Page 4 of Clara's Secret Garden
‘Oh, Lois,’ I said, feeling her pain. ‘You won’t feel likethat forever.’
‘It’s all right for you, Clara,’ she retorted. ‘You don’tdate guys. Full stop. So you’reneverlikely to feel whatI’mfeeling right now.’
What could I say? I sighed and headed for the door. She wasright, of course. My shyness has always kept me from ‘getting out there’. I’dalways choose a night in with a book or a good film over dating or meetingfriends in the pub and socialising. And I’ve reached the grand old age oftwenty-five without ever being properly in love – unless you count the stupid schoolcrush I had from the age of thirteen!
‘Er, I’ll have that pasta,’ Lois said, and I stopped at thedoor. ‘I’m sure I can forcesomeof it down.’
‘You know, it’s high time you showed that scumbag Ronniethat you’re perfectly okay without him.’ I hand her the tray. ‘You should geton with your painting. You’re so good at it.’
She glares at me. ‘But I’m not “perfectly okay”, am I? Andyou can forget about foisting art on me as therapy, thank you very much.’
I left her alone. I knew it must be really hard for her.
Lois was working as an estate agent when she met Ronnie. Shebecame his personal assistant a month later and was his official girlfriend amonth after that. They enjoyed a whirlwind romance that led to a surpriseengagement six months later and Lois moving into Ronnie’s sprawling country mansion.
She was in her element, thoroughly enjoying all theattention and gifts Ronnie was lavishing on her. The day she moved out, therewas an air of triumph about her. She patted my cheek and said, ‘Never mind,Clara. I’m sure someone will snap you up one day. But in the meantime, you canuse this crummy bedroom as a dressing room because I definitely won’t beneeding it any more!’
Her words came back to haunt her.
She’d been living in Ronnie’s mansion, a lady of leisure,for just three short months – planning their lavish wedding – when Ronniedecided they weren’t going to work, after all, and broke off the engagement.
So poor Lois was forced to scuttle back home with her tailbetween her legs.
Now, I wander over to Gran’s strawberry patch, thinkingabout what Lois said about my own complete lack of love life. I smile ruefully.She’s right, of course.
My school crush, who was in the same year as me, teased meand called me Clara Bear, which I actually rather liked. It was the name of hissister’s teddy, apparently, and I worshipped him from afar. He had kind dark greyeyes and a cheeky smile, but he went out with the popular girls and I knew Inever stood a chance. Seeing his smile always made my heart skip, though, especiallywhen it was aimed at me. And I treasured the few flippant exchanges we had,going over them in my mind when I got home from school and analysing everyword. My friend Siobhan kept saying I should ask him out but I just laughed.The idea that he would wantme– podgy little Clara Bear – was just toosilly for words. I do sometimes wonder if there’s something wrong with me. Whyhave I never met the right man? But I try not to dwell on it too much. The wayI see it, I’m fairly average as human beings go – and by the law of averages,an average person is always going to meet another average person eventually.Even if they have to wait for years...
The strawberry patch is overgrown, like the rest of thegarden, but there’s one large, luscious, fully ripe berry hanging over the sideof the wooden raised bed, just begging me to eat it.
Bending, I pluck it from its stem and bite off a juicymouthful, just as Rory reappears.
‘Everything okay?’ I ask, surprised. I thought he’d drivenoff.
‘Bird mess all over the windscreen.’ He grins. ‘You’ve gotstrawberry juice on your chin. Can I use your garden tap?’
‘Oh. Of course.’ I quickly nibble the rest of the fruit anddab my chin.
‘Great.’ He soaks his cloth then heads for the gate, wherehe turns and says, ‘I meant it when I said I’d help. Phone me.’
I smile at him. ‘I will. Thanks.’
‘No problem.’ He winks. ‘See ya, Clara Bear.’
CHAPTERTWO
Arriving home an hour later, I pull up by the kerb andheave a box laden with courgettes out of the boot. The scent of fresh greenvegetables is rather enticing.
But what the hell am I going to do with them all?
After Rory left, I made a tour of Gran’s garden, noting thejobs I’d need to carry out. The lawns, front and back, were completely out ofcontrol and I wasn’t sure if Gran’s little petrol mower was up to the job. A scythewas probably the best tool for the job.
Did people still use scythes?
I knew they did in eighteenth-century Cornwall. (Enter briefbut pleasing vision of Aidan Turner as Poldark, bronzed and naked to the waist,wielding just such an implement. Hmmm. Maybe if Rory reallydidwant tohelp, I should get myself down to the scythe store pronto...)
Pushing this hopeless fantasy aside –sad, sad, sad–I walked over to Gran’s overgrown veg plot, which filled a large rectangularspace over in the corner by the potting shed. The cottage was south-facing,which – when it came to growing fruit and vegetables of all different varieties– was clearly a huge advantage, bathed in sun for most of the day. And withGran in charge, there’d be regimented rows of neat green plants standing toattention, with not a single sly weed sprouting up to disturb the perfectsymmetry.
Changed days indeed.
