The Garden on Holly Street

by Megan Attley

Genres: General Fiction; Women's Fiction

Synopsis

Sometimes you have to dig a little deeper to get the life you want . . .

Abby Hamilton’s world has turned upside down in a matter of months – it seems that change is definitely in the air. But moving into Willow Court might just be the fresh start and happy distraction she needed.

Meeting her intriguing new neighbours helps push Abby out of her comfort zone. Then she finds an overgrown patch of garden in desperate need of love and time – something Abby has in spades! Throwing herself into bringing the garden back to life, Abby discovers that new beginnings can come from the most surprising places…

An uplifting, feel-good novel, perfect for fans of Holly Hepburn, Heidi Swain and Isabelle Broom.
(p) Orion Publishing Group Ltd 2019

Release date: July 11, 2019

Publisher: Orion Publishing Group

Print pages: 368

Sample

Chapter 1

‘Pardon?’ Abby Hamilton shifted in the chair – her armpits prickling with sweat in shock – then she adjusted her green tabard. ‘I don’t understand.’

‘I’m terribly sorry, Abby, but it’s down to cutbacks.’ Georgia Dawson, manager of Greenfields Care Home smiled, her grey eyes calm as she gazed at Abby. She didn’t look terribly sorry. In fact, she didn’t look sorry at all as she sat there, back ramrod straight, in her navy Marks & Spencer trouser suit, with her sleek grey bob that it was rumoured she had styled at John Frieda’s ultra-chic London salon. Travelling from Manchester to London for an expensive haircut showed that Georgia certainly wasn’t suffering from the cutbacks. ‘We’re having to let some staff go. We just can’t afford to continue employing so many here when we’ve recently lost some of our residents.’

‘But … you’ll have more residents coming in. This place has a fabulous reputation and of course you’ll never run out of residents because everyone’s got to grow old, right?’

Or most people do …

‘Indeed, we do have a fabulous reputation, and yes, we are highly likely to have more residents in future …’ Georgia pursed her bright red lips then nodded, as if agreeing with herself. ‘And I promise you, Abby, that if circumstances change, we won’t hesitate to contact you.’

Abby took a deep breath and scanned the room, desperate for inspiration, something to tell Georgia that would allow her to keep her job. It was all she had left. But the desk piled with paperwork and the Manchester city skyline through the first-floor window offered her no reprieve.

‘We’re giving you notice, as is written in your contract.’ Georgia’s voice had risen, as if her throat was tightening as she delivered the news. ‘But should you wish to leave sooner to find alternative employment, then I’m sure something can be arranged.’

‘Please don’t do this. Please. I need this job!’ The room swayed and Abby gripped the sides of the chair to steady herself.

‘These are difficult times … For everyone.’ The care home manager peered over her silver-rimmed half-moon glasses, and her eyes hardened, their grey now flinty. ‘So … if you don’t mind, I have other staff to speak to. Let me know if you decide to work out your notice period.’

Abby got unsteadily to her feet. She’d lost her boyfriend, her home and now her job in the space of six weeks. It was almost as if the universe was trying to tell her something. Or it would be if she believed in that kind of nonsense.

She took the envelope that Georgia proffered then trudged out of the air-conditioned office and into the corridor. Four of her colleagues were lined up there like naughty children waiting to see the head teacher. They stared at her, desperately reading her face for clues, so she dropped her eyes to the floor. She couldn’t speak, couldn’t even wish them luck as she made her way to the poky staffroom with its scale-encrusted kettle and five green-cushioned chairs.

Sinking into one of them, Abby absent-mindedly fingered the slit where the orange foam was displayed like the innards of a body. She thought of the times she’d stuffed the foam back in during her coffee breaks, only to return to the staffroom to find that someone else had widened the split by picking at the seams or had carelessly dropped biscuit crumbs into it. Abby took care of things – it was in her nature – but not everybody was like her. She knew that now for sure.

But that was life.

Abby released a sigh before pushing herself to her feet. No point dwelling now, it wouldn’t change anything. In fact, perhaps it would finally give her something to write about in her blog. It had been a while since she’d fired up her old laptop and logged into her WordPress account, since she’d felt up to letting the world know what was going on in her life, since she’d found the text on Gavin’s phone and her world had crumbled to dust … She squeezed her eyes shut tight against the pain and forced his handsome and familiar features from her mind. Thinking about what she’d lost would not help right now. She needed to be strong because no one else was going to hold her together.

Abby opened her locker and pulled out her bag. Her shift was over and with it, her time at Greenfields Care Home. She stuffed the letter into her bag, pulled her tabard over her head, then placed it on the back of a chair as she shrugged into her coat.

She knew that she wouldn’t come back to work out her notice – it would be much too painful saying goodbye to the residents and her colleagues.

And Abby Hamilton really didn’t like goodbyes.



Abby closed the front door behind her and sagged against it. Her muscles ached, her head was tight and she was covered in dust. But at least she’d finished moving her boxed belongings into the two-bed rental flat on Holly Street in Didsbury. Considering how quickly Abby had needed to move, she’d been lucky to find such a lovely flat. Not that she’d wanted to up sticks, but after what had happened, she hadn’t really had a choice.

She wandered through the flat, admiring the hardwood floors, the plain magnolia walls and the lovely bay window in the spacious lounge. Everything in the flat was fresh, new and clean which was a very good thing as far as Abby was concerned. She needed a fresh start and hoped that this move would help her get it.

All she had to do now was to unpack the many boxes and two large suitcases that were scattered around the spare bedroom and kitchen. She grimaced. Once she took everything out, she’d have to find places for it all, and right now that seemed insurmountable. Perhaps if she just had half an hour’s rest, she’d feel up to it.

She’d make a coffee and light a cigarette and—

Wait! Light a cigarette?

She hadn’t smoked in over ten years, but when she’d found the text on Gavin’s phone, her first reaction had been to march out of their pretty three-bed semi in Wythenshawe straight to the Tesco Extra where she purchased two bottles of Pinot Grigio and a packet of Marlboro Lights. She’d drunk the wine but managed to avoid smoking any of the cigarettes, preferring to feel the comfort of having the box in her bag should she desperately need the crutch of nicotine. And, this afternoon, with the early spring sunlight fading outside and the impact of her day’s labour settling into her thirty-six-year-old bones, she really, really fancied a smoke. And why shouldn’t she have one?

Abby found her battered brown handbag – the one that Gavin had given her three Christmases ago – rooted for the packet of Marlboros and the disposable lighter, then headed down to the car park to light up.

On her descent to the ground floor, she passed the doors of the people who lived below her and wondered who was inside and if they were curious about her too. Abby had used the small lift to get her belongings up to the flat but had vowed to use the steps most days, unless she had something too heavy to carry. Now she was thirty-six, she needed to stay active to help keep her toned, and it would hopefully mean that she’d get to meet her neighbours too, possibly even make some friends.

When she reached the small entranceway, she pressed the release button to open the door and stepped out into the cool air. The car park was quite full now, but then it was Saturday afternoon and most of the residents of the flats would no doubt be preparing for an evening of Saturday TV with a takeaway or perhaps were getting ready to head off into Didsbury village for a meal or to hit the bars. A shadow fell over her as she thought of all the couples and families, of all the people who had someone.

Abby pulled a cigarette from the pack and stuck it in her mouth like some kind of talisman against loneliness. She was about to light up when she realised that if any of her new neighbours came down to their cars, they would see her smoking, and that wasn’t exactly the first impression she wanted to create. So she walked around the side of the building and kept going until she reached the rear where it seemed more private. But it was also a right mess. The estate agent had mentioned something about a garden but Abby had been so impressed by the flat and so desperate to find somewhere quickly, that she’d declined to look around outside. She could see the area from her bedroom but she’d barely even looked out of the windows, so keen had she been to sign on the dotted line and secure the lease. As long as it was furnished and had plenty of inside space where she could hide away from the world, that was all she’d wanted. But now she could see the garden that stretched out before her, it was evident that it was nothing more than a dumping ground for unwanted furniture; it looked like an unkempt mess of overgrown shrubs, grass and litter.

She walked up and down, eyeing the tangled flowerbeds and unpruned bushes, the litter and cigarette butts that choked up what could have been a lovely space, and something inside her shifted. It was a sense of loss so strong it caused a physical pain, and she stifled the moan that threatened to escape from her.

‘Such a waste,’ she murmured, the unlit cigarette bobbing between her lips as she spoke. When the flats had been built, the garden must have been drawn into the plans, the designer keen to give the small community an outside space that would possibly bring them together. Instead, it had been ignored as the inhabitants of Willow Court got on with their lives inside.

It struck Abby that Gavin had been exactly the same; when they’d bought their semi-detached house – some years back when they’d both been in their twenties – Gavin had been keen to fully renovate the inside, but had shown no interest when Abby had suggested doing something to the small paved back garden. Gavin had frowned, coughed and muttered something about not having time to mow grass or plant flowers and, as with most things in their relationship, Abby had bitten her lip and kept quiet, not wanting to start a row that made their growing differences glaringly apparent. It was easier to keep quiet, pretend everything was all right and that they wanted the same things from life. She had become good at biting her tongue during their time together. The Abby she had once been would have given her a good shake and told her to speak up for herself, to make sure that she got what she wanted and needed from her relationship. But time, and Gavin, had worn her down. Even if Abby had a small patch of grass to mow in the summer, Gavin would have dashed off to his evening session at the gym anyway, rather than staying at home, with Abby, to enjoy it.

‘Bloody weight-lifting bastard!’ She shook her head. She had called him all the awful names she could think of, but the words didn’t change the fact that they’d had a relationship born of long-term togetherness. They knew each other well and there was affection there, possibly still even love. Then he’d turned their lives upside down. ‘Bloody cheating pig!’

‘I beg your pardon?’

Abby froze.

Someone was behind her.

Someone had caught her talking to herself.

She whipped the cigarette from her mouth then turned and met the pale, watery-blue eyes of an elderly man. He frowned at her from behind thick-rimmed black glasses then ran a hand over the mottled dome of his bald head.

‘Oh! Uh, sorry … I wasn’t speaking to you. I was just talking to myself. You know, as you do.’ She gave an embarrassed laugh, hoping he might at least smile, but he glared at her in a way that made goosebumps pop out on her arms.

‘You were talking to yourself?’ He straightened up for a moment, and she realised that he was taller than he’d first seemed – certainly taller than she was – then he hunched over again, and a flicker of pain passed over his features, as if the effort had been too much.

‘Yes.’

He shook his head then eyed her scruffy jogging bottoms and dusty T-shirt.

Abby plucked at her top. ‘I was moving in … To one of the flats … 3A actually. I’m Abby Hamilton. We might be neighbours.’

‘Neighbours?’ His frown deepened, drawing his bushy white eyebrows together so they sat like fat white caterpillars above his glasses. ‘None of you youngsters know the meaning of the word.’

Abby was about to argue then thought better of it. He was right, really. Even after living in their house for more than ten years, she and Gavin had barely known the families residing either side of them. Enough to say good morning and to share the odd comment on the weather, but certainly not enough to go out for drinks or to pop in to one another’s houses for coffee. And Abby had often wished that she could pop around to have coffee and cake with a neighbour, to invite them for a barbecue in the summer or to just get to know them better. With the hours that Gavin worked and the time he spent at the gym, Abby had often been lonely, and hearing the laughter and music from the other side of the adjoining wall had stirred longings in her that she hadn’t known she’d had.

So when she’d heard Gavin’s phone buzz on the bedside table that terrible evening six weeks ago, and she had read the words – the descriptions of bedroom acts – which she’d never used herself and never would … Well, she could have done with a neighbour to run to then. Instead, she’d run to a shop for alcohol and tobacco. She had to admit that this man, whoever he was, had a point.

Abby noticed that his gaze had dropped to her hand and his eyes widened behind his glasses as his cheeks flushed.

‘Are you OK, sir?’ She called him that because he certainly didn’t seem keen to volunteer his name.

‘You were smoking!’ He snarled at her, making her flinch.

‘No … I uh—’

‘Yes, you were! I see the cancer-stick in your hand.’ He wobbled in his leather slippers as he waved his walking stick at her.

‘I didn’t even light it.’

‘But you were going to light it. Is it you then, making all this mess? Disgusting! Absolutely diabolical! Filthy, dirty …’ His voice cracked and he turned away from her. Abby watched him, wondering what was wrong. Was he having a heart attack? A stroke? Oh God, was one of her neighbours about to die on her right after she’d moved in? She could just imagine the headline in the local tabloid: Spurned Spinster Kills Elderly Neighbour with Unlit Cigarette, Murderer Abby or The Community Garden Killer.

She stepped closer to him and raised her hand, wondering whether to touch his shoulder just to check if he was all right, but she was also afraid to make contact. After all, the way he’d brandished his heavy-looking stick, she suspected he could cause some serious damage with it.

‘Sir? Are you OK?’ she asked, her voice small, not sounding like her at all.

He coughed then, his whole body shaking with the effort, before turning to face her.

‘Smoking is so bad for you. It causes awful diseases and you should stop. Immediately. Before it’s too late. It sets a bad example to the children around here and just look at this mess.’ He gestured at the state of the garden and Abby nodded.

‘It is quite bad.’

‘People just don’t care anymore. No one cares.’ His voice was quieter than before, tinged with sadness.

‘I wouldn’t have thrown this down, you know? I’d have binned it. I don’t litter.’ She wasn’t sure why she felt the need to explain herself, but she did.

He met her eyes again then shook his head. ‘Just make sure you do put it in the bin, although what difference one will make, I don’t know …’

He turned and shuffled away, seeming smaller now, hunched over his walking stick as if the encounter with her had reduced him physically. Abby suppressed the urge to shout after him. Who did he think he was bossing her around and making assumptions? There was no way she could have made all this mess and she certainly wouldn’t have made it any worse. He was right that one more cigarette butt wouldn’t make a difference but even so, she’d have put it in the bin.

Why was she worrying anyway? In his slippers, with that heavy walking stick and thick white stubble on his face, he could’ve just wandered out of Greenfields. She’d dealt with men and women like that over the years and knew that, most of the time, they didn’t mean to offend anyone.

She looked at the cigarette in her hand and frowned. Suddenly it didn’t seem so appealing, so she pulled the packet from her joggers and stuffed it back in. For the time being, she’d just keep the packet as a safety net for when things got really bad.

Abby cast her eyes over the garden again. It really was a fabulous space and had so much potential. If someone had the inclination, they could make it lovely, somewhere to be proud of, somewhere to come and sit and relax. If they had the inclination …



Twenty minutes later, Abby was sitting cross-legged on the wooden floor of her lounge, dressed in her pyjamas with her freshly washed damp hair pinned up with a butterfly clip. She had a box in front of her that she’d draped with a tea towel and on it sat a plate of beans on toast. There was a table in the kitchen, but it felt too formal to eat there alone, so she’d come into the lounge and turned on the TV, wanting the company of Saturday night television to drown out the voices swirling tornado-like in her head.

As she sipped the lukewarm wine she’d forgotten to put in the fridge earlier, she tried to push the old man from her mind, but she kept seeing the scorn in his eyes. Yet when he’d spoken, and his voice had cracked, she’d sensed that there was more to his distress than he’d been prepared to share.

And being alone, tonight of all nights …

It was Gavin’s birthday, a fact she’d tried to ignore all day, even as she’d tramped up and down the stairs of their home, taking her belongings out to her ancient red Fiesta. Gavin hadn’t been around, of course, he’d agreed by text to not be there when she went back for her things. She’d stayed at her friend Lisa’s apartment after she’d walked out on him, only going back when she knew he’d be at the gym or work, knowing that seeing him would be too painful, that it was too raw and she was – even though she hated to admit it – still too angry to face him. Yet today, he turned thirty-six. Gavin was a few months younger than Abby and it had been their in-joke that he was her toyboy. Now he had someone younger – a lot younger – so the joke was on Abby.

Gavin was probably out somewhere with his new floozy, partying the night away in a too-tight top that showed his bulging biceps to perfection. He’d doubtless be flexing for photos, his eyes too bright, his smile too wide. If Abby dared to look tomorrow, he’d be all over Facebook, his flushed cheeks and inane grin evidence of a great night out. A night that Abby wasn’t there to share. A night that would probably end in all of those lewd sexual acts that Abby had read about on his phone; all the things that she’d always been far too embarrassed to talk about, let alone try. Did people really do those things? Abby had always thought they were like sex scenes in movies: over-the-top, too much like hard work, and physically impossible unless you had a neck as long as a giraffe and a body as flexible as a gold-medal-winning gymnast.

For a moment she thought about trying to locate her laptop and putting her current thoughts onto the page, but she realised it would be buried at the bottom of a box somewhere and moving seemed like too much effort.

So she drained her glass, refilled it from the bottle on the floor next to her and turned up the TV, then ate her lonely supper for one, trying to ignore the salty tears that trickled down her cheeks and mingled with her wine.











Chapter 2



Arthur shuffled into his kitchen and went automatically to the kettle. He checked the water level then reached out to switch it on and realised that his hand was shaking. What on earth? He’d exchanged a few stern words with a woman claiming to be a new neighbour and now he was so disturbed that he was shaking?

He left the kettle to boil and went through to his lounge. The room was filled with shadows, the last rays of the evening spring sunshine too weak to light up the space. Everything was exactly as he had left it less than an hour ago. The TV screen was blank and grey, the book he had been reading lay open on the small coffee table next to his armchair, and his mug sat beside it on an old coaster that showed a hotel in Spain he’d once stayed in with Julia.

‘Julia …’ He whispered her name, the familiar cadence passing over his tongue and stirring his heart. The name of the woman he had loved and cherished for half a century. It was more than a year since she’d passed but he still expected her to enter the room, carrying a tray with two mugs and a plate of biscuits that they would enjoy in front of a Saturday night game show. If he closed his eyes, he could almost smell her floral perfume, hear the swish of her skirt against her petticoat as she moved, and feel the cool weight of her hand as she touched his shoulder.

‘I’m not sure about that woman at all,’ he said to the room, breaking the spell that had settled over him like a net of grief. ‘Do you know, Julia, she claimed that she’s moved into one of the flats.’

He paused and listened as if waiting for his wife to reply.

The silence stretched out in the room.

Of course, no reply came. He sighed, then went to his chair and sat down, propping his walking stick against the coffee table, the boiling kettle now forgotten as his thoughts were filled with his wife.

‘You’d probably think she’s a nice young woman … see the good in her.’ He chuckled. ‘You always saw the good in everyone, my darling. See … the good in everyone, I mean.’ He couldn’t talk about her in the past tense. It felt wrong – so terribly wrong. ‘But she was about to smoke, you see. That filthy habit that causes such awful diseases, and if only she knew how it feels to have … to suffer as you did, then I’m sure she wouldn’t …’ He closed his eyes again, trying to imagine how it felt to have Julia’s hand settling on his right shoulder. He placed his hand there, searching for hers, wishing he could find it and keep her with him for ever. ‘I told her, darling. I told her to stop smoking. Whether she’ll listen or not, who knows? And I also warned her not to litter. I hate what’s happened out there in your garden. If only you could see it. But no, much better that you can’t.’ He shook his head. ‘I couldn’t bear for you to see it. If I was fitter, I’d go out and make it beautiful again just how you like it. But I’m an old man … just a useless old man. This damned hip makes me so slow. I can’t even stand up straight anymore …’

He lapsed into silence as bleakness settled over him like a clammy, suffocating blanket. His hand slipped from his shoulder and he let it rest on the arm of the chair. He couldn’t believe they were his hands, these wrinkled, liver-spotted things with their swollen joints and grey hairs sprouting from his knuckles. When did he get so old? When did Julia get old enough to …?

He turned to the chair on the other side of the coffee table. It was just close enough to reach, close enough to take her hand as they laughed at something together or to pass her a mug of tea as they read the morning papers.

But it was empty.

As empty as his flat. As empty as his bed. And as empty as his life.

A solitary tear escaped his right eye and trickled down his cheek before getting trapped in the stubble he hadn’t bothered to shave for over a week. He wiped at it absently with the back of his hand then stared at the streak of water on his skin.

What was the point in any of it anymore?

A sudden bang from above jolted him to his feet and he winced as pain seared through his hip. Feet raced across the floor above quickly followed by another bang and Arthur’s grief was replaced by red-hot anger.

That bloody child!



Arthur grabbed his stick, headed for the front door, then slammed it behind him. It bounced off the latch, but he didn’t care; he was too furious to fuss about locking his flat and he wanted to catch the little bugger upstairs in the act.

He took hold of the banister and started to climb, using his stick to support him, rage giving him an unwonted burst of energy. He knew that the lift would have alerted the little rascal to his ascent, so he pushed himself up each step, muttering about badly behaved children and irresponsible parents, until he reached the landing and the door of the flat directly above his own. He panted, trying to catch his breath before he knocked on the door. From inside, he heard squeals of laughter. Someone was evidently having a great time – and at his expense, no less. The expense of his peace! Peace that he was entitled to, for crying out loud!

He realised that the door was ajar, so he rapped his knuckles on the wood and waited. It fell silent inside. He knocked again, harder, causing the door to swing open wide enough for him to see inside. And there, soaking wet and covered in soapsuds, stood that wild teenage girl who often babysat for the little boy, Ernie.

Arthur stared at her, then around the hallway of the flat at the complete and utter chaos, before his eyes landed on Ernie as he came skidding around the corner. He tutted. ‘H. . .