yes, I thought so. I’m a pretty good judge of character. Haven’t a clue about plants, mind you, so if she…” There’s a pause and then Georgia starts to laugh. “No, absolutely not. Well, that’s so good to hear. I am pleased. No, no, thanks again. Sorry to trouble you.”
She rings off and claps her hands together. “Well, apparently you are absolutely wonderful, and her gardens have been transformed.”
“Oh, that’s lovely to hear,” I say, uncrossing my fingers.
After running through the hours – Monday to Friday, 9-5 – and the money – which is pretty standard for a gardener’s wage, we’re done.
“Everyone’s happy.” Georgia spins her laptop around and starts typing. “D’you want to give me your email address, and I’ll send it all over so you can have a look or are you happy to sign on the dotted line?”
“I’m happy.” I’m not really in a position to say no. “I’ve got expensive dog food to pay for.”
“Oh yes, your gorgeous basset! You should have brought her in with you.” Georgia grins. “Pretty much everyone here loves dogs. She would have sealed the deal before you even said a word.”
The printer rolls into life and a moment later she gathers up a pile of papers. “Okay, all the t’s and c’s are on here, so you can read them at your leisure.”
She passes me the paperwork and I sign the contract.
“Congratulations, you’re officially our new gardener.” She raises her biscuit like a toast. “Welcome to the madhouse. I don’t suppose you can start tomorrow? Tuesday? Next week?”
“Tomorrow’s fine for me.”
The sooner I get started, the sooner I get paid.
“Excellent.” She pushes her chair back and stands up.
“Don’t expect too much in the way of supervision, so just shout if you need me, I’m usually here in the kitchen.
I hate working through there in the office, it feels far too formal.
Plus, the Aga keeps it nice and warm in here and even summer in Benruar is chilly most of the time. ”
I nod, feeling slightly shellshocked at how easy it’s all been.
I should probably buy a lottery ticket just in case.
As I head back to the car, I look around the overgrown courtyard.
I haven’t even asked what tools they’ve got to hand – everything I own is locked up in a storage unit down in Glasgow.
But Flora’s curled up asleep on the back seat in a patch of spring sunlight, I’ve solved the money problem and found a foothold into my new solo gardening life, so I think I’ll take that as a win.
Sometimes it’s a good idea not to ask too many questions.