Chapter 28 Tilda #2
God knows where they have been, but the garden seems to be in one piece. Jennifer appears what feels like a second later and I think we might have actually won her over.
“Well, this is charming.” She plucks a sprig of lavender and crushes it between her fingers, inhaling it with her lips pursed in a tiny smirk. The scent of the plant oils lifts in the heat. Georgia shoots a look at me and does a tiny split-second thumbs up.
“Although I must say,” she continues, her gaze flicking over the beds, “it does look remarkably similar to the monks’ garden at Glen Mhor. Of course” – she turns to one of the men with a little nod – “theirs is on a far larger scale. And… more established.”
Georgia’s smile wavers. Finn stands there, his face expressionless.
Malcolm reappears, mud streaked across the front of his polo shirt.
I point at it and mime wiping by flapping my hand in front of my chest and it takes a moment before he catches on.
Meanwhile Jennifer is scribbling furiously on her clipboard.
Finn clears his throat. “What we haven’t mentioned is that this garden isn’t merely ornamental.”
“Oh?” Jennifer raises her head.
We all hold our breaths, ready for the big reveal.
“It’s going to be instrumental in the new line we’re working on – a gin, created here on the island, flavoured with island-sourced botanicals.”
Georgia flicks me a glance and I look down to see her fingers are crossed by her sides. Malcolm leans on his stick and eyes Jennifer from under his cap.
“Is that so?”
“Luckily, we have Tilda here, who’s been able to use her botanical knowledge to help with the formulation of the blend.” Finn puts an arm around my waist, pulling me into focus. Jennifer and her cronies stare at me, not speaking.
“Interesting,” Jennifer says with a face that suggests it’s anything but. She scribbles a note down on her pad.
I contemplate digging a hole and climbing into it. And then the sun disappears behind a cloud, and Jennifer looks upward with a delighted expression at the plum-coloured clouds that are rolling in from the sea.
“And if it rains?” she says, as if she’s pleased to find something to pick fault with. “Where do you intend to put people? There’s scarcely any indoor capacity.”
Finn folds his arms, forearms flexing. “I suspect anyone visiting a Scottish island might be prepared for the weather.”
There’s a long moment of silence, before Jennifer clicks her pen again and scribbles a final note with a dramatic flourish.
“Thank you very much,” she says, face a study of polite disinterest. “I think we’ve seen enough.”
By the time we trek back up the hill to the courtyard my shoulders feel rigid with tension.
“Thank you very much for your efforts,” she says, pulling the door closed behind her.
We all stand there in silence watching as the people carrier heads back down the drive. Flora and the spaniels are peering at us from through the kitchen window and Georgia’s face is still stuck in a rictus grin.
“Well, she didn’t spit out her dram,” mutters Malcolm.
“And Flora was an angel,” Georgia says, turning to me with a genuine smile. “No sausage-stealing incidents.”
“More than can be said for my two delinquents,” says Finn with a grim expression. “Although, I somehow doubt runaway spaniels are going to be the problem.”
We stand there in an uncomfortable silence before Finn turns on his heel and strides back to the house. I follow, Flora at my heels.
Inside, Georgia’s already stationed at the kitchen table, papers spread like a war cabinet. Malcolm’s disappeared in the direction of the stillroom, and the spaniels are sprawled on their bed by the Aga.
Finn stands at the sink, hands braced on the edge, shoulders rigid. His jaw is clenched so tight I can see the muscle jumping.
“Finn—”
“We did everything right.” His voice is flat and controlled. Too controlled. “Everything she asked for. And it still wasn’t enough.”
I take a step closer. “We tried. That’s all we could—”
“Trying doesn’t win contracts, Tilda.” He doesn’t turn around. “Results do.”
The words sting more than they should. I reach out, my hand hovering near his back, but something in his posture stops me and I take a step back instead. He’s shut down. Retreated to that place he goes to when things are hard – the place where he doesn’t need anyone.
And he definitely doesn’t need me.
“Right,” I say quietly, my hand dropping by side. “Well. I should probably—”
“I need to think.” He finally turns, but his eyes slide past mine. “Work out what comes next.”
“We could talk through it? Figure out—”
“Not now.” It’s not harsh, just… absent. Like I’m not really there. “I need to get my head straight.”
Space. Of course, because that’s what he does. Retreats, works it out alone. Doesn’t let anyone in. That’s why he wound up here at eighteen.
And I’m an idiot for thinking I was different.
“Sure,” I manage, my throat tight. “I’ll… I’ll get out of your way.”
I grab Flora’s lead from the hook, my hands shaking slightly. Georgia looks up, frowning slightly, but I’m already heading for the door.
“Tilda—” Finn starts, but I’m out of the door before he can finish.
The first spots of rain patter on the gravel in the courtyard. The lovely sense we’d had all week – the sense of pulling together and making something out of nothing – feels, suddenly, very far away.
The garden is tidy, the beds weeded, the grass neatly cut. My bit is done. And without Finn by my side, or Georgia chattering plans in my ear, or Malcolm humming to himself as he measures botanicals, I feel… extraneous.
Flora nudges my leg and I lean down to scratch behind her ears, grateful for her warm solidity. “Come on then,” I murmur. “Let’s go and make ourselves useful somewhere else.”
I head for the van, driving down the track towards the village, towards the cottage that smells of paint and half-forgotten memories of childhood visits.
By the time I push open the front door my mood is flat, and everything aches as if the flood of adrenalin that has kept me going has suddenly been dammed up.