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CHAPTER FIVETea for
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Damask Roses
Widely grown in ancient Persia and introduced into Europe in the thirteenth century, damask roses have plentiful foliage and lush clusters of highly scented flowers. Traditionally used to make perfume, their elongated leaves and abundant satiny petals guarantee them a place in all rosarian collections as examples of the true essence of roses. Famous varieties include Marie Louise with its large, intensely pink full flowers which open flat and then gradually curl; Ville de Bruxelles, a luxurious pink with a rich fragrance; and the stunning pure-white lemon-scented Madame Hardy.
It’s half past four on Wednesday afternoon and it’s pouring with rain. It’s been raining on and off ever since the Spring Fair. In between torrential downpours, we’ve had steady rain interrupted by drizzle; if it carries on like this, I’d probably be better off asking Mr. Stebbings to leave the gatehouse half-finished and start building a sodding ark. The Harrington menagerie is about to expand yet again with the arrival of the piglets, so Patrick and the boys have waded out to the stables and are busy rearranging damp straw and filling up the water trough. Apparently a constant supply of water is vital, or we’ll end up having to rehydrate two piglets on top of everything else, and God knows what that would involve, but I’m guessing it wouldn’t be pretty.
“The pigs should be arriving soon Bertie.”
“Jolly good.”
Nothing ever fazes Bertie. I’m sure if I popped into the library with his afternoon cup of tea and announced the unicorns were about to arrive, he’d tell me that was jolly good too.
“Stay inside in the warm, and we’ll come and get you once they’re settled.”
“Right you are.”
In an ideal world I’d like to avoid Bertie joining the piglet meet and greet—I’m not sure how they’d react to a spot of celebratory cannon activity, and he’s already got a rotten cold after getting completely plastered with the lifeboat people at their stall at the Spring Fair. The awning collapsed in the wind and the rain, so they all ended up getting soaked trying to put it back up again. By the time Dennis brought him home, they were both pale blue with cold. Ivy’s still sulking with Dennis, and didn’t speak to him at all on Monday, so that’s been a treat on top of all the piglet prep.
Betty is giving me a particularly malevolent look, walking along the back of the sofa and bobbing her head up and down.
“Mum, the farmer’s arrived.”
“Thanks Dan. I’ll be there in a minute.”
“Knob.”
“I wonder where Betty is picking up her new vocab Dan?”
He grins, and then looks at his feet.
“Sorry Mum.”
“Is Celia out there with you?”
“Yes, and Jasper.”
Great. More leaping and barking.
At the mention of Jasper, Betty puts her head down and fluffs up her feathers.
“Get to your basket.”
She’s taken to screeching this at random moments whenever she thinks Jasper might be in the vicinity. If only I could find my basket, I’d definitely go and sit in it, particularly as an alternative to introducing piglets to their new home. Dennis and Patrick have spent ages fixing the pigsty roof with a sheet of corrugated iron and some bricks Mr. Stebbings gave them. They’ve even painted the door and the gate a chirpy apple green.
“Dan?”
“Yes Mum.”
“If she starts saying anything beginning with an F, you’re grounded for a month okay?”
“Polly put the kettle on. Knob. Knob. Knob.”
Bloody hell.
There’s quite a crowd by the time we get to the stables. Even Ivy’s put her coat and Wellies on and come out to witness the arrival. Tess is trying hard to herd everyone back out of the rain and into the stables, which would be a top plan under ordinary circumstances. But at least the flaming things can’t get dehydrated on our first day as pig people given there are puddles of water everywhere. So that’s a small bonus to make up for all the squelching.
You wouldn’t think two eight-week-old piglets could cause so much chaos, or make so much noise, but they gallop around in circles squealing, with their ears flapping, looking very sweet, pinky white with black splodges. Until one of them manages to squeeze past Patrick when he opens the gate and it all goes a bit 101 Dalmatians, with dogs and boys running and yelling and falling over in the mud, until Patrick finally manages to grab the piglet and reunite it with its brother.
“Let’s go back inside and leave them to settle for a bit, shall we?”
Sally looks at his jeans, which are caked with mud.
“You can’t go into Molly’s house looking like that.”
“O ye of little faith, I’ve got spare trousers in the car. I thought something like this might happen.”
He looks at the boys, who also require urgent de-muddying assistance.
“We’ll have to get them plastic trousers.”
Sally tuts.
“Less of the ‘we,’ thanks. This pig thing was your idea, not mine, so you can sort the trousers. And get some for yourself while you’re at it.”
“If you find out where they sell them Patrick let me know and I’ll get some for the boys.”
Dan tuts.
“I’m not wearing plastic trousers like a total twat.”
“Dan.”
“Twit. A total twit.”
“So you’ll be doing all your own washing from now on, will you? Rinsing anything muddy in the scullery sink so it doesn’t clog up the machine?”
Ivy nods.
“Dennis has got waterproofs. They’re handy if you’re working outdoors, not that he always has the sense to wear them of course. Coming back with Mr. Bertie soaked to the skin, both of them giggling like a pair of naughty schoolboys. Haven’t got the sense they were born with. So you just listen to your mother, there’s a good boy. Shall I go back in and put the kettle on, then?”
“Please Ivy. Dan will help, won’t you Dan?”
He tuts again.
“Mum?”
“Yes Alfie?”
“Our pigs are great, aren’t they?”
“Yes love.”
“If we like them we could get more, couldn’t we, and then they could all have races?”
“Let’s see how we get on with these two first.”
We’re back indoors sitting round the kitchen table drinking tea and eating slices of Ivy’s lemon cake while the debate about what to call the piglets continues. Alfie’s keen to name them Ben and Dan, which I’ve vetoed in deference to family harmony, but Ben is still busy Googling alternatives on Dan’s laptop in case my veto weakens and they end up sharing their names with anything porcine.
“What about Biffer and Boffer, from The Hobbit? Biffer likes raspberry jam and apple tart, and plays the clarinet, and Boffer likes mince pies and cheese and also plays the clarinet.”
Fingers crossed nobody gets hold of a clarinet.
“They’re not dwarves, they’re pigs, and me and Tom want them to have proper names. And we’re going to choose them all by ourselves. They’re our pigs, not yours.”
“Alfie, don’t be rude, Ben’s only trying to help.”
“What about Dumb and Dumber?”
“Mum, tell him.”
“Ben, don’t tease him, unless you want a piglet named after you.”
Ivy pours Sally some more tea and sits down.
“I’ve always thought Pinky and Perky are nice names for pigs. They used to be on the television years ago, when it was still only in black-and-white. Lovely little things they were, puppets, they used to do a little dance.”
Dennis makes a disapproving noise.
“They’re a grand old breed, the Gloucestershire Old Spots, used to call them the ‘Orchard Pig.’ They don’t want daft names like Pinky and Perky, stands to reason.”
Ben nods.
“It says here farmers used to keep them to stop their orchards getting overgrown, and they used to say their black spots were bruises from the falling apples.”
Patrick smiles.
“Once they’ve had a couple of days to settle I’ll get the electric fence rigged up, and we’ll move them round the orchard—they’ll like that.”
Patrick’s put a lot of work into the piggy project already, sorting out all the official paperwork and the herd number. He’s also worked out some complicated strip-grazing plan with Dennis, or it might be grazing strips; whatever it’s called, it’s supposed to mean the orchard doesn’t end up looking like we’re paying homage to the Battle of the Somme.
“It says here pigs love apple slices as a treat.”
Dennis nods.
“Yes, but there’s no need to spoil them with slices of apple—they’ll have all the apples they want come autumn. You can take out the veg peelings though—they’ll like that.”
Ivy folds her arms.
“They’ll have to share with the hens then, because we need our eggs too you know.”
“The traditional day to kill your pig is Saint Martin’s Day—that’s the eleventh of November.”
“Cool. Can we do it?”
“No Dan we can’t. And we don’t want to know when to kill the poor little things thanks Ben—they’ve only just arrived.”
Alfie gives me a pitying look.
“Yes we do Mum—it’s all part of the circle of life. Uncle Patrick’s explained it, and you wouldn’t have pigs if we didn’t make them into bacon.” He pauses, clearly thinking about scampering piglets. “But only when they’re much bigger.”
He seems fine with this, so I think it might be just me and Ben who’ll be having qualms about the bacon issue.
“Yes Mum, honestly, get with the program—where do you think bacon comes from? Packets? They wouldn’t be here at all if they weren’t bred for bacon. That’s the deal, and they’ll have a good life with us.”
“Yes thank you Ben, when I need you to be cheeky, I’ll ask, okay?”
So that’ll be just me having the qualms then.
Celia pats my arm.
“We always had a pig when I was a girl—can’t remember their names though. Think we had one called Edward.”
Alfie gives Celia a worried look.
“Edward’s not a very good name for a pig Aunty Celia.”
“Fair point, Alfie, fair point. We had one called Prudence too—named after a relative of my mother’s—caused no end of ructions, so on balance, perhaps people’s names are best avoided. Why don’t you make a list of things you like best, that might that do the trick?”
Bertie is clearly rather taken with this idea.
“Well strong drink and strong women would definitely be at the top of my list. Can’t go far wrong if you’d got ready access to both my boy, remember that, it will come in very handy one day. Not ideal for pig-naming purposes, I grant you. No, you want something more fitting. Bacon-and-Eggs seems rather harsh, but it’s on the right track, I know, what about calling them Bubble and Squeak?”
The boys adore bubble and squeak, so I often cook extra potatoes and veg so there are leftovers ready to fry up the next day. Watching the vast quantities of what Alfie likes to call “squeaker,” which they consumed at supper last night, has clearly made a lasting impression on Bertie, and everyone agrees these are excellent names for piglets as Tom and Alfie start skipping round the table chanting, “Bubble and Squeak, Bubble and Squeak.”
“Let’s go out and tell them their new names Dad.”
“Can I finish my tea first?”
I think Patrick would like to stay inside in the warm for a bit longer, so Tom and Alfie stand hopping up and down beside him while he finishes his tea, which makes Sally laugh.
“You’ll have to put your old jeans back on again, and get the boys changed back into theirs.”
“Thanks, I’d never have thought of that.”
“Maybe getting those waterproofs should be a top priority tomorrow?”
“You can go off sarcastic women you know.”
“Not as quickly as you’ll go off washing muddy trousers.”
“Happy Easter darling.”
I’m in the orchard on Sunday morning with Lola, who is wearing her dark glasses despite the drizzle. She and Celia discovered a mutual passion for martinis last night and then moved on to a cocktail-making competition with Bertie, which he inevitably won, but only when all three of them were so plastered we had to practically carry Celia up the stairs. Tre doesn’t drink alcohol, and appears to be in some sort of yogic trance most of the time, but he’s so breathtakingly gorgeous it doesn’t really matter. He just sits there looking astonishing and breathing very slowly. He smiles too, and that’s about it; he’s a very peaceful and relaxing guest. Even Betty seemed calmer when he was in the room.
“Did they do the Easter-egg hunt already?”
“No, I said we’d do it after lunch. Give us time to hide the eggs properly.”
“Great. So you’re officially open now darling, congratulations. I can’t believe how much you’ve done in so short a time.”
“Thanks Lola.”
“And?”
“And nothing really, we’ve had a few bookings, a nice woman called Mrs. Allen who Ivy likes, she was here last year apparently. She was sweet, although she likes poached eggs, so she’s never going to be top of my list. And another couple on Thursday, who were less sweet, and kept moaning.”
“About what?”
“The weather mostly, but also how they liked their room better before because they preferred the old wallpaper.”
“Nutters.”
“Yup, but it’s been fine, so far, and we’ve got a few more bookings in for the summer holidays, so that’s good. And now that Celia is booked in for a few weeks, that really helps, and I can concentrate on the gatehouse. We’ve had a few setbacks there: the ceiling in the bedroom collapsed, and one of the main beams is rotten, so that will cost more than I budgeted for, but we’re getting there. Thank God for Mr. Stebbings.”
“So the B-and-B thing will work then, as a way to pay the bills?”
“No, absolutely no way. Not with just the B-and-B, even if I go into all the guidebooks and run ads and put the prices up as high as they can go, and get to around an eighty-percent occupancy rate—which is really going for it, since it’s been more like thirty percent so far—it’ll still be chicken feed, literally in our case since I’ve just had to buy new sacks of feed for Gertie and the girls. No, the gatehouse is definitely going to be key, and the stables.”
“So will you stop doing B-and-B?”
“Probably, once everything is up and running.”
“Good plan darling. You don’t want to spend the rest of your life cooking bacon for strangers. Not unless they’re girls the boys have brought home.”
“Hopefully they’ll be cooking their own breakfasts by then.”
“I wouldn’t count on it darling. God, this headache really isn’t shifting you know. I thought the fresh air would help.”
“I’m sure it will, give it time.”
“Bertie was on fine form last night—he’s adorable.”
“He is, although he’s a bit less adorable when he’s setting fire to things.”
“We had a bit of a moment a couple of weeks back, he fell asleep in the library and set fire to his newspaper. It fell on the hearth and he’d forgotten to put the fireguard in front of the fire properly, so the next thing we knew Betty was squawking and screeching, and he was trying to put it out by bashing it with the poker, which meant he ended up burning a hole in the rug.”
“Right. So he’s not turning into your very own Mrs. Danvers, then?”
“No, but I do a Mrs. Danvers patrol every night now, just to make sure all the fireguards are in the right place. I never thought I’d say this, but thank God for Betty, our very own avian smoke alarm.”
“Like those canaries miners used to have to warn them about gas, but more aristocratic. Every home should have one.”
“If they’ve got a Bertie they should. Or have a dog. Jasper does a pretty similar thing for Celia.”
“Christ, is she setting fire to the place too?”
“No, but if she falls asleep on the sofa he yaps and yaps at her until she wakes up. He doesn’t like people sleeping unless they’re in bed. She says she’d half nodded off in the bath once, and he dived in.”
“Handy.”
“Very, unless he starts doing the same thing for our guests. I’d make sure the door’s locked if you fancy a quick ten minutes meditation in the bath, unless you want Jasper to join you.”
“Thanks for the heads-up, I’ll warn Tre—he’s always zoning out.”
“Good idea, and if you see Bertie settling into his chair by the fire with his newspaper, make sure the fireguard is in the right place would you? I’ve put a new smoke alarm up just outside the door, and I’ve checked all the batteries in the old ones, so I’m really hoping I won’t need to get one of those old-fashioned nursery fireguards, the ones like wire cages—they bolt to the wall, but they look hideous.”
“Those curtain ones are nice. They have them in lots of the smart clubs in town, matt-black metal, very neat, you hardly notice them.”
“Yes, I saw them when I was researching all the alternatives, but they’re the most expensive ones, and you still have to actually shut the curtain.”
“Oh right, yes, so not Bertie-proof then.”
“Not really. I’m sure it’ll be fine, he was pretty mortified about it, but we’re keeping an eye on it.”
“He’s still adorable though.”
“Oh yes, completely.”
The piglets are now racing Ben and Alfie up and down their run, and it’s hard to tell who is enjoying themselves the most.
“I still don’t really get how you could win a pig darling.”
“Neither do I Lola, but we did.”
“It’s like the twilight zone down here isn’t it, and why are there two of them? Please tell me I’m not seeing double.”
“No, there are definitely two. The boys didn’t want them to be lonely.”
“Do try not to adopt anything else though darling, yes? You don’t want to turn into one of those nutters who breeds alpacas. If you see any donkeys wandering about looking tragic, just look the other way. Although a little donkey might be sweet—it could help carry all the food for the pigs.”
“Thanks Lola, I’ll bear it in mind.”
“Sounds like the architect was in top form at the Fair though, where is he now?”
“Madrid, and yes, he was. Sally had to pretend to look for something under the table at one point she was enjoying it so much. She says he’s got a bit of a reputation locally; apparently he and Portia both had affairs when they were married, so nobody was that surprised when they split up.”
“So?”
“So nothing, I’m just saying.”
“Well stop it. You’re not looking for a second husband, so what do you care. When’s he back from Madrid?”
“In a couple of weeks, but then he’s off somewhere else I think. He rang to say he couldn’t resist putting on a performance in front of Portia and he hoped I didn’t mind. But there’s something—I don’t know—he’s a bit too pleased with himself.”
“I wish I’d seen Pete’s face.”
“Yes, that was a definite highlight. And it’s nice, having someone showing an interest, but it’s all—I don’t know—somehow underwhelming.”
“It’s bound to feel strange, putting yourself back out there, like going on a refresher course. Refresh and revitalise, like a good spa treatment, but with better underwear.”
“But that’s exactly what I’m trying to say. It doesn’t feel that refreshing, or revitalising, and I definitely don’t have that kind of underwear—and before you say it, no, I’m not going shopping. It all feels like it’s a foregone conclusion, like we’ve fast-forwarded somehow, and there’s just a hint in amongst all the flirting that I should feel very lucky he’s paying me so much attention. And I should be, I can see that, he’s very much the eligible man about town and everything, but I don’t want to spend my time doing anything I’m not one hundred percent keen on anymore. I spent far too long doing that with Pete. It’s like Bertie says, I’m all for a bit of gallivanting, but if it all turns into dinners and what to wear and scoring points over the ex-wife, I think I’d rather stay in, pottering around the house and keeping the boys out of trouble, or out in the garden, it’s so beautiful now. Gallivanting interspersed with pottering and getting into gardening—I think that’s what I want to be doing.”
“Good for you darling. So when are you going out gallivanting then?”
“God knows, probably never, but I like the sound of it.”
“Just promise me you’ll keep doing things which get you away from the Doctor Doolittle thing you’ve got going on, I do slightly worry you’ll develop a passion for rare breeds. You’ll turn into one of those women who are always covered in hair and dribble from some special kind of long-eared goat.”
“I think that’s rabbits. I don’t think they do long-eared goats.”
“See what I mean. Promise?”
“I promise.”
“Good. So what’s the plan for today then?”
“An early lunch, and then there’s a car-boot sale and I thought we could do the egg hunt when we get back.”
“I don’t buy things from people’s cars darling.”
“There are stalls too, food and surfing kit, hippy clothes, that kind of thing. Or we can stay here and help the boys clean the pigsty?”
“Maybe the car-boot thing is worth a go. At least if there are hippy stalls Tre will enjoy himself.”
“Does he ever speak?”
“Not really. He’s very stupid darling, so I try not to encourage it. Beautiful though, yes?”
“Oh yes.”
She laughs, and then winces.
“Christ, have you got any more Panadol? Those first two haven’t quite hit the spot.”
“Sure. And another pot of coffee?”
“Perfect.”
Lola and Tre have a “siesta” before lunch, and Celia is in the garden with Ben planting out summer veg with Dennis, so I have a relaxing morning making lunch in between stopping the boys’ bickering. Dan is still sulking because I wouldn’t let him join in the killer-cocktails session last night, and Alfie is sulking because I’ve vetoed training Bubble and Squeak to come into the house and up the stairs into his bedroom.
“Dennis says we should be able to lift the second crop of new potatoes soon, and the asparagus is nearly ready.”
Ben’s a keen gardener now and spends ages with Dennis and Celia mucking about in the greenhouse or digging in the kitchen garden.
“That’s great love.”
“Shall I alert the BBC? They’ll probably want to make a special Boring Gardeners programme.”
“You don’t have to eat any of the asparagus if it’s too boring Dan. And Ben, take your socks off love, get a clean pair or you’ll be traipsing mud everywhere.”
“I said we’d help Dennis with the rabbits later.”
The Easter Bunny doesn’t really get a look-in round here, since Dennis is waging an ongoing rabbit battle. There are burrows along the cliff tops, and they keep trying to infiltrate the kitchen garden by digging tunnels under the walls, so he’s mounting special patrols in the early morning and at dusk, with Tess and Jasper barking and the boys running around yelling. So far this, combined with sporadic cannon fire from Bertie, seems to be doing the trick, but Dennis is adamant they’d clear the garden of all traces of salad and veg if we let them, so constant vigilance is essential, despite the quantities of mud and soaking-wet anoraks this involves.
“That’s fine love, but only if you let Alfie join in, and Tom if he’s here with Patrick checking on the pigs.”
“But he always ends up falling into the ditch and making a huge fuss.”
Dan grins.
“That’s why they call it a ha-ha. I’ll give you a hand later if you like. You never know, you might be the one who ends up in the ditch.”
“Hurry up and lay the table please. And Dan, go and tell Lola the shepherd’s pie is nearly ready, and yes, Alfie does need to help if he wants to. Didn’t Dennis say the more the merrier?”
“Yes, but he also said he’d get his friend round, the one with the night-vision thing on his gun, and you weren’t too keen on that were you? Actually a machine gun would be better, you’d get loads of rabbits with one of those, and Uncle Bertie is bound to know where to get one.”
“Don’t be daft Dan, we just want to keep them off the veg. We don’t want a rabbit apocalypse in our back garden—it would upset Alfie.”
“It would not, he’d love it. Dennis was saying he’s partial to a bit of rabbit pie, and Alfie said he wants to try it.”
Oh God, if I’m not careful Ivy will be trying to teach me how to skin a rabbit before I know where I am. It’s bad enough picking shotgun pellets out of pheasants, although admittedly the casseroles are delicious. But that’s one of the things about country life which I’d forgotten: how things don’t arrive in nice clean plastic packets. It’s fine with veg, and the occasional pheasant. But I definitely draw the line at de-furring rabbits.
“Dennis said we’d get a few for the freezer. We’re country boys now. Shoot things and eat them, all part of country life isn’t it—well, apart from Benny boy.”
Dan is definitely smirking now.
“Sure, if you skin them and do all the prep. It’s a very messy job, but I’m sure Ivy can show you. I’m having nothing to do with anything bunny related. Now, please get the table sorted, and anyone not sitting down, with clean hands and socks and being nice to their little brother, and not talking about shooting things, won’t be getting any lunch.”
They both tut.
Bertie entertains us at lunch with tales of guns mounted along the cliff tops during the War, and makes the whole thing sound like it was all a tremendous adventure.
“It wasn’t all fun though, was it, Uncle Bertie?”
“Sorry my dear?”
“We wouldn’t want anyone to think that War was fun, would we?”
I give him what I hope is a firm look.
“Oh no, quite right, terrible business. I could tell you things to make your hair curl.”
The boys all lean forwards slightly, clearly thrilled.
“Yes, but not at lunchtime. We don’t want anyone having nightmares, do we?”
“No, quite, no need to dwell. Put it out of your mind, that’s what we all learnt, else you couldn’t go on, end up in the loony bin. Can’t help remembering on dark days—lost so many decent chaps, girls too. Lots of tears in amongst all the larks, lots of tears.”
He pauses, and I’m hoping he’s not about to launch into another one of his naval reminiscences. Some of them are pretty devastating.
“What’s on the itinerary for this afternoon? Dennis mentioned something about rabbits. Thought I might test the cannon, check everything’s in working order, wake the buggers up.”
Alfie sits up a bit straighter, looking delighted; not only has the cannon been mentioned but a grown-up has said “bugger” at lunch.
“We’re off to a boot sale Uncle Bertie, but maybe afterwards? And I’ve been meaning to talk to you about the cannon, only do you think we could have a signal before you fire it? Just so we get a bit of warning. A warning whistle, something like that?”
Everyone thinks a whistle is an excellent idea, and Alfie races off to retrieve the one from his Christmas cracker, and we all have a few practice toots. Great. So now Bertie is keeper of the whistle and will blow it before he fires the stupid thing, which should mean I don’t break quite so much china. If we can just get through the afternoon without anyone “accidentally” letting the pigs out, or trying to point cannons at rabbits, we should be in for a peaceful time.
“Alfie, eat the rest of your carrots love, and tell Aunty Lola about the scouts.”
Alfie and Ben tell Lola all about the wonderful world of scouting and she’s suitably impressed. Alfie is officially a Beaver, and Ben is a Scout, so they have different sweatshirts and badges. They’ve only been going for a couple of weeks, but so far they both love it, and there are plans for going camping later in the year.
“You’ll have to get lots of badges Alfie, so Mummy can sew them on for you in her sewing room.”
“You can glue them on now Lola, thank you, so less of the Mummy-sewing-things-on, if it’s all the same to you.”
“That’s handy.”
“Very. The only tricky bit is they go the same night as Dan has his lifeguards’ thing, so I end up driving backwards and forwards all evening like a taxi service. I’m thinking of getting a light to put on the top of the car and see if I can’t pick up a few fares.”
“I’d be careful what light you get darling—anything vaguely red and you might find yourself getting some unusual requests.”
Bertie starts chuckling, and raises his glass to Lola in appreciation.
“Yes, thank you Lola, and what other sort of lights would there be then? Do explain what you mean to Alfie.”
“Ice-cream vans have lights darling, and you wouldn’t want children queuing up for ice cream every time you stopped at the traffic lights would you?”
Celia’s trying not to smile too now, and Dan.
“Tell Aunty Lola about your lifeguards’ thing, Dan, I’m sure she’d like to hear all about it.”
“It’s just me, and my mate Robbie from school does it too. It’s pretty cool. We do training on the beach and races and everything.”
“Sounds exciting darling. Do you race in and out of the surf?”
“Sometimes.”
“And he’s got special red shorts and a bright-yellow sweatshirt, haven’t you Danny?”
He gives Ben a threatening look.
“Yeah, but that’s so people can see you on the beach, you idiot.”
“They can probably see you from the other side of the bay.”
“Ben, you can start clearing the table ready for pud, if you’ve finished.”
Lola is smiling.
“Well good for you, Dan. Do lots of people go, from your school?”
“Quite a few: Robbie and Tom, and Sam Masters, and this girl I know, Freya. And a few of the sixth formers, but they don’t talk to us.”
Alfie puts his fork down.
“It would be better if there were no girls. But I might join, when I’m bigger.”
“When you’re bigger you might like girls a bit more Alfie, you never know.”
“I do know Aunty Lola, and I won’t.”
“Apart from your Aunty Lola of course.”
He gives her an adoring look.
“Of course. And we can have ice cream when we go to the boot fair, can’t we, as many as we like?”
“Over to you Aunty Lola—more than one and he’s definitely in your car on the way back, and that’s all I’m saying on the subject.”
The car-boot sale is quite a good one, and I find some more old glass bottles and bowls for the guest bedrooms, and a lovely old white enamel bread bin which will look great in the kitchen in the gatehouse. We meet Vicky and Bea and Daisy, buying material for Daisy’s bedroom, and Vicky helps me choose some for curtains for the gatehouse bedroom, so that’s another thing crossed off the list. I stock up on handmade soap, and Lola buys some too—rose geranium and verbena, and sage for Tre, because apparently sage is very cleansing.
We’re back home having a quiet cup of tea while the boys count up their eggs after a rather frantic Easter-egg hunt where Alfie inevitably ended up falling into the ha-ha again, when Bertie and Celia wander in, looking chirpy. They’ve taken to going on little walks in the afternoons now, each treating the other as an elderly person in need of a slow pace and a steadying arm.
“Celia has a proposition about the garden my dear, and I must say I wasn’t keen at first, but now I’ve got all the info I’m rather coming round to the idea. Entirely up to you of course.”
He nods at Celia.
“Off you go then, ask her.”
“I thought you were going to ask her.”
“Was I? Oh sorry, forgot that bit. Mind like a sieve. Might be better if you ran her through the basics. Bound to make a hash of it if you leave it to me.”
She looks at him in the same way I remember Helena used to, a mixture of annoyance and affection, rather similar to the way you’d greet an old family pet who’s been chewing your slippers for the umpteenth time.
“It’s quite simple: I’d like us to consider opening the garden for a day, as part of the National Garden Scheme. My friend Bobby is the county organiser, so she could give us all the details. They’re very fussy, but I’m sure we’d be accepted, and you charge an entry fee—five pounds is the usual, and you donate it to a charity of your choice. I thought we could raise funds in memory of Helena, make a donation to a heart charity, and we could also sell teas and cakes, and pot up some seedlings and sell those to raise funds to renovate the fountain. Helena definitely had that in her sights as her next project, and it would be such a fitting tribute. And best of all, we could also invite the Rose Society people—they’ve been trying to present a medal in honour of all of Helena’s work for years. She kept telling them she was too busy, although personally I think it was more a case of too shy.”
“Too stubborn, more like—never did like a fuss.”
She nods at Bertie.
“That’s true enough, but this is a gold medal. They’ve only awarded seven so far, it’s quite exceptional, so I do think she’d approve. I know she was terribly pleased when they first suggested it, even though she pretended she wasn’t. So what do you think my dear? Shall we find Dennis and discuss it, because we’d obviously need to take his views into account.”
“How many people would come do you think?”
“Around two hundred, at a guess, maybe more if the weather is good.”
Bloody hell, two hundred people tramping round the garden and wanting tea. Dennis will go nuts, and if he doesn’t, Ivy definitely will.
“Let’s talk to Dennis and Ivy about it tomorrow.”
Celia stands up.
“Ivy’s in the kitchen right now actually, Dennis drove her up a few minutes ago, been shopping, something about wanting the big mixing bowl from the pantry. Shall I ask them to join us?”
“Great.”
Bugger.
“Well I think it’s a brilliant idea. Put you on the map—well, the gardening map anyway.”
“Thanks Lola, and will you be down that weekend helping serve all the teas then?”
“Possibly not darling, but you could print up leaflets about the B-and-B you know, be great for business.”
“Yes, brilliant, if we want all our guests wanting tours of the gardens every five minutes, it will be perfect. Anyway, it’s up to Ivy and Dennis—they’ll be the ones doing all the extra work.”
I’m rather counting on them to be honest, but as soon as they come in I can see that Dennis is quite taken with the idea, even though he’s pretending not to be.
“We’d need to keep on our toes, because they turn up with penknives and plastic bags to take cuttings and we don’t want them snipping away at our best plants like vultures. I’ve seen them at it, when we’ve visited other gardens. Ivy and I often have a driveout on a Sunday, don’t we Ivy?”
“Yes, and a right mess they usually make, with people wandering in and out of the house with muddy shoes.”
Celia nods.
“We’d have to think about that, make sure we planned things properly. But the medal would be such a fitting tribute to Helena, and all her hard work over the years. And your hard work too Dennis—she couldn’t possibly have done it without you.”
“I’m not saying I’m against it, I’m just saying we’d need to be on our guard.”
“Absolutely.”
“I suppose we could have the tea in the stables, if it rains?”
“In those dirty old stables? If you think I’m serving tea on our best plates in those mucky old stables, you can think again, Dennis.”
“Only if the weather’s bad. And we’d clean them up, we’d want to do it properly.”
Bertie stands up.
“Excellent, knew you’d come up with a plan to make it work. And if people can buy Ivy’s cakes, we’ll make an absolute fortune, that’s pretty much guaranteed. I think this calls for a celebratory tipple. Anyone care to join me?”
We’re starting on what I predict will be an ongoing series of mild bickers about what china to use and what people will sit on when they have their tea, when Alfie races in, panting.
“Mum, quick, a sheep has fell in the ha-ha. Come and see, it’s great.”
We troop down to the bottom of the garden. The farmer who rents the fields has had the sheep out with their lambs for a few weeks now, and they bounce about and climb on top of anything they can find, including their mothers if they make the mistake of lying down. They’re still very small though, so I’m hoping it’s a lamb, but it turns out to be a rather large and very grumpy sheep.
“How do we get it out Uncle Dennis?”
“Stop running about, for starters, we want to calm it down, or we’ll never get it out. Ben, go and get some rope from the barn, there’s a good lad.”
Alfie is hopping up and down.
“Are you going to lasso it Uncle Dennis, like cowboys do?”
Dennis smiles.
“Might be a better idea, but I thought we’d try to rig up a halter first and try to lead her out and back into the field. She’ll have a lamb in there and she’ll go back in no bother once we get her pointed in the right direction. Stupid animals sheep, one of the stupidest creatures you’re ever likely to meet. Always seem to be looking for a way to die; if they’re not stuck somewhere, they’re in the wrong field or out on the road. Like pheasants. They’re another lot who haven’t got much sense to them.”
Actually in terms of not having much sense I think finding yourself in charge of three boys, assorted pensioners, dogs, chickens, pigs, and a parrot, alongside a B&B and two hundred people coming for tea and a poke round your garden might rank quite highly too.
I’m going to have to start a whole new list.
“And then shall we go on rabbit patrol Uncle Dennis?”
“Might as well I suppose, now we’ve all got our outside things on.”
Double bugger.
After a busy few weeks I’m sitting in the linen cupboard on Friday afternoon with a cup of tea and a biscuit, trying to head off a full-blown panic attack. Mr. and Mrs. Collins are due to book in at lunchtime, and I can’t help feeling B&B guests in the house on top of hordes of nutter rose people descending on us in the garden this weekend might just be the final straw. We’ve been fairly busy with B&B guests—I think “slow but steady” would be the official verdict—and we’ve also all been fighting off the cold Alfie brought home from school, which meant a few days which descended into a blur of hot lemon and tissues, so that didn’t exactly help. I’m continuing my Mrs. Danvers anti-fire patrol, but thankfully Bertie is leaving the fireguard firmly in place now, although he did make Dan a hot lemon drink which turned out to contain copious amounts of sugar and a tiny shot of whiskey, so I had to have a firm word about that. Although to be fair, Dan did stop whining about his cold and sleep for ten hours straight, so all in all it could have been worse.
But the weather is finally getting warmer now June has arrived, and we’re drying all the washing outdoors now, on the rotary washing lines at the side of the kitchen garden wall, which, as Ivy rightly says, is a long way to walk with baskets of wet washing. But there’s nowhere else to put them, not without ruining the views, and now we’re opening the garden for public perusal, and getting a medal from the Rose Society for Helena’s roses, it’s probably not the ideal time to stick a load of washing lines closer to the house. Dennis has put up a new bigger rotary line, so we’ve got three of them now, looking like a mini wind-turbine collection when they’re not festooned with clothes and sheets. Living by the sea does mean mornings often start with a sea mist, but it’s usually gone by lunchtime, and even the big double sheets dry in a couple of hours when the sun is out. And everything smells so fresh, with a vague hint of salt. I’m definitely turning into someone who cares about the right weather for drying washing.
I’ve also taken to wearing aprons like Ivy, although unlike her navy-blue cotton tabards, I’m wearing floral pinafores which I found on one of the hippy stalls at the boot fair. They’re great over jeans and T-shirts, and even Lola pronounced them more Vintage Retro than Mrs. Mop. Not that Ivy is a Mrs. Mop of course, even if she has started taking her new bucket on wheels home with her after she caught Ben trying to use it to wheel vegetable peelings out to the chickens.
Celia and Dennis have been potting up cuttings and muttering about plant labels and signs to stop people wandering around the house for what seems like weeks now. We’ve had Celia’s friend Bobby, the county organiser, to stay for the night, who turned out to be Lady Roberta Wootton, which sent Ivy into somewhat of a spin and meant the best china came out of the cupboard. They spent hours outside in the garden with Dennis wittering on about signage and proper plant labels, and deciding that the meadow and the path down to the cove must be included in the Open Garden because apparently Helena has done such a wonderful job of planting wildflowers and a top-notch collection of rambling roses and sea thrift in amongst the grasses and ancient hedgerows, and everyone will want to see those too. So that’s meant more mowing of paths and extra signs to point people in the right direction.
Ivy has relented and agreed that people can use the downstairs cloakroom, but she’s organising a timetable so that Florrie and May are on duty to make sure nobody goes through the hall door and starts helping themselves to all our ornaments—although God knows why anybody would want to. We’ve rented trestle tables from the village hall, and she’s holding firm about not wasting our good china on a load of old gardeners who if Dennis is anything to go by, will hand back cups covered in dirty fingerprints with their handles chipped. So she’s arranged to borrow the cups and saucers and cake plates from the village hall as well, and I have to go and collect them tomorrow morning because the Women’s Institute are using them today. And the weather forecast is for showers on Sunday, so we’ve got to tidy up the stables and have bunting and extra tablecloths ready to turn the end barn into a tearoom if required. Dear God.
“There you are, I’ve been calling you.”
“Sorry Ivy. I was just about to make up the room for Mr. and Mrs. Collins.”
“Your mum’s arrived, and Mr. Stebbings needs a word. I said you’d nip up to see him in a bit, and when you go shopping, could you add more baking paper to your list? If we’re going to sugar more rose petals for the cakes, we need a couple more rolls of paper. Oh, and your mum and I are making a few batches of strawberry jam. The early strawberries are ready, so I’ll need some more sugar. And we need some more of those paper doilies—we want the cake plates to look nice don’t we?”
“Definitely. Is that last load of washing done yet?”
“Yes, just finished.”
“Okay, I’ll hang that out before I leave.”
“Cup of tea before you go?”
“Yes please.”
The traffic isn’t too bad on my drive to the supermarket. Surfers have started appearing now, but still mostly at weekends, in beaten-up old cars and vans with boards strapped to the roof, along with a smattering of tourists, so the roads are pretty bad from Friday to Monday. Dan’s getting into the local dialect and calling them “grockles,” and he’s particularly scathing about their fondness for getting into the sea when they don’t know the tide times and then needing to be rescued. I haven’t reminded him that he’s technically half grockle himself, as I’m trying to encourage lifeguard thing—although I did take the precaution of checking before he joined, and you don’t officially get to pull sodden tourists out of the waves until you’ve passed all loads of swimming and safety tests. The surf can get really big sometimes and I’m not quite ready to see my firstborn charging in at full pelt with only bright-red shorts and a small plastic float to keep him the right side of needing CPR. I can still remember how long it took me to teach him to swim in the first place. I spent hours at the Baby Dolphin classes at the local pool, slowly letting the air out of his armbands when he wasn’t looking, with him grabbing the straps of my swimsuit whenever he felt panicky so I ended up practically topless, much to the amusement of other mums with more aquatic offspring.
By the time I’m back from shopping and I’ve collected the boys, Mr. and Mrs. Collins arrive. They seem nice, if a little quiet and formal. Ivy says they’ve stayed here a couple of times and the wife is fussy, but so far she’s been fine and seemed impressed with all the changes. They’re here to see their son and his wife, who they don’t like, and their new grandson, who’s only three weeks old, so Mrs. Collins has been knitting. After a bit of encouragement she showed me photos of the baby on the new mobile phone Mr. Collins has bought especially to receive baby updates. And then she unpacked the collection of pale-blue cardigans and a beautiful shawl she’s knitted, so hopefully that will improve things with the daughter-in-law, because I can’t see how any new mum could resist such beautiful hand-knitted treasures. Pete’s mum sent premium bonds when Dan was born and nothing at all for Ben or Alfie, so I hope she knows how lucky she is.
The boys are particularly boisterous at supper, but thankfully Mr. and Mrs. Collins are out. It does make the house feel different when we have B&B guests staying. There’s a sense we’re on parade, and there needs to be less shouting upstairs to hurry the boys up in the morning, which is probably a good thing, but definitely adds to my stress levels when Dan can’t find his homework and is about to miss his school bus. And the boys still haven’t entirely grasped the idea that just because the B&B guests are getting a cooked breakfast doesn’t mean they can start putting in their orders for bacon and mushrooms. Celia is different of course, which is a good thing since she sold her house last week, to one of the builders, who’s fallen love with it while he’s been working on the flood damage. Celia knows his wife, who’s a passionate gardener, so that pretty much clinched it. So the plan is she’ll stay with us while the sale goes through and then she’ll start looking for a cottage, but we don’t really think of her as a guest now. There was an initial tussle with Ivy, who wanted her to sit in the guest sitting room and wait to be served like a proper B&B guest, but Bertie brokered a peace deal in the end, and now Celia gets to make her own porridge every morning, and eats with us in the kitchen. But she leaves the saucepan and wooden spoon to soak, ready for Ivy, who has her own routine for washing up the breakfast things which doesn’t include Celia splashing hot soapy water and getting in her way.
By the time I’ve done supper and supervised homework and bath time, I’m knackered. I’m so much more tired at the end of the day now, and I wake up earlier too, especially if we’ve got B&B guests needing their breakfasts. So I really can’t do late nights anymore. I’m lucky if I make it to ten o’clock most evenings.
“Half an hour of telly and then it’s bedtime Alfie.”
“It’s not fair that Ben and Dan can stay up later than me Mum, it’s really not.”
“Or you can go to bed now, if you’re going to be silly because you’re too tired.”
“I’m not being silly.”
“That’s good love. Half an hour it is then, and then I’ll read you a story.”
Ben winks at me.
“I might go up in half an hour too Mum. I’m really tired, I might read for a bit.”
“Okay love.”
“Have you put the chickens to bed yet?”
“Damn, no, I’ve forgotten again.”
I give Dan what I hope is a persuasive look.
“What?”
“Please.”
He sighs.
“Alright, but only if we can have bacon rolls for breakfast.”
“Deal.”
I’m making a cup of tea when Vicky calls.
“How’s it going? I was at the gatehouse earlier and its really coming on isn’t it. It’s going to be lovely.”
“Yes, Mr. Stebbings said, and yes, thanks to all your help I think it’s going to look pretty good.”
“Did he give you the auction brochure?”
“Yes, the chest of drawers looks great, and the oak bed.”
“I thought you’d like it. Auctions are a great way to get great stuff cheap, if you can avoid all the rubbish. Put the date in your diary and we’ll go together.”
“I was hoping you’d say that. I’ve never been to an auction before. I’d be terrified I’d end up bidding for the wrong thing.”
“This place is okay. Some of them can be tricky, especially when all the dealers gather outside and knock out stuff to each other so you don’t get a look in. All set for the garden thing on Sunday?”
“I think so. Are you sure you and Bea are okay to help? It’s very kind of you, but it will be quite a long day.”
“Sure. Daisy’s got a sleepover—we’ll have to collect her by sixish—but we’re free all day apart from that, and I’ve done the leaflets for the B-and-B and the gatehouse. They look great, same pictures we put on the website. Oh, and we’ve got another booking for the last week of August.”
“That’s great Vicky, thanks.”
So far she’s rented the gatehouse for the last two weeks of July, most of August now, and a week in September, at seven hundred fifty pounds a week which is brilliant, and far more than I thought we’d get.
“I talked to my friend Ella about the yurt thing, and they can earn you good money, but they’re so snobby now you need plumbing and everything. And they like “experiences” as added extras, stuff like collecting eggs and helping feed animals. And some of them can be a total nightmare according to Ella; they try to dump their kids on you and then disappear for hours on end. So I think you’ll be better off focusing on the stables as your next project. Once you get the gatehouse up and running you’ll be itching to get the stables sorted out, you’ll see.”
“I hope so. It’s a bit different renting by the week. The B-and-B guests are usually two nights at most, and most of them have been nice—apart from those sisters, and Ivy did warn me the youngest one was a bit of a nightmare.”
“Was she the one who moaned that her tea was too hot?”
“Yup, and the weather wasn’t right, and she wanted different pillows. Ivy was great though. She just took the pillows off the bed, went and stood in the linen cupboard and put new pillowcases on them, and then put them back on the bed. Daft woman said the next morning they were much better.”
“Typical, honestly you should hear what some of them ask when they ring up about rentals. I just say we’re fully booked.”
“I do that too—Ivy’s been training me. It’s coming in very handy, particularly lately. A few of the teachers from my old school have been calling wanting free minibreaks, particularly the ones who hardly spoke to me when I worked there but now sound like they’re my best friends before they steer the conversation round to the good news that they will be driving right past us and wondered if they could pop in to say hello and maybe stay a night or two?”
“Bloody cheek. I’ve got a cousin like that. I can’t stand her and she’s never liked me, but as soon as she got wind of the cottage-rentals business, she was on the phone chatting away, clearly hoping for a freebie.”
“I haven’t had to fend off any family, so far, thank God. Pete’s brother is coming down in a few weeks’ time, but he’s insisting on paying, even though I won’t actually let him once they’re here, and anyway we like him, so it doesn’t count.”
“Brace yourself though, because Diana, who comes to our book group—the one who rents out the barn on their farm—well, she had a woman she used to work with in London turn up with her husband and three kids, completely out of the blue, and when she said they were booked up she said that was fine, they’d brought their tents.”
“Bloody hell.”
“I know. Diana’s husband had to get rid of them in the end—they were driving her demented, using her kitchen and the bathroom, and sitting watching telly.”
“Is this meant to be scaring me, because if it is, it’s definitely worked.”
She laughs.
“Sorry. Don’t worry, you’ve got Ivy. She’d never let anyone get away with that kind of stunt.”
“True.”
“And you’ve got a secret weapon.”
“Have I?”
“Yes. Betty. Actually, you could probably rent her out by the hour. Could be a whole new business. I might mention it to Diana. You could train her to bite uninvited guests; she could be a guard parrot.”
“She’d love that.”
Actually, she probably would.
We’re all up bright and early on Sunday morning, ready for the Open Garden Day. The forecast is now predicting sun, which is encouraging. The boys have spent ages helping Dennis clean up the stables, moving the bales of straw and assorted bags of animal feed, and boxes full of assorted tat, out of the barn and into the middle stable. It’s a far better storage area all round as the roof has fewer holes in it, so at least we won’t have to move everything back out again. They’ve had a lovely time using the hosepipe to sluice down the years of grime and dust. But apart from getting soaked this also revealed a lovely old herringbone brick floor, which was an unexpected bonus. We’ve put the trestle table for the cake stall inside by the back wall and the one for the plant stall too, so even if it does rain, people can still have a cup of tea. Mr. Stebbings has rigged up temporary plastic sheeting over the holes in the roof, which looks less tragic than I thought since he’s used thick transparent plastic sheets so they look like random skylights.
We’ve put a few trestle tables in the courtyard, with tablecloths made from red gingham Mum found at the market. We’ve even made bunting, using up all the leftover bits of curtain material along with the gingham. We’ll put the little pots of rose geraniums on the tables later. Dennis has been growing them in the greenhouse, so they’re in full flower; and the leaves have such a perfect sweet rose scent that I can’t help touching them every time I see them.
By half past ten the house is so busy I retreat into the garden to help Celia and Dennis with the labels. Mum and Ivy have got a cake-and-scone production line going; they’ve been at it for days, with Florrie and May helping. So if nobody turns up, we’ll have enough cakes to last us for months. Mum’s been helping in the garden too—I’d forgotten how much she loves gardening—so I think she’s been enjoying herself. At least I hope so, because she’s been working really hard.
“All set dear? Dennis and I thought we’d practise on you, give you the tour, so to speak. Would you mind?”
“Not at all Celia, that’s a great idea.”
They’re both carrying buckets full of bamboo canes with our homemade plant labels attached with green string. The usual white plastic plant labels look so awful, and the smart ones cost a fortune, so we’ve made our own. Celia has spent ages writing plant names onto thick pale-green card, using her thick black fountain pen and her best copperplate handwriting. We’ve covered them with the same sort of sticky-back plastic I used for school displays, although when I saw how many labels we needed I had to rope the boys in to help, so a few of them have creases in the plastic, which I’m hoping adds to the overall artisan feel.
“Is this all the labels?”
“No, there are quite a few more buckets, we’ll get those later. Bring that one though dear, if you wouldn’t mind. We thought we’d start with the roses, and then go back round and fill in the gaps.”
“Sure.”
Oh dear. I think I know what they’re up to now. They’re hoping if they trot me round and point out some key names, nobody will think the new chatelaine of Helena’s garden is a complete idiot. Dream on, as Dan would say.
“Shall we start with the species roses?”
Dennis nods and starts searching through his buckets.
“Let’s start at the front.”
We walk round to the front door. There are a series of gardens surrounding three sides of the house, divided by hedges or old brick walls with gates or arches. A border runs right round the house and a flagstone path which widens to a terrace at the back, outside the French windows from the drawing room and the library. The main lawn is flanked by two long flower beds, culminating in the ha-ha, to stop sheep getting into the library. There are more lawns at the front of the house, with a large circular bed in the middle of the gravel drive. Dennis has even mowed the grass all the way down the edges of the lane, leaving clumps of longer grass around the shrubs, and mowing paths through the trees. He’s spent hours sitting on his ride-along mower over the past few weeks, having a wonderful time in between telling me what a boon it is not to have to puff up and down with the old lawnmower.
“Here you go. Stanwell Perpetual—lovely scent that one.” He pushes the cane into the soil by a pretty pink rosebush in the bed in front of the guest sitting-room window. “That one’s the Hedgehog rose, white with good red hips in the autumn. And then we’ve got Incense by the back door; and Persian Yellow takes over blooming once Incense is finished—both good perfumes.”
“I think I should probably be taking notes.”
They both smile.
“No need for that dear, the labels will be there to help you. This one’s Empress Josephine, large double-cupped, good strong-veined pink and very old, named in memory of Josephine and her magnificent garden at Malmaison. She was known as Rose before she met Bonaparte, always keen on roses, her collection at Malmaison was enormous. Napoleon used to bring back plants for her from wherever he went—shame Helena couldn’t get Bertie to do the same.”
Dennis smiles.
“We had a few other things on our plates besides collecting plants.”
“I’m sure, but I can’t help thinking they’d have been far more useful than that silly parrot.”
We walk into the central rose garden and it all starts to get really complicated as they begin to label all the Tea roses.
“This one is Lady Fitzwilliam, great-grandmother to most of the modern roses, double pink blooms and good strong scent. And there’s Lady Hillingdon of course, that apricot one on the wall under your bedroom window—one of her special roses that was. I’ll put the label in later.”
Celia nods.
“Glorious. Semi-double, good strong scent. Damasks and Chinas now I think?”
Oh God, I think we should have made bigger labels.
Dennis puts a label by the low hedge which surrounds the seat, as Celia walks across to the seat on the opposite wall.
“Konigin von Denmark: quartered rosette with an excellent scent, good strong pink.”
She puts her bucket down by a beautiful pale-apricot rose.
“Here’s Gloire de Dijon—unbeatable for scent, blooms until Christmas. Have you got the label Dennis?”
“No, it must be in one of the other buckets.”
I think this might be a good moment to escape before I go into rose overload.
“I think I should go and see how Mum and Ivy are doing, but thank you. Maybe we could leave the labels in for a few days and I might learn a few more names. Lunch is at twelve today remember, so we all have time to get ready afterwards.
Dennis sighs.
“Ivy’s pressed my suit. She wants me looking smart.”
Celia gives him a sympathetic look.
“I’ve got a frock to change into—ridiculous fuss really. Be more appropriate if we wore our gardening clothes. But I suppose we’d better put on a show since the President of the Rose Society is coming. Great honour for us he’s agreed to attend. I will admit I’m feeling rather nervous. I do hope we’ve done Helena justice.”
She smiles, and Dennis puts his hand on her arm, and they both stare into the distance.
“I think we’ve done our best, and that’s all she would have wanted.”
“Yes.”
“It’ll be a grand day, you’ll see.”
“I’m sure it will, but I have been wondering: are we sure Bertie is the right person to speak? Don’t you think it might be better if you did it my dear?”
“It’s just to say thank you after the medal is presented, Celia. I’m sure he’ll be fine. Or you could do it. Or Dennis. But definitely not me. It wouldn’t be right.”
They both look panicked.
I’m making another mental note to make sure Betty is definitely indoors for the speeches as I walk back to the house and they start sorting through their buckets and rearranging labels and muttering to themselves. The garden is looking stunning—even I can see that—so I’m sure everyone will be impressed, and they’ll get all the praise they deserve. And if anyone says anything nasty, I can always bring Betty out, or get Bertie to fire the cannon at them, although I was hoping to keep the cannonage to a minimum today.
Oh God.
By half past two the gardens are packed—people were queuing from half past one—and there are little groups wandering round the orchard, saying hello to the pigs and admiring the fruit trees, with Alfie and Tom proudly standing by in clean Wellies to share fascinating pig facts with anyone who lingers too long. Patrick’s in the orchard too, making sure nobody decides the pigs need a run round the orchard to say hello properly, and the chickens are out, keeping a beady eye on everyone or sulking inside the henhouse.
Dennis and Celia are on duty in the rose gardens, making sure no cuttings get snipped, with Mr. Stebbings roaming round on extra cuttings patrol, with his wife, who has been telling me how much he’s enjoyed working at the Hall and how lovely it is we invited her to come along today. Mum and Ivy are putting the final touches to the tea stall, with Dan and Ben acting as sherpas; I’ve promised them twenty pounds each if they help nicely and don’t take refuge in their rooms, and so far they’ve both been great, trotting backwards and forwards with trays and plates and Tupperware boxes. Vicky and Bea have arrived, and they’re sitting with Sally by the gates down the lane selling tickets and telling people to park in the field and walk up the lane. They’re taking turns wearing the fluorescent jacket Sally brought in from the hotel from the fire-drill cupboard, and doing fifteen-minute stints in the field to make sure people aren’t parking like complete idiots. And Florrie and May are on duty in the house, ready to repel petty pilfering in between helping Mum and Ivy. So far, so good.
“There you are my dear. Thought I’d take a drink down to the girls on the gate, good idea? Nothing too pole-axing, thought a jug of Pimm’s might be welcome?”
“I think they’d probably prefer tea Bertie—leave it to me. I’ll take some down in a minute with some cake.”
“Amazing so many people have turned up. Helena would have been so pleased. Bit nervous about my speech, Betty seemed impressed at the first rehearsal, but she’s not always the best judge. Hope I’ve got the tone right. Garden’s looking good though, so we shouldn’t have any complaints. Think I might take a stroll down to the beach, make sure nobody is trying to arrive by boat and avoid buying a ticket. Locals can be very cunning you know.”
I take tea down to the gate, and they all seem to be enjoying themselves immensely, especially since I added cakes to the tray.
“At the last count we’d sold three hundred and forty-six tickets, and that was about half an hour ago. It’s amazing, isn’t it?”
“It’s brilliant Bea, and thanks so much for helping.”
“Our pleasure, Vicky’s always wanted a fluorescent jacket. She was keen on joining the police a few years ago, until I talked her out of it. She hates violence, and faints at the sight of blood, so I don’t think it was ever going to be the ideal career for her.”
Sally laughs.
“Probably not Bea, but she’s a brilliant parking warden. Look at her making that stupid idiot in the Range Rover move his car into line with the others. And she hasn’t even got a whistle. We should have a whistle by rights Moll. Some of them are so lazy you wouldn’t believe where they want to park.”
“I’ll send one down. Anything else you need?”
“Is there more of this cake?”
“About half a ton, last time I looked.”
“Great. We’ll try to save some for Vicky this time.”
Mr. and Mrs. Collins are having tea in the courtyard with their son and daughter-in-law, showing off the new baby while I sort out the extra cake supplies and send Dan down to the gates with a tray.
“This is our grandson, Luke, we thought we’d show him where we’ve been staying. Kept them awake all last night he did, so we thought a bit of fresh air might tire him out.”
The baby is wearing one of the pale-blue cardigans she knitted for him, over a tiny white sleep suit, waving his hands in that random way newborns do, staring intently at the sky.
“He’s beautiful.”
He starts to whimper and his mum gets up, looking exhausted, but Mrs. Collins stands up.
“You stay sitting down love. Let me walk him up and down, probably just wants settling, and you haven’t finished your tea yet.”
She starts pushing the shiny new pram around the courtyard and the baby instantly quietens, much to the evident relief of his mother, who looks pretty shattered.
“Shall we take him for a walk down the lane, give you a proper rest? I promise we won’t go far.”
She gives her mother-in-law a look of total devotion.
“Yes please.”
“Come on then Bill, let’s leave them to enjoy their tea in peace for a bit. Never get a moment to yourselves with a new baby. I’ll push the pram on the way down, and you can push it on the way back.”
I head back to the kitchen and find Ivy and Florrie, scattering sugared rose petals over three more Victoria sponges and buttering more scones. We’re loading up more trays when we hear raised voices coming from the hallway. The door which leads into the rest of the house is closed and we’ve put a Private sign on it, but it sounds like someone doesn’t think this should apply to them, so we both tiptoe towards the door to hear what’s going on.
“I’m a great friend of Molly’s, and she did say there would be tours of the house.”
“Are you dear. Well isn’t that nice, but she didn’t mention anything to me about tours, so I’m sorry, you’ll just have to go back outside and look round the gardens like everybody else. This is an Open Garden Day after all, not an Open House.”
Good for May—she’s definitely the right woman for this particular job.
“I may want to book the bed-and-breakfast rooms. We’ve got so many visitors this summer, but I will need to inspect them first.”
“I’d talk to Miss Molly about that dear, they don’t need inspecting, I can tell you that for free. She handles all the B-and-B side of things herself, with Ivy. I can give you a leaflet if you like. Ever so nice they are, got a picture of the gatehouse on too, done it up lovely they have, not quite finished yet but you can see it’s going to be a real treat for whoever gets to stay in it, only I know they’re getting booked up already. And they don’t take just anybody of course. They’ve got their regulars, and friends of course, and they get priority, which is as it should be. Got to reward loyalty, haven’t you dear?”
Ivy and I are holding our hands over our mouths now, trying not to giggle. It sounds very much like Lucinda Langdon-Hill to me, in which case I can’t help thinking May is being pretty brave.
“Why don’t you go and get yourself a nice cup of tea. Just follow the path round to the stables, get yourself a bit of cake too, give yourself a treat. And all the money goes to charity dear, so be as generous as you can afford, because every little bit helps doesn’t it?”
“I do raise a great deal of money for charity May, as you well know, so I’m perfectly familiar with the importance of giving generously, thank you.”
“That’s good dear. Because they’ve worked ever so hard, all of them, so I’m glad to hear you’ll be making a nice big donation. Say hello to your mum for me, when you next see her, won’t you?”
There’s the sound of the front door banging rather loudly, and May comes through into the kitchen passage.
“Did you hear her?”
“We did May. And you told her right enough. Bet you enjoyed that didn’t you?”
“I did Ivy, I can’t pretend I didn’t. I used to clean for her mother. Always been a right little madam that one, her mother is the same, or used to be—gone a bit doolally lately. They’ve stuck her in that home out by Charing Ford, and she never goes to see her. I know that for a fact because Alison from the library goes every week to see her father-in-law—always been a miserable old sod—but they go every week just the same.”
Florrie tuts.
“Terrible.”
“I know, and the cheek of her. As if I was going to take her round to poke her nose into all your rooms—go through your cupboards too I shouldn’t wonder, if she got half a chance. She must think I was born yesterday. Right, now what was it I wanted, oh yes, did you want to change the hand towel in the cloakroom, put a fresh one in? We’ve had ever so many people in, you know—a few of them hoping for a look round, but most of them have been good as gold. Only I think a fresh towel would be nice.”
“I’ll get you one May, and would you like a cup of tea?”
“I’d love one pet, if it’s no trouble.”
“Good, and you too Ivy, and Florrie, sit down for five minutes. You haven’t had a break all day. Stay in here in the cool, and I’ll make us all a cup of tea, how does that sound?”
“She’s a good girl and no mistake, I can see why you’re so fond of her now Ivy. I wouldn’t say no to a scone as well pet, if there are any going spare. If they’re one of Ivy’s, that’ll be a nice treat. I’ve always said she’s got a very light hand with scones.”
“Coming right up.”
Apart from one awkward moment when a nice woman in a pretty straw hat asks me the name of a lovely cream rose and I can’t find the sodding label, I manage a quick tour round the garden, and enjoy hearing people telling each other how lovely it is. And it really is, on a day like this, with most of the roses in bloom or in bud, it’s almost overwhelming. It does seem miraculous that such small tight little buds turn into such magnificent flowers, with so many different shapes and perfumes, from delicate pale simple ones to great big blousy ones like pom-poms—I can see how you could get completely addicted.
Celia’s looking slightly anxious.
“Shall we do the presentation now? The President is ready, if you could find Bertie? Oh, there he is, with Dennis and Ivy, and your mother and the boys. Excellent.”
Bertie appears, looking very smart in his Navy blazer, beaming at everyone.
Oh God, I’m suddenly feeling rather nervous.
“Sally’s on the cake stall for a bit, and she’ll keep an eye on the plants, and Florrie’s in the house with May, but I hope they hurry up, because that tea urn needs filling up.”
“I’m sure they won’t take long Ivy.”
I think she’s as nervous as I am.
A young woman in a beautiful dress with a lovely rose print claps her hands and asks everyone to be quiet, as the President would like to present an award to the creator of this beautiful garden. Then a very elderly man steps forwards, leaning on a stick and says a few words which most of us can’t hear, and hands Bertie a velvet box. Then the young woman takes over again and says the award to honour Helena Harrington-Travers is a rare gold medal, that there is also a plaque for us to display in the garden, and that before we hear from Admiral Travers she would like to add her thanks to those of the president for what has been a truly memorable day. I have a second or two of blind panic wondering who on earth “Admiral Travers” is, until I work out she means Bertie.
He steps forwards and seems to hesitate for a moment, and then retrieves a piece of paper from his pocket, and his reading glasses. There’s a silence as he pauses, and then looks up.
“There are so many people to thank for making today such a success, so thank you to everyone for coming, and thank you to the Rose Society for acknowledging just how special this garden is. I know they did try to present the medal to Helena herself, but she was a stubborn girl. Often find the best girls are. She was never one for ceremonies and suchlike. So thank you, on her behalf. I know she would be pleased that her garden has received such an accolade, particularly since she doesn’t have to be the one to stand here and accept it.” He pauses, and smiles. “The garden is open today as part of the National Garden Scheme, and we’re delighted that the county organiser, Lady Wootton, has been able to join us today. Excellent idea, opening gardens to raise money for charity, so thank you for all your help Bobby—much appreciated. And last but not least, thanks must go to Celia and Dennis, without whom we wouldn’t be here today. All I can say is Helena would have been lost without you. As Ernest Dowson once said:
They are not long, the days of wine and roses:
Out of a misty dream
Our path emerges for a while, then closes.
“Poor Ernest came to a sad end, dies penniless far too young, booze got him, just shows you’ve got to be careful, important not to overdo it.”
He pauses to smile at everyone again. Ivy and I are holding hands now, both of us willing him not to start listing his top ten cocktails.
“But for those of us who are lucky enough to make it to a grand old age, it does all turn into something of a mist on occasions like this. And yet there are moments of such perfect beauty and clarity, they quite simply they take your breath away. I’ve always found that this garden is a good place for that. As usual Wordsworth says it far better than I could ever manage:
The rainbow comes and goes,
And lovely is the rose,
The moon doth with delight
Look round her when the heavens are bare;
Waters on a starry night
Are beautiful and fair;
The sunshine is a glorious birth;
But yet I know, where’er I go,
That there hath pass’d away a glory from the earth.
“And that’s what she was, my darling Helena—a true glory of the earth, and her roses are a fitting testament to that. So here’s to Helena, and her glorious garden, and to days of wine and roses.”
A few people are sniffling now, including me, and there’s a small silence before people start to applaud, and Bertie goes very pink—bless him. Even the president seems moved, and shakes Bertie’s hand so vigorously it looks like they both might fall down the steps, until Dennis intervenes.
Ivy pats my hand.
“Wasn’t that lovely? He’s as soft as butter underneath all that bluster, always has been.”
“Lovely.”
“Look at my Dennis—doesn’t he look smart.”
“He does Ivy.”
“Pleased as punch he is.”
“And so he should be.”
“Well this won’t get the tea urn filled.”
“No.”
“Lovely though. I’m glad I didn’t miss that. I just wish she could have seen it—she’d have been tickled pink.”
“Ivy, please don’t, or we’ll both be in floods.”
“That’s true enough, and Dennis would probably join us, and Miss Celia’s not far off either, or Lady Bobby. Bound to be a bit emotional on a day like this I suppose.”
“Yes. Oh, hang on, I think Bertie’s waving at us.”
“He’ll want to fire that silly cannon, you mark my words. Still, on a day like today it almost seems fitting doesn’t it?”
“Yes, I suppose it does Ivy.”
“Be nice if they could change out of their best things first.”
“I’ll see what I can do Ivy, but I’m not promising.”
I’m helping Mum and Ivy serve a last few cups of tea and start tidying up, when Dad arrives, looking cross. Here we go again. He’s made it pretty clear he’s not keen on Mum spending so much time at Harrington, but I know she enjoys it, and she’s been so much happier over the past few months, I wish she’d just tell him to get over it. But then I did the same thing with Pete, going along with things to avoid a scene. I was thinking about it the other day, and even though Pete was the opposite of Dad when we first met, gradually he sort of ended up being the same. There was less shouting of course, but he was just as pompous and domineering. Although to be fair Dad hasn’t had an affair with his secretary. God knows who would be mad enough to have an affair with Dad, but I bet they wouldn’t even own a pair of trousers.
“There you are Marjorie—aren’t you ready yet?”
“I did say six o’clock, didn’t I? It can’t be six already, surely?”
“It’s a quarter past five Mum. Why are you so early Dad?”
“I’ve got a round of golf booked. I can’t be hanging around waiting for your mother to be finished mucking about with cakes.”
“I’ll drive her back Dad. There’s no need for you to wait if you’re busy.”
I still don’t know why he had to book her car in for a service on Friday, when he knew she was here this weekend; it’s almost like he did it on purpose. But rather miraculously Mum seems a bit irritated.
“Or you could collect me after you golf dear, and save Molly the journey. She’s been working so hard today, so I think that would be best. Shall we say half past seven? Later is fine—there’ll be plenty to do here with all the tidying up. I think I’d better just nip back to the house and get the last of those scones.”
Crikey. Dad looks even more surprised than I am.
“But…”
“I’ll see you later dear.”
I’m clenching my hands to stop myself from clapping as Dad stamps off back down the lane.
“See you later Dad.”
Mum winks at me.
Harrington is definitely working its magic again.
I’m collecting up teacups in the gardens when I notice Celia sitting on the seat in the rose garden talking to a young man.
“Molly, this is Edward, my nephew, or is it great-nephew? My sister’s daughter’s boy—ghastly snobs both of them, probably shouldn’t say it, but they are. Edward, stay here and make sure Jasper doesn’t escape and try to round up those chickens, or he’ll get pecked again. Molly, shall we make some tea? I think Edward could do with a cup.”
He stands up.
“I wouldn’t want to be a bother Aunt Celia, really, I just wanted your advice. A cup of tea would be lovely, and then I’ll head back to town, honestly.”
He’s got the kind of accent and impeccable manners you only get from years of expensive schools. He’d probably be completely relaxed in a top hat and tails.
“Of course you’re not a bother my boy. What are dotty old relations for if not to offer a port in a storm?”
He smiles, and sits back down, clicking his fingers so Jasper jumps up into his lap to be stroked as we walk back to the house.
Ivy has finished stacking cups in the dishwasher and is heading back towards the stables with the tray.
“Could you hang on for a moment Ivy? I’d like your views on this too. Frightful mess.”
“What’s he done now? I told him not to take Betty outside, but you know what he’s like, said he didn’t want her to miss out on all the fun. Honestly, he’s a caution, he really is.”
“Nothing to do with Bertie, no, this is my nephew, Edward. Poor boy has been working in the City in some ghastly job his father lined up for him—not what he wanted to do of course, he’s very musical, always has been. But everything has come to somewhat of a crisis. They offered him a promotion, but he decided he’d had enough and resigned. Apparently he had so much holiday due he left the same day—they all work ridiculous hours. He’s well rid of the place if you ask me. But it caused the most almighty stink with his parents apparently. They’re beyond furious, and the tricky thing is he was living in the basement of their house, he’s been trying to save up and get somewhere of his own of course, but he couldn’t afford it, and now they’ve thrown him out. I ask you, how petty can you get? So now the poor boy is homeless, with no job to speak of. Bit of a pickle all round.”
Ivy is agog.
“They just threw him out on the street? Their own flesh and blood, that’s terrible.”
“Quite. My sister has always been the nasty type, could see it ever since she was a girl. Never happy unless she was making someone else miserable—I’m sure you know the type. And he really is talented at the musical thing, always has been, plays the piano beautifully, and the guitar. He’s had bookings, in local pubs, that kind of thing, but he’s never been able to devote himself to it properly. So now the poor boy needs somewhere to stay and since I’m between houses at the moment I was hoping, if you’d agree, that I could book him in for a few weeks as a PG? I’d be happy to cover the costs now the sale of the house has gone through. I do know it will make more work for both of you, but I would very much like to help him if I can?”
“Well it’s not my place to say of course, but I’m sure we could sort something out, since it’s an emergency. You wouldn’t credit it, throwing him out onto the street like that. I never heard anything like it. If we get busy with B-and-B people at weekends we could always fix up one of the rooms in the attic at a push, couldn’t we Miss Molly? Now it’s not so chilly at nights, there’s that mattress up there already, nearly new that is. And we’ve got all the lovely new sheets you bought, more than enough to make up another bed. I’ll put the kettle on shall I, and then you can take this tray out, and we’ll sort out a room for him?”
Celia kisses her on the cheek, which seems to take them both by surprise.
“Bless you both. It will mean so much to him, a safe haven while he gathers his thoughts. I can’t thank you enough, if you’re sure?”
She’s looking at me now.
“Of course Celia. The only problem I can see is Dan. He’s wanted to move into the attic ever since we arrived. We might need to make up two rooms Ivy, or we’ll have to listen to him moaning on about it, and I did promise I’d get round to it eventually.”
Ivy smiles.
“We better sort out two rooms then.”
“Oh dear, I really didn’t want to put you to any trouble.”
“It’s no trouble Celia. We’ve been meaning to make a start cleaning up there. I’ll make up the single for now, and we’ll sort out the attic during the week.”
Ivy nods.
“Is he hungry do you think? I bet he is, I’ll make him a sandwich. Does he like ham, or would he prefer cheese? I’ve got some lovely tomatoes fresh picked today. Or I could make him up a bit of a salad. I’ve got a ham-and-egg pie in the larder—would he like a slice of that do you think?”
I leave them discussing whether Edward does or does not like tomatoes as I head upstairs. I’d better check on the towels in the bathroom too. Bugger, this isn’t exactly what I was hoping for at the end of a long day. I might have a quiet moment in the linen cupboard; actually, I might just stop in there, see how long it takes before someone comes to find me, hopefully with a large gin and tonic. I’m halfway up the stairs when the unmistakable sound of the warning whistle tells me Bertie is about to start cannoning again.
Double bugger.