Chapter Six
I stare down at the grainy blank page in my sketchbook, my mind as mushy as mashed potato.
I finally mustered the strength to open the email that’s been looming in my inbox for days and read through the manuscript, but now that it’s time to actually start drawing, my fingers - and my imagination - don’t want to cooperate.
It’s not as if it’s the fault of the source material, either - the children’s book is charming and sweet, centring around a little boy called Jimmy who’s lost his red balloon and goes on an epic journey to recover it, meeting all sorts of colourful characters along the way.
Nope, as usual, the problem is me.
How in the world am I supposed to create bright, cheery illustrations for an inspiring story when I feel like total crap? I’m still grieving the end of my marriage, I’m questioning whether coming to Lily Vale was a good idea or simply a crazy one, and I don’t know what to do about the garden.
It’s been a couple of days since I’ve braved the Heather Hills and sought out my shrouded, secret place, mostly because I’m not sure what my next step should be. I really don’t want to throw the towel in, but it’s become clear I can’t tackle the task all on my own.
I could ask Victor for help, I suppose, in the few conversations we’ve shared since I arrived in Lily Vale Village, he’s expressed a passion for gardening, perhaps he’d like to lend a hand. But bringing the lost garden back to life is going to take a lot more work than simply raking leaves and pulling up dandelions, and I don’t want dear old Victor doing himself a mischief, all for the sake of my silly little idea.
My mouth twists in thought as I close my sketchbook. Is it a silly idea? I mean, I don’t know for sure who the garden belongs to, all signs are pointing to this mysterious Rosemary Grey, but it could be someone else’s property, and perhaps I’m actually trespassing.
Maybe I should just leave it alone, close the gate and let the garden continue to decay the way it has for years and years. Obviously, no one cares about it, it’s not important enough for anyone to even recall that it exists, so this whole mission of mine might be a pointless endeavour after all.
Restless, I wander around the cottage, pacing back and forth through each room. The thing is, I care about the garden. I can’t say why, but I just do. Maybe I need an outlet, something to channel my pain and frustrations into and my usual release of drawing just isn’t working for me right now. Maybe deep inside, I have to believe that the ruined garden can spring back to life, because if it can after years of neglect, perhaps I can too. Or maybe it’s a little of each, but either way, I can’t stop thinking about the spoiled oasis nestled behind that rusted gate.
Try as I might, it’s all I can focus on.
I bundle the sketchbook and a pack of pencils into my leather handbag, I toss it over my shoulder and head for the front door. It’s reassuringly warm today, the sun is bold and bright in the sky, banishing any traces of clouds with its golden rays. I’m quite certain this chocolate box village is gorgeous during any season, but it looks particularly lovely in springtime - every garden I pass is abundant with flowers and the scent of freshly cut grass hangs in the air like perfume, and I bet if I ventured down to Simmons Farm, I’d find all manner of baby animals frolicking in the fields.
I breathe in deeply, taking a moment to soak it in. It was crazy upping sticks and moving all this way after a tearful conversation with Lucy over video chat, but I’m glad I did. Even if in a few weeks’ time, I’m slapped with the reality of my situation and I crawl back to my parents in shame, this was a nice little break from life. Once I’ve got some distance from it all and I’m ready to look back on this weird blip, it will no doubt be a special - if random - memory.
Aimless, I traipse through the streets, wondering what I should do with my day. I could go grab a coffee from The Cosy Little Tearoom, or maybe a sandwich from the deli. Just as I’m contemplating my options, a small building draws my eye. Lily Vale Library - I wonder if they have any information about the hidden garden, or even Rosemary Gray?
With newfound purpose, I stroll through the doors. As expected, it’s very quiet inside, though not restrictively so. Rather, it’s a peaceful sort of silence, peppered only by the soft, papery sounds of page turning and the odd scrape of a chair leg against the floor.
There’s rows and rows of bookshelves, some stretching as high as the ceiling, requiring ladders on wheels like the kind from Beauty and the Beast to peruse properly. Overwhelmed, I start sifting through the first shelf I come across, not sure at all what I’m looking for.
Okay, so do I search through the ‘R’s for Rosemary? Or perhaps it ought to be ‘G’ for her surname … oh, I don’t know!
It’s all seeming a bit hopeless, until a librarian with pale brown hair and horn-rimmed glasses approaches me, armed with a friendly smile and gentle tone.
‘Can I help you at all?’ she asks, clearly sensing my struggle.
‘Actually, yes. Do you have any books or information about an old forgotten garden in Lily Vale?’
She blinks, confused behind her glasses. ‘We have The Secret Garden, you know, the novel by Frances Hodgson Burnett.’
‘No, that’s not what I’m looking for.’ I nibble my lip thoughtfully and decide to change tact. ‘What about Rosemary Grey? She was an artist from here, I think.’
The librarian's eyes flick up to the ceiling, then suddenly back to me, sparkling behind the lenses.
‘Oh yes, I believe I’ve heard of her! Well, if there’s anything on her, it will be in the Local Heroes and Legends section. Follow me, I’ll show you.’
She leads me over to a display of pamphlets and books, each chronicling both the past and present of Lily Vale Village.
‘Now, let’s see.’ Her glasses slip down the bridge of her nose as she leans forward, and she twitches them into place. ‘Ah, here it is - Culture and Creations of Lily Vale Village, it was written by a local historian. Surely there will be something about her in there.’
She places the heavy hardback in my hands, and it’s more weighty than I’d expected.
‘Thank you, this is great!’ I tell her, truly grateful for the help.
She smiles sweetly. ‘If you need anything else, just let me know. I’m Jane, and I’ll just be hanging around by reception.’
‘Thanks, I’m Ruth.’
‘Pleasure to meet you.’ She gives a demure nod before turning on her heel. ‘Happy researching!’
Commandeering one of the desks, I open up the old book and run a finger down the table of contents. There’s a chapter on artists, so I flick through it and scan the pages for any mention of the elusive Rosemary Grey.
My brow folds into creases as I read through the headings of local artists; there’s plenty of them, but none are Rosemary.
I’m about to give up, but then I gasp so hard, it hurts my chest. There she is, Rosemary Grey! There’s even a picture, a small, square photograph of a woman about my age with platinum blonde hair cropped into a stylish pixie, grinning with shiny red-painted lips as she stands proud before a painting of a pond laden with water lilies and reeds. Leaning forward, I squint at the image, I wonder if that’s what the pond in the lost garden once looked like.
Rosemary Grey is an up-and-comer in the art industry, fast becoming known for her vibrant oil paintings of fauna and flora. When asked about her inspiration, Grey had this to say:
‘I want my work to invoke feelings of peace and a sense of connection to the world around us. At times, life moves so fast, we forget to stop and smell the roses. It is my hope that people will see my artwork and find a moment of tranquillity there, even just for a short while.
Nature is my biggest inspiration, and that’s why I do all of my painting outside. I’m lucky to have my own little sanctuary, a place that’s just mine, and I owe it all to someone very special.’
Rosemary’s work continues to inspire and delight locals, but we feel sure it won’t be long before this talented young artist takes her paintings global. Expect to see her hanging alongside greats such as Monet and Van Gogh in the not-too-distant future!
I look up from the page, frowning in deep thought. A place that’s just her own - could Rosemary have been talking about the garden? Nature was a huge part of her art, after all.
Eager to discover more, I check the book out and slot it into my bag. It just about fits, and though it smacks uncomfortably against my hip as I walk, I’m too excited to care.
I’m getting closer to unravelling this mystery, I can feel it!