The Secrets of Hawthorn Place
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Synopsis
Love will always find a way . . . Discover the intriguing secrets of Hawthorn Place in this heartfelt dual-time novel, filled with warmth and charm, perfect for fans of Lucinda Riley and Cecelia Ahern.
'An exquisitely detailed and enchanting love story' HEIDI SWAIN
'Unforgettable and unique, the twists and turns of this enchanting book are woven together with threads of love and magic. I loved it!' CLARE MARCHANT
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Two houses, hundreds of miles apart . . . yet connected always.
When life throws Molly Butterfield a curveball, she decides to spend some time with her recently widowed granddad, Wally, at Hawthorn Place, his quirky Victorian house on the Dorset coast.
But cosseted Molly struggles to look after herself, never mind her grieving granddad, until the accidental discovery of an identical Arts and Crafts house on the Norfolk coast offers her an unexpected purpose, as well as revealing a bewildering mystery.
Discovering that both Hawthorn Place and Acacia House were designed by architect Percy Gladwell, Molly uncovers the secret of a love which linked them, so powerful it defied reason.
What follows is a summer which will change Molly for ever . . .
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'One of those wonderful, magical stories that appear rarely and stay in your heart forever' CELIA ANDERSON
'A marvellous dual-time novel filled with mystery, fabulous detail and an enduring love story' MADDIE PLEASE
'I found the book enchanting' SUZANNE SNOW
(P) 2021 Headline Publishing Group Ltd
Release date: October 14, 2021
Publisher: Headline
Print pages: 416
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The Secrets of Hawthorn Place
Jenni Keer
Percy Gladwell
1896
My darling Violet,
I have tried, I truly have, but I cannot continue this charade any longer. Two months shut away at my mother’s house, unable to work and unwilling to socialise, and I fear I’m going mad. Being without you is killing me anyway, so let it be a done thing.
You will find my actions hard to understand, and perhaps harder to forgive, but since the day we first met, I have loved only you. Facing a life where I am denied even your friendship, is no life at all. I would not be living, I would be existing.
Know that I am sorry. Mother will weep, and that I regret, but there are others I have hurt who might even wish to stand behind me and give the final push. Oh, how the heart makes fools of us all . . .
Only last summer, I stood on top of the cliffs at West Bay, and on top of the world. It was a joyful time for me – a time when I could hardly believe your feelings were as powerful as my own. But we both knew, and have always known, it could never be. It is hard for me to return here now, and this visit is all the more poignant when I think of those happier times.
Do not feel sorrow, my love, feel only joy. I am still with you – in every brick and piece of polished oak, through every stained-glass window and even in your beloved petunia bed. The house was always our love letter, and I am content to know you will see out your days surrounded by these little pieces of me. I will watch over you from above, and pray God you have a long and happy life.
That heart my heart hath in such grace
That of two hearts one heart make we;
That heart hath brought my heart in case
To love that heart that loveth me.
Percy Gladwell
The letter was posted in town at two forty-five. By four o’clock most of a bottle of Cockburn’s port had been consumed to give him the courage he needed to do the thing he was most afraid of.
At five past the hour, on the beautiful Jurassic coast of Dorset, Percy Gladwell stepped off the high cliffs at West Bay and a mother, paddling with her tiny child in the waters further down the beach, looked up at the cliffs and screamed.
Present Day
I struggled up the steep stone steps as the taxi pulled away, rested my wheelie case on the top step and rang the bell. The key was somewhere in the jumble of my rucksack but it was taking every ounce of strength to hold it together, and one more hiccup, even as tiny as not locating the keys quickly enough, would catapult me into the sky of total despair. I knew Brian would answer any moment and offer to take the case up to my old bedroom. Good old Brian. Reliable, if nothing else.
‘Molly, darling,’ Mum said, swinging back the glossy scarlet door, which happened to match her nail-varnish, and glancing at my case. ‘We weren’t expecting you. Is Rupert away with work again?’
‘No. Why?’
‘Because you usually only descend when he’s left you to your own devices.’ She ushered me inside and studied my face. ‘So, if Rupert isn’t away with work, your dejected expression unfortunately speaks a thousand unuttered words. I’m guessing you need a large rhubarb gin and a hug?’
Her arm guided me down the large airy hallway of our three-storey Georgian London house and, as the warmth of her touch and the familiarity of home enveloped me, I succumbed to the emotions I’d been holding in since my long-term boyfriend had uttered those stomach-churning words, ‘We need to talk . . .’
‘Rupert’s dumped me,’ I admitted, and burst into tears.
‘Oh, sweetie.’ She threw her arms about me and held me close, patiently waiting for my initial wailing to simmer down into more gentle sobs, and finally fade into occasional sniffs and hiccups.
‘I’m afraid broken hearts are part of life, my darling. You’ll become a stronger person and learn from the experience. Take off your coat and I’ll see to that drink.’
Five minutes later, nestled in the safety of one of the large white leather armchairs, clutching a fishbowl-sized glass full of glorious, fizzy, pale pink gin and tonic, I filled Mum in on the details. Rupert had met someone else. I was surplus to requirements.
‘She was in his Thursday evening cordon bleu cookery course and over the last few months the friendship developed into something more.’ I shrugged to pretend I didn’t care, but I did. No one likes feeling they’re replaceable. ‘He said we’d drifted apart and that I don’t share his interests, which is untrue. I adore his passion for good food, for example. I might not get involved with the preparation, but then when you live with a cooking whizz, why would you try to compete?’
‘To expand your knowledge? Learn a new skill? Enjoy the experience of sharing an activity together?’ Mum suggested. I chose not to react.
‘And then he said we’d been heading this way for a while and everyone but me could see it.’
It was easy to look back now and spot the signs. I’d been doing that for the entire taxi journey, questioning why his announcement had been such a shock. Rupert had been my one serious relationship, the first man I’d lived with, and the only boyfriend I’d ever said ‘I love you’ to. We’d hooked up at uni and made life plans together, but in recent weeks Rupert had talked of them less. Now I knew why. He had someone else to share his future with and, unfortunately for me, his home.
Mum remained silent so I ploughed on, hitting her with the obvious solution to my unexpected homelessness. ‘It’s his flat so I had to move out, and I know you and Brian are off on holiday soon, so I was thinking . . .’
‘Yes?’ Mum raised a guarded eyebrow.
‘. . . That I could stay here for the month and look after the place whilst you’re away? We’d be helping each other out, if you think about it.’
‘I’m not sure how my darling daughter, who can barely identify the cooker, never mind operate it, and who leaves a trail of belongings wherever she goes, is going to be much of a help. I love you very much, but I fear that going from home, to uni – where I happen to know Izzy did all the housework and cooking – and then to Rupert’s hasn’t done you any favours.’
‘Are you implying I can’t look after myself?’ I crossed my arms over my non-existent chest. ‘I’m perfectly capable of running a household.’ Maybe I hadn’t technically had much practice at independent living, but I certainly knew the principles involved.
‘This is all rather irrelevant, sweetheart,’ she said. ‘I’m afraid you can’t stay here.’
‘Why not? You said my room was always here for me if I needed it.’
‘Yes, but we won’t be here from Monday—’
‘I know. You’ll be in New York. But I can be here to protect it from burglars,’ I said, warming to my theme. ‘It’s not ideal to have this big property standing empty for a month.’
‘You’re right.’ She paused. ‘And that’s why we decided to do a house swap.’
‘A what?’ I sat up straight and let my arms drop.
‘A house swap. Oh, Molly, I swear you never listen to me. We’re staying in an apartment overlooking Central Park, and the family who own it will be coming here. It’s all been arranged and I’m afraid an extra house guest was not part of the package.’
I sank back into the large chair, letting the wide sides shield me from this unwelcome news. Being small and slender, perhaps I could slip neatly down the gap between the cushions and the seat if I wriggled my bottom back far enough. Maybe I could hide in the chair for a month, nipping out when it was dark for food and supplies – as it appeared I was now officially homeless – at least until Mum and Brian returned from their holiday.
As I contemplated the utter disaster that was my current situation, I heard the front door close and a beaming Brian appeared, clutching a ridiculously ostentatious bunch of lilies. Their sickly scent wafted into the room, along with what I could only assume was a guilty man. Surely no one buys flowers unless they have something to hide? Because, now that I thought about it, Rupert had come back with flowers on a few occasions since starting the evening course.
‘For you, dar— Oh. Molly, what a pleasant surprise!’ His eyes lit up and his smile spread even further across his face.
That was the thing about Brian – he’d tried, he really had, particularly to begin with, but he’d butted in to our happy little life without being asked. Well, I certainly hadn’t invited him in. Mum informed me when I was nine that she had a ‘special friend’. Within a year, they were married and our contented twosome became a crowded threesome. Having been used to exclusive dibs on my mother, suddenly there was this stranger in my life, taking over the bedtime stories, buying me expensive gifts, and praising every little thing I did to a ridiculous degree. But surely it was all for my mother’s benefit, because everyone knows that if you fall in love with someone and they already have a child, she’s the nine-year-old fly in the otherwise perfect ointment.
‘Rupert has finished with Molly,’ Mum explained. ‘But I’ve told her that she can’t stay here as our American house-swap guests are coming.’
She gave him an intense stare. They did that a lot. It was a being in love thing, apparently, which, fair play, they still were after fifteen years. A slow dawning of comprehension replaced Brian’s puzzled expression as he realised the true extent of my catastrophic circumstances.
‘Can you bunk with a friend for a few weeks?’ he asked, depositing the bouquet on the glass-topped coffee table and giving me a hopeful smile.
‘I could try Izzy, I suppose, but she lives too far from work. I’d have over an hour commute.’
I hated my job; I’d been forced to take a part-time telemarketing post selling solar panels when a year of post-university job hunting had drawn a blank and Brian had called time on my allowance. The majority of my salary was bonus-related, but it turns out I’m not great at cold-calling. Still, it earned me enough to get by. Or rather, it had until Rupert had put me out with the carefully crushed and spotlessly clean recycling.
‘Some people have much longer commutes than that, Molly. You’ll simply have to get up earlier,’ Mum unhelpfully pointed out. ‘Perhaps you can rent a room somewhere? You are earning, and Rupert never asked you for rent. Perhaps you could pick up another job, or ask for more shifts at work? It’s not like you have much else to fill your time.’
That’s where she was wrong. I was extremely busy outside my working hours. I’d amassed a large following on Instagram and posted artistic shots of Rupert’s restaurant-quality meals daily. Catching up on Snapchat took ages, and I was forever stumbling across must-see Netflix box sets. As for exercise, there was nothing of me already. If I took up a sport, I’d be a hologram within a fortnight.
‘Any chance of reinstating my allowance, Bri?’ I asked, giving him the biggest smile I could muster. That would be the easiest option all round, and Brian wasn’t short of money.
‘Um, no, sorry, Molly.’ His round face went pink as he cast another look at Mum. ‘We supported you without question through university, and for a year afterwards, but there has to come a time when you’re responsible for yourself. You’re a graduate now and the world is your undiscovered oyster.’
I wriggled in my seat, my knees tucked under me, and clutched a huge cream cushion to my chest like a shield. As I’d limped out of university with a third in history, my degree was hardly anything to shout about. Studying the past had seemed like an easy ride, but it became a dry and dusty chore when I had to choose between writing essays about nineteenth-century industrialisation or hanging around the student union bar. Yes, I’d chosen to focus on the social aspects of university life, but I was certain my people-skills were top notch as a result. Except when I was trying to sell solar panels.
‘But I need a bit of support to bail me out of an horrific situation that isn’t my fault. A short-term loan? An early birthday present? It’s the last time. Honest. All my mates fell into good jobs and I was so unlucky. I applied for hundreds of high-salaried positions, but no one wanted me and I’ve had to settle for stupid telemarketing.’ Perhaps hundreds was an exaggeration, but I didn’t understand why I hadn’t been snapped up. A degree was a degree, after all.
‘Telesales is a perfectly good starting point. You don’t just walk into the top jobs, Molly. You have to earn them. Kids today expect everything to fall into their ungrateful laps.’
I wanted to point out that every generation has it tough in different ways. We were going to inherit a world that his generation had screwed up – the political instability, global warming, and pollution of the oceans for starters. Plus, gone were the student grants that had cushioned Brian through university. Most of my friends had finished with astronomical debts – although Brian made sure I finished debt free, but that wasn’t the point.
My mobile pinged to let me know there was a Snapchat notification, reminding me that my stepfather was the CEO of a telecommunications company and my adolescent years had been financed by the exponential growth of the mobile phone. I half-leaned forward to investigate but pulled back. Mum and Brian always joked that my world revolved around my phone and I was trying to present myself as a motivated and deserving case, not a social-media-obsessed dependant.
‘I’ll leave you to think about that loan then,’ I finished hopefully, giving Brian another wide smile and standing up. Now was a good time to make my exit. Besides, I was itching to see the Snapchat notification, optimistically hoping that Rupert had realised the error of his ways and was begging me to come back.
I launched myself across my bed, pushed a stack of graphic novels and some folded black T-shirts to the floor, where the cleaner must have piled them after I’d moved out, and swiped open my mobile to see my Snapchat notification. Unfortunately, it was not a repentant Rupert, so I messaged Izzy for some sympathy. Surely she’d come through for me in my hour of need. I pinged her a sad face emoji – the one where the tears are practically rivers pouring from the eyes of the yellow-faced blob – and she responded immediately.
What’s up, hon?
Homeless. Rupert’s dumped me and Brian’s house is temporarily out of the equation. Any chance of me bunking on the sofa for a couple of weeks?
It took her a worryingly long time to reply.
Not permitted in my tenancy agreement. Sorry.
As I’d never rented outside of uni, I knew nothing of acceptable terms and conditions, but it seemed a rotten old world if you were forbidden from helping a mate out in an emergency.
There was a knock at the bedroom door and Mum’s head poked around the frame.
‘Room for a little one?’ she asked, as I continued to tap away on my phone and fill Izzy in on my troubles.
‘Of course, as long as you’re alone. I’m not Brian’s number one fan right now.’
She picked up a pillow that I’d accidentally sent flying, and leaned it against the white metal bedstead. Settling herself next to me, she tried hard not to focus on all the things I’d just thrown to the floor and launched into Ninja Mum mode, deliberately not making eye contact, which I’m guessing she read somewhere in some How-to-Bring-Up-Awkward-Daughters manual. Small talk was the order of the day, but I knew her games.
‘I love the vibrant wallpaper in here,’ she said. ‘And you have the best views in the house – across the park. You insisted on this room when we moved in and Brian moved his study into that poky north-facing room on the third floor, remember?’
Mum was reminding me Brian was a good guy and that I was being unreasonable. One point to her. As for the garish wallpaper, bright turquoise with tiny scarlet birds perched on snow white trees, I’d chosen it because everything else in the house was so excruciatingly white, or slight variations thereof. I thought they’d kick up a fuss, but instead Brian quietly wrestled with wallpaper-hanging for a fortnight several summers ago.
Perhaps I was being harsh on him, but he wasn’t my biological father, and he sometimes stepped into shoes that weren’t his. The problem was, I had no idea whose shoes they were – the mystery of my paternity the only thing I ever quarrelled with Mum about. I would ask and she would shut down. But after twenty years of ‘Trust me, Molly, it’s for the best,’ her evasiveness was wearing see-through thin.
‘I love how the changing seasons are reflected by our view of the park,’ she continued. ‘It’s easy to forget we’re so urban when you sit in this room and the treetops fill the skyline – although it’s a shame you can’t fully appreciate the view.’
Make that two points. Your room is so cluttered no one can get near the window.
‘But I guess it’s a good place to escape to when you feel the world has dealt you a crummy hand,’ she added.
And there was the hat trick. How was it that I knew, even though she was ostensibly backing me up, that she was implying my messy life was my own doing? Ah, yes, the addition of the words ‘you feel’.
She didn’t speak for a moment and put out her arm for me to nestle into – which I did, of course. Hugs make everything better.
‘I understand that the house swap stops me from living here next month, but surely Brian can help me out financially in the short-term?’ I said, wafts of Chanel’s Gabrielle floating like an invisible mist between us. ‘Just to see me through until you return?’
‘I’m afraid not, my darling, and I’m behind him one hundred per cent. We can’t keep bailing you out. You have to stand on your own two feet and take some responsibility.’
‘Can’t you have a word and—’
‘No, Molly. Sometimes it’s only through adversity that we find ourselves. I’m certain that you will meet the challenges of this situation and come out victorious.’
A low groan came from somewhere inside. ‘Oh, Mum, what am I going to do?’
She lifted up her other arm and stroked my hair, brushing my short, feathery fringe away from my face and running her hand down my cheek. More of her ninja motherhood skills – a simple action to remind me how disappointed she’d been when I cut it all off. Although she never said so, unlike Brian who almost cried the day I walked in, all my glorious, thick, long, black hair now a wispy choppy frame around my pale face.
I looked up at her, finally meeting her eyes.
‘You are twenty-four years old, Molly. Old enough to work this thing out all by yourself,’ she said. ‘And I have every faith that you will.’
Percy Gladwell
1894
Until that day, my career had been my morning, noon and evening. Long hours and late nights. Pencil dust and T-squares. Backache from leaning over drafting tables, and eye strain from working unsociable hours under poor light.
I hadn’t given much thought to the fairer sex. I assumed I’d acquire a wife in time. Mother relentlessly paraded a string of sensible women before me, worried that I would see out my days a bachelor. But my sole focus in recent years had been establishing a successful practice. To have my own offices before my thirtieth year was a considerable achievement, and partly through sheer luck, partly through hard work and my growing reputation, I had an impressive and expanding client list. A commission from an earl had increased my standing and I’d recently completed a summer retreat for one of Rosebery’s cabinet ministers – although he had proved such a disagreeable fellow to work with that I doubted he would last long in office.
I was not, however, averse to the benefits of a sweet smile and gentle disposition. It led to many pleasant evenings at the theatre and musical recitals. But no one truly moved me. No one connected. There was no column to support my arch, no flowing lines, no combination of the beauty and practicality which was my very essence.
And then Violet Marston walked into my offices.
A pale complexion and a fragile quality, she was straight from a painting at the hand of Waterhouse or Burne-Jones. It was as if the Lady of Shalott had floated downstream and into my life. Wild, flaxen hair barely tamed into submission and an unworldly look that spoke of passion and fire. My mouth went dry and no words came readily to my lips.
‘Mr Gladwell, thank you for agreeing to see me at such short notice. I’ve been looking forward to this meeting,’ she said and proffered a gloved hand, but her eyes did not reflect the sentiment. She withdrew the hand swiftly, almost as soon as it had made contact with my own.
I cleared my throat, offered the usual platitudes and commented on the unseasonal weather, sweeping a hand towards the empty leather button back chair near my desk. She moved her skirts to the side and sat.
‘As my letter stated, I am here to assess your suitability with regard to designing a family home by the coast. I should like to see some examples of your work and to discuss the possibility of a sizeable commission. At this stage I offer no guarantees, as I intend to interview several potential architects.’
‘Certainly. Shall we discuss your requirements?’ I took a sharpened pencil from my drafting board, walked to sit behind my smaller kneehole desk, and pulled a clean sheet of paper towards me. A permanent ridge of black across my fingernails from pencil dust and newsprint made me feel unusually self-conscious.
‘I . . . we . . .’ she corrected, but I’d already noticed the wedding ring as she slid her delicate white gloves off and rested them across her lap, ‘. . . have a plot of land near the sea, on the edge of my father’s estate, and wish to commission a comfortable family residence.’
‘If you could outline what you have in mind? Will it be your primary residence? How do you envisage the appearance and function?’
‘I rather think it is for you to impress me, Mr Gladwell. I am not the architect.’
I shuffled in my seat. I was used to meeting with clients for preliminary discussions, but they were generally excited and enthusiastic about the prospect. She appeared disinterested by the whole thing.
‘Are you aware of my previous work?’ I asked, hoping she had at least apprised herself of my general style, the movement I followed, and its principles.
She shrugged and remained impassive. ‘I was recently at the Bayldons’, which I understand you designed, but I was so taken with the extensive grounds – they have installed a magnificent fountain in the water garden – that I paid the house scant attention.’
The Bayldon residence had been one of my first commissions. A large country house just outside the city of York for James Bayldon, who had made himself a considerable fortune by virtue of the confectionery industry – boiled sweets and chocolate treats. Like many of new money, he was keen to display his wealth and status, and was open to my ideas.
I sucked in a patient breath. ‘Should you have occasion to visit it again, you will notice my preference for simplicity and honesty in both design and materials. Nature is a key element in all my buildings; the addition of motifs and murals to remind us of God’s wonderful creation, and the extensive use of wood and stone in the interiors, which I am not afraid to leave in their natural state. The living world is full of miraculous things that lift the heavy heart and brighten the dullest day. Let us bring the outside in, I say.’
For the first time, she made prolonged eye contact.
‘I did notice the use of an orchid motif in the glazed windows of the drawing room,’ she ventured. ‘It made me smile.’
‘A particular favourite of Mrs Bayldon. She has recently built a spectacular glass conservatory to house her growing collection, I believe.’
She gave a brief nod. ‘So you would use similar motifs in my house?’
‘Mrs Marston, I would use motifs and themes personal to you. If you have a love of windmills or a passion for elephants, then I would include them in your property.’ My grin was not acknowledged, but her interest had been piqued.
We talked briefly of gardens and it was apparent her knowledge was far superior to mine. Until recently, I had relied on the guidance of an old friend of my father’s for the finer points of planting and garden design when it was required, but his eyes were failing now and his mind not as sharp as when I’d known him in my youth. The architectural element of a garden I was confident with, but which bushes might survive in an alkaline soil required more horticultural knowledge than I possessed. However, the subject had engaged the seemingly indifferent Mrs Marston, and I was content with that.
After we’d established her basic requirements, and I’d made some preliminary notes, she thanked me for my time.
‘I must, of course, consult with my husband before this is taken any further.’
‘Naturally.’
She stood to leave but sighed. ‘For a wife must always consult her husband, but it is rarely the other way about. Yet my elderly aunt has the luxury of consulting with no one – a deliberate choice on her part not to marry, which one might consider an enviable position.’ It was said without a smile, merely a raised eyebrow, but I detected a lighter side to the enigmatic Mrs Marston.
‘At least marriage offers security and companionship. I don’t think if I was born a woman I should choose the life of a spinster.’
‘Ah, but marriage is rather like a game of chess, Mr Gladwell, with its strict rules of play, where you may and may not move. One must plan ahead and anticipate the reaction of your opponent, and sometimes you find you’ve fallen into a trap – a seemingly innocent move, only to find a valuable piece is taken. If you both stick to the rules you can have a decent game, but there is only ever one winner.’
‘Unless you settle for stalemate,’ I offered.
‘Stalemate. Indeed. But then what a waste of time playing.’
She left at seven minutes to the hour – I know because I glanced at the mantel clock as she departed, keen to somehow hold on to her for those remaining moments but unable to prolong our encounter. Apart from her unguarded enthusiasm over the orchids and a brief conversation about planting, she appeared indifferent to every suggestion I laid before her. It was as though she’d made up her mind I was not suitable before we’d even met, and I wondered why she’d sought me out, if I was so obviously not to her liking.
Later that afternoon, I discovered she had inadvertently left a white lace handkerchief in the chair: a soft smell of bergamot and an elegant embroidered V in one corner. I tucked it into my breast pocket. I doubted she would return – she’d certainly given me no reason to think so. Yet even though our meeting had been brief, this lady had stirred something deep inside that no one else ever had. The handkerchief would be a simple reminder of that – for she was not, and would never be, mine to love.
Present Day
The following day, as I was sprawled across one of the leather armchairs, feet dangling over the arm and flicking through Netflix, looking for something to fill the time as my purple toe polish dried, Mum walked in.
‘Busy flat hunting?’ she teased and handed me the phone. ‘It’s Wally for you.’ But I’d guessed as much. He was the only person who ever spoke to me on the landline. Everyone else texted, WhatsApp-ed or Snapchatted. ‘I told him you were staying for a couple of days and he wanted a word.’
‘Granddad,’ I gushed into the phone, sitting up in the chair and carefully resting my feet on the carpet. ‘How’s the garden?’ I caught Mum’s raised eyebrow as I turned away to indicate it was a private call. But the eyebrow was a whole other conversation she’d had without saying a word.
Walter was Brian’s father, so technically wasn’t my granddad. What bothered Mum was that I always called him ‘Granddad’, but refused to call Brian ‘Dad’ – even though he’d legally adopted me when he’d married Mum. I can’t defend it – it just didn’t seem right. Until I’d solved the riddle of my biological father, I couldn’t bring myself to give anyone else that title.
‘I bet it looks fabulous this time of year – all flowers and plants and . . . other leafy things.’
Granddad gave a slight chuckle, knowing my knowledge of flora and fauna was limited to grass and daisy recognition, despite his best efforts. ‘I’ve not really been out there much, love.’
My warning light flicked to amber. Granddad’s garden was his passion, and we’d hoped it would be his salvation after the unexpected death of Grandma last autumn. Surely this was the season when the garden needed the most attention? If he let the spring pass him by, a whole year of fruit and vegetables would be lost.
‘Mum’s started with ours.’ I tried to sound upbeat and chatty. ‘She’s ordered plants for the window boxes, and the odd job man’s been over to tidy our minuscule square of garden. He pressure-washed the decking and re-oiled it ready for the Pimm’s season. You know how she loves her Pimm’s?’ I joked.
Granddad was quiet for a moment. ‘Nothing’s the same without Briggie, sweetheart. Even the flowers are mourning her. A lot of my daffs came up blind this spring, and a whole area of primroses succumbed to root rot after the unusually wet winter. Some days I just feel li
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