Page 23 of Sad Girl Hours
“It is an excellent road,” I say. “But no—”
We’ve reached the top of the slope and are now walking into the car park over another cattle grid (can’t have those pesky cows trying to hijack any more cars).
“Here.” I point towards the visitors’ centre. “Sizergh Castle and gardens. The first location of the day, where we will be engaging in two activities. One, finding Charlie, the garden cat, because I love him and I’m in dire need of cat snuggles now thatBean Burger and I have been separated by the cruel mistress of academia. And two, picking apples from the orchard so that we can finish this lovely day by baking all manner of delicious apple-based goods.”
“Sounds dreamy.”
Saffron looks as if she means it, which bolsters my mood even more. I link my arm through hers and lead her through the visitors’ centre, past the courtyard, down the hill and straight into the garden.
“My favourite thing about this place, besides Charlie,” I say, “is that it’s like a giant secret garden. You can’t see any roads from here; there’s no poncy rose garden designed for looking at from indoors rather than actuallybeingin. Everything feels hidden away. A kind of secret oasis just for us. And other National Trust members.”
“It’s lovely,” Saffron says, peering at the perennials in the beds around a tree-strewn lawn as I guide us round. “Oh!” She squeezes my arm. “I love a kitchen garden.”
To our left are beds filled with cabbages, giant leafy green roses spiralling around, towering peaks of all kinds of kale, feathery carrot leaves just waiting to be tugged on, with cold frames and a greenhouse watching over it all, protecting their precious cargo from any pesky slugs or – God forbid – rabbits.
To our right, the garden extends on for a while, with raised herb beds, A-frames and obelisks holding up all manner of warm-toned plants, both edible and ornamental, clinging on to the last dregs of the year’s heat. And it leads down to a wooden gate beneath an arch of hedges at the end, which I know opens up into the orchard.
“Same,” I say. “I can’t wait to have my own spooky-looking cottage on the edge of the woods where I can grow vegetables to my heart’s content and convince the local children that I’m a witch.”
“An admirable life goal,” Saffron says. “Can I come visit and steal your fresh produce?”
“Of course. And it won’t be stealing. I’ll get a basket ready for you with my finest wares inside. I’ll give them to you when we have our craft nights by the fire. You bring the yarn; I’ll supply the homemade damson wine and apple pies.”
“Hell, yeah,” Saffron says. “You’ve got yourself a deal.” She unlinks our arms and outstretches her hand, which I readily accept and shake. “Very firm grip. I don’t know what else I should have expected. You have definite firm-grip energy.”
“You really are the master of the weirdly specific compliment,” I say, pushing open the door to the greenhouse and feeling the warm closeness of it begin to swaddle us.
We find Charlie napping between the cucamelons in the greenhouse, but he’s more than happy to receive his admirers – even letting Saffron pick him up and snuggle him close, then carry him through the rest of the gardens.
We reach the gated archway at the end of the kitchen garden and push it open to emerge into the orchard. Charlie makes a motion with his front paws like he’d quite like to be let down and Saffron obliges, bending down with the tender care of a person who has never owned a cat and doesn’t know that they don’t really have any objection to being thrust out in mid-air.
“Probably for the best,” I say, jerking my head towards the corner of the field. “Cats and chickens don’t often get on.”
We walk round the field, tufted grass worn down into a sort of path weaving through the trees, each proudly displaying plump apples in various shades of red and green just waiting to be plucked from their branches. I’ve always found there’s something so peaceful about orchards in autumn; it’s like they know their work is nearly done.
My work, however, is only just beginning…
Chapter Ten
Nell
I reach forward for a particularly perfect-looking apple, popping it off and putting it into my bag. “Ooh, this one looks good. It’s basically the Platonic ideal of an apple.”
Saffron glances over her shoulder. “Are you sure we’re allowed to pick them?”
“Well…” I pause. “No one’s said wecan, but also no one’s said wecan’t.”
She looks straight at me, unblinking. “So, no.”
I offer up a smile that I hope says,Sure, I may be trying to tempt you into mild criminal activity, but I’m being so cute about it.
“Look.” I point down at different places on the grass. “There are more apples than they can use – they’re all over the ground, just going off. If we don’t pick them, they’ll fall off and ferment, and then the chickens will get drunk. Do you not care about the poultry alcoholism crisis, Saffron? Because I do. I consider it mydutyto pick these apples.”
Saffron lets out a laugh that sounds like summer. “You do make a compelling argument. Somehow.”
“So…” I lift my hand towards a branch and leave it hovering there.
She sighs. “So.” She reaches past me, hand brushing mine as she picks an apple off the tree.
