The Rose Garden (11 page)

One time she’d run away there. She had just moved into secondary school, finding herself in a new class in a new school and separated from her close friends. She was unhappier than she had ever been before. It was awful, and she remembered just wanting to escape to Mossbawn and the comfort of the old house. Apparently she had caused uproar with her disappearance, but she just remembered the adventure of it! Molly and Uncle David had made no fuss and treated her arrival off the Dublin train on her own like a routine visit.

The summer after her mum had died, when she was nearly seventeen, she had gone to stay at Mossbawn for six weeks. She remembered being sad and angry, lost and lonely, and just wanting to escape to the place she felt safe. Liz had gone to Bordeaux for four weeks to learn French and Mike had gone off backpacking around Europe with some friends. Kim spent most of that summer with her aunt and uncle, mooching around the house and garden, day-dreaming, reading, playing cards and hanging out with her younger cousins and their new puppy Daisy, listening to music, sunbathing on the terrace.

Her aunt was endlessly patient, showing Kim how to bake bread, make a cake, and in the garden teaching her how to plant things and divide plants and when to give them support, food, a stake, a watering, showing her just how much care and attention a garden needed. It seemed to Kim that her aunt was an artist and the garden was her painting. Her uncle had brought her out on the river in his boat, showed her how to catch a fish, and how to play threes tunes on his piano; he told jokes and played tricks on them all, and loved playing rounders as the sun went down …

When Uncle David had died last year she’d been devastated. He was one of the kindest men she had ever known and Kim had struggled to accept that she had lost someone else that she loved.

Since her uncle’s death things hadn’t been the same. Molly was mostly on her own … Kim felt guilty about it, but was really looking forward to staying there now.

As she drove she put on a CD and sang along with it. It was weird, but driving along she felt sort of happy – the first time in weeks.

Coming off the motorway, she relaxed as she drove through one small town after another until she came to Kilfinn. As she passed along the main street she spotted all the familiar shops: O’Donnell’s Supervalu, Cassidy’s Café, the Kilfinn Inn, Grogan’s Pharmacy, Reynolds’ Newsagents and the Post Office. She was surprised to see a For Sale sign up in Molloy’s Drapery; the shop was an institution in Kilfinn, an emporium stocking everything from underwear to wellington boots, knitted jumpers and rain gear to tea towels and tablecloths and bed linen. Mulligan’s Bar was also closed with a For Sale sign over the door. It was awful seeing shops shutting down, businesses closing. Dublin was full of them, but clearly even somewhere like Kilfinn was being affected.

At the end of the town she saw the familiar iron gates of Mossbawn House and turned up the driveway. Coming to a halt outside the large country house with its bay windows, red-painted door and stone dogs guarding the entrance, she suddenly felt
home. As she opened the car door she heard Daisy barking and a few seconds later the little dog was out jumping around her feet as Molly came to greet her.

‘Welcome, Kim pet. It’s so good to see you.’

Molly looked tired and she guessed that her aunt had been busy cleaning for the past few days and getting things ready for her arrival.

‘Did you have a good drive?’ Molly asked, looking into the packed car. ‘Let me give you a hand with some of your luggage.’

‘No, it’s okay, Molly; I’ll take some stuff in now and get the rest later.’

As Kim walked through into the hall, Daisy ran around, tail wagging with excitement at seeing her.

The hall hadn’t changed, with its black-and-white tiled floor and the old grandfather clock ticking away, and the table with a big vase of flowers from the garden sitting under the mirror. She loved this old house, even the way it smelled and sounded and its atmosphere of calm and acceptance.

‘Come down to the kitchen and I’ll make us some tea,’ smiled her aunt, leading the way.

Kim had always felt at home in this kitchen, with its Aga cooker and massive Irish pine table, its scattering of comfy chairs, her aunt’s display of antique blue-and-white china on the dresser and the pantry stocked with all kinds of things.

‘Will you have a scone?’

Kim laughed. How well her aunt remembered that warm scones were her favourite thing in the world.

‘I’ve a jar of bramble jelly here somewhere.’

Sitting down at the table, Kim let her aunt fuss over her like she used to when she was a child. It felt good to be back … safe.

‘I’ve put you in the old bedroom. I know how much you and Liz loved it.’

‘Thanks.’

‘It’s so good to have you here again, Kim,’ her aunt confided. ‘To tell the truth, I get lonely here without David.’

‘Then I’m glad I came. I’ve always loved coming here.’

Kim carried most of her bags and gear upstairs to her bedroom, with its floral-patterned wallpaper and the pretty quilted bedspread and enormous bed. The carpet was rather threadbare, but the rest of the room was rich and warm-looking, with sunshine streaming in. Unzipping her case, she took out her boots and pulled them on, making a mental note to tidy up later as she headed down the large staircase and out through the front door, Daisy at her heels as she set out to explore the garden.

LIFE IN MOSSBAWN WAS SO SIMPLE AND UNCOMPLICATED
compared to being in Dublin. Kim missed her friends, but chatted to them on Skype and Facebook most days. Molly put no pressure on her and let her do what she wanted, the two of them falling into an easy routine of walks, working in the garden and going to the village for food and newspapers, watching TV or listening to the radio in the evenings. Her aunt left her to her own devices a lot of the time, as Molly was engrossed in restoring the old walled rose garden and totally replanting it.

‘It gives me something to do, and God knows I could do with that!’

In the village Kim popped into Cassidy’s Café. It seemed strange, as Norah Cassidy was sick and in hospital, but Gina, the new manager, filled her in on how she was doing as she ordered a cappuccino and a cupcake. The cupcakes were on a pretty tiered cake stand and after much deliberation she opted for an iced lemon one. It was gorgeous, and she instantly sent a photo of it to Evie and the girls to drive them crazy!

Over a bottle of red wine after dinner one night Molly had confided that she was considering selling the house.

‘You can see yourself that it’s far too big for me now that David has gone. Maybe I should listen to everyone and sell it, and move to something smaller and get on with my life.’

‘But you love this house and the garden!’ Kim said, dismayed.

‘I know, but things change as we get older. Nothing can stay the same and we have to change too, as you’ve already discovered, Kim! I’ve talked to an auctioneer and they are going to send someone down to see the place, give me a rough estimate of what it’s worth and what the market for a house like this is at present.’

‘Have you told Emma and Grace?’

‘No, not yet. There’s no point saying anything to them until I know a bit better what’s happening about the house.’

Kim was shocked. She herself couldn’t bear the thought of losing Mossbawn and having someone else live here, but she could see how lonely her aunt was and how much work and expense were involved in running the place.

While Molly worked like a Trojan most days in her rose garden or in the kitchen garden, Kim got out her expensive Olympus camera and began to shoot photographs around the house and grounds. The camera was almost like a fresh eye, taking in the old house, the stone, the curving pillars, the decorative window fan over the front door, the stairs and hall, and the old grandfather clock, the collection of boots near the door, the fireplace with logs blazing, the pantry, the old family portraits and photographs, her aunt’s collection of crystal, the view of the lawn from the bedroom window, the wonderful free-standing bath, even the sturdy Aga.

Outside, Kim with her camera in hand captured the garden in the early-morning light, as the sun warmed the brick in the old stables and dew clung to the tall bushes of rosemary and lavender, the dainty pink leaves and buds of a new rose beginning to open, the mighty beech tree, a curious red squirrel, the robins and the rooks that flocked to the woods. She wanted to capture it all – before everything disappeared and changed … She wanted to keep it for ever.

It was as if the old house had put a spell on her, and going through the library room where her uncle used to work she was fascinated to discover documents and ledgers and a leather folder that held so much information about the history of the house and
its previous owners. The more she read about Charles Moore, the original owner, and his wife, Constance, and their eight children, the more interested she became. Turning to the internet she searched through birth records and parish records and census forms to find out more about the past of Mossbawn House and its inhabitants.

The local graveyard yielded no clues, but Father Darragh told her that there was a much older graveyard that was no longer in use about two miles away on the other side of the village.

‘I’m sure that might be where your Moore family are buried if they died in Kilfinn,’ he explained as they walked up to it together.

The graveyard was overgrown, and most of the inscriptions on the headstones were worn away and covered in moss and lichen, but Kim persisted until she found a Constance,
dearest mother and wife
, who had died in 1877. The second name was almost illegible, but it looked like a Mo—. Another name had been added later – she could read ‘husband’ and only the initial C. She wondered, was that Charles? The year of death was 1904, which would have meant he had lived for many years after his beloved Constance and had died a very old man. She needed to find the death records or burial records to check them. Curious to discover more, she talked to Kilfinn’s local librarian, Una Swann.

Una showed her many of the records and photographs and items related to the village. A family called Cavendish had lived in Mossbawn for a number of years when the house had gone out of the Moore family’s hands. Then, around 1888, Charles’s youngest son James Moore and his wife had managed to regain possession of the house and most of the grounds.

‘The county library, which is much bigger, would have some of the famine records and land records from the time, Kim. Why don’t you try there?’ she suggested.

Kim’s file and photos and records about Mossbawn’s history seemed to grow and grow, and as she scanned in documents and
photos and old letters she realized that she was creating almost an archive about the house. Curious to find out more, she often stayed up late, working on her laptop at night.

Molly too was fascinated by it and helped her as much as she could, both of them aware that if a suitable buyer was found for Mossbawn another owner’s family history would be added.

‘The house has always been bought by people when they had money and then sold by them when they needed it!’ admitted Molly. ‘Apparently a huge amount of the surrounding land had to be sold over the years to keep the house or owners going.’

‘It’s such a shame when you see how big the original grounds of the estate were on the map!’

‘Kim, you really have got caught up in this,’ teased Molly, glad to see her niece display such a passion for something.

Kim didn’t know what she would do if or when Mossbawn was sold. It had always been such an important part of her childhood and she would miss it terribly. Taking photos and creating an archive about the house and its owners was something she felt compelled to do, just as Molly seemed obsessed with her garden.

KIM WAS BUSY WEEDING IN THE VEGETABLE GARDEN WHEN SHE
saw the old jeep pulling a trailer drive up in front of the house. Molly had gone off with her friends for the afternoon, so, standing up, Kim brushed off the dirt from her hands and jeans and went to see who it was.

As she neared the trailer she got the smell. It was horrendous.

‘Manure for Molly’s roses,’ laughed the driver, who seemed immune to the foul stench that filled the air.

Molly had mentioned trying to get some manure for feeding the roses from one of the nearby farms.

‘Where do you want me to dump it?’ asked the dark-haired guy, clearly amused by her reaction.

Kim hadn’t a clue. Looking into the trailer, she could see there was a stinking huge pile of it.

‘It’s horse dung from our place,’ he explained as she got him to drive over to the area where Molly usually dumped rubbish from the garden.

‘Hold on – let me phone Molly,’ she said, walking a little away from him.

A few minutes later he had driven the trailer over to a spot closest to the outside wall of the rose garden. Kim stood back, watching as he opened the end of the trailer and tilted it so that the massive brown pile of manure began to fall on to the grass below; then he got out and, taking a pitchfork, emptied the rest from the trailer.

It was disgusting and she had to hold her nose against the stench.

‘Best fertilizer ever!’ he joked. ‘It’s got to be good for something.’

Kim found herself laughing at the bizarreness of the situation. Was she meant to pay him for it? Her aunt hadn’t said anything about it.

‘Molly said I am to fix up with you?’ she offered.

‘You’re fine – Dad sent me over with it,’ he nodded, watching her. ‘I’m from Grangefield, the stud farm out the road. My mum, Judy, is in the book club with Molly.’

‘I’m Kim, her niece,’ she said, suddenly aware that her hands were filthy, her nails black, and she was wearing an old knitted jumper of Emma’s that had a massive rip on the elbow, and she hadn’t even a scrape of mascara or lip gloss on …

‘Luke, Luke Ryan.’ He smiled, staring at her intently with the most incredible grey-green eyes. ‘I’m presuming you’re from Dublin – am I right?’