скачать книгу бесплатно
I can’t trust myself to speak, so I just nod.
‘I’m Jack Rushbrooke, by the way.’
‘Holly Dinsdale.’ I hold out my hand and he grips it. A funny little shock runs along my arm, I guess because when you shake hands under normal circumstances, it tends to be rather less cold and wet than this.
‘Are you staying at Moonbeam Cottage?’ he asks.
‘Just till I get it on the market. Then I’ll be gone.’
He nods. ‘You’re selling up. Of course.’
I glance at him, puzzled. Why ‘of course’? Has he heard through the grapevine that I hate the countryside?
‘You won’t need Moonbeam Cottage, I suppose. Not where you’re going,’ he says.
‘You mean Manchester?’ Wow, news certainly gets around.
But he’s looking at me in slight confusion. I have a feeling we’ve got our wires crossed somewhere, but I haven’t the faintest notion how.
‘Right. Well. Do you mind if I finish the job?’
I shrug, still feeling stupidly emotional about the tree. ‘Yes, why not?’ I say flippantly, as if I really don’t care. ‘You’re already half way there.’
I can’t help noticing how tall Jack Rushbrooke is. In his jeans, lumberjack boots and heavy duty waterproof, he looks as solid and immovable as the trees surrounding the clearing. He just shouldn’t be here, that’s all, in my private place, making decisions about what happens to Ivy Garden. What if him chopping the tree down alerts the local council, who own the land, and they decide it can no longer be used as a public garden?
Emotion is making me illogical, I know, but I’m suddenly desperate for things to stay exactly as they are, just the way Ivy left them.
‘In future, I’m going to do the gardening myself if you don’t mind,’ I announce.
He nods slowly as he walks back to the tree and picks up his axe. ‘Okay. I’ll just get this done.’ He pauses then holds out the axe. ‘Unless you’d like to …?’
I stare at the axe for a panicked second. Does he really expect me to …?
Then I notice the gleam in his eyes. ‘Tell you what,’ he says. ‘I’ll see to the tree, then I’ll leave the rest of the gardening to you. All right?’
‘Whatever.’ I give a nonchalant shrug, while privately thinking, Thank God for that! At the risk of sounding horribly un-feminist, I’d probably end up chopping off something vital if I so much as picked up that ferocious-looking implement.
Jack gets on with the job, wielding the axe with power and precision, as I stand by admiring his – um – technique. Well, I’d be silly not to watch closely, wouldn’t I? Garner a few gardening tips, that sort of thing.
It’s really quite an art, this tree-felling stuff, I reflect, admiring the muscular flexing motion of Jack’s shoulder and back, clearly visible through the clinging and almost transparent cotton of his shirt …
He’s looking over at me.
Bugger. He’s obviously asked me a question but I was too busy concentrating elsewhere.
‘Sorry?’ Blushing, I tap my ear. ‘Can’t hear a thing with this rain.’
Jack frowns skywards. The rain has stopped.
‘I was saying if you need help tidying this place up, I’ll probably be around at the weekend,’ he says.
I shake my head. ‘Thank you but I’ll be fine.’
‘You can manage?’
‘Definitely.’
He grunts, not looking at all convinced, and I feel my hackles stir.
‘You’re welcome to borrow gardening tools. Have you got a strimmer to get rid of these thistles and nettles? Because that’s a big job,’ he points out, axe balanced over his shoulder, long muscular-–looking legs planted in the ground like twin oaks.
‘I’ve got the tools,’ I tell him shortly. ‘At least, Ivy will have. Somewhere.’
‘I could speak to Nick Wetherby. Local gardener. He’d have it whipped into shape in no time.’
I clench my teeth. Why is he so doubtful about my gardening skills? Do I look that clueless? I could be Monty Don’s second cousin twice removed, for all he knows, with green fingers by the shed load.
‘Right.’ He shrugs. ‘I can see you’re determined to do it yourself.’
‘Yes, I am actually. I’m a really good gardener, if you must know.’ Well, I will be, once I look up ‘strimmer’ in the dictionary. I’m absolutely certain of it.
He nods. ‘If you’re stuck, go to the garden centre and ask for Layla,’ he says, before turning back to the task in hand.
I watch him a while longer. Then he shouts, ‘Stand back!’ and with one more hefty stroke, the tree starts to capsize. It falls to one side with a crash and the birds flap noisily from their perches.
‘Thanks for that,’ I say, as he bends over to examine the tree stump that’s left.
‘No problem. I can take the tree away,’ he offers. ‘Unless it’s something you’d rather do yourself, of course?’
I glare at him as he rises up to his full height. Then I catch the tiny flicker of amusement in his blue eyes.
‘Thank you,’ I tell him pleasantly. ‘That would be wonderful.’
‘You don’t need the wood?’ he asks.
I shake my head. ‘Gas fire.’
He grunts. ‘Mind if I use it?’
‘Be my guest.’
He nods. ‘Right, I’m off. We live in the big ramshackle of a place over there,’ he says, nodding in the direction of the woods. ‘Rushbrooke House.’
We? Who’s we?
Perhaps there’s a Mrs Rushbrooke and two point four adorable kids.
He picks up the axe and swings it over his shoulder. ‘Ivy was a wonderful woman,’ he says, and we exchange a look of understanding. On this, at least, we’re in complete agreement.
‘Well, see you, Holly.’ He raises a hand and strides off through the woods, presumably back to Rushbrooke House. He turns and looks back at me with a slightly puzzled expression, as if he’s trying to work me out.
I look away quickly and pretend to be examining the tree stump in an Alan Titchmarsh, highly professional sort of way …
SEVEN (#ulink_aa165b29-7adc-50e3-96a4-aeb7fd61b487)
Colin the cockerel has been preparing since I arrived for his X Factor: The Birds audition. This morning, his enthusiastic practice begins at prompt five-fifteen.
Sometimes I can roll over and go straight back to sleep, but this morning, the smell of freshly painted walls tickles my nose and starts me thinking about how much work I still have to do in the cottage. And then, of course, I’m wide awake.
Two weeks have passed since my encounter with Jack Rushbrooke and his magnificent axe. But although the roof has been made water-tight and Mike has finished the repairs on the bathroom, I’m still no nearer heading back home to Manchester.
I spent a couple of days painting the bathroom after Mike left and it’s looking great. But I’ve shot myself in the foot, in a way, because the gleaming bathroom now stands out like a sore thumb and I can no longer ignore the fact that the rest of the rooms in Moonbeam Cottage are in urgent need of a make-over. I’ll need a fair few coats of magnolia to cover Ivy’s eye-catching teal blue and terracotta walls in the living room.
But actually, redecorating the cottage is the least of my worries.
I nip downstairs to boil the kettle. Then I bring my tea back to bed and sit there sipping it, trying not to think about Sunday May 15th, which has always been one of the most important days on my calendar. I’ve been trying to ignore it, but it’s only a week away now and I’m dreading it.
I sigh. Colin the cockerel isn’t the only thing stealing my sleep right now.
It’s Ivy’s birthday next Sunday.
It looms large and scarily empty, and I haven’t a clue how I’m going to fill it. I never imagined I’d still be here in Appleton in the middle of May. I thought I’d be safely back home, with Vicki and Beth to help me get through the 15th. But then, I hadn’t banked on a leaky roof and a cottage in need of updating.
My blossoming friendship with Sylvian seems to have come to a grinding halt. I keep thinking I’m bound to bump into him in the village store but, so far, our paths haven’t crossed. And Connie is still away in Spain, although she’s due back tomorrow. I’m really looking forward to catching up with her and finding out if she’s had any romantic adventures, which she assured me she fully intended to do.
Another note of interest: I see Jack Rushbrooke, he of the impressive axe-wielding skills, most nights.
Now, that sounds a lot more interesting than it actually is.
What happens is that Jack sprints past Moonbeam Cottage most evenings about eight o’clock. In fact, it’s happened so often since I’ve been here that I now hold off drawing the curtains until I’ve seen him flash past. Not that I wait by the window. I’m really not that bored. (Although I am bored enough to have spent a rather disproportionate amount of time wondering where on earth he goes every night.)
Three weeks into my self-imposed exile, I am so starved of human contact, I’ve actually started musing aloud about life to Fred the Spider, aiming my pithy observations at the crack in the skirting board. (No come-back as yet, but I’m pretty sure he appreciates my dry wit.)
I spend the day in the local DIY store, buying paint, then attempting to obliterate the burnt orange walls in the kitchen with a neutral shade of beige. It feels sad and disloyal, as if I’m painting away Ivy’s personality.
Later, I’m just out of the bath, face scrubbed and gleaming, when I realise I’m out of milk, so I throw a jacket over my pyjamas and run along to the village store, hoping to catch it before it closes.
I’m just about to go in, when I spot Sylvian walking towards me.
‘Where have you been?’ He greets me with a smile. ‘Hibernating?’
‘Actually, I was thinking the same about you,’ I admit, feeling ridiculous in my stripy PJs and trainers.
He studies my face. ‘You know, your chakras are well out of whack.’
‘They are?’ How can he tell? Should I be worried? And where are my chakras anyway?
‘I was just off to my yoga class,’ he says, ‘but I can skip that for one night. Come up to my place. I’ve got just what you need.’
His flat is just how I pictured it. All lovely calming blues and pale greens, a huge squashy sofa covered in cushions, and an amazing display of crystals in a glass-fronted cabinet. It smells delicious, too. A cross between some kind of lemony essential oil and … chocolate. Yes, definitely chocolate.
‘What’s that gorgeous scent?’ I ask, hopeful there might be a family-sized bar of Cadbury’s Dairy Milk lurking under one of his many cushions.
He whisks something off a side table and wafts it under my nose. ‘Chocolate-scented candle. Lovely, isn’t it?’
‘Is it edible?’ I’ve never really been one for lighting candles everywhere. I always think I might set the place on fire.
He chuckles. ‘No, I’m afraid not.’ His face lights up. ‘But wait a minute …’ He disappears into the kitchen and I hear him opening the fridge.
‘I’ve got some kimchee, if you’re hungry,’ he calls through.
‘Kimchee?’ I wonder what that is? A kind of yummy Japanese cake, perhaps?
‘Fermented cabbage,’ he shouts. ‘It’s delicious and very good for you. Like to try some?’
‘I’m fine, thanks. Just eaten,’ I shout, rather too quickly.
He returns with a bowl of what I assume is the aforementioned ‘kimchee’ and starts tucking in. The smell of it is so rank, my eyebrows shoot up involuntarily. It puts me in mind of a burst sewage pipe.
‘Where do you live?’ I ask, while he eats his revolting snack. ‘When you’re not here, I mean.’
‘I’ve got a house in Cornwall, right by the beach. Big windows so the light pours in.’
‘It sounds lovely.’
‘It is. Being so close to the sea is good for the soul. I’ll take you down there some time.’ He rises to his feet from a cross-legged position in one smooth movement and takes his bowl into the kitchen.
My mind is whirring. Did he just offer to show me his house in Cornwall?
‘Now, a spot of meditation, I think,’ he says, coming back into the room. ‘For your chakras.’
‘Er, great!’
Five minutes later, I’m lying on the floor with my eyes closed, breathing slowly and deeply, trying to empty my mind of all thoughts. Sylvian’s voice is soft and hypnotic in my ear: ‘Any time a thought finds its way into your head, see yourself blowing it away, like a dandelion clock. Pfft! Off it goes, leaving your mind beautifully tranquil.’
I’m trying my best but I keep getting a whiff of kimchee, which makes the ‘deep breaths in’ slightly nerve-racking, to be honest. Then I open one eye to find Sylvian lying on the floor next to me.
Thoughts pour in and I’m powerless to blow them away: Is this an elaborate chat-up line? Let’s meditate together. Ha! Good one, Sylvian!
But peering over at him, I decide his motives are probably pure. He has his eyes closed and he’s meditating with me, his lean diaphragm moving up and down with his deep breathing. It looks like the only reason we’re lying on the floor together is to get peaceful. On the other hand, he did offer to take me down to Cornwall. I can’t decide if I’d be disappointed or relieved if it turns out he only has friendship in mind.
After our meditation, he makes nettle tea and sits cross-legged on the floor while I try out the vast sofa and admire Sylvian’s suppleness. Any other bloke who sat like that I’d quite frankly think was a bit weird, but Sylvian manages to carry it off and look really rather sexy.
I tell him I feel much better for the meditation – which actually, I do – and he looks pleased. ‘You should try and do it every day if you can,’ he says. ‘It takes discipline, of course. Abby and Sara both found it really hard to apply themselves at first but they quickly got the hang of it.’
‘Abby and Sara?’ I ask, puzzled.
He looks perplexed himself for a second. Then he says, ‘Oh, I haven’t mentioned them, have I? They live in my house in Cornwall.’
