Sowing Secrets (9 page)

Gabe Weston lives quietly these days in his small London mews house near Marble Arch, a strange place to find a gardener, although he is said to be looking for a country property.

Part of his charm is his everyday unpretentious nature. He is a deeply private man despite his many TV appearances. You won’t find out from him about his tragic family history: the older brother killed in Northern Ireland, the widowed, alcoholic father who reduced the family to poverty. Strictly off limits too is the failure of his marriage: his ex-wife, the former Tamsyn Kane, recently remarried for the third time, lives in America with their only daughter, Stella.

‘So the poor man seems to have had a difficult childhood, but he still got to university and he’s made a name for himself with this archaeological gardening thing.’

‘He doesn’t seem to have ever been the wild party type,’ Nia admitted, though there are a couple of kiss-and-tell-type articles’.

‘Some people will do anything for money,’ Carrie commented. ‘He seems to be living pretty quietly these days, but there was some gossip that his wife was pregnant when they got married, which was more of a big deal back then, I suppose.’

‘When?’ I demanded suddenly.

‘When what?’ Nia said, puzzled.

‘When did they get married?’

Carrie pounced on a cutting. ‘I’m just working it out … the daughter must be nearly eighteen now.’

‘About a year younger than Rosie,’ I said, thinking that Gabe Weston seemed to have put it about a bit, making me just a member of a not-so-unique club.

‘She was the daughter of his first major client – some garden down in Cornwall or somewhere. They filmed a documentary about it, and that started his TV career off.’

I frowned. ‘You know, that may be where he said he was going when I met up with him – so he didn’t waste much time, did he?’

‘Me Mellors, you Lady Constance?’ Nia asked.

‘She must have liked a bit of rough,’ I said tartly, feeling full of a smouldering rage that was quite unreasonable in the circumstances.

‘Was he?’ Carrie asked interestedly.

I shrugged. ‘He looked like it – you know, grubby jeans and a T-shirt, five o’clock shadow.’

‘He certainly didn’t come across like a bit of rough in that DVD,’ Nia said. ‘Lady Whoosit could hardly take her eyes off him, and she must have been seventy if she was a day!’

‘I didn’t say he wasn’t attractive – he must have been, because he certainly didn’t make me go back to his van and have his wicked way with me. I really fancied him. I may have been practically legless, but I do remember that much.’

Nia and I sat and worked our way through the rest of the stuff, which mostly repeated hearsay and old news, and soon we could all have won
Mastermind
on the public domain knowledge about Gabe Weston’s life. I’d have failed on the general knowledge, though, unless it was about roses.

At some point Carrie must have put a half of bitter in front of me and I’d drunk most of it before I realised what I was doing, I was so involved in trying to find the man among the myths and extract the minotaur from the maze of misinformation. Actually, though, if he wasn’t exactly coming out smelling of roses, he certainly was far from a monster.

‘Well, what do you think?’ Carrie asked eventually.

‘I think your intelligence-gathering resources are impressive, and you are secretly a mole for the CIA,’ I said.

‘Did you see the
second
paternity claim?’ Nia said. ‘That must have knocked him for six, even though the poor woman was delusional and he’d never as much as met her.’

‘Yes, but it did sound like he’d been having an affair with that woman in the
first
paternity case, even if the baby turned out not to be his, so he doesn’t come out of this entirely white as the driven snow, does he?’ I shuddered. ‘Just imagine if I’d suddenly discovered who he was and popped out of the woodwork with a paternity claim too! But he doesn’t know about Rosie, and he never is going to know about Rosie – and nor is the press, so that’s that!’

‘Yes, but what if Plas Gwyn does get chosen for the programme?’ Nia asked. ‘Don’t you think he might recognise you?’

I pondered. ‘I don’t think so, do you? One night, one woman among many – probably one in every place he stopped! And I’ve altered a lot after all these years. I think women change much more than men do.’

They looked at me consideringly.

‘He can’t have met many girls with long hair the colour of faded candyfloss,’ Nia said.

‘But even my hair is much less strawberry and more just dark blonde now that I’m older, and it’s a whole lot shorter.’

‘I still don’t think you do look much different from how you used to,’ Nia said obstinately. ‘Your face is a bit plumper, but still heart-shaped—’

‘A fatty little heart.’

She gave me a repressive look. ‘And now you regularly have your eyelashes dyed you don’t have that startled-rabbit look you used to have when you forgot to put your mascara on, but that’s about all that’s changed.’

The eyelash tint is my one beauty extravagance, but very effective. I have smallish, neat features otherwise, nothing remarkable.

‘You have very lovely big grey eyes,’ Carrie said kindly.

‘With lovely big crow’s feet. No, I can’t believe I’m so memorable he will recognise me, but if Plas Gwyn wins the makeover, I’ll make sure I’ve got my head covered at all times and wear dark glasses, OK?

‘The whole village will think Mal’s been beating you up,’ Nia objected.

‘They certainly will. Well, this is really fascinating,’ Carrie said, ‘but I’ll have to go. Shall I leave all the stuff for you to have another look through?’

‘No, thanks,’ I said, bundling it back into its bag, ‘I think I’ve got it all by heart.’ Then I hesitated. ‘Perhaps I could borrow the book for a couple of days, though?’

‘OK,’ she agreed, ‘if I can have the DVD in exchange?’

She went off home – she gets up early most mornings to bake – and later Rhodri came in. Even though he was wearing cord trousers and a battered lumberjack shirt, the landlord fawned over him like he was royalty; he simply can’t understand why the local gentry should want to hang out in the back parlour with us peasants.

His old jacket smelled foul; I don’t know what they do to them, but on rainy days the entire waxed Barbour jacket brigade stink like wet tents whole flocks have lambed in.

I have been dipping into Carrie’s book, and Gabe Weston sounds more like a psychic gardener than a restoration one to me. Cop a load of this:

Old gardens, no matter how big or small, from the overgrown parterres of the great estates to the seemingly aimless dips and hollows of long-vanished cottage gardens, all have a history. The ghost of what once was still lingers on the air like the faint fragrance of old potpourri.

He seems to be able to dowse for long-buried garden features like other people can find water with a bit of twig, although he seems happy to use modern technology like geophysical surveying too.

Walking over what was once a garden I can feel the resonances of time as though I were a human echo-finder tuned to every nuance of the old pathways, walls, trees and even the more transient plantings of the past.

Can this be true? Or is it just how they sell the series? Not, of course, that he wouldn’t be a big success without an angle like that, because any even
halfway
decent man who can talk gardening is terribly seductive, and he is much more than that.

Ma came down for the weekend and we did a bit of sorting out and cleaning ready for any viewings, while the dogs contributed a fresh silting of hair, and Ivy sicked up half a rubber ball on the Chinese rug.

I frantically felt her little fat furry stomach for signs of the other half blocking something vital, while she wriggled ecstatically and tried to lick my face, but then Ma found Holly chewing it behind the sofa.

After that excitement I flicked a feather duster over the magpie litter of Ma’s sitting room, where every surface is encrusted with shells, pebbles, sea-washed glass, bits of mirror and those plastic things they used to put in cereal packets. Ma sat in her favourite chair in the window, smoking and crocheting simultaneously.

‘You look a bit peaky, my love,’ she commented when I started to flag.

‘I do feel a bit off lately – but I’ve been dieting, so that probably isn’t helping.’ In fact, pottering about the studio playing with my ideas and wandering the garden looking for something to prune followed by a trio of hopeful hens is about all I’ve got the energy for lately.

‘Dieting’s unhealthy, Fran. I hope you’re eating a balanced diet.’

‘I’ve tried those meal-replacement things – they’re supposed to have all the vitamins and minerals you need. But I only survived a week on the Shaker diet before going totally off the rails.’

‘Shaker?’

‘Yes, though I don’t know if it’s called that because it’s all milkshakes, or for the way it makes you shaky after the second day – or even because it’s dead simple. But after a week I found myself in the kitchen at two in the morning eating a big slab of that disgusting chocolate cake topping, and I realised my mouth had got totally out of control.’

‘I’m not surprised!’

‘So then I tried diet bars, but that was just as bad … all I could think about was food! Bacon and eggs, fish and chips eaten from newspaper on the harbour front at Conwy, those fresh shrimps we used to get at Parkgate when I was a little girl … ’ I sighed. ‘Oh, yum! I’m starting to feel ravenous all over again.’

‘I’ll take you to the Druid’s Rest for a bar meal, Frannie. You need feeding up.’

‘I don’t know about feeding up, but it’s clear that a starve-binge cycle isn’t going to make me thinner,’ I said, and she certainly didn’t have to twist my arm to get me to eat real food at the pub.

I’m going to have to think about this dieting business a bit more unless Mal can just learn to love me the way I am, as I love him, fossicky little ways, undiscriminating friendships and expensive habits included. Do I
have
to keep young and beautiful? Why can’t I be plump, middle-aged and beautiful?

Come to that, why aren’t the women’s magazines full of articles on ‘The Beauty of the Wrinkle and How to Enhance Them’? Or ‘How to Successfully Put on Weight in Middle Age’, instead of featuring those Petra Pans of the celebrity circuit who are holding time at bay with applications of ground-up sea slugs at a hundred pounds a dab?

Nia says
she
hasn’t put on any weight since she read
Fat Is a Feminist Issue
and stopped worrying about it; in fact, she has lost a bit, but I think that is partly because of all the work she is doing with Rhodri transforming Plas Gwyn. She seems to have more or less taken charge of the renovations and innovations (
and
of Rhodri), so it’s just as well it’s a
very
bijou stately home and not a Chatsworth.

They have now furnished each of the rooms in a particular period, with furniture and hangings that had languished unseen for years – out with the new and in with the old! Workmen are busily putting new electric wiring into the craft studios and plastering the soon-to-be gift shop and tearoom.

I took Ma up there to see how they were getting on before she went home again, and Rhodri gave us tea and chunks of Caerphilly cheese on limp crackers and told her all about Gabe Weston (which
I
hadn’t mentioned since I wasn’t sure my face wouldn’t give something away) and the trunkful of family documents he had found in the attic.

‘I haven’t had time to go through them yet, but there might even be a plan of the garden, or at least some lists of plants or something,’ he said hopefully. ‘That’s the sort of thing they like on
Restoration Gardener
.’ He picked up his own well-thumbed copy of the accompanying book and read out: ‘“All kinds of family documents can offer clues to vanished gardens, from detailed plans and planting lists to chatty family letters. Even a passing mention might be the one missing piece that will make the picture clear.”’

‘Most of the top ones appear to be old household accounts and linen lists,’ Nia said, ‘but goodness knows what’s at the bottom. They seem to have been tipping paperwork into it for centuries.’

‘There’s bound to be
something
interesting in there,’ Rhodri agreed optimistically.

While Rhodri is much better at using his hands than his head, he’s pretty knowledgeable about antiques and the history of his house, so when he has time he will be compiling a guide that he can sell to visitors.

I gave him that cartoon I drew of him and he loved it so much he is going to have it on lots of items in his gift shop, from postcards to mugs and tea towels: the Lion of Plas Gwyn! And he is not quite such a sad lion any more, for he has cheered up no end now Nia has taken him in hand. Some men just
love
to be bossed around.

Once I became aware of Gabe Weston’s existence I seemed to see or hear mentions of him everywhere, as though my ears and eyes had tuned into his frequency. And I even bought another copy of the book so I could give Carrie’s back, because I found the workings of his mind strangely fascinating, especially combined with what I’ve already learned of his history. As he says on page 56, ‘It is amazing what can be grafted on to tough native rootstock.’

And the more I stared at his author photo, the more doubtful I was that he could be Rosie’s father: I couldn’t see the least resemblance. Could I have got it wrong, and it was really Tom after all? But she doesn’t look in the least like
him
, either!

I still didn’t want Gabe Weston anywhere near St Ceridwen’s Well, but as time passed I started to think nothing would come of it – until the day Rhodri heard that Gabe was about to tour the six properties on the long list in order to decide which three would go forward for the TV vote-off.

Rhodri was terribly excited about it – think of the publicity if Plas Gwyn were featured! – but unfortunately he will be in London doing his Father of the Bride stuff when the Great Gardener turns up, and so has had to delegate the honour of showing him the estate to his cousin Dottie as Token Family Member. Nia will be around too, in case Dottie totally blows it, since she has not only got a screw loose but a whole bolt, a gasket and several vital rivets.

And I know I ought to lie low that day, but I am
terribly
tempted to go up and spy on him! I have this burning curiosity to see him in the flesh, and this could be the only opportunity I ever get. I could watch him in perfect safety from Nia’s workshop, because he’s bound to park out front in the paved courtyard.

Dare I?

Fairy Glen is about to go into the property papers and this morning I heard hammering from up the lane, which turned out to be the estate agents putting up a ‘For Sale’ sign. This seemed pointless since the lane peters out into a farm track beyond the glen and no one uses the old rear drive to Plas Gwyn, so there is virtually no passing traffic except Ma and tractors.

I went up there to give it a quick vacuum through, but was so exhausted I gave up halfway. I can’t imagine what’s the matter with me lately; my legs feel as if someone sneaked in and filled them with lead. Wonder if I’ve got that ME thingummy? I hope not, I haven’t got time to do an Elizabeth Barrett Browning on a chaise longue – especially without a large and devoted family to run about after me.

I’m juggling cartoons, card designs and the first illustration for next year’s rose calendar as it is, not to mention Alphawoman –
and
Mal is back on Friday, so I’ve got my own house to scrape back to hygienic bedrock. So much has been happening that the time has just flown by – and soon no more nights out at the pub until he goes off again!

Do most married women lead a double life like a secret agent? But, come to think of it, now the Wevills are reporting my movements he knows
exactly
what I am doing while he is away, so my cover is blown.
Yes, I admit it! I do have vestiges of a social life – I see my friends! I even – gasp! – go to the pub sometimes or hang out in the village teashop! Is there no end to this woman’s depravity?

Mal’s only going to be home until Monday, then he has to go off to Manchester for a few days, which means I will have to launder half his wardrobe over the first weekend we have together in six weeks.

I spent Valentine’s Day having a cleaning blitz, attacking it with all the savagery of one who had not received a card from her supposedly loving spouse, and though I did finally get a bouquet by Interflora in the late afternoon it might as well have had ‘Suddenly realised at the last minute!’ written on the gift tag. He knows I hate scentless, senseless flower-shop roses too: give me the blowsy, velvety real thing any time.

Nia got a Valentine’s card, which she said was just Rhodri being silly although I could tell she was pleased. His writing is big and loopy, like him, so pretty unmistakable.

I felt a bit fed up, to tell the truth, so I would have gone out except that Carrie was off somewhere for a romantic dinner with her aged lover, Rhodri was spending the evening sifting through the papers in the trunk in search of garden titbits to entice Gabe Weston with, and Nia had to go to a meeting – though she didn’t say what of.

So I ended up finishing the mosaic on the fireplace, which looks great, and watching old Buffy DVDs.

Oh,
bite me
, Angel!

Rhodri has gone off to London bearing the wedding gift Nia and I clubbed together to buy for the rich and happy couple: a beautifully carved Welsh lovespoon. Bet Zoe hadn’t got one of those on her list.

He was in such a froth of nerves worrying over his role at the wedding, plus what sort of impression Dottie was going to make on Gabriel Weston, that we were quite glad to finally wave him off.

‘I think he’s got a stone up his exhaust,’ Nia said critically, listening to the Spyder’s receding rattle.

‘And a loose marble or two,’ I agreed, ‘though not as many as Dottie. Do you think she
will
cock everything up tomorrow?’

‘Not if I can help it: I’m going to hang around and make sure she tells him all the interesting stuff, even if she can’t get the hang of who I am or what I’m doing there.’

‘She’ll probably think you’re a loyal retainer.’

‘She already thinks I’m a groom now I’ve started intercepting her at my workshop door and taking Rollover to his new loose box myself, and she seems to be warming to me. Rollover’s warming to me too, but he has very big feet and he’s not careful where he puts them.’

‘Well, save me any manure for my roses,’ I said. ‘Just say the word, and I’ll be up there with a shovel and a bag. Oh, and did I tell you I’ve got people coming to view Fairy Glen tomorrow? Two lots, at twelve and one. Gabriel Weston should have come and gone by then, shouldn’t he?’

‘If he manages to find St Ceridwen’s in the first place. Are you still plotting to hide in my studio dressed like Michelle of the French Resistance, just so you can get a sneaky look at him?’

‘I don’t think I can resist it – and if he doesn’t pick the garden then it will be the only chance I ever get to see him, won’t it? But it’ll be from afar, so you’ll still have to tell me if you think Rosie looks like him at all.’

‘She doesn’t look like his photograph, that’s for sure,’ Nia said. ‘Mind you, she doesn’t look even remotely like Tom either, apart from being blondish.’

‘I’ve always said she was a changeling – she’s never looked like anyone I’ve ever met. Maybe I created her all on my own, like a frog?
Is
it frogs that can do it themselves if they have to, or something else?’

‘You’re nearly as barmy as Dottie,’ Nia observed. ‘And I wouldn’t show the viewers round the cottage tomorrow singing “There Are Fairies at the Bottom of My Garden”, either, unless they’re the sort you want to put off.’

Before leaving the house next morning for Plas Gwyn I put on the dark wraparound sunglasses I picked up at a charity shop and then tied on a headscarf with the ends knotted round my neck in a very
Dolce Vita
way, as though someone might be going to whisk me away to the Italian Riviera in an open sports car at any moment and show me a good time.

Although heaven forbid, because Gabe Weston’s already shown me one of those (even if the sports car was actually a camper van and the Riviera a pub car park), and it certainly made me realise I was not cut out to be the proverbial good time had by all.

With my hair and eyes hidden I looked very nondescript, especially once I put on my warm hooded pink duffel coat with the rather ratty fur trim, another second-hand bargain. (Fake fur, of course, for until genetic engineering plumbs new depths, animals don’t come in mauve.)

Quite sure even my nearest and dearest wouldn’t recognise me, I set out for Plas Gwyn with a knot of strange excitement in the pit of my stomach and that song about being a second-hand Rose on my lips. I was feeling cheerful despite it being a wet and breezy day, until I saw the Wevills’ car parked so far across my drive I would have to ask them to move it if I wanted to get mine out.

‘Is that you, Fran?’ called Mona from her front window as I skirted her car, but I ignored her and set out on foot. I am certainly not asking permission to use my own drive or complaining: last time she said smugly that Mal told her it was fine with him as though she were scoring points, and then Owen emailed him forgivingly about my strangely unneighbourly attitude.