The Secret Mother(22)

I hold my breath as we cruise through the gates, my skin prickling as they rap on the glass and call out my name, sensing their eyes peering down at the top of my head.

‘Cheeky gits,’ Ben mutters. ‘It’s okay, Tessa, we’re in. I’ll park round the corner so they can’t see you getting out.’



* * *



Ten minutes later, as I’m opening up the storage shed, Jez comes over.

‘Morning,’ he says, his ruddy face inscrutable.

‘Morning,’ I reply, wondering what he makes of the rabble outside the gates. Whether he’s seen the news. If he’s going to mention it.

‘The beans, caulis and tomato seeds arrived yesterday,’ he says with a sniff, ‘so if you could start sowing them into pots this morning…’

‘Yes, sure. Are they in here?’ I ask, tilting my head towards the interior of the shed.

‘In the far greenhouse. You’ll find everything you need over there.’

‘Great,’ I reply, eager to get to work.

He clears his throat. ‘Hope you’re okay,’ he adds, looking down at his boots.

‘I’m fine,’ I say, nodding. ‘Thanks.’

‘Good.’ He nods too, and heads into the recesses of the shed.

I breathe a little easier and head over to the greenhouse area, keen to get involved in the task ahead. But as I walk, a leaden lump begins to form in my stomach, a growing sense of dread. I’m here now, safe at work. But what happens when I leave this evening? Maybe I should go out there and speak to the press, give them my side of the story. But the thought of facing them… and what if they twist my words?

Since I left home this morning, the sky has lightened a few shades from charcoal to gunmetal. I slouch along the rows of plants, wondering if I shouldn’t just sell the house and move abroad. Start again. There’s nothing to keep me here. Scott has moved on, I have no real friends any more, no family. I could go somewhere warm, reinvent myself. And then I think about Sam and Lily, their graves becoming neglected and overgrown. How could I ever leave them? How could I enjoy a new life knowing that they were lying abandoned with no one to tend to them?

I pass by the greenhouses, their infant plants lined up in uniform rows, protected from the sharp British frosts and any number of greedy bugs. Finally, I reach the one at the end, open the door and step inside, inhaling the moist, loamy air. I spy the crate Jez has left out for me and get to work.

Hours pass as I press the tiny seeds into rich, dark compost, stick labels on the pots and line them up neatly, a sense of satisfaction growing as one row becomes two, and then three. As I work, I make out the bumbling shapes of customers browsing the plants at the other end of the garden centre. Back here, I’m invisible.

I’m not sure what time it is when Carolyn rushes into the greenhouse, her eyes bright, her cheeks pink. I instantly think something terrible has happened. That the police have come for me, or the media are here inside the garden centre. ‘Can you come and help out in the shop?’ she pants, disrupting the fleetingly calm environment. ‘I’ve got to give Janet a hand in the café. Ben’s covering for me at the moment, but it’s manic out there. Everyone’s decided to do their Christmas shopping today for some reason.’

‘Sure,’ I reply, slipping off my gloves and wiping my hands on my jeans. ‘Why is it so busy?’

‘No idea, but we need to hurry back. There’s a queue out the door and Janet’s run off her feet.’

I follow Carolyn back past the greenhouses, her wiry body radiating panic at the sudden influx of customers. I think back to what Ben said about why he wasn’t offering her the management of Moretti’s and I can see why. If she flies into a tizzy at the appearance of a few customers, he probably wouldn’t feel comfortable handing over the running of the place. But am I really any better qualified?

Ben lifts his hand as I weave my way towards him, past the queue of customers. Carolyn has already flitted over to the café.

‘That’s five pounds twenty change,’ he says to an elderly lady clutching a pair of gardening gloves and a packet of Christmas cards. ‘Would you like a bag?’

‘No thanks, I’ll pop them in my handbag.’

Ben turns to me. ‘You okay here if I go and get some more change? We’re running a bit low.’

‘Course, you go.’

He lowers his voice and turns away from the queue of people. ‘Just thought I’d let you know that the press are still out there, I’m afraid. So it’s probably not a good idea to go out for your lunch.’

I feel the blood drain from my face, ashamed to have brought this awful mess to work with me. ‘I’m so sorry,’ I whisper.

‘Hey, you don’t need to apologise,’ he murmurs. ‘I’m just giving you a heads-up.’

The next woman in the queue clears her throat pointedly.

Ben leaves me to it and I get to work, ringing the cash register, thoughts of journalists turning me into a slow, fumbling idiot.

‘I gave you a twenty-pound note,’ my latest customer says, folding his arms across his chest.

‘Um.’ I look at the till display, which is showing an amount of change corresponding to ten pounds. ‘I’m sure it was a ten-pound note you gave me,’ I say.