Sowing Secrets (6 page)

In the early hours of this morning I got up, found a torch that worked and went to hide the
Restoration Gardener
DVD in my studio in the box marked ‘Miscellaneous’.

At that hour the oddest things seem strangely logical.

As I made my way back I saw the pallid glimmer of one of the Wevills watching me from their bedroom window, so I suppose this will go into their next report to Mal, along with my girlie night in transformed into some kind of orgy. I don’t know what made them look out at that time of night because I’m almost
sure
I wasn’t singing.

They must use mirrors on sticks to watch me some of the time – it’s the only way they can know so much about my movements – but fortunately my rose garden and studio are on the other side of the house, bordering the lane, so once I go through the pergola they’ve lost me unless they have radar.

After that I was wide awake, so I made some hot chocolate, got out the mosaic kit Ma’s cousin sent me for my birthday and started to transform the boring, dead-white-tiled fireplace in the sitting room. I could use some of that box of broken china in the studio too: I knew it would come in handy one day.

It was a chilly day even after the sun came up, so I took to running between the house and my studio with sandwiches and Thermos flasks, watched by the cold, bored hens.

My roses were all frozen in time like so many sleeping beauties, and glittered in the sunlight, although there were still deep-red flowers on my Danse du Feu until just before Christmas.

I felt a bit weak and trembly, as though I had received a severe shock … which, thinking about it, I suppose I had. But, in reality, nothing much has changed except I now know Adam’s real identity, so I firmly put it out of my head while I got on with my work.

I completed the final illustration for the calendar of a dog rose trailing over one of the half-ruined Fairy Glen grottoes, then began putting the finishing touches to the cover, which is taken from my studio in its thorny bower, rendered a bit more picturesque than it really is.

It was a good day’s work, and tomorrow I will be able to pack them up and send them off, together with some cartoons that I’ve got circulating; batches of them come and go in the post, some finding a home, some not. Two have just appeared in
Private Eye
, and three they didn’t want have been taken by the
Oldie
instead. I’ve got one or two other projects on the back burner, but the cartoons seem to be bringing in the most cash lately – perhaps because I’m constantly dashing them off between other things. Sheer volume.

This hit-and-miss aspect of my work drives Mal mad, since I never know how much money will be coming in, but I do religiously pay two-thirds of everything I make into our household account towards the bills. I know Mal earns a huge amount more than me – but then he
spends
a lot more than me too, on boats, cars, electrical gadgets, stamps, expensive wines and stupid stuff like that, while I pay my own car bills and support Rosie and the hens: the important things.

As the song (almost) says, the best things in life are free, though Mal certainly wouldn’t agree with that – and even our basic differences in the value we put on things inspires cartoons, so waste not, want not.

I’m going to start drawing an Alphawoman comic strip tomorrow now the calendar is finished, and I must buy enough meal replacement bars and shakes to get my diet off to a good start when I go into town to post my stuff.

Nia has summoned me to a Council of War at eleven in the morning at Teapots! Since Rhodri is coming too, I only hope it is a war on debt she means, and not something involving fire and her neighbours.

It will be good to see Rhodri again, though – and lucky that Mal is still away, since he is inclined to be jealous of any time I spend with my oldest friends. At first we tried to include him, but I think our shared history made him feel an uncomfortable outsider.

Just as well he spends so much time away or I wouldn’t even have the modest social life I enjoy now.

I decided
not
to tell him about the meeting when he called from sunny Swindon to remind me to take his suit to the cleaners, pick up his migraine prescription (he only gets migraine when he drinks red wine, so the answer to that one lies in his own hands) and purchase a birthday card and present for his mother.

Why me? She hates me! I still have to call her Mrs Morgan, and she never spends a night under the roof of the double-dyed Scarlet Woman – for not only did we marry in a registry office, which doesn’t count, but also I already had an illegitimate child! This makes it all the stranger that the only chink in her scales is her love for Rosie: she succumbed immediately, though don’t ask me why – you’d think only a mother could love such an obstreperous little creature. But love her she does, to the point where I’m sure she’s managed to forget that Rosie really isn’t her granddaughter at all.

She is also convinced that Mal and his first wife would have resumed their marriage by now if not for me, since they have remained in friendly contact over the years. In fact, they will probably meet up for lunch or dinner a couple of times while he is down there on this contract, but I am not in the least jealous … just illogically uneasy.

Seeing Alison again seems to make him dissatisfied with our life here together in St Ceridwen’s Well, although when he lived the high life in London he wanted to move to the country and chill out. But now he’s
in
the country he seems to be trying to live the consumer-driven high life again, so what’s that all about? He’s not going to turn into a middle-aged male weathercock, is he?

And another worrying thought: we’ve now been married about the same length of time as his first marriage lasted, so did
I
come with built-in obsolescence? Especially with the Wevills dripping their sly insinuations about me into his ear like a pair of Iagos.

I wish I wasn’t suddenly having all these worrying ideas.

And what
do
you buy a dragon for its birthday? Firelighters for damp mornings?

Inspiration! Spotted an advert in a magazine for a firm who will create a bouquet to reflect any message you want to send, together with a little booklet explaining the meanings of flowers and plants, so the recipient can have hours of harmless fun working it out.

I am trying to be subtle here, so no deadly nightshade or anything of that kind.

The dog rose, ‘pleasure mixed with pain’, perhaps? (Her son is the pleasure – to look at, at least – and she is the pain.)

After that, feeling rather put upon, I finally ordered a Constance Spry – ‘pink old rose form … luminous delicacy … myrrh scented’ – with my birthday garden tokens.

OK, I know that they’re prone to mildew and I haven’t got an inch of space left in my bit of the garden, but they are so very pretty that I’m sure Mal won’t mind if I put it near the patio somewhere. The scent would be heavenly when we are sitting out, and I could train it over the trellis round the door.

I won’t tell him, I’ll just dig a little tiny bed for it while he’s away and heel it in to see if he notices.

As I sealed the envelope with the order it occurred to me that I might be one of the last people in the country using cheques. Apart from one Switch card I don’t possess a single bit of plastic, although Mal more than makes up for it: when he opens
his
wallet it unfolds like a stiffly backed patchwork quilt.

Teapots is right next to the Holy Well and smack opposite the one smallish village car park. Inside it’s painted a brave, welcoming yellow, lined with shelves displaying Carrie’s collection of hundreds of teapots, and with red-checked tablecloths and fresh flowers on each table.

There are no menus: she bakes breads and pastries each morning as the fancy takes her, but doesn’t do hot food, because she isn’t interested in poaching eggs and deep-frying chips. I admire that – she only cooks what she enjoys, the way I only do gardening involving roses. Her Welshcakes are superb.

The room was already half full, even though it was too early in the season for the coach parties who come to visit the Holy Well and Rhodri’s house, Plas Gwyn. The café’s popular all the year round, not just for tourists but with the locals too.

Did I say that Carrie is originally American? I tend to forget, and you can hardly tell from her accent, which I suppose must have worn off over thirty years here in St Ceridwen’s. She arrived as a hippie with a rucksack, guitar and a notebook full of recipes and never left, except for closing up for a month every November and going back to visit friends and relatives in the States.

She’s very popular in the village, maybe because it’s seen as a sort of compliment that she has elected to live here, bringing in tourists and money. Even her attempts to speak Welsh are treated with benign tolerance, though her grasp of the language is excruciatingly formal and grammatically old-fashioned, like someone talking the most impeccable Elizabethan English. ‘Prithee, wouldst thou like thy Olde Welshe Cream tea with jam or, mayhap, honey from mine own hive?’ That sort of thing.

But we all love Carrie, she’s so unsquashably bouncy and cheerful. (And she knows everything about everyone, having been conducting a part-time affair with the village postman, Huw, for about a quarter of a century.)

She was presiding behind the counter when I arrived, and smiled and pointed to where Rhodri and Nia were sitting at a corner table, arguing.

Nothing new there – they’ve always argued, but it’s mostly Nia’s fault; she’s so prickly, and has this big chip on her shoulder about being a quarryman’s daughter, while he is the lord of the manor – as if Rhodri ever cared about stuff like that.

Although we’ve always kept in touch, I hadn’t seen Rhodri to talk to properly for absolutely ages, but as soon as I saw his pinkish face under the unruly thatch of burned-straw hair light up at the sight of me, it was as though we’d never been apart. It’s the same with Nia: whenever we meet we just pick up where we left off, and that’s the sign of true friendship, I think.

He sprang to his feet – he has such beautiful manners, and this lovely posh but friendly voice. ‘Fran!’ he said, giving me a hug and a kiss on both cheeks. ‘You look wonderful!’

It was more than I could say about him; he was looking not only older but sadder, like the poor lion in
The Wizard of Oz
. He has a wide blunt nose and straight, thick fair eyebrows over his pale blue eyes, which add to the resemblance.

‘Sit down, Fran,’ ordered Nia bossily. ‘Carrie’s bringing coffee and Danish pastries over, so you don’t have to order. We need to get on.’

‘With what?’ I asked, sitting down and thinking it was just as well I hadn’t actually started the diet yet.

‘Sorting out Rhodri’s far-fetched plans to turn Plas Gwyn into some kind of kiddies’ Camelot theme park.’

‘Oh,
now
,’ protested Rhodri, ‘that’s not fair! I never said anything like that! Just that I wanted to open the house up to the public all season – maybe even all year – and perhaps have a tearoom and gift shop to try and make a bit of money to live on. And I only
mentioned
the possibility of having a Camelot-inspired children’s playground.’

‘Forget it,’ advised Nia. ‘That’s not the way you should be going. Plas Gwyn isn’t a holiday camp, it’s a historic gem in the middle of nowhere, and you need to attract the type of visitor who already comes to St Ceridwen’s to see the Holy Well, only more of them.’

‘I think Nia’s probably right about that,’ I agreed. ‘I’m sure lots of people would come to Plas Gwyn if it was on the historic houses list, because it’s so beautiful, but at the moment they can only see it at weekends in July and August, which restricts your visitor numbers a bit. But if you open it to the public all year where are you going to live?’

‘In the new wing,’ Rhodri said. ‘It’s where I spend most of my time anyway, since it’s the only part with modern plumbing or anything remotely civilised.’

The new wing is mainly seventeenth century, which gives you some idea of how old the
old
part is.

‘I can close the doors off on all the floors between the two wings of the house to make it private. And I thought I could take any modern furniture out of the old house and put it in the attic, where there’s loads of stuff that I can use to furnish it back into period style … or maybe each room in a different period. I’m not sure yet.’

‘Eclectic can look good too,’ suggested Nia. ‘It gives some idea of a family living in the house over centuries. And it’s a good idea to rent out the Great Hall as a wedding venue eventually, but you need more – and turning some of the stable buildings round the courtyard into craft workshops, a gift shop and a tearoom would not only bring more people to visit, but give you some income all the year round.’

‘Yes,’ agreed Carrie, who had arrived with the coffee and was unashamedly listening in. ‘And I can supply your tearoom with cakes and pastries and my Welsh honey – in fact, it can be an off-shoot of Teapots and then it’s not competition, just extra profit!’ She wandered off again, notebook in hand, to take an order.

Rhodri was looking slightly dazed. In the past the Gwyn-Whatmires had never been averse to making money, but poor Rhodri doesn’t seem to have inherited the knack. ‘That all sounds great – but I can’t afford to do much more than any basic building work and garden clearance that’s needed to start with.’

‘We were just talking about the garden when you arrived, Fran,’ Nia said with a sudden glower at poor Rhodri. ‘I’ve told him about your mam wanting to sell Fairy Glen, and since it was once part of the Plas Gwyn estate I think he should buy it back and make it into an extra attraction.’

‘I think fairy glens went out with the Victorian day-trippers,’ I said dubiously. ‘I mean, I know it was terribly popular in its day, and all credit to the Gwyn-Whatmire of the time for walling it off from the estate and flogging it, and to whoever put in the paths and grottoes and made the tea garden, but it’s all gone back to wilderness now.’

‘Well, I think you’re wrong,’ Nia said firmly. ‘But you could at least make an offer for the oak woods and the standing stones up at the top of the glen, Rhodri – they’re part of your heritage.’