Page 13 of Clara's Secret Garden
If only Gran was here now, working alongside me on thebird-printed kneeling mat I gave her one Christmas. The mat’s a bit scruffy nowbut she won’t throw it out. She says it’s the best present anyone ever boughther.
Blowing away a strand of hair that’s escaped from my ponytail,I get back to my weed purge. I’ve had a text from Rory saying he’ll be over atmidday, and I’m determined to have the two vegetable beds looking better by thetime he arrives. And if I’ve got time, I’ll tackle the wildflowers – although Icould do with some gardening gloves to tackle those thistles! Gran must havesome in her shed, so I finish the first veggie bed and go in search, and sureenough, I find a heavy duty pair that will be perfect for grasping thosethistles and pulling them out by their roots.
Except... that’s easier said than done, apparently.
The thistle roots are thick and tenacious and embedded deepin the soil, and my little trowel isn’t quite up to the job. A spade. That’swhat I need. So I fetch one from the shed and start digging, but it’s hardgoing. Every time I manage to evict another obstinate thistle, I wipe the sweatfrom my brow, punch the air in victory and check that Bertie and Luke are stillhappily occupied, riding up and down the path.
Who knew gardening could be such hard, sweaty work?
The boys have gone quiet and I panic suddenly. But then Bertie,in his red cap, hares past the gate and Luke yells out a time. And I relax.
There’s one root that will not budge. No matter how much Ihack away at it with my spade, it’s resisting all my attempts to banish it tothe weed pile. Finally, in desperation, I get down on my knees, trying hard notto trample any of the flowers, and I start pulling at it with all my might. Butnothing works. Not even with the accompaniment of a few agonised grunts.
This. Root. Will. Not. Budge.
Frustrated, I’m sitting back on my heels, wondering what todo, when a voice behind me says, ‘Erm, you do realise you’re trying to pull upan old telephone cable there?’
CHAPTERFIVE
I spin round, and there’s Shaun, grinning over thefence at me.
‘Telephone cable?’ I stare at him, thinking for a momenthe’s pulling my leg. (On the few occasions we’ve spoken in passing, he’s alwayscracked a joke, making me smile.) But when I look back at the ‘thistle root’I’d been trying so hard to yank out, colour floods my face as – tracking it withmy hand – I realise it runs through a swathe of poppies before disappearingthrough a hole in the cottage wall!
I scramble to my feet, feeling more than a littleridiculous. ‘You can tell I’m not a gardener.’
‘I certainly can.’
‘Ooh, is it really that obvious?’
‘I’ll let you into a secret, Clara.’ He folds his arms ontop of the fence, his green eyes glinting with amusement. ‘I used to beterrified of gardening myself. Then I decided to grow a pear. Boom-boom.’
I laugh, liking his accent. Liverpool.
‘You know, there is a way to test if it’s a weed or not.’
‘Is there?’
‘Yes. You pull on it, and if it comes out easily, it’s avaluable plant.’
I eye him doubtfully. He looks perfectly serious. Then I seethe mischievous twinkle in his eye, and I start to laugh again.
‘Fancy a brew?’ he asks. ‘I’ve just put the kettle on.’
‘Oh. Well, yes. That would be lovely. Thank you.’
‘No problem. I’ll bring it out. How do you take it?’
‘Milk, no sugar, thanks.’
‘You’re sweet enough, obviously.’ He disappears and I hearhim whistling a little tunelessly as he walks back inside.
Five minutes later, as I’m gazing with something approachinghorror at the tangle of stems and leaves in the overgrown strawberry patch,Shaun reappears and hands me a mug over the garden fence.
‘Thanks. This is very welcome.’
‘A pleasure. I’m Shaun. And you’re Paula’s granddaughter,Clara. We haven’t been properly introduced.’
We shake hands a bit awkwardly as we’re both holding mugsand there’s a five-foot-tall wooden fence in the way.
