Page 3 of Clara's Secret Garden
‘Yes. I could have been a fully qualified dance teacher bynow.’ I shrug and smile. ‘But I don’t regret it. Not in the slightest. Bertie’severything.’
‘So how old is he now? Five?’
‘Bertie’s six.’ I smile fondly, fishing a tie out of mypocket and scooping my dark hair into a ponytail. ‘All he thinks about isdinosaurs.’
‘Yeah?’ Rory laughs. ‘I wasobsessedwith dinosaurswhen I was his age. Ah, velociraptors! Massive tail and a top speed oftwenty-five miles an hour. It’s amazing what you remember.’
‘You always were a right laugh at parties.’
He grins, removing his glasses and polishing them on hisT-shirt. ‘What can I say? I’m always in demand.’ He glances at his watch. ‘Actually,I need to be going. Important business.’
I grin. ‘Buying yourself a combine harvester at last?’
‘What?’ He shoots me a quizzical look. ‘No, I’ve got to taxthe car.’
‘I was just remembering that talk you gave us at school thattime about the innovations in farming machinery.’
He looks at me in amazement. ‘I’d forgotten all about that.’
‘I’ve got a great memory.’
‘You have.’ He shakes his head. ‘I can’t believe I was sucha boring teenager. Why the hell didn’t I give a talk on a cool subject likeConcorde or something?’
‘You weren’t boring. I was fascinated.’
He grins. ‘You’re being kind.’
‘No, I’m not. If you’re passionate about something, you canentrance your audience whatever your subject. It was obvious you were a countryboy at heart and I liked that.’
He smiles wistfully. ‘Still am a country boy. But havingbeen convinced by everyone that I’d be wasting my brain if I didn’t study law,I now find myself with a degree and no clear idea of what I want to do withit.’
‘But you’ve almost qualified as a solicitor. That’s a hugeachievement.’
He shrugs, not convinced. ‘Listen, it was great to see you,Clara.’ He starts walking backwards as he talks, heading for the gate. ‘And I’mserious about helping here. Just give me a bell.’
‘Well... if you really don’t mind.’
‘I don’t mind at all. See ya!’
I sit on the front step of the cottage, watching him walk overto his car, wishing I hadn’t let Gran’s garden get out of hand like this. There’sa bed of courgettes over in the corner that seem to be multiplying likerabbits. I’m convinced a few more have sprung up since I arrived here an hourago. I suppose I need to get picking.
If I were a gardener, I’d probably relish the challenge. ButI’m not and I never have been, and I don’t really know what’s a weed and what’sa flower. I can recognise dandelions. And buttercups and daisies. But that’sabout as far as my knowledge of weeds goes. (And actually, I rather likedaisies and buttercups, so I’d feel bad pulling them up.)
But if Gran is ever well enough to return home to herbeloved cottage and cope alone (she’s always been fiercely independent andwould absolutelyhatebeing in a care home), I need to get this place shipshapeor she’ll be horrified.
Gran suffered a heart attack back in May and she’s been inhospital ever since. And the only reason I haven’t been over here before now, tocheck on the place, is because Bertie, my little brother, has been goingthrough a bit of a naughty phase (the school was in touch with Irene about itlast month) and I’ve needed to be there for him as much as I possibly could.
Ever since she hooked up with Damien, her latest man, Irene’shardly ever at home. And when she is, she’s usually ‘recovering’, lying aroundand snoozing on the sofa in her dressing gown, moaning about her splittingheadache and swearing she’s never going to drink again.
She was never like this when Dad was here. I think it’s alla reaction to losing him and I try not to get impatient with her. But it’s beenfour years since the death of the loveliest man who ever walked the earth. Youwould think she’d have pulled herself together by now – if not for herself,then at least for my half-brother, Bertie, who deserves to have a mum who’sfully present in his life.
Irene’s grown-up daughter, Lois, adores Bertie but she’s notmuch practical help at the moment. And to be fair, I don’t blame Lois. I thinkI’dprobably be tempted to hide in my room for weeks on end if the man I was allexcited to marry jilted me a week before the wedding. And then took up withanother woman just three weeks later, flying her off on their first date to hisluxury villa in the Bahamas.
Ronnie, the jilting ex in question, is a millionaire – hemade his fortune in property – and it’s the biggest scandal to rock the localcommunity in years.
Poor Lois is in bits.
Her pride has been severely dented. And as she declared lastnight, when I took her pasta carbonara on a tray, ‘I just hope that witchappreciatesthe “Ivory Fantasy” ceramic worktops thatIpicked out, and the brand newcabana in Ronnie’s pool area. I didn’t even get a chance to try it out. Thebastard!’And she burst into tears and waved the pasta away.
