In The Garden Of Stones (46 page)

“
I’m going to approach some of the charities to see if they
can help, and you’ll have a very important part to play
too.”

Colin
looks up from the paperwork. “Me?”

“
Of course. I’m going to need a lot of help from someone who
knows the ins and outs of the military mind, someone who
understands what these people need. I need an insider. In short,
Captain McLeod, I need you.”

“
Now hud oan a mintie–”

“
I need you right there with me, guiding me, keeping me on
the straight and narrow, helping me to understand without being
patronising. I need your expertise, your leadership,
your–”

“
Forget it! I can’t even brush my ain teeth let alone
oversee the conversion of a house or supervise the…what will you
call them? Inmates? Customers?”

“
Tenants. And you won’t have to be anything more than an
adviser, although your name will be on the deeds as part owner… for
tax purposes.”

“
I’ve nae money fer investing or part owning anything. I’ve
nae money full stop. I’ll need my compensation ta live on, and my
invalidity pension won’t even scratch–”

“
I don’t need your money. I’ll be paying all the
bills–”

“
I’ll no be a kept man.” His raised chin juts like the prow
of a ship. “I have ma pride.”

And don’t I know it
. “We can talk about that later, but I have more
than enough to make a start,” she says. “And I can make savings
here and there through contacts. That’s the beauty of networking.
I’ve already got an architect friend working
pro bono
on a proper set of plans, and
while I’m waiting for the council to give me planning permission
I’ll be putting in some specialist grant applications and shopping
around for trades people and some bargain but good quality
fittings.”

Colin
sniffs. “Seems like ye’ve already got it all well in hand whether I
say yay or nay.”

“
Yes, I have. I thought I might change the name of the place
too. Lawson House has a nice ring to it, don’t you
think?”

Colin
reaches the last page, a scale diagram of the house and grounds –
the boundary wall, the gates, the driveway, the location of every
tree and shrub, all marked out, and behind the house, a distinct
rectangle filled with small crosses. He knows what this
is.

“
Ye’re keeping the cemetery? Ye’re no having the bodies
moved?”

“
Of course not,” Grace says. “They are the original
residents. They’ve been there a very long time. I wouldn’t dream of
uprooting them. The little cemetery will be lovely when it’s all
tidied up and the stones cleaned. It will give you something to do,
taking care of them, keeping them nice.”

“
Our very own garden of stones,” he says wistfully, and she
can see what he is thinking about.

“
We can go back to ours whenever we want to,” she says.
“Just because we will be spending most of our time here together
doesn’t mean we have to abandon the garden or your little hut
altogether. All we have to do is imagine it, and we’ll be there
again.”

“
It’s been a while,” he says, tucking the papers back into
their envelope. “I miss it.”

“
So do I.” Grace shivers. “It’s warmer there.”

A sly
glint comes into Colin’s eye. “Fancy a trip, for old time’s
sake?”

“
Love to.”

“
Tonight?”

“
Will you light the stove in the hut and make it all
cosy?”

“
Aye.”

“
And make me a cup of tea in that old cracked
pot?”

“
Aye, and I’ll pick you a whole trugful of strawberries
too.”

“
And will you cut me a rose, just like you did the first
time we met.”

“
It will be my pleasure.”

“
It’s a date then.” She gets to her feet, and stamps them to
get the circulation going again. “You ready to go back inside
before it gets too cold?”

“
Too late fer that. Ma bat and balls turned blue and dropped
off about half an hour ago. Some squirrel’s probably buried ma nuts
somewhere already.”

Grace
lets the brake off the wheelchair and they resume their walk
towards the warmth and light of the centre.

“
You want to stay for tea?” Colin asks.

“
Depends on what you’re having.”

“
I’m dining in tonight, so I chose lamb chops, spuds and
veg, followed by apple crumble wi custard. I thought I’d have a go
at the cheese plate too.” He slaps his abdomen. “Pack in a bit of
protein. Build up the muscle.”

“
Good idea. You can’t beat a bit of Stilton.”

They
keep up a continual stream of chatter, bantering over the varying
merits of individual cheeses, until they get back to his
room.

“
About that third bedroom,” he says, as she helps him out of
his outdoor coat. “I don’t really think we’ll need it, do you? Two
should be ample. One for us, one for your bits and bobs … if you
don’t mind sharing that is?”

“
I don’t mind at all.” She pulls off his hat and kisses his
head. “As long as you don’t snore.”

Chapter 45

A
handmade notice dangles from the handle of the door to room 28 at
Pelham Chase Rehabilitation Centre, STRICTLY PRIVATE - DO NOT
DISTURB, marked out in large red letters on a stark white
background, the 'not' underlined three times, 'disturb' followed by
two fat exclamation marks for emphasis.

Simon
Gibbs, there to collect the used dinner trays, smiles at Grace’s ad
hoc handiwork.

“
Wouldn’t dream of it,” he says, and turns away and strides
off down the corridor to see to another patient who has also
decided to dine at home tonight.

Inside
the room, lit only by the weak light leaking out from over the
bathroom door, Grace and Colin are lying comfortably together in
the bed, naked under the covers, arms wrapped around each other,
deeply asleep.

Far
away, in Colin’s hut at the edge of the garden of stones, two
others are doing the same.

The
flames bobbing behind the glass in the wood burning stove bathe the
two people on the cot in a golden glow.

Shadows
flicker on the walls of the warm and cosy hut, which tonight has
that unique sweet salty vinegar-and-garlic scent of post coitus,
intermingled with perfume from half a dozen deep red roses sitting
in an old enamel water jug on the table.

Naked
under the rough blanket covering her, Grace lies with her face
nestled against Colin’s chest. He has his arms wrapped around her,
holding her close, and both are sleeping.

No
dreams to haunt them here. No nightmares to frighten them. The
terrors of the real world have no place here. They are simply
enjoying the comforting, healing sleep, of minds at ease in their
own secret place.

~ The End ~

Whilst this story is a work of fiction with more than a touch
of the fantastical and intended for entertainment only, PTSD (post
traumatic stress disorder) is very real indeed and its effects can
be far reaching and devastating. Far too many continue to suffer in
silence because they feel that nobody else can have the slightest
inkling of what they are going through.

Please, be assured, you do not need to think that
way.

If you or someone you know and love has PTSD, cyclothymia, or
any other kind of depressive illness and you need someone to talk
to, to confide in, there are some brilliant organisations out there
who can help, who will listen, will understand, will not give up on
you even if you have given up on yourself – and you don’t need to
be military to benefit.

Take that first step, pick up the phone and call. You only
need say two little words, probably the hardest you will ever say,
but they could save a life, possibly yours.

Those words – Help. Me.

Combat Stress

Worth Fighting For

*
Help for Heroes

ABOUT
THE AUTHOR

Jillian
Brookes-Ward hails originally from the North West of England but
now resides in bustling historic Aberdeen, Scotland.

A former
Medical/MedicoLegal secretary, she gave up the 9-5 rat race to
pursue a writing career inspired by her locale and the people
around her. A good move as it turns out because it has yielded nine
books so far, ranging from contemporary romance to psychological
drama and raunchy riverside romps, to the gut wrenching horror of
OFFSHORE under the pen-name Lucy Pepperdine.

When
Jillian is not writing she cares for her home and family, and takes
long walks in the parks and on the beach with her dog, her writing
buddy and constant companion, Wee Archie. Jillian is also an avid
supporter of and fund raiser for military charities Help for Heroes
and Combat Stress.