The week Rebecca started school Marin worked on starting her freelance IT business every morning, and in the garden every afternoon. She liked feeling productive, both on her laptop and with a pair of secateurs in her hand; although after that first day, she didn’t use them very much. The next afternoon Joss had appeared on her doorstep with a strimmer over one shoulder.
Marin eyed it askance. “That looks dangerous.”
“Easy as pie,” he assured her. “You want me to show you how to use it?”
She hesitated for a second; in Boston and in Hampshire, for her whole life really, she’d been so cautious. So careful. Yet now she felt an almost reckless sense of defiance, although what she was defying she didn’t even know. Her own self, perhaps. Her own quiet, practical nature. “Yes, please,” she told Joss, and grabbed her coat, shoving her feet into her already well-used wellington boots.
Outside the sun was shining in a tentative way; the sky was a fragile blue, as if any moment it could give way to grey cloud and rain, but for the moment at least it was bright, if not warm. Marin wrapped her scarf more tightly around her neck as they headed for the walled garden.
This morning, as she opened the door she felt her spirits lift instead of plummet, as they had before at the sight of the overgrown tangle. Now she saw her little cleared patch of ground and smiled.
Joss fired up the strimmer, the sound cutting across the stillness of a frosty morning. Marin watched as he sliced straight through the thorns, the branches falling to the ground, leaving nothing more than a few inches of stubble.
“Once you cut it all down,” he explained after he’d stopped the motor, “you can till the ground. And then you can plant.”
“It does sound like a big project,” Marin said. “And I don’t even know what I’d plant.” She glanced through the open door to the mess of Bower House’s small back garden. “And I really should be concentrating on all of that out there.”
Joss arched an eyebrow. “Are you giving me all the excuses why you shouldn’t be doing this?”
“Reasons,” she told him, but she was smiling. She held out her hands. “All right, let me see that thing.”
“Just don’t take an arm off,” he warned her, smiling back as he handed her the strimmer.
It was surprisingly light, and when Marin turned it on the whole thing vibrated, making her hands buzz and tickle. She took a deep breath and angled the thing towards the thorns. Even though she’d just seen Joss do it, she still let out a little laugh of delight and surprise when she was able to cut neatly through them.
“It really does work,” she exclaimed, and he grinned at her, the creases deepening around his eyes.
“Do you find that so hard to believe?”
“I know I shouldn’t,” she answered. “I’ve just never done anything like this before.”
“Have a go at it this morning, then,” Joss said. “I’ll just be in the churchyard, finishing the roses.” And with a smiling salute he left her.
Marin thought she’d mind being on her own but the strimmer was all the company she needed; she didn’t think she’d ever grow tired of the way it cut so easily through the brambles. She thought she could clear the area around the greenhouse’s foundations by lunchtime.
After a few hours she’d done most of it; she was tired and sweaty and her hands and arms ached from holding the strimmer aloft for so long, and she had blisters on her palms. It was a light enough tool, but she wasn’t used to that kind of sustained, physical activity.
The sky had started to cloud over when she cut the motor and rested it against one of the sandstone blocks that made up the greenhouse’s foundation. Now that she’d cleared most of the brambles, she could see more of the bits of piping that Joss had found, old and rusting. She picked up a piece of pipe, felt the heaviness of it in her hand. It was both hard and easy to imagine the garden as it must have once been, busy and productive, with its neat beds of flowers and vegetables, the trees bearing fruit, the greenhouse full of lettuces and cucumbers and melons. Imagining it made Marin feel both hopeful and melancholy at the same time.
“You’ve managed quite a bit there,” Joss said, and she looked up to see him standing in the doorway.
“I think I’ll regret it tomorrow,” she said. “I haven’t had that much exercise in a long time.”
He held a flask aloft. “Fancy a cup of tea? It’s not much, I know, and you’ve got your kitchen right there—”
“I’d love one,” Marin said firmly, and Joss poured some of the tea into a tin mug and handed it to her before pouring some for himself into the lid of the flask.
They sat perched on the mossy stones of the foundation, mugs cradled in their hands. The air was turning damp, a mist rolling off the sea, the fragile blue of the sky now swamped by grey. Even so, Marin felt nothing but content as she sat there on the freezing stones, her hands warmed by the tea, the garden stretching all around her in a sea of bramble – but a sea that could be cleared.
“There’s quite a lot of piping,” she told Joss, who studied the rusting bits of metal thoughtfully.
“Yes, more than I would have expected. They must have wanted to keep this place very warm.”
“Warmer than a regular greenhouse?” she asked, a hint of eagerness in her voice, and Joss gazed at her, amused.
“What would you rather it was than a greenhouse?”
“I don’t know,” she admitted with a laugh. “I don’t know what it could be. But something more interesting.”
“You should ask the historical society about it, like you said.”
“Yes.” She took a sip of tea, enjoying sitting there despite the damp chill in the air and the mist from the sea that was snaking its way through the brambles, cloaking the garden in fog and turning it ghostly.
They’d lapsed into silence, and Marin found her gaze resting on Joss’s hands, his long, browned fingers curled around his mug. He had nice hands, she thought, roughened and covered in scratches yet seeming capable and strong. Joss caught her staring and he lifted one hand wryly.
“Hazard of the job, I’m afraid,” he said, and she realized he was referring to his dirt-encrusted fingernails.
She held up her own hand. Even with the garden gloves, her fingernails were ringed with black. “At least it’s a clean kind of dirt.”
Joss laughed. He had a deep laugh, Marin thought, the kind of laugh that was genuine if rare. “How can dirt be clean?”
“Country dirt. And no sheep poo back here.” She’d walked the footpath towards the beach enough already to know you had to look where you were going.
Joss nodded. “True enough.”
“So you’re from Goswell, aren’t you?” Marin asked after another moment of companionable silence. She nodded in the direction of the church lane where his van was parked. “Fowler and Son.”
“Yes, I grew up here.”
“Have you lived anywhere else?”
He studied his mug of tea, his expression turning veiled, even guarded. “For a little while.”
Marin nodded; he was clearly not prepared to be forthcoming with details of his life, and she understood all too well the value of privacy.
“What about you?” he asked. “How long were you in Boston?”
“Four years.”
“Must have been hard to leave.”
“Not really.” She let out a rather abrupt laugh. “I’m afraid I didn’t put too many roots down there, or anywhere, actually.” She hesitated, wanting to explain herself, but not quite sure how. It wasn’t something she was used to doing. “I’m not good at that sort of thing,” she said after a moment. Joss arched an eyebrow.
“Putting down roots, you mean?”
Marin nodded and he smiled, cocking his head towards the expanse of garden. “Good thing you’ve got enough to be going on with, then.”
She laughed at that with a feeling of relief; revealing personal details was as hard for her as it was, it seemed, for Joss.
“I should go,” Joss said, standing up from the stone he’d been sitting on. “I’m due up the village at the Hennessys’ place by three.”
Marin drained her tea and handed him the empty mug. “Thank you,” she said, “for the tea and the strimmer and, well, everything.” She smiled awkwardly, a blush touching her cheeks. For some reason her subconscious had chosen now to remind her of Rebecca’s words yesterday afternoon: Why shouldn’t you fancy him? At that moment, with Joss smiling at her, it seemed as simple a thing as Rebecca had made it.
“Not a problem,” Joss answered. He screwed the lid back on the flask. “Let me know when you’re thinking of going to the historical society meeting. I’ve never been before, but I might try it out.”
Marin’s heart lifted rather ridiculously at that, and she nodded. “Of course, that would be great. I’ll let you know.”
And with a nod back, Joss took his flask and his strimmer and left the garden.
Later that afternoon Rebecca came back with Natalie; they slouched into the kitchen and raided the fridge and pantry for cola and crisps. It heartened Marin to see them together, to know Rebecca was making friends. She hadn’t had a single friend over in the three months they’d been together in Hampshire. Most of her friends had kept their distance; it was easier, Marin had suspected, for them to stay away rather than confront Rebecca’s loss and grief. Maybe her half-sister had been right, and they had needed a fresh start, even somewhere as far away as this wet and windy corner of Cumbria.
“There’s a swish party on Friday,” Rebecca informed Marin when she and Natalie had finished their crisps and cola. “Can I go?”
“A what party?” Marin asked. She was seated at the kitchen table, thumbing through the well-worn copy of The Complete Book of Rayburn Cookery. She wanted to make something warm and comforting, some kind of stew perhaps, but the cookbook’s offerings of rabbit cassoulet or braised venison shanks did not appeal.
“A swish party,” Natalie explained. “There’s one twice a year in the village hall. You bring five pounds and five pieces of clothing, and you leave with five different pieces of clothing. Everyone swaps. It’s a lot of fun. My mum went last time. I got a brilliant new top from River Island.”
Marin smiled to hear how British the girl sounded, despite her American roots. Natalie had clearly adapted to life in Goswell, eighteen months on. It gave her hope for Rebecca – and for herself.
“Why don’t we both go?” Rebecca suggested. “It could be fun.”
“I suppose,” Marin agreed. And then, thinking of her new yet unspoken resolution to defy her own sense of cautious isolation, she added, “Why not?”
That Friday saw them heading down to the village hall, just as they’d done for the ceilidh, although this time Marin had a carrier bag of clothes with her. She’d picked out five things she didn’t wear very often, most of them business clothes from her Boston days. She certainly had no need of them in Goswell.
Jane and Natalie met them at the bottom of the church lane, and Jane regaled them with the story of the first swish party she’d gone to, when she’d brought her designer clothes from New York. “I felt a complete prat,” she admitted, and Marin wondered if her sensible business suits were not what was needed or wanted at a swish party. A little of her hard-won optimism flagged, and Jane must have seen something of that in her face, because she continued, smiling, “But actually, people loved the clothes. It was just me who felt out of place, and honestly, that was my own fault. I didn’t want to try.”
Marin could not imagine Jane not trying. She seemed so energetic, so purposeful. So unlike how she felt most of the time, drifting around, battling her own uncertainty about everything.
“Well, we’ll see what they think of my clothes,” she said. “They’re quite boring, really. Just business suits.”
“I’m sure someone will snap them up.”
The village hall was set up much as it had been before, with a bar in the corner, but instead of a band on the makeshift stage there were racks of clothes. After handing over their five pounds each, Marin, Jane, Natalie, and Rebecca were ushered towards the racks and told to hang up their clothes.
As soon as Marin had finished she went to look at the photograph again. It had been over a week since she’d seen it, and she wanted to find out if it still held the same tug of fascination for her, or if that had just been the matter of a moment.
She stood in front of the photograph and felt that same unsettling surge of emotion as she gazed at the young woman with her intense stare into the camera lens, the butterfly touching her fingertips. The man behind her, with his look of longing or even love, made Marin feel even more disconcerted. His expression was, in its own way, just as intense as the girl’s, if a bit more veiled.
Jane came to stand next to her, and gazed at the photograph for a few seconds before saying, “Is that the photo taken in your walled garden?” She peered at the caption underneath. “I can see why you’re so taken with it.”
“Can you?” Marin asked. She felt oddly possessive of the photograph, as if the girl and the gardener somehow belonged to her.
“She’s quite beautiful, but sort of… odd,” Jane said thoughtfully.
“She’s not odd,” Marin replied automatically. “She’s lovely.” She liked the girl’s dark eyes and wild tangle of hair, her pale face and the wide, curving bow of her mouth. Yes, her features were perhaps a little too large for conventional beauty, and the intensity of her stare was a bit unnerving. But Marin still thought she was utterly captivating.
Jane let out a little laugh. “You remind me of myself, about Alice James,” she said. “Almost possessive of someone who’s been dead for fifty years or more.”
“You don’t know if she’s dead,” Marin replied, even though she knew she was being ridiculous. Of course the girl was dead. If she really was one of the Sanderson daughters, she would have been born in the 1890s. If she were alive, she’d have to be about a hundred and twenty years old. Impossible. “Anyway,” she continued hurriedly, “it doesn’t matter.”
“Maybe it does,” Jane countered, and then they were prevented from saying anything more by the organizer of the party clapping her hands and telling everyone they had five more minutes to look at the clothes before they started divvying them up.
Marin had already had a glance through the racks, and hadn’t seen much of anything she really needed. She spent most days in jeans and fleeces, for both comfort and warmth. Her current lifestyle did not require any formal or business wear, and she glanced at a few sparkly tops and flouncy skirts in bemusement, knowing she’d never wear them.
“What about this?” Rebecca suggested, holding out a black knee-length cocktail dress with several tiered rows fringed with black jet beads.
“Where would you wear that?” she asked and Rebecca laughed and shook her head.
“Not for me; for you. I think it would really suit you.”
“Me…?” Marin exclaimed, shaking her head. The dress was far more fancy and frivolous and fun than anything she’d ever worn. “I don’t need a cocktail dress, Rebecca.”
“Who knows? Maybe you’ll have somewhere to wear it,” Rebecca answered mischievously. “A posh dinner, perhaps.”
Marin knew she was thinking of Joss and she shook her head again. “I don’t think so.”
“Why not?” Jane asked as she joined them. “It’s practically free and you might get a chance to wear it. I agree with Rebecca – it would really suit you.”
“How?” Marin asked in exasperation. “I’ve never worn anything like that in my life.”
“Exactly,” Rebecca answered at once, and Marin gazed at her and Jane for a moment. They were urging her to get a dress she knew she’d never wear.
Unless…
She banished the thought of some nebulous dinner date before it had fully formed in her mind. Best not to think of that. But why shouldn’t she get the dress? Like Jane had said, it would cost practically nothing. There was no risk. No financial risk, anyway. Tentatively Marin fingered the cloth, touched one of the jet beads. The style of the dress reminded her of something a Flapper might wear – something, in fact, the girl in the photograph might wear, although her dress in the picture was far more conservative, a white day dress that ended just above her ankles. Still, Marin could see her in something like this.
“We’ll see if anyone else wants it,” she finally said, and took a step back from the dress.
A few minutes later they all took their seats as the informal auction began. The organizer, Louise, held up each garment of clothing and anyone who wanted it held up her hand; if there was more than one person interested, Louise drew a name from a bowl.
“Simple system,” Jane remarked to Marin, “but it works.”
Marin sat back and watched as the women around her good-naturedly bid and bickered for various items. Jane had introduced her to a few of the women, mums from the school run mostly, and with a fifteen-year-old girl in her care Marin supposed she should feel some solidarity with them, but she only felt like an impostor. She wasn’t a mother. She didn’t have a husband. Her life, even with Rebecca in it, was so far from the cheerful chaos that these women’s lives seemed to comprise. As friendly as they were, she couldn’t quite feel a part of things.
Marin was jostled out of her thoughts by a sudden elbow to the ribs. “Here’s yours,” Jane whispered.
“It’s not mine,” Marin protested as Louise held up the black Flapper-style cocktail dress.
“Anyone fancy this?” Louise asked. “It’s good for a night out, or even a fancy dress party. Roaring Twenties!”
Marin held back, waiting for someone else to offer for the dress. It was good quality, and she expected someone would want it, but no one seemed to. She was just about to raise her hand when a woman in the back stuck her hand up in a semi-resigned way.
“I’ll take it, then,” she said, “although I’m not sure it’s my size.”
“Marin!” Rebecca hissed. “You can’t let her have it.”
“It’s not up to me—” Marin whispered back, and Rebecca rolled her eyes.
“Put your hand up,” she said, and after a second’s pause, Marin did.
“There’s two of you now,” Louise said, looking animated; Jane had already told Marin that Louise liked a little bit of tussling over the clothes. “Makes it more interesting, apparently,” she’d said. Now Louise smiled and nodded decisively. “We’ll have to draw names.”
She wrote their names on slips of paper and put them in the proffered bowl. Marin shifted in her seat, a bit embarrassed to suddenly be the centre of attention; so far there had been very few occasions where more than one person had wanted an item of clothing.
Louise shuffled the two bits of paper for effect and then called out in ringing tones, “Marin Ellis.”
Jane, Rebecca, and Natalie all clapped as if she’d done something impressive. Blushing all the more, Marin stood up and accepted the dress. The woman from the back row gave a conciliatory wave, and Marin smiled apologetically back.
She returned to the seat, clutching the dress to her, and Jane gave her another poke in the ribs. “You’ll have to wear it now, won’t you?” she said. Marin did not reply.
The swish party continued, and by the end of the evening Jane had a pretty silk scarf and a pair of high-heeled boots, Natalie had some sparkly tops, and Rebecca had come away with a pink cardigan. Marin had her dress.
They walked back towards the church, its squat tower looming darker against a dark sky, the moon hidden behind some fast-moving clouds. Marin breathed in the cold, still air and felt something unfurl inside of her: a seed of happiness, planted in this unexpected garden.
“That was really fun,” she told Rebecca after they’d said goodbye to Natalie and Jane and were walking back to Bower House. “I’m glad I went.”
“Me too,” Rebecca said, and impulsively linked arms with her. Marin nearly stumbled in her shock; Rebecca had never voluntarily touched her since the funeral. And in all that time she had never touched Rebecca either.
Now she felt affection, gratitude, and bemusement all war within her, because while she was glad Rebecca had shown her some affection, she had no idea if her half-sister would, in the next few minutes, yank her arm away and stalk up the lane or keep walking like this, arm in arm. Rebecca’s moods were still mercurial and impossible to predict.
But she would, Marin decided, take this moment for what it was: a moment. A moment that watered that little seed of happiness, and allowed it to begin to bloom.