Chapter Four
My tummy churning with conflicting emotions, I jog back to the cottage, kicking my muddied trainers onto the welcome mat the moment I enter.
I toss the old journal onto the sofa and amble into the kitchen, where I fill the kettle and switch it on, suddenly desperate for a nice cuppa. Thankfully, all my crockery (not that there’s much, Nathan and I had to divide all our cookware) is unpacked and slotted away in the cupboards, so it’s not difficult to find my favourite mug - a custom photo-collage affair with pictures of my best mate Preet and I from our girl’s trip to Copenhagen.
Smiling, I turn the mug round and round, my heart warming at each faded memory. I can’t believe it’s been three years since that holiday, it feels like only yesterday. I miss Preet so much, but she’s always been a hustler, hard to pin down and even harder to catch when she’s not busy with work. She’s taken some time off to visit family in India, and then who knows where she’ll be off to next - she’s the type of girl who always has a holiday booked and her passport ready. We do catch up on a semi-regular basis, and she’s fully aware that Nathan and I are over, but I’ve yet to tell her that I randomly packed up my worldly possessions and moved to a cottage in the middle of nowhere.
That will be an interesting conversation, for sure.
Slumping down on the sofa, I gnaw at my lip and examine the locked journal, pondering over the morning’s mysterious discovery.
It was truly tragic to see what must have once been a beautifully tended garden reduced to a tangled mess of weeds, overgrown plants and stagnant water, where no frogs nor fish could hope to survive.
I’ve got to do something; I can’t just leave the garden in that state. It was once loved by someone, that much is clear, and now that I know it exists, I can’t stand the thought of it remaining spoiled and forgotten for any longer than it already has been.
After knocking the partially dried mud from my shoes, I pop them on and take a walk across the village, searching for somewhere I might find some gardening tools. I pass the bakery - managing to resist the delectable smell of freshly baked bread - and cross the village green, where I happen upon a likely looking nursery with a display of wheelbarrows and birdhouses surrounding its glass door. I’m bound to find something of use in here, though I must confess, I’m not exactly sure what I’m looking for.
Nodding to the woman behind the counter, I trawl through all manner of odds and ends, most of which I’ve no idea how to use. From a rack, I select a long stick with a metal spade-esque thingy-ma-bob at its end. It looks more like a weapon than something one might use for gardening; I could picture a knight from the days of yore wielding this thing on horseback.
‘That’s a decent hoe,’ someone behind me comments.
Outraged, I whirl around to confront the cheeky bugger. Unsurprisingly, it’s Shaun Henley, that bloody gardener.
‘I beg your pardon?’
He nods at the tool in my hand. ‘That hoe, it’s a sturdy enough piece of equipment. I’ve got a similar one myself.’
I squint at him, scanning his voice for any trace of piss-taking … yet it comes up clear. I guess this guy is just really passionate about gardening tools - and the quality of a good hoe!
‘Oh, right.’ I place the hoe back on the rack with the others. ‘Thanks for the tip.’
‘What are you looking at gardening stuff for anyway?’ he asks. ‘You know Victor is still paying me to sort the cottage gardens, right? That includes the front and back.’
‘Not that it’s any of your business, but this isn’t for the cottage. This is for a secret project.’
Shaun raises an eyebrow, clearly intrigued. ‘What sort of project?’
With an arch grin, I turn on my heel. ‘Well, now, I can’t tell you that, can I? Or else it wouldn’t be a secret anymore.’
Ignoring his curious gaze, I fill a basket with bulky leather gauntlets, a handheld trawl and fork, a large spade and one of those foam mats for kneeling on. It’s not much, but at least I can figure out what to do with these tools easily enough.
After paying, I make for the exit, feeling pretty pleased with myself. That is, until that familiar and annoying voice pipes up again.
‘Are you sure you know what you’re doing?’ Shaun cocks his head to one side, seemingly amused by my assortment of tools. ‘I could give you some advice on this project of yours, if you like.’
‘No, thank you,’ I reply, my chin jutted definitely. ‘I don’t need anyone’s help.’
With a languid shrug, he turns away. ‘Suit yourself.’
I shuffle through the cobblestone streets with my bag of tools, the spade sticking out of the top at an unwieldy angle. I wish I’d thought to bring my car, but it’s such a short walk into the village centre, I hadn’t seen the point. Now, as I awkwardly dodge around pedestrians, coming dangerously close to smacking an old lady in the back of the head with the spade, I’m regretting that decision.
This time when I pass the bakery, I give into my urges and step inside, instantly swooning at the delicious scent of freshly baked bread. After all, I haven’t eaten yet, and it will be lunchtime soon enough.
‘Morning!’ The middle-aged man behind the counter calls out as I approach. ‘What can I get for you?’
My mouth twisted in deep thought, I scan the shelves behind him - and my gaze settles upon a painting on the wall. Daubed in vibrant oil paints, it depicts a stone swing in motion, hanging from the branch of a gigantic tree covered with gold and red autumn leaves. The style and subject seem awfully familiar, and I realise with sudden excitement that it’s very similar to the sketches I found inside the rundown shed.
‘Excuse me, I was just admiring the artwork.’ I point to the framed piece behind him. ‘Do you know who painted that?’
The baker turns around to look at the picture. ‘Oh, that’s a Rosemary Grey original, I’ve had it for donkey’s years.’
‘Rosemary Grey?’
‘Mm-hm. She was a local artist, quite well-known back in her heyday. Until she disappeared, that is.’
My ears prick straight up, as does the hair on the back of my neck . ‘Disappeared?’
‘Yep, she just left without a trace, no one knew what happened to her. Gosh, it must have been about thirty-five years ago now. Apparently, the housekeeper turned up at Rosemary’s home for work one morning, and she was just gone . Not a word of warning, no farewell, nothing . Anyway, was there something you wanted?’
Shell-shocked by the revelation, I attempt to blink myself back to reality. ‘Oh, erm, a loaf of sourdough, please.’
‘Of course. You’re lucky I just baked a fresh one, so it’s hot from the oven.’
I grin at him. ‘Brilliant.’
My mouth is already watering as he hands over a brown paper bag, which I’m delighted to find is wonderfully warm to the touch. I practically skip down the cobbled streets, feeling such a sense of exhilaration at the mystery that is beginning to unfold before me.
Rosemary Grey - could she be the owner of the lost garden up in the Heather Hills?
That painting certainly looked like the rough sketches I found in the shed, in fact, I’m certain they were drawn by the same hand.
A rush of excitement fizzles through my veins. Just call me Sherlock Holmes, because I’m on the case!