Chapter Nine
It’s official - I am not cut out for manual labour.
Shaun and I have been working hard on the garden since nine o’clock this morning, and I’ve barely made any progress. My shoulder blades feel as though they might separate permanently if I continue, and yet Shaun is still powering through, two hours into our project. The man’s barely broken a sweat and I’m here dripping and likely smelling like I need a bath … or five.
‘I’ll go get us some coffees, shall I?’ I offer, in a desperate attempt to be useful.
I don’t wait for his response before I throw down my fork, toss my gardening gloves to the floor and saunter out of the creaky, white gate in the plant-covered wall.
Going on a coffee run is the least I can do, I feel a bit of a spare part, to be honest. All morning, Shaun’s been hard at work clearing the mass of weeds, and he’s started to uncover an ornate path we had no idea was hidden beneath. In comparison, I’ve managed to pull one bucket’s worth of weeds and that was enough to have every muscle in my body aching in unison.
It’s quite a walk down the hill and to The Cosy Little Tea Room, but I make it there in just shy of fifteen minutes. Of course, I’m instantly greeted by a familiar golden ball of fluff and brown eyes.
‘Hey, Puddles.’
I stoop down to give the friendly pooch a scratch between his velvety ears and in return, he offers me a slobbery kiss on the back of my hand.
‘Ooh my, what a gentleman!’ Still chuckling, I amble up to the counter. ‘Morning, Bill.’
‘Good morning, Ruth.’ His voice pitches slightly as he regards me, unable to conceal his shock at my appearance. ‘Erm, been doing some gardening or something?’
‘Nah, I just like going out looking like a troll.’ I tug at my filthy jumper, snickering. ‘Could I get two hazelnut lattes and two white chocolate and raspberry brownies, please? To go, if that’s okay.’
‘No problem at all, coming right up!’
It’s a bit of a game keeping the coffees upright in their holder as I navigate the winding, steep path along the Heather Hills, but thankfully, I make it to the garden without any major spillages.
‘Thanks,’ Shaun murmurs gruffly as he takes one of the coffees and a brownie.
‘You’re welcome.’ Sighing, I look around the garden. ‘You know, you really do get on my nerves, but I’m kind of glad you’re here.’
With a half-smile, Shaun tilts his head. ‘Is that so?’
‘Well, I’d never be able to tackle this on my own, I’ve only pulled up a few piddly weeds, and look how much you’ve done already!’ I exclaim, gesturing to the newly exposed paving.
‘Well, I do do this for a living,’ he comments drily. ‘You shouldn’t be so hard on yourself, you’re doing a great job.’
I blink at the praise. ‘Do you think so?’
‘Yeah.’ He sips his coffee, an eyebrow quirked. ‘For a beginner.’
I blow a raspberry and throw my gardening gloves at him.
‘Put down your tools and have a break, yeah?’ In a fluid motion, I dust myself off. ‘I’m going for an explore.’
And with that, I leave Shaun to his coffee and wade through the foliage in search of the decrepit old shed. It’s half covered with vines, but easily accessible, due to the fact the door is practically falling apart. I edge my way inside, mindful not to cause further damage to the already weathered structure, and begin the search for the missing journal key.
The big cabinet is the most obvious place to start, but after sifting through the random bits and bobs, drawers and various knick-knacks twice, I still can’t find anything even resembling a key. Sighing, I bend down and search through the bottom drawers of the unit once more, just in case it’s slipped between the pages of one of the many notebooks stuffed inside.
Dusty flecks scatter as I lift out a small black sketchpad and flick through it absentmindedly. The drawings within bear unmistakable similarities to the painting on the wall of the bakery and the ones inside the library book, and now I feel sure this garden must have belonged to Rosemary Grey.
While the style of art might be the same, the content vastly differs from her other works, all of which seem to be landscapes and studies of nature. But these pages contain several rough charcoal sketches of a man, and although the line work is swift and lacking the detail of a finished piece, it looks to be the same model in each iteration. In each pose, he has the same slicked-back dark hair, the same strong brow, the same lean but muscular body shape.
Lifting the pad to the light, I examine each picture closely. I wonder if these sketches were drawn from life or if she simply conjured up a figure from her imagination.
A piece of paper falls from the centrefold and flutters to the ground like an off-white butterfly. Curious, I pick it up and read through the neatly inked writing:
Dearest Rosie,
It has been some time since our last meeting, and even longer since I have written to you. Do you recall the early days when most of our communication was through letters? I miss that.
I find myself busy with various projects as of late, but don’t think you have not been on my mind. I know how you prize nature above all else, and -
I can’t read what comes next, as the rest of the letter is torn.
‘What are you doing in here?’ A deep voice suddenly yanks me from my reverie.
I gasp and whirl around. Shaun is standing in the doorway, the vibrant sun behind him carving out his strong stature like a marble sculpture.
‘I was just looking for something.’ Dodging out the way of all the junk, I come to his side and show him the letter. ‘ Rosie … do you think that this letter was for Rosemary Grey?’
Shaun takes the paper and scans it quickly, his mouth pressed into a thin line of concentration.
‘Hm, makes sense.’
‘If only it wasn’t all ripped up,’ I sigh as I fold the letter up and slot it back into the sketchpad. ‘If we knew who wrote to her, that might get us closer to uncovering the mystery of her disappearance.’
Shaun shrugs. ‘She probably just … moved away. People move away all the time.’
Firmly, I shake my head. ‘No, there’s more to it than that. Mr Jenkins said she went without a word and left no trace behind, her housekeeper didn’t even know she was leaving until she turned up to work to find her boss gone. Besides, why would she abandon this garden? It was obviously important to her, so why would she allow it to be forgotten to time?’
‘Well, that, I can’t answer.’
Tucking the sketchpad under my arm, I bear a huge grin. ‘Well, that’s what I intend to do.’
‘Oh, right?’ With an amused smirk, he plants a hand on his hip. ‘You’re Sherlock Holmes now as well as Miss Greenfingers?’
‘As a matter of fact, yes. ’
In single file, we step out of the dusty shed and into the fresh air. A flash of black cuts across my path, sending me stumbling backwards into Shaun.
‘What on earth was that?’ I cry, my feet scrambling for purchase on the soft bed of weeds.
‘It was just a crow, see?’
His voice is soft and low in my ear as he points up toward the cracked stone arbour. Perched on the crest is a crow, preening its shimmery black feathers.
‘Hm, I’m not sure crows like me very much,’ I mumble, watching the little bird warily. ‘Last time I came across one, he pooed on my shoulder. In fact, he had the same beady look in his eye as this one, and the same silvery feather on his back. I bet it’s the same bloody bird!’
‘It might well be, crows are smart creatures, he might be following you. And you should count yourself lucky he decided to poo on you, it’s lucky.’
Rolling my eyes, I straighten up. ‘That’s what Victor said.’
The two of us work side by side for several more hours, digging and weeding until finally, the garden path is revealed. Crafted in a pale - but mud and grass-stained - limestone, it winds around the entire garden in a rambling, carefree route, seeming to have no rhyme nor reason.
‘I knew Rosemary was a free spirit!’ I poke Shaun in the chest triumphantly. ‘See, she would want her garden to be wild and wacky, not structured and regimented like you planned for.’
‘Sure, but we still need to have structure if we’re ever going to get this garden back to rights.’ He pulls out that trusty little notebook of his. ‘Look, we’ve already completed phase one -’
I bark an incredulous laugh. ‘Phase one?’
‘Yes.’ He taps at the list on the page. ‘Phase One: Clear the garden path.’
‘Right, well I’m off for Phase Two: Dinner. You coming?’ Hastily, I correct myself. ‘N-not to dinner with me , of course. I - er, I meant, are you done here?’
‘Yep.’ With that familiar twinkle in his eye, Shaun slips the notebook back into his pocket. ‘I’m done here.’
We pack Shaun’s equipment away in the shed, although he complains about the condition of it.
‘Getting this fixed up will have to be a priority if I’m going to keep my stuff up here,’ he fusses. ‘The door doesn’t even lock!’
‘I wouldn’t worry, it’s not like anyone even knows about this place.’ I turn to him and we exchange a knowing look. ‘Except us.’
It’s well into the afternoon now, and the sun filters through the trees as we trek through the woods in comfortable silence. Once we’ve hiked down the hills and reached the bottom, I cock my head to Shaun, a mischievous smile in place.
‘So, are you still up for the challenge?’ I ask, hip jutted. ‘Or did the hard work today put you off?’
‘You think a few weeds will scare me? Challenge well and truly accepted. Shall we meet again there in say … two days’ time? My calendar is filling up with clients.’
‘That works for me.’ And then we part ways, though I glance back over my shoulder. ‘Bye, Shaun.’
‘See you, Sherlock.’
*
The first thing I do once I stagger through the front door is draw myself a deep, bubbly bath. This cottage is hardly the most modern accommodation I’ve ever stayed in, but I do love its claw foot tub, and as I sink into the warm, scented water, my thoughts wander back to the lost garden.
It feels strange sharing it with another person, especially surly Shaun of all people. But it’s kind of nice, having a secret just between the two of us, at least for now. Once we’ve got Rosemary’s garden looking fabulous again, perhaps it could be opened to the villagers, and everyone could enjoy its tranquillity and beauty.
But for now, I like the solitude, and I like that Shaun is the only one around. He’s irritating, but I’m growing used to his presence, and he really knows his stuff when it comes to gardening, and my knowledge in that department is severely lacking.
After patting myself dry, I drape my lilac towelling dressing gown over my shoulders and head downstairs to the kitchen, in search of something easy to eat. I find the cupboards mostly bare, but there’s an opened box of macaroni at the back and some cheese sauce in the fridge, so I guess that will have to do.
Bowl of macaroni cheese clutched in both hands, I plop down on the sofa and indulge in a spot of mindless telly. A silly old rom-com is playing, one that I think Nathan and I actually went to see in the cinema when it first came out.
Shuddering, I grab the remote and push the off button hard. The TV goes dead, and it’s eerily quiet in the cottage, all except for the squelchy sound the pasta makes as I stir it around and stuff it into my mouth. Full but not exactly satisfied, I place the bowl on the coffee table and traipse around the room, in search of something to occupy my time.
My big toe hits one of the cardboard boxes I’d piled in the corner, causing the top one to tumble to the ground and spill out over the carpet. An array of old photos and trinkets I’d hidden away mock me, and I avert my gaze as I gather them up and toss them back inside, with no particular care.
That’s funny, I don’t remember this, I think as I scoop up an orange notebook with a cute illustration of a sunflower. When I turn to the first page, my heart sinks. Oh God, this is my journal, the journal I began when things started to go south between Nathan and I. I’d completely forgotten it existed, and as I leaf through the pages, my chest goes tight.
There aren’t many entries, most of the journal is still blank, but what I have written is gut-wrenching.
Dear Diary,
Had another naff weekend. Nathan and I planned to go to the retail park to look at a new sofa for the living room, and we couldn’t even get through that civilly. In the end, we didn’t even make it to the shops.
On the drive there, I mentioned something about how nice it was to spend some time together, even if it was just a boring old house chore. Of course, he didn’t take that well. He accused me of being passive-aggressive and that I was just trying to make him feel guilty about hanging out with his friends, which I truly wasn’t. Things got heated, Nathan started shouting and turned the car around, like I was a little kid misbehaving on a road trip.
Now he’s taken himself out for the day and I’m alone sobbing in the bedroom, again.
I don’t know, maybe it was my fault. Maybe I should have just kept my mouth shut. I should have learned by now that it’s easier if I don’t say anything, if I just bottle it all up and never tell Nathan how I truly feel, but God, it hurts.
I didn’t think love was supposed to hurt this much …
Bitter tears sting my eyes as I leaf through the tragic tales of heartbreak, my heartbreak. Each entry is just as sad and hopeless, and they get progressively more depressing.
Sniffing hard, I rip out the first ten or so pages and screw them up. I might not be able to get into Rosemary’s journal, but I have my own. Determinedly, I rifle through the cardboard box, pull out my trusty, pink fluffy pen and press the nib to the new first page.
Dear Diary,
Hi, I’m Ruth. I’m an illustrator, I’m thirty-four years old and somehow, I’ve found myself living in a small cottage in Lily Vale Village, a place I’d never even heard of two weeks ago.
I was married, but now I’m on my own. I’m not sure how I feel about that yet … but I think I’m starting to see the light at the end of the tunnel. Just a little spark, perhaps.
My life has changed so much in just a few months, it’s been quite scary, and I’m still not sure if I’m going to stay here, but I’m trying to remind myself that sometimes, change is GOOD.
This is my fresh start, and I’m going to make it work.
With a long sigh, I close the journal and clasp it to my chest, my heart beating against the cover.