Bay Tree Cottage Read online

  Except for your own father, the children’s only grandfather, who was lost to you all for good.

  Except for a husband and father for your child, something neither of them had.

  It was true what people said: fate gives with one hand and takes away with the other. For them, it had been the other way round, things taken away then others given to them.

  Ginger went into Number 1 and spent some time studying the whole of the ground floor. If there was going to be a café as well as a small art gallery/shop, it’d need planning carefully. Well, she had lots of ideas about how cafés ought to be set out after working in them for so many years, only she’d never had the power to change things before.

  She’d worked for some right old eejits, like Joe, who’d done things in stupid ways. She smiled. She always thought of the word ‘idiot’ with an Irish accent as her mother had said it.

  She drew in a deep breath of sheer satisfaction and twirled round again, but that stirred up the dust and made her sneeze. After another walk round her little flat, she decided to get a breath of fresh air and think about how to furnish her new home, which items she’d need to bring down from Newcastle.

  Locking the door carefully behind her, she turned to study the street, her street now. As had happened before, her eyes turned instinctively towards Number 6, the largest of the houses. Elise had told her it might once have been called Bay Tree Cottage because the renovators had found what looked like a house name sign in the garden with that written on it. Nice name for a house. Was there really a bay tree there? If so, it’d be in the back garden.

  She strolled along the street, hesitated, then walked up the front path of Number 6 and stopped for another moment at the corner of the house. Nell and Angus wouldn’t mind if she walked round the garden and looked for a bay tree, surely? The workmen had gone and cleared up after themselves, more or less. There was no vehicle parked in front of the house, so she doubted anyone would even know she’d been into the garden.

  The mess might have been cleared up but the ground had been trampled by feet going to and fro many times, and there were flattened patches where heavy things like skips must have stood. But even so, there was a feel of peace to it – well, that might be her imagination but that was how it seemed to her.

  Leaning against the wall just round the corner was a piece of wood. It looked like … yes, it was the old sign Elise had told her about. She admired the neat writing on it and the painted edging of green leaves arranged in a sort of wreath: Bay Tree Cottage. That last word made her smile. This house seemed much larger than a cottage to her.

  She walked round the side of the building eager to see the back garden, but as she turned the rear corner, she bumped into someone. She couldn’t help calling out in shock because she hadn’t heard any footsteps on the soft grass.

  The man clasped her arm lightly for a moment to steady her but he let go quickly, so she relaxed a little.

  He studied her anxiously. ‘Are you all right?’

  ‘Yes. Sorry. It was my fault. I wasn’t looking where I was going because I didn’t think anyone was around.’

  He let go of her, smiling. ‘We were both at fault then, because I wasn’t looking where I was going, either. I’m sorry if I gave you a fright. No harm done, I hope?’

  She shook her head and couldn’t help returning his smile.

  ‘Were you looking for someone?’

  Ginger could feel her cheeks growing warm. ‘Um, no. I was just being nosey. I’m going to be living in Number 1, you see, so I was exploring the street.’

  ‘Are you one of the resident artists?’

  ‘No. I’ll be running the café in the art gallery. This house looked so pretty I couldn’t resist coming to explore. Are you working on something here?’

  ‘I’m going to be doing the gardens of the houses, not that there’s a lot of garden to the first four. I parked my car in the street outside the back wall and walked round to get a better feel for the place without a clutter of cars blocking the view, because there’s a bit of front garden as well as the bigger patch of garden here at the back. Like you, I’m exploring.’

  ‘I should leave you to it.’

  ‘No, don’t do that. Let’s explore together and see what hidden plants we can find under all these weeds.’

  ‘I won’t be much use. I don’t know anything about gardening. I wish I did, because I love flowers. I was going to see if I could find something that looked like a bay tree.’

  He smiled again, and she thought what a delightful smile he had. It crinkled up his face and made it seem youthful, even though his hair was grey.

  ‘Please stay, anyway. Obviously, you wanted to explore and you won’t be in my way, I promise you. In fact, I can tell you what the plants are, if you’re interested.’

  She hesitated but he seemed to be part of the magic of the day, a peaceful sort of man with a slow way of speaking, that lovely smile and hands that worked hard outdoors, if she was any judge.

  She always looked at people’s hands. You could tell a lot from them. She hadn’t much time for soft, useless, droopy hands. And smiles said so much about people. This man’s smile was warm and gentle. That Cutler fellow’s smile was more like a sneer.

  She seized the opportunity to learn something. ‘If I’m not going to be in your way, I’d love to stay and find out more about the plants. I always wanted a garden but I’ve never lived in a house with one.’

  ‘You definitely won’t be in my way and I’ll enjoy some company,’ he said simply. ‘My wife died a few years ago and I live alone, so I’ve no one to chat to after my day’s work. I miss that.’

  ‘My husband died too. Cancer, it was.’

  ‘Do you miss him?’

  She hesitated but for some reason she didn’t want to lie to this man. ‘Not really. We didn’t not get on, but we weren’t particularly close, either.’

  ‘I see. Well, I’m Iain – Iain Darling.’

  She couldn’t hold back a gurgle of laughter. ‘Is Darling really your surname?’

  ‘It is. It comes from Durling in the early Middle Ages. It’s a bit awkward sometimes. At school, the teacher called everyone by their surname, but he couldn’t call me “Darling”, now could he, so it had to be Iain D.’

  She laughed. ‘My name’s Jean but no one ever calls me that. My hair used to be red, so I got the nickname Ginger. And I feel more of a Ginger than a Jean, too.’ She touched her hair self-consciously. She’d have to do something about that horrible dye.

  ‘And your surname?’

  ‘Brunham. I’ve never bothered to find out where it comes from.’

  ‘I’ll find out for you. I’ve got a book of English surnames. It sounds like a place name to me.’

  ‘I’d like to know.’

  Silence fell but it was a comfortable one. She lifted her face to the sun. ‘There’s a nice feel to this garden.’

  ‘That’s what I think. They talk about feng shui inside houses, but I think it’s there in gardens too if you tread quietly and see how it feels. I looked it up online, out of sheer curiosity. If I’ve understood correctly, for best feng shui, there should be an open front to a house and a square garden at the rear is the best shape.’

  ‘I don’t know anything about that but I do like the feel of this one.’

  ‘Then how about we search for that bay tree? There ought to be one, given the house’s name.’

  He studied the shrubs and trees, then moved forward, fingers gently separating the tangles till he revealed a small tree. ‘Aha! Here we are. Laurus nobilis is its Latin name, but some call it sweet bay.’ He plucked a leaf and held it out to her. ‘Smell that.’

  She took it and rubbed it between her fingers. ‘I’ve used the leaves in cooking but they were always dried ones and came in a packet. I shall take this home with me and find a use for it.’

  ‘To Number 1?’

  ‘Not yet. I’m staying with Elise in Number 3. She’s one of the artists. She does really pretty pa
intings.’

  ‘And when will you be moving into your house?’

  ‘I don’t have the whole house, just a bedsitter at the rear of Number 1. I’m going to need my furniture and other stuff, so I have to go home to Newcastle to get them before I can move in.’ She fell silent, frowning as that inevitably brought to mind facing Donny.

  ‘What brought that cloud to your face?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  He cocked his head to one side, as if challenging her.

  ‘Oh, all right. Since you asked. My son is living in my house there and he won’t get out. He’s thirty and he’s been sponging off me. In the end I left him to it to come here for an interview for one of the artists’ positions, but I didn’t get it. Donny doesn’t even know where I am at the moment and I don’t want him to know.’

  Iain took her hand and held it between his. ‘I can see that’s upsetting you.’

  She nodded, near to tears. She found it hard to talk about Donny and hadn’t told anyone except Elise that he’d thumped her, couldn’t for shame.

  ‘Would you let me help you move?’

  She looked at him in puzzlement. ‘But why should you? You hardly know me. We’ve only just met.’

  ‘I like to help people. As I said, I live on my own. I live by the rule that you can’t have too many friends, and I feel that you and I are going to become good friends, Ginger Brunham. Would you mind?’

  She didn’t know what to say to that till she saw him smile again. And that lovely smile gave her the courage to be as open as he had. ‘I’d truly like that.’

  ‘Good. We’ll have a poke round in the garden here, then I’ll take you out to tea and we’ll discuss how to solve your moving problem.’

  She could only nod. It sounded so right.

  Did Saffron Lane attract kind people? First Elise helping her, then Nell offering her a job, and now Iain. If this was sheer chance, she hoped it’d continue. She’d felt so worn down by the Donny problem when she arrived here.

  Chapter Twelve

  Warren looked out of the window, trying to see where that red-haired old tart had got to. Why was she still hanging around? What was a woman like her doing in an artists’ colony, for heaven’s sake? He took the risk of going out of the front door of his house and could just see her down the side of Number 6.

  She was talking to a fellow who was even older than her, then they disappeared round the rear of the house. They hadn’t noticed him, so he decided to push his luck a little further. He went out of the back of his house and strolled casually out on to the narrow strip of lawn that made up the shared back garden of all four houses in the row. His house was at the end of the row of four, and he knew no one was living in Number 5, the nearest of the pair at the end, so he took the opportunity to peer through its ground-floor windows.

  Empty but bigger than his house. He wondered if he could arrange a swap. Why should he live in one of the smaller houses? He was undoubtedly superior to the other two artists.

  He called this ‘getting familiar with his territory’. It could come in useful to know all the details about where you lived, something most people didn’t bother with.

  There wasn’t a solid fence between the last two houses and the row, just hedges. He stopped as it occurred to him that if he went into the back garden of Number 5 he’d be able to look into the back of Number 6 and perhaps see what those two were doing, even hear what they were saying. Strangers didn’t usually hang around empty houses for no reason.

  It was a tight squeeze to get through the untidy hedge but Warren managed it, betrayed into a hiss of breath as a sharp twig scratched his forearm. Standing still, he listened but couldn’t hear exactly what those two were saying, just the odd word here and there. He managed to move a little closer to them but it didn’t help.

  Then the old man suddenly poked his head through the hedge, damn him.

  ‘Ah! I thought I heard someone trampling around here. This is private property, I’m afraid, not open to the public.’

  ‘I’m not the public. I live in Saffron Lane.’

  ‘You don’t live in this house, so you’ve no reason to be in its garden.’

  ‘Well, neither have you.’

  ‘Actually, I do have a reason: I’m in charge of the gardening for all these houses.’

  Warren let out a puff of disbelief. ‘Pull my other leg; it’s got bells on it. No one’s touched these gardens for years. You’re trespassing too, so it’s the pot calling the kettle black. Bugger off and mind your own business.’

  The old man looked down his nose at him. It annoyed Warren to be shorter than most other people. Good thing he was smarter.

  ‘You need to learn a few manners, young fellow. Go away and stay out of these two gardens or I’ll inform the owners that you’re interfering in what I’m doing.’ He folded his arms and waited.

  With some difficulty, Warren controlled his anger at being spoken to like that, especially in front of the tart. Unfortunately, this chap seemed very sure of himself about calling the owners.

  Perhaps he’d jumped to the wrong conclusion and this really was the new gardener. The place certainly needed attention.

  As he started pushing aside the hedge to go back to his new home, Warren heard them start talking again, so lingered to see what he could learn.

  Iain brushed some leaves off himself and smiled at Ginger. ‘Do you know that guy?’

  ‘He’s called Warren Cutler and he’s one of the artists. He’s newly arrived, so no one knows much about him.’

  ‘He doesn’t look like an artist.’

  ‘What does an artist look like?’

  ‘More open to the world. What kind of art is he into?’

  ‘Woodcarving. Figurines and animals. I haven’t seen them but Elise says they’re more caricatures than real-life figures and there’s something nasty about them. She wouldn’t like to live with one and she doesn’t like Mr Cutler either.’

  ‘What about you? How do you feel about him?’

  ‘I don’t know because I’ve never spoken to him. I was interviewed for the same residency as him, but he got it. Still, they did offer me a job at the café and use of the flat behind it, so I didn’t lose out completely.’

  ‘You’re going to be living here? That’s great. I’ll be using the café regularly while I’m working here.’ He suddenly looked towards the hedge and put one finger to his lips, before whispering, ‘I think he’s still there, eavesdropping.’

  She spun round but couldn’t see or hear anything. ‘That’s not very nice.’

  ‘No, it isn’t.’ He raised his voice. ‘Let’s leave the rest of the garden till another day and I’ll buy you that coffee I promised.’

  She looked at him uncertainly and whispered, ‘You don’t have to. We can just creep away.’

  ‘I want to.’ He offered her his arm.

  She took it, enjoying this old-fashioned gesture, and let him escort her round the house and out on to the street.

  She stopped at Number 3. ‘I’ll just tell Elise where I’m going.’

  She was back in a couple of minutes, looking a trifle flushed, and carrying a shoulder bag.

  ‘Our eavesdropper has gone back into his house now,’ Iain whispered. ‘I saw him come to the front window, then step back. I expect he’s still there, watching us.’

  ‘How strange. Hasn’t he anything better to do?’

  ‘Apparently not. Now, let’s forget about him. I know a nice little café in town. Come and see what your opposition is like.’

  The café Iain took her to was in the main street of Sexton Bassett. After sitting there for a while, watching, Ginger decided it was efficiently run but it had a limited menu, not even attempting to offer anything gluten-free or give information dealing with allergies. She always felt sorry for people with food problems and had nagged Joe into providing for them.

  This place was there for rapid convenience, not to encourage people to linger. The coffee wasn’t bad, though.

&nbs
p; In her café, she’d somehow have to charm people so that they wanted to come back again, because it wouldn’t have a lot of passing trade. She’d need to find some good suppliers and choose what she served with great care.

  ‘Now, about your house move from Newcastle,’ Iain said when he’d drunk his coffee, eaten a lavishly buttered scone and ordered a second mug of flat white. ‘How much furniture will you be bringing? I have a large van, which I use for carrying stock around, and if you don’t need to bring too much, I could probably fit it all in.’

  ‘Carrying what sort of stock?’

  ‘I’m not just into gardening; I run a landscaping business. I can clean our biggest van out and bring your furniture here in it.’

  ‘Why are you offering to do this when you barely know me?’

  ‘As I said, I try to put back good karma into the universe by helping others. There are enough people in the world doing harm, so I try to do the opposite. As to knowing you, I intend to change that. We’ve already discussed becoming friends. You haven’t changed your mind about that, have you?’ He looked at her, head on one side, waiting for her answer.

  ‘Of course not.’

  ‘Good. Then tell me what sort of an artist you are. You must be one if you applied for a residency.’

  She tried to tell him but could see he hadn’t heard of raised stump work – well, not a lot of people had. It had been at its most popular in the seventeenth century, after all. She’d found out about it in a book, then seen some examples on an antiques show on the telly. In the end she offered to show him a couple of her pieces and he agreed enthusiastically. She hoped he wouldn’t be disappointed.

  When he dropped her back at Saffron Lane, she ran into the house, grabbed the bag of embroideries and took it out to the car.

  She gave one to him to look at, almost holding her breath as she watched him study it for quite a long time. She relaxed a little as he ran one fingertip over some of the little animals sitting around the edges. People who liked her work often did that, touched them. She loved putting in those animals, imagining them watching the scene from the corners of her embroidery canvas.