Chapter Three
Rrrrring! Rrrrring! Rrrrring-Rrrrring!
The galling noise cuts rudely through my dreams, and I blearily reach for the mobile phone vibrating on the bedside table. The name Mum flashes up on the screen, and I reluctantly answer.
‘Hi, Mum,’ I mumble, my voice still croaky from sleep.
‘Oh Ruth, I didn’t wake you up, did I?’ she tuts. ‘It’s almost nine-thirty, dear.’
Stretching my arms skyward, I sit up in the bed, bunching the pillows behind my back. ‘I wanted a bit of a lie in.’
‘Well, your dad and I just wanted to check in and see how you were doing.’
‘I’m fine.’
‘Are you, though?’ she presses in that well-meaning yet condescending tone she’s got down to a fine art. ‘It was a bit sudden, all this.’
‘I know, but I couldn’t afford to stay in Surrey, you know I don’t make a ton of money, and without Nathan -’
My chest aches, hollowing out around my heart. I wish I hadn’t thought of my ex.
‘Yes, I know, but there were other options available to you, you know. I don’t know what possessed you to move to some little village I’ve never even heard of, you’re so far away from us now,’ she complains. ‘You must be feeling ever so alone, sweetheart.’
‘I have friends here.’
It’s not a total lie, I know Lucy - I mean, she’s the one who encouraged me to move to Lily Vale Village. And I know Victor, my new landlord. I’m sure I’ll make more mates, or at least, I hope I do.
‘You know, you could have come and stayed with us,’ Mum goes on. ‘We’d have sorted your old bedroom out for you, no problem.’
I suppress a shudder. The thought of returning to my childhood bedroom, with its peeling posters of pop stars from the noughties and tiny single bed, at the age of thirty-four is more pathetic than I can bear. I’ve still got whiplash from being married to an accountant who I’d planned a potential family with to being completely alone, living in a rented cottage.
‘That’s a kind offer, Mum, but I needed my own space.’
Once again, she sighs. ‘Well, the offer is still there if you change your mind. We worry about you, pet.’
‘Stop worrying, okay?’ I put on my cheeriest tone, hoping it might be enough to convince her. ‘I’m perfectly fine here, I’m happy.’
Although I can’t see her face, the silence that lingers between us tells me in no uncertain terms that she doesn’t believe a word I’m saying. I’m not sure I believe me, either.
‘Hm, if you so say, sweetheart,’ she finally responds dubiously. ‘Just remember, we’re always here for you, right?’
‘I remember. Look, I’ve got to get on with work, I’ll speak to you later.’
‘Alright, pet. We love you.’
‘Love you too, Mum.’
When I hang up, I feel battered and bruised, as if I’ve just been in six rounds with Mike Tyson. I’m fortunate to have such supportive parents, but their thinly-veiled pity makes me feel dreadful . I know I’m a total mess, I know everything in my life is muddled and mucked up, I wish they’d just stop going on about it and reminding me.
I told Mum I was supposed to be doing work, but I have no motivation to even my emails today. I’ve got to get out of here, I need some fresh air. And I know exactly where to go to get it.
After pulling on yesterday’s jeans, a t-shirt and an oversized cardie, I head out of the door and down the garden path. I can’t help but admire the flower borders on either side of the paving, now weeded and neater than ever. I hate to admit it, but that Shaun guy didn’t do a bad job, after all.
Though it’s sunny overhead, the wind is harsh as I march up Heather Hills, and I have to tie my dark blonde hair up with the elastic tie perpetually attached to my wrist. The morning dew has softened the ground, and it squelches with each step, threatening to suck my trainers into the mud.
I stop at the exact same spot I did yesterday, right under the shade of the gigantic oak tree. The view is just as spectacular as I remember, and somehow, my troubles feel far away from up here. I know they’ll be waiting for me the moment I leave the quiet, fresh air of the Heather Hills, but right now, I relish the light sense of freedom that overcomes me.
I glance behind me, off toward the densely wooded area, where there’s no paths at all. Curiosity tugs me forward, and despite the fact I’m not dressed for a romp through the forest, I stride onward, not ready to go home just yet.
I expected the trees to thin out a little, but they grow more closely compacted the further I venture, so much so that I have to shield my face from errant branches and scratchy thorn bushes. My cardie catches on a sharp branch and I wrestle to free it, pulling the cream yarn horribly in the process.
Perhaps I ought to head back, I think to myself as I inspect the mud that’s splattered my blue jeans. Victor did say the route gets treacherous.
And he’s right, it only grows steeper and steeper, rockier and rockier with each step. I bet no one has dared to go this far into the woods before, and for good reason. I halt suddenly, realising I don’t know the way out. Panicking, my eyes dart around my surroundings, searching for something familiar to get me back on the right track. I don’t recognise anything, all the trees look the same, and I’ve got myself terribly turned around and confused.
Frantic, I pick a direction, the one that has the most light filtering through the trees, and march doggedly onward. After some time, the light becomes stronger, the foliage becomes less dense and I spot a clearing just ahead. Picking up the pace, I race forward, taking care not to trip over the gnarled tree roots that poke up from beneath the earth.
Just as I reach the clearing, I stop sharply, blinking at the odd sight before me. I can’t quite comprehend what I’m looking at, I think it’s a … gate? Yes, it’s definitely a gate, right in the middle of an ivy-covered stone wall, and it’s all rusted and covered with tangled foliage. Warily, I come closer, and notice there’s an old padlock hanging on the gate. When I examine it, I’m surprised to find it’s open but incredibly stiff, pretty much fused into place, suggesting it hasn’t been touched in years and years.
I stand back and stare at my discovery, wondering just how long this strange anomaly has been here without anyone knowing.
Determined to get inside, I pull the lock, rattling and yanking it to no avail. Frustrated but not willing to give in, I try slowly easing it out of its position. It takes a good couple of minutes and I graze my knuckles in the process, but finally, it springs out of place and I’m able to edge it off the gate. The ivy is so thick that it practically forms another lock and I have to shoulder the gate hard before the vines snap and the gate begins to open with an almighty creak.
I step inside, and gasp aloud at what I find. It’s a garden. Impossibly overgrown and each plant and bush is being strangled to death by weeds, but a garden nonetheless - I can see parts of a crumbling stone arbour through masses of wild greenery and a wooden bench by an algae-addled pond.
Fascinated, I wander through the mysterious place, marvelling at the beautiful details and sculptures that have been weathered by time and neglect. This was once a very grand garden, the intricately carved statues and the broken stone swing hanging from the bough of a cherry tree make that clear.
What happened to it? Why would someone create a hidden garden here and then leave it to go to ruin?
As I explore further, I discover what looks to be an ancient wooden shed, and thankfully, the door is so rotted, it’s no effort at all to get inside. There’s a distinct skittering of tiny feet taking cover as I enter, it sounds like there’s a family of mice who’ve made their home here. Judging by the state of this place, I’m willing to bet that they haven’t been disturbed for a decade or more.
I have to pick my way through the shed, it’s piled high with old tools and general junk, but something right at the back captures my attention. It’s an artist’s easel, but it’s broken and the paint brushes resting upon it are all dried out and appear to be well-chewed, no doubt by the mice.
I turn to peruse the dusty cabinet behind it, and there’s all manner of odd objects to be found upon its bowed shelves, including several sketches on loose sheets of paper of the garden in better days and a couple of simple figure studies. Amongst the clutter, I pick up a small book. It’s leather-bound with gilded pages, but it’s locked, and this time, I can’t simply edge it open, not without potentially causing damage to the book. I scan the drawers and shelves for a likely-looking key, but come up short. It could be anywhere , and I’m not sure I fancy disturbing any more creatures who may be lurking in here.
I tuck the book under my arm and hurry out of the shed, closing the rickety door carefully behind me. With one last, lingering gaze, I take in the savage beauty of the lost garden, committing each melancholy yet stunning detail to memory, just in case when I close the gate, it all disappears in a cloud of smoke. Something about this place seems like a dream, a long-forgotten memory that I’ll struggle to grasp at the moment my back is turned.
I shut the gate and slot the padlock back into place, though I’m careful not to click the lock down, lest I never be able to enter again. I manage to find my way through the woods much easier this time around, and before too long, I’m standing on the edge of the Heather Hills, looking out over the village once more.
Who’s garden did I just stumble across? How long has it been hidden away like that, neglected and forgotten?
I glance down at the stolen book, turning it this way and that in the light. It looks like a journal, if only I could find the key, I might be closer to finding out more about this lost garden, and the person it belonged to.
Invigorated by my secret discovery, I wedge the journal under my armpit and wrap my cardigan around me tight, concealing the evidence as I amble down the steep hills back toward the high street.