The Red Book of Primrose House: A Potting Shed Mystery (Potting Shed Mystery series 2) (3 page)

“Excuse me, sir,” he said. “Would you and the lady like me to send up a plate of sandwiches to your room this evening? It’s just, there’s a coachload of Germans arriving later, and you might prefer…” He cleared his throat.

Pru peered over the top of the paper as she felt her face grow warm. They had been rather obviously preoccupied with each other. Christopher answered with aplomb, although she noticed the tips of his ears turned pink. “Thanks, yes, that would be fine. And a bottle of that cab franc we had last night?”

Friday evening had been sweet and tender. Saturday, laughter filled the long, lovely dinner. But by Sunday evening, sitting on the floor and eating off the coffee table in their room, an ever-so-slight note of melancholy crept in.

“We won’t have this again for a while, will we?” Pru asked.

“Still,” Christopher said, “it’s better than it might have been. I was afraid I’d never see you again if you left.”

“I was afraid, too.” Looking back, she wondered what she had been thinking, about to go off to Texas.

He fixed her with one of his penetrating looks. “I’d started looking into flights to Dallas.”

Her eyes widened in delight, and she reached across the table for his hand. “You were going to go after me? How romantic.”

“I didn’t want to lose you.”

“You haven’t lost me—here I am. And I’ll be just an hour away.”

As she fingered the gold necklace, which she now refused to take off except when showering, she swept thoughts of no home of her own and a seven-day workweek under the rug, so that she could fully enjoy the moment.

On Monday morning, they said goodbye in the car park. Christopher promised to visit as soon as she’d moved in to her cottage, and Pru promised that it would be soon.

Primrose House

22 December

Dear Pru,

Just a thought as we pack up for Christmas. Shouldn’t a Humphry Repton landscape have a water feature? We thought that a lovely fountain in the large oval out front would be a magnificent way to greet guests—something three-tiered and Italian, perhaps. We’ll let you think about this, and we’ll settle on a design in the New Year.

Happy Christmas!

Davina

Pru thought a three-tiered Italianate fountain would be in dreadful taste, but hoped she wouldn’t have to go into detail with her employer, who seemed to land on a new idea for that space every few days. Pru wouldn’t be surprised if Davina seized on a fairy garden or a collection of gnomes next.

On Christmas Eve morning, Pru left for Hampshire. She spent the holiday catching up with the Wilsons, eating wonderful food prepared by Evelyn, their cook, and taking their terrier, Toffee Woof-Woof, for walks. They exchanged modest gifts: Pru gave Mr. Wilson a book on the Alamo; Mrs. Wilson, a book of stitchery patterns based on Roman mosaics; and Toffee, a box of rat-shaped dog biscuits. They gave her a sturdy hand-knitted sweater made by someone in Mrs. Wilson’s Women’s Institute chapter, a book of parterre and knot garden designs, and an Aga cookery book.

On Christmas night, Pru retired to her bedroom to wait for the video call from Dubai she’d arranged with Christopher. Well, Graham had really set it up.

“Are you there, Pru?”

“Yes, hello, Graham, happy Christmas.”

“You, too.” She could see Graham looking over Christopher’s shoulder and pointing to the keyboard and the screen. “Right, now, Dad, don’t move much or she won’t be able to see you, and when you want to ring off, just click—”

“Yes, son, thanks, I think I’ve got it,” Christopher said, a bit of impatience in his voice. “I can take it from here.”

“Right, that’s me away, Pru. Cheers, bye.”

“Bye, Graham.”

She and Christopher looked at each other’s image, until she saw the door behind him close.

“Happy Christmas, my darling.”

She touched his face on the screen. “Happy Christmas. How was the day?”

“The company put on a dinner for all its UK employees and their families here, Christmas crackers and all. And how is everyone there?”

“The Wilsons send their regards. They’re settled in and enjoying being back in Hampshire. They hope that you’ll come down, too, next visit.”

“I wish I had my arms around you right now,” he said.

She produced a small sound somewhere between a squeak and a sigh and left it at that.

As dear as the Wilsons were to her, she really focused on Boxing Day, the day after Christmas, when she would meet their gardener who shared her surname, Simon Parke. Pru had looked forward to it since she first heard of him, when she worked for the Wilsons in London. Simon had been the Wilsons’ gardener for many years; Mrs. Wilson, knowing of Pru’s eagerness, had asked him over for tea. Pru hoped to discover that he was a relative. Her English mother, Jenny Parke, had been an only child, as was Pru herself. Her longing for some family relation in England had led her to dream up all sorts of connections, but since her arrival the year before, she’d had no time to carry out any actual research. Simon might hold the key.

Boxing Day broke clear and mild. After lunch, Mrs. Wilson saw Simon out in the garden, and Pru said she’d go out to meet him.

The afternoon sun, low in the midwinter sky, was in her eyes as she walked the path out to the terrace garden. She squinted, put her hand up to her forehead, and saw a figure ahead of her—he appeared as a silhouette, kneeling in the path, one knee up with his elbow resting on it as he took a close look at something. Pru got the queerest feeling, a wave of cold that spread from the top of her head and down over her shoulders. He must’ve heard her approach, because he stood up and turned to her, and the queer feeling vanished.

“Hello…Simon? I’m Pru.” She held out her hand.

He shook it firmly, with a good gardener’s grip. He wore a sheepskin coat against the cold. She moved slightly and, with her eyes out of the sun, could see that he was older than she by several years and just barely taller. She searched his face, looking for a reminder of her mother, but couldn’t say if she saw anything or not.

“Hello, Pru, I’m happy to meet you. Vernona and Harry told me all about you and what happened in London.”

“They’ve told me a great deal about Greenoak and the garden. I’m sorry it’s winter, but I can see it will be wonderful when the season starts.”

They chatted about the garden and looked at the tips of grassy crocus leaves and spears of daffodils already shooting out of the ground. She asked him a few questions about clipping yew for topiary—a task she would be taking up at Primrose House. It was easy to talk with him—it’s always easy gardener to gardener, she thought. As they talked, she kept trying to steal glances at him, and a time or two felt him do the same to her.

They walked past several large, fragrant witch hazels, and Pru gasped. “Oh, they’re lovely.” Carpeting the ground below the leafless shrubs were hundreds of hardy cyclamen, just four inches high, blooming in white and shades of pink.

“They naturalize quite easily. Do you not have any at Primrose House?” he asked.

“I haven’t seen any,” she replied, smiling. “We don’t even have any primroses. Not yet, at least.”

“Before you go today, we’ll dig up a clump for you to take back. We’ve loads here, more than enough to share. And snowdrops—do you need any of those?” Pru nodded, and he looked back at the house. “I’d say Vernona will have tea ready soon. Shall we go in?”

They walked into the sitting room together, as Mrs. Wilson put the tea things down on a low table between two short sofas. “There now,” she said, looked up at them, and brushed her skirt off. “Oh. Well. Simon, Evelyn has made shortbread for you.”

Mr. Wilson stood in the arched entry to the room and looked from Pru to Simon and back again. “Vernona?” he asked.

“Harry, come sit down,” his wife said.

Pru and Simon sat on the same sofa, across from the Wilsons. Toffee took up residence beside Simon, and when tea was poured and Simon had a plateful of shortbread, he broke off a piece and gave it to the dog. Toffee took it out of his fingers gingerly and crunched it, after which he went over to Pru and sat down. She did the same. “Well,” she said, “he’s got our number, hasn’t he?” and Simon laughed.

“Let’s have a photo of the two of you,” Mrs. Wilson said, “our two gardeners Parke.”

“Oh, I don’t believe you can really call me your gardener,” said Pru, her face ablaze. “I didn’t have the chance to do anything.” As Mr. Wilson wandered off to find the camera, Pru said, “Simon, Mrs. Wilson probably told you about my mother—Jenny Parke. That she was English?”

“You have the same name as your mother?” he asked.

“It is confusing, I know. My dad’s last name was Walker. I use my mother’s name. I wanted to strengthen my connection over here, and I thought that would help.”

“Vernona did mention your mother to Birdie, but I don’t believe I’m a Parke relative,” he said. He didn’t look at her, but reached over for another piece of shortbread, which he put on his plate and then put his plate on the table. “My aunt Birdie and uncle George Parke brought me up, after my parents died in a car crash just after the end of the war—not long after I was born. My mother was Birdie’s sister, you see. Uncle George was the Parke—so, probably he’s the relative, if there is one. But he’s long dead now, and they had no children of their own. Birdie’s still alive, though.”

“Birdie might know something about your mother, Pru,” Mrs. Wilson said. “Weren’t your parents from Ibsley, Simon?”

“Ibsley? Is that where your mother was from?” he asked Pru.

She’d followed their exchange, but the disappointment that rose up inside threatened to overcome her and she didn’t speak, but only nodded. She had got her hopes up and now they were dashed. Simon was no relative—oh, perhaps he was related to someone who might have known her mother, but he wasn’t directly family. She smiled at him. “Thanks for coming over today, Simon, during the holidays and all—it must’ve taken you away from your family. You have a family?”

“My wife, Polly, and two girls—grown now, but they don’t live far, and so they’re home for Christmas.”

Mr. Wilson reappeared with a camera, and with a kind but reproachful look at his wife said, “Vernona, I found it in your box of knitting patterns.” He turned the camera on and aimed it at Simon and Pru. “There now, big smiles from the gardeners. Right, I’ll email you a copy, how’s that, Pru?”

From: [email protected]

To: [email protected]

25 December

Dear Pru,

We are so pleased with the progress you are making in the garden, and we know that the open day in July will be a huge success.

I wanted to dash off this quick email to you while it was still fresh in my mind. You are becoming quite the Repton expert, and so I know you won’t mind investigating this one little thing. You know that large beech at the far corner of the terrace? It’s so very tall—I wonder if this wasn’t the one that Repton planted to hide the view of the village pub. Of course, the only way we would know that now is to look for the pub from the very top of the tree as it stands. Would you mind climbing up for us to see what you can see?

Best wishes,

Davina

Pru had emailed Davina back immediately, saying she couldn’t possibly climb the beech—eighty feet high if it was an inch—citing health and safety regulations, and not her fear of heights.

Returning to Primrose House the day after Boxing Day, Pru first turned off the lane and onto the gravel drive to her cottage—not as grand an entrance as the approach to the big house, but entirely her own. The workers were off now until after New Year’s. Through the kitchen window she could see the small, dark blue, previously used Aga cookstove that Davina had found for her. Still partially assembled, the cast-iron enamel pieces were scattered about and rock wool, used as insulation, erupted from the top of the cooker. She laughed to herself—dear Davina, did she really think Pru cooked? Still, it would be a great source of heat for the cottage.

She turned her Mini back out onto the lane and up to the drive for Primrose House. The Templetons were to return later that evening from the Seychelles, and Ivy and Robbie had gone off to Bristol to stay with her sister, so Pru was surprised to see a car parked at the side of the house and a man standing beside it, looking around as if appraising the view. Pru parked just past his car and got out.

“Hello, are you looking for the Templetons?” she asked.

“Are they at home?” He walked to Pru, holding out his hand. “Sorry, I’m Jamie Tanner. Are you the gardener?”

“Yes, I’m Pru Parke.” She looked down at her hands, still grimy from digging up the cyclamen and the snowdrops that Simon gave her. “Sorry about that.” She held up her hands to him.

He laughed and held up his own. “There you are,” he said, “gardeners’ hands.” It looked as if he’d had his hands in the dirt, too, and she also noticed a couple of raised scars on his left thumb.

“You’re a gardener, too?” Pru asked.

“Ned’s told me all about you,” he said, smiling. “Sounds like you’ve got things well in hand round here. Can’t be easy, restoring a historic garden.” He looked out at the wood below the sloped lawn. “You’ll be carrying out the tree work?” he asked.

“
I
won’t be doing any of it,” Pru said with a small laugh. “I don’t do well with heights. I’ve already told Davina we’ll need to hire an arborist.”

His mention of Ned eased Pru’s mind. She knew few people in the area yet and thought it was high time to become acquainted. But even more than that—Jamie could be her first connection into the garden world in Kent and Sussex. “Bryan and Davina are due back this evening. Would you like me to give them a message?”

“No, no”—he shook his head slightly, still smiling—“there’s no need. I can give them a ring when they return. I only wanted to see how it was all going.” He gave a small shrug and stuck his hands in his jacket. “I…well, I applied for the post here, too.”

“Oh.” Pru, acutely aware of how it felt not to get a job, tried to think of something to say that didn’t sound trite. “Well, I’m…sorry that you…”

But he laughed in an easy way and said, “Don’t worry about it. You’re the one with the better qualifications, and so you were chosen. I’ve no hard feelings. I work for the Council, doing the landscaping around town.” He glanced up at the walls of the house. “So, will you replant in front—a few roses, perhaps?” He smiled at her again.

“Yes,” she said, and walked around to the corner of the house, so they could look at the bare expanse of bricks. “I haven’t chosen anything yet. We’ve been starting on the walled garden first.”

“There’s a job for you now. I hope you’ve got enough help.” He raised his eyebrows. “I’m not looking for work—I don’t want you to think that. I’ve enough to do, and my wife would have my head if I added another job on top of everything else.”

“You’re married,” Pru said. “Do you live nearby?”

“Near enough,” he said, running his hand through his blond hair—long on top and short underneath, it fell back immediately into his face.

“What does your wife do?” Pru asked.

“Do?”

“I mean does she work outside the home?”

“Now, why would she want to do something like that?” he asked with a surprised look. Before Pru could think of a reply, Jamie said, “Right, well, I’ll be off. Good luck with Primrose House.” He walked back to his car, hesitated, and said, “Say, I’ve a friend who grows roses. He’s just over near Staplehurst. He’s got a few large Maigold he’d let you have—I’d say they’re already about eight feet, pot-grown, so they’ve got good roots. I know you can get a rate at the big nurseries, but I don’t think you’ll find anything this size. As long as you don’t mind digging big holes.”

“Oh, we can dig holes,” she said. The climbing rose Maigold, an early bloomer, would be a good way to begin planting at the front of the house. Its golden blooms would be set off well by the red brick. And at that size, how could she resist? “Thanks, that would be great. Should I ring him?”

“I tell you what,” he said, “why don’t I collect them for you and drop them off?”

“No, I don’t want to put you out,” Pru said.

“It’s no trouble. We’ve no work before next week. I won’t bother you—I’ll just leave them here at the front. You can settle up with Michael directly, there’s no worry about that. You’ll give Davina and Bryan my best?”

Pru thanked him again and watched him drive away. Creeping under her sense of gratitude came a tinge of guilt. He seemed a nice enough fellow, eager to help her feel comfortable in her new situation. But she wondered if he had counted on this job. He had a wife, perhaps young children—did the head gardener post at Primrose House pay better than a Council job? Had she stolen food out of a baby’s mouth?

She sat at the kitchen table reading when Davina and Bryan returned late that evening. They’d had a lovely time on the beach in the Seychelles, but, as Bryan put it, “There’s nothing like a roaring fire on a cold English night,” and he went off to light one in the library.

Davina poured them all brandies and sat down at the table, giving Pru the opportunity she needed.

“I want to thank you again for choosing me for this job,” she began. “I’m sure you had many others apply, and probably you had a few local gardeners who thought the job was right for them.”

Davina tossed her head back, sweeping her gray bobbed hair out of her face, and adjusted a few of the many thin layers of fabric that made up her outfit. Her face lost its color and her reply was sharp. “So, Ned’s been talking, has he?”

“Ned?”

“I will not be bullied,” Davina said.

Pru had lost the thread of the conversation. “Ned is trying to bully you?”

Davina sniffed. “He’s a gossipy old man, Pru,” she said, “and you should not pay him any mind.”

“But, I didn’t talk to Ned. I met Jamie Tanner.”

“Oh Jamie,” Davina said, exhaling with a sympathetic cluck. “How is he? Where did you meet him?”

“He was standing outside when I got back this afternoon. He sends his regards.”

Davina was quiet for a moment, as if assembling her thoughts. “Pru, has Ned spoken to you about the head gardener post? That is, how we chose you as the best candidate?”

“No,” Pru said.
At least not since the day I interviewed, and Ned told me I didn’t get the job,
she thought. But Davina’s comments confirmed what Pru had suspected—Ned had been talking about Jamie when he said someone had been chosen already.

“If he does,” Davina said, looking down into her brandy as she swirled it around in the glass, “I don’t want you to worry a bit about what he says. He isn’t the boss around here.”

Ned had yet to try to boss Pru. He wasn’t the most talkative or congenial of workers, but for his age, he worked hard and she had no complaints. “Is there a problem with Ned? You hired him to work on the grounds.”

Davina picked up Bryan’s brandy and walked out of the kitchen as she said, “It isn’t as if we had a choice.”