The Last Garden in England(57)

He sat back. “Good. I’m glad it helps.”

She studied the page. She wanted to stand in the middle of it, the shallow dish of water in front of her, and put it to rights once again.

She shook her head, bringing herself back to the moment. “Is there much else in this one?”

“Just this.” He reached over and flipped to the last page of the sketchbook. One sketch dominated it. It showed two boys sitting against a background of shrubs. Their heads were bent, the hair falling across one of their brows while he watched the other play with a toy lorry.

“The detail is wonderful,” she said, admiring how the dashed pencil lines came together to form such a sure image.

“I wondered who they were.”

“Sydney’s grandfather and one of his playmates, I would think. I could ask Sydney when I’m next up at the house. She probably has some photographs,” she said.

“You should take these for as long as you need. It’ll save you time,” he offered.

“I appreciate you trusting me with them.”

The song switched, and Otis Redding’s voice filled the back patio.

“I’m happy to, but I’ll warn you, my interest’s piqued,” he said.

She hesitated, and then said, “You know, if you have the urge to see them, you could drop by.”

“Be careful, I might not be able to resist an offer like that from a woman with such good taste in music.” He nodded to the portable speaker sitting on the patio table. “?‘These Arms of Mine.’ Great song.”

“There’s this guy who keeps coming around in these band shirts. He’s got me listening to all of this music I wouldn’t normally. It must be the power of suggestion.”

“I hope he isn’t bothering you,” he said.

She smiled. “No. He’s not bothering me.”

“Good,” he said before standing. “I should get out of your way.”

“You don’t have to,” she said.

“How tired are you right now?”

“On a scale of one to ten?” she asked. “Probably an eleven.”

He laughed. “Then I should go.”

She rose and took his bottle from him as he looked around again.

“Pots,” he declared.

“I’m sorry?”

“You could get some pots and do a container garden. Then you could take them to your next cottage in your next village for your next job,” he said.

“I thought you were going home, Henry.” She laughed.

“I am. I am.”

She walked him to the front door, leaning against the jamb as he stepped out onto the porch.

“Thanks for the beer,” he said.

“Anytime.”

She went still when he put his hand on her arm and leaned in to kiss her, once on each cheek. He pulled back slightly, his voice low, and said, “I’m looking forward to seeing you again soon.”

Then he flashed that smile she liked so much and strolled off.



* * *



Arms crossed, Emma watched the hive of activity in the poet’s garden. Vishal and Zack were laying plants out following the details she’d sketched from Venetia’s plans. Charlie and Jessa followed, methodically unpotting and planting. Someone had brought a radio, and the tinny sounds of a BBC1 jingle drowned out the sounds of a crew hard at work.

Emma had spent her day going over the sketchbooks. Henry’s grandmother had done an excellent job of recording the garden as it had been in 1944. All of the details of the plants, carefully labeled, were invaluable. Plants she wouldn’t have guessed, like jasmine tobacco and monkshood, likely kept interest during the summer season. For the first time since she’d arrived at Highbury House, Emma felt as though the winter garden wasn’t some impenetrable challenge but a manageable task.

Of course, to tackle a task she had to actually start it.

“Charlie!” she called from the poet’s garden entrance.

He looked up and adjusted his ball cap. “What?”

“Give me a hand, will you?”

He planted his spade into the ground and hauled himself up, brushing his knees as he approached. “What do you need?”

“I want to try to get into the winter garden today.”

He gave a low whistle. “Today?”

“Not all of it. I just want inside. I think I’ve figured out where we can cut without damaging anything important.” She showed him Henry’s grandmother’s sketch. “No roses, clear of trees. And if this drawing is right, no sculpture up against the wall.”

He rubbed the back of his neck, peering up over the yew to the unruly mess shooting out of the winter garden. “You sure?”

She nodded. “I’m sure.”

“Then let’s get the ladders.”

In no time, Charlie and Emma had pulled two ladders, a hedge trimmer, a pair of lopping sheers, and a machete out of the old gardener’s cottage, where they stored some of their more expensive or dangerous tools. She and Charlie leaned one of the ladders up against the winter garden wall, and she began to climb.

“Watch out for that rose cane about six inches from your head,” he called out, holding the base of the ladder steady.

“Got it!” she shouted down. Less than thirty seconds later, she bumped her head into the rose and cursed as she detangled herself.