Page 62 of A Colourful Country Escape
‘Fair to middlin’. Just trying to get this ruddy nut grass out o’ my lawn. It’s a right pest, make no mistake. Gets its tough roots in, then runs amok, sending out its ’orrible underground claws. I can’t get rid of it fast enough.’
Lexie grimaced. ‘Oh. Is that why this place is called Nutgrass Hall?’
‘That’s right, me love. Although how it got here, I’ll never know. It’s not from round these parts. And why they’d name the place after this frightful weed is anyone’s guess.’
As he dug cautiously around the stiff spiky blades, Lexie wondered how many hours it would take him to get through this immense lawn. She dreaded to think. Feeling a stab of pity, she grabbed a spare pair of gloves and a trowel from his gardening box and tried to mirror his actions.
Tom gave her one of the toothless grins she’d come to know and love, his warm brown eyes twinkling with gratitude. He must have been handsome in his day, before the tooth fairy struck gold and before he began rebelling against false teeth. She wondered why he had never married, although, like everyone in this place, he didn’t give much away.
‘Tom?’ She worked her trowel gingerly around a stubborn root, taking care not to slice it. ‘Have you ever repainted anything here?’
His warm look melted into worry. ‘Why, what yer plannin’? ’Er ’ighness won’t like it.’
Lexie still wasn’t sure what she was planning, but after the London mess she felt like she needed to regain a scrap of control. Channel her energies into something useful. Experiment with these brainwaves she kept having instead of filing them away in the ‘big ideas are not for numpties’ box. Or maybe just keep her idle brain from wandering onto Ben-shaped territory.
‘Don’t worry, I’m not going to start painting over the beige.’ Much. ‘I just wondered if you had any old kit I could borrow. Paintbrushes, dustsheets; that sort of thing.’
He scratched his cap-covered head. ‘I’ll have a look in me shed later on. Bound to ’ave somethin’.’
They continued amiably with their digging.
‘So is that your secret garden down there, beyond the orchard?’
Lexie sensed the air change, and Tom’s gaze didn’t budge from his patch of roots. It was what always happened here when she asked too much.
‘You know, the other side of the gate with the rusty padlock?’ She tried to sound casual, although she was itching to know.
Tom rearranged the peak of his cap to keep the sun’s glare from his face.
‘Secret garden? Not sure what you mean. I got a few bits down there, out the way. Mrs Carrington-Noble ain’t partial to no mess, so I keep it separate. No ’arm in that.’
Tom put down his tool, gripped the spindly neck of the weed he’d been working on and began teasing it out.
‘No harm at all. It’s beautiful. The wildflowers are as pretty as a picture. Not that the rest of the garden isn’t immaculate. But there’s something special about things growing as nature intended, don’t you think? When the seeds land where they want to and the petals bloom in defiance?’
She was sure she saw the old man’s weathered cheeks reddening like two plump berries.
‘You got it, young maid. Nature don’t look its best when it’s all structured and fussed about with. It’s like love, ain’t it? It lands where it wants to, and there’s not much we can do about it.’
Tom began sniffing and pulled a cotton hanky from his pocket with a muddy hand. ‘There. Must have this new-fandangled ’ayfever, or summit. Silly old fool.’ He looked at the embroidered initials before wiping the corner of his eye and shoving the handkerchief back into his pocket.
Lexie took a few deep breaths, trying to swallow a sadness that had suddenly tried to burst up her throat. What was this funny wave that had just washed over them? What was in these intoxicating roots?
‘Anyway, Mrs Carrington-Noble likes her garden ’ow she likes it; can’t argue with that. ’Er ’usband never dared to, so you won’t see me interferin’.’
And there was another mystery no one ever wanted to talk about. But she couldn’t just come out and air her suspicions on that one. What would she say? Excuse me, do you think the posh lady bumped her husband off? As if anyone would tell her if they knew.
‘So, what are you growing in your greenhouse?’ Lexie asked instead. Surely that was safer ground.
Tom rubbed the back of his neck and inspected his sprig of stubborn nut grass.
‘Are they herbs, or something? They smell wonderful.’
‘’Erbs?’ He said the word like it was entirely foreign to him, still fixating on his work.
‘Mmm, you know. Like mint, or parsley, or … ’
Tom cleared his throat. ‘Look, whatever you might ’ave sin. Well, s’probably best if you pretend like you haven’t sin anythin’. It don’t do if everyone knows everythin’ in this place.’
