Sowing Secrets (17 page)

‘That nice Gabriel Weston has offered me the full asking price for Fairy Glen!’ Ma told me when she called on Mother’s Day to thank me for my card. ‘But I told him I would only sell it to him if you agree too, my love, since you are as fond of it as I am and, what’s more, will be living practically on the doorstep.’

‘But, Ma—’ I began to protest automatically.

‘You just think about it, Frannie, because he absolutely loves the cottage and wants to make it his home, and he
is
a gardener so he would look after the glen.’

‘Yes, but he might just be
saying
that. He probably wants to knock the cottage down and build a huge house and landscape all the magic out of the place,’ I said stubbornly.

‘I don’t think so, Fran – and I don’t know what you’ve got against him! In fact, I thought you’d be all for it, another gardener, especially since he told me you’d been very nice to him, and he felt like you were old friends already.’

I bet he did – and if he’s going to make a habit of that kind of remark I’d
much
rather he lived somewhere else!

‘He seems genuine to me, Fran – but there, it’s up to him to persuade you differently if he really wants it.’

‘He did send me a lovely bouquet, with a kind message,’ I admitted reluctantly. ‘And so did Tom Collinge. I thought he must have found out from Rosie.’

‘Yes, Rosie told me she’s been emailing him,’ Ma said cautiously. ‘And he’s going to visit her, I think.’

I sighed. ‘I can’t stop them even though I’m not happy about it, though with a bit of luck the whole thing will peter out of its own accord eventually when they see they’re not alike in the least. This isn’t a fairy tale where a fairy scientist waves a magic DNA result and declares them father and daughter, and they live happily ever after.’

‘If you say so,’ Ma said doubtfully. ‘What about Mal? All those heavy hints about poor Rhodri got terribly wearing, although I can see why he doesn’t quite believe in your Mysterious Stranger story, Frannie, when you didn’t tell anyone about it until this year!’

‘No one asked,’ I said shortly. ‘No, Mal still thinks I am holding something back – probably that it was Rhodri, but that it was just a brief, mistaken fling.’

(Come to think about it, I
am
holding something back! But then, should I suddenly start claiming that Gabe is Rosie’s father, everyone would
really
think I had gone mad, wouldn’t they? It’s much more unbelievable than any of my other stories!)

‘He accepts now that what happened before I knew him isn’t really important, it’s what we have
together
that matters, and I would never be unfaithful to him. He was always a bit jealous, but he didn’t really suspect me of anything before the Wevills moved in and started putting ideas into his head.’

‘Those Weevils are slow poison,’ she agreed. ‘Where were they living before, did you say?’

‘Some small village in mid-Wales … ’ I racked my brains and produced the name.

‘Never heard of it.’

‘Neither had I, but it does exist. I don’t know why they moved here after Owen retired early because of his Mystery Illness, and it doesn’t seem to stop him doing anything he wants to. Mona does nothing except insinuate herself into the WI, which according to Carrie has suddenly become a battlefield. I’d bet any money that when the dust clears she will be seen modestly accepting the chairwoman’s seat.’

‘You’re probably right,’ Ma agreed. ‘Still, at least if Gabriel buys the Glen you will have
one
nice neighbour.’

‘Neighbour as in several hundred yards away up the lane?’

‘Close enough –
and
he’s a cash buyer,’ she said pensively. ‘I could be booking that cruise in no time!’

‘I’ll see what he says,’ I conceded reluctantly, since it would be like having a gently ticking bomb permanently on the doorstep. As far as he is concerned I expect the novelty of constantly running into an ex-lover who most definitely
doesn’t
want to kiss and tell would add spice to his otherwise humdrum country existence, but if he had the least idea about Rosie he would probably be looking for a property on a remote Scottish island instead.

After this I expected every phone call to be Gabe Weston trying to persuade me that he was the right buyer for Fairy Glen, so it was sort of anti-climactic when there was a huge silence instead. I am in hope that he has thought better of the idea.

Mal is a whirlwind of activity, organising things for his trip, and has already dispatched a couple of boxes of belongings freight, ready for when he gets an apartment: sheets and pots and pans, CDs and gadgets. I expect I will be constantly missing things in the kitchen after he’s gone, but at the moment I can’t raise much interest.

He has locked his stamps away with instructions that in case of fire or hurricane I am to rescue them first, but I am much more likely to be sitting on the coop with the hens watching them go up in smoke while clapping my hands in girlish glee. I’m not risking my life for some scraps of printed paper.

Because he said I wasn’t up to the drive yet, he booked a costly taxi all the way to Manchester airport to catch his very early connecting flight to Gatwick. (The Wevills couldn’t take him, since Mona was having one of her Strange Turns, though how she could be any stranger than she is is anyone’s guess.)

I haven’t actually driven anywhere since I came out of hospital, so I was glad about the taxi but guilty that I was so selfishly lost in my own woes I hadn’t even thought about how poor Mal was going to get himself and all his bags to the airport.

We said our goodbyes at home in the cold, dark early hours, and I still found it unbelievable that not only was he really going off and leaving me for six whole months but, however much he tried to conceal it, was happy and excited about it! It’s not that he didn’t do and say all the right things before he left – he did – but the fact that he could just walk away from me and jump into the taxi and go was deeply hurtful.

I think maybe I was expecting a last-minute reprieve.

His face and suit glimmered palely inside the darkness of the taxi (and my God, was I glad
I
wouldn’t be the one having to launder that linen suit at the other end), he waved his arm, and then he was gone.

Just after he vanished the Wevills’ front door flew open and out shot Mona in her beige silk pyjamas, waving a weak torch:
Honey, I Blew Up the Gloworm
, coming soon to a cinema near you.

‘Gone, gone!’ she wailed.

‘“And never called me Mother”,’ I finished for her, since we seemed to be in Victorian melodrama mode.

Owen materialised out of the darkness behind her and silently dragged her back into the hall, slamming the door like a pistol shot.

I expect I will get the blame for waking the entire village up.

Our house felt totally empty and cold, and in their neat run behind the cottage even the hens seemed to be moaning in sympathy, although the sharp wail of a peacock would sum up much better how I felt at that moment. Bereft. Deserted. Not Wanted On Voyage.

I felt everything settle like a huge burden of responsibility on my shoulders, even though all the cottage outgoings including the mortgage are arranged on standing orders from our joint household account, so I need to cope with nothing except emergencies. And Mal’s going to phone me every other day, and email me in between, he says.

After a while I found he’d left me a little note propped against the kettle, together with some more computer printouts about the delights of Grand Cayman and my new gilt credit card … or should that be the guilt card, in my case, given my hang-up over credit?

The note mysteriously directed me to look on the desk in his study, where I found three gift-wrapped presents, which I carried down to the kitchen to open, though not without difficulty, since one was quite large and heavy. They contained the following items:

1) A gleaming chrome fruit and vegetable juicer.

2) A copy of a detox diet.

3) A return aeroplane ticket to Grand Cayman, dated late May, standard class.

Why do I get the feeling there is a causal relationship between these three objects?

Have conditions been attached? And a nice ring would have been more of a spur, since he has never got round to giving me one – but preferably not an eternity one, since a ring with any sort of time limit like that ‘Forever’ one Tom gave me seems to be an invitation to disaster.

And since I’m probably still anaemic and need to build my strength up, won’t this make dieting a little difficult?

What liquidises well with Guinness? Apricots?

The dead hours between night and day should be banned. I don’t think I’ve ever felt so bleakly depressed in my entire life.

Just noticed that one of the printouts Mal left me was all about how Grand Cayman was ‘the premier place to celebrate your nuptials’.

But since I’ve already been nupted (dreary registry office ceremony though it was), I thought it had got in by error until I read the bit where they said it was also the perfect place to renew your vows. Nupted revisited? Is that what Mal meant by my holiday there being a second honeymoon? He was pretty insistent that I buy something special to wear.

How secretive – but romantic – of Mal! It makes me feel more hopeful about our future together. (And the advert on the same page for Colombian emerald engagement rings was pretty interesting too.)

I won’t mention it – though I may just hint about the emeralds …

Rhodri and Nia called in to cheer me up, Rhodri bearing six bottles of champagne, which apparently also contains iron. He suggested I mix it with Guinness, but not in the liquidiser.

‘Rhodri is so kind,’ I said when he went off to the kitchen to find glasses.

‘Too kind and trusting – anybody could take advantage of him,’ Nia said. ‘Absolutely nothing would get done up at Plas Gwyn if I didn’t take a hand, because tradesmen would swindle him, and he’d let the studios to just
anyone
instead of good-quality craftspeople who will be able to pay the rent!’

There is something to be said for a malleable husband. Wouldn’t it be lovely if he and Nia got together once they are over their divorces? Of course, she would have to stop referring to him as ‘you chin-less wonder’ and ‘Lord High and Mighty’, but these are probably only from long habit and don’t really reflect how she feels about him now. And he is
not
chinless – he’s got a perfectly good one.

On the other hand, if he carries on making weak Druid jokes like he was today, which were of the ‘a Bard in the hand is worth two in the bush’ variety, he may not live that long.

Rhodri, of course, thinks Gabe Weston buying Fairy Glen would be brilliant, and can’t quite understand my lack of enthusiasm.

‘Perhaps you’ll feel differently when he’s talked to you about it,’ he suggested. ‘He’s really a very nice man.’

‘
If
he talks to me about it. He hasn’t contacted me yet,’ I pointed out, ‘so he’s probably thought better of it. He can’t
really
think it would be convenient to live here when his work takes him all over the country, can he?’

‘It hasn’t stopped him driving up here whenever the fancy takes him, has it?’ Nia pointed out. ‘That sort of huge car probably just about drives itself.’

‘They’re coming to film the preliminary scenes at Easter,’ Rhodri said. ‘Perhaps he’s simply waiting until then? He’s going to show me the plans he’s drawn up then too … or did he say he was going to come back and discuss them with me
before
that? I’ve forgotten.’

‘He’ll probably email you,’ Nia said. ‘He must be very busy.’

When they left, Mona Wevill just
happened
to be on her drive, polishing her car very, very slowly and looking about as normal as she ever does. She rushed to the fence eagerly, calling, ‘Oh, Mr Gwyn-Whatmire, isn’t it wonderful news about the
Restoration Gardener
programme! I’m so—’

Rhodri, the soul of politeness, seemed transfixed by a smile that exposed more teeth than a crocodile’s, but Nia dragged him off with the threat that if he didn’t get into his car and drive,
she
would. That did it. Nia’s driving is of the ‘treat‘em rough’ school and he wasn’t about to abandon his beloved Spyder to that sort of treatment.

Mona looked at me as they drove off, and her eager expression closed tightly into bitter resentment as though I had scored points in some game we were playing.

I wish I had a copy of the rules and/or an impartial referee.

She made a basic tactical mistake in ignoring Nia, though she would have been unlikely to have fooled her even if she’d sucked up to her from the day they moved here, because Nia is just naturally suspicious of everyone; it’s the way she’s made.

Although it seemed days until Mal phoned me from Grand Cayman to say he had arrived, I expect that was due to my permanent confusion as to whether he had been flying backwards in time and was going to land yesterday, or forwards, and it would be tomorrow … or something. Anyway, he’d had a good flight and was staying in a hotel until he found a suitable apartment.

He said he was missing me already, but he didn’t talk for long, and I could hear office noises in the background so I suppose he had to get straight down to work.

How odd to think of him so far away,
and
I forgot to thank him for the presents, which were kindly meant, even if not quite what I might have chosen myself – except the plane ticket, I suppose, since that is the only way I will get to see him for the next six months.

Strangely enough, while at the time his departure felt like some kind of ultimate abandonment, it has proved to be the usual case of ‘out of sight, out of mind’, probably because it’s so hard to take in the length of time before he comes back, and the enormous distance between us.

I’m more concerned with trying to fight off this dark cloud of depression hanging over my head and threatening to descend. Nothing really seems to matter any more except Rosie, and my maternal worrying over her has intensified to the point where I’m fighting the urge to rush down and check that she’s safe and well all the time, something she certainly wouldn’t appreciate. It’s also unnecessary, since she has been amassing huge mobile phone bills checking up on
me
since the miscarriage.