Chapter 26 Tilda #2
“Juniper – essential. Coriander root? Leaf?? Lemon grass. LOCAL botanicals.”
I turn the page, my heart thumping unevenly in my chest. And there at the top of the page, underlined twice – the words I knew I was going to see.
Benruar Gin
The air seems to shift around me. The ferry horn sounds in the distance and I’m aware of the steady tick of the kitchen clock. Flora rolls over with a groan, her nails clicking against the floor.
He was planning this all along, and nobody knew.
I flip further. Half-finished paragraphs, plans for a garden laid out in rough squares so close to my kitchen garden plans that I feel the hairs rising on my arms as I read. Notes about bringing in visitors, letting them pick and taste and get involved.
And then pages and pages left blank.
At the back of the notebook, tucked into the pocket on the inside of the back cover, sits a folded sheet of paper with my name on it.
Matilda
I flip it open and see the first line and for a moment it feels like someone has knocked all the breath out of me.
I don’t expect you to read this, but—
I fold it closed in an instant. My knees are shaking, and I swallow but my mouth feels weirdly dry. I can’t look at it now.
The hallway’s scattered with books and papers, so I scoop them up, shoving them in a jumble back onto the shelf before I grab my bag and summon Flora.
I drive back towards Benruar House, my fingers drumming a distracted beat on the steering wheel. The sea flashes silver through the harbour railings and my heart seems to jump every time we bounce over one of the potholes towards the green gates.
When I push open the kitchen door at Benruar House, Georgia’s in full command at the table. There are papers everywhere and she’s talking with the phone tucked under her ear once again. She lifts a finger at me, mouthing, “One sec.”
Malcolm’s deep voice rumbles from outside and a moment later the door opens and he walks inside, followed by Finn. He studies my face, unsmiling. Then he surprises me by walking over and dropping a hand on my shoulder.
“You alright?” he says in an undertone. I twist my head sharply, looking up at him with a quick frown on my face. He lifts his hand away as if he’s remembered where he is, and I nod.
He walks over to the kettle and gets a mug, making me a cup of coffee, adding a spoonful of brown sugar and some milk from the fridge before passing it to me, his fingers brushing mine.
“How come Tilda’s getting the special treatment?” Georgia asks a second later when she hangs up the phone.
“What?”
She tips her head towards the coffee mug my fingers are wrapped around and pushes her chair away from the table. “Don’t worry Malcolm,” she says, teasing. “I’ll make you a coffee.”
Malcolm disappears into the hallway in the direction of the bathroom, chuckling. “No need, lass.”
“Oh.” Finn shrugs, looking awkward. “Yeah. Sorry, Malcolm.”
Georgia shakes her head, laughing. “I’ve been working here for two years, and you still don’t know how I take my coffee, that’s all I’m saying.” She gives me a searching look. “You okay, Tilda? You look a bit pale.”
I pull the notebook out of my bag and set it on the table between the coffee mugs and the scraps of paper. The red cover seems to glow in a patch of sunlight.
“I found this,” I say, my voice steadier than I feel.
Finn’s gaze drops to the scuffed cover and then back to me. He raises a brow in query, as if he’s asking permission to touch it and I give a brief nod.
He flips the cover open, his big hand dwarfing the battered notebook. The pages flutter under his thumb and I watch as he takes in the notes and drawings, a strange expression on his face.
Malcolm returns, wiping his hands on a towel from the bathroom, and glances at the book in Finn’s hands. He frowns, as if he’s not quite sure what he’s seeing, then stops dead.
“Where did you get that?”
“Tilda found it in the cottage.”
“It was tucked inside some books. I thought it was rubbish at first, but—”
I swallow, watching as his normally dour face registers a series of emotions. He takes off his flat cap, runs a hand through the remains of his hair, and puts it back on his head.
“Well, I’ll be—” he says. “May I?”
Finn passes it over. Malcolm turns the pages carefully, and his brows lift a fraction as he blows out a long, slow exhalation.
Eventually, he says, “Well, I’ll be damned. That’s what he was up to with the garden in the cottage. He was making plans.”
“Is anyone going to tell me what’s going on?” Georgia clatters a spoon onto the table and pulls the lid off the biscuit tin.
“Gin,” says Malcolm, resting his chin on his index finger.
Georgia nods, her blonde ponytail swinging. “That’s the general idea, yes. I’ve been on the phone this morning to find out about some packaging—”
“No,” says Finn, laying a gentle hand on my shoulder again, earning a curious look from Georgia, her eyes widening. “Tilda’s dad. He had the same idea, years back.”
The room goes quiet and I can feel all of them looking at me – Malcolm with his gruff kindness, Georgia with open curiosity, and Finn with something I’m afraid to name.
“He wanted to do this,” I say, my voice thick. “He was planning it. All of it.”
I think of all the blank pages at the back of the journal. All the plans he didn’t get to finish. All the years we lost.
My hand finds the folded letter in my pocket – the one with my name on it. The one I’m not brave enough to read yet. Finn’s hand settles on my shoulder again, warm and steady but this time he doesn’t pull away.