Читать книгу Love Is the Answer - Tracy Madden - Страница 12

Thomas took the tail-comb from Carmen. ‘I’ll finish Peach off thanks babe.’ He swept the hair on the crown of my head forward and held up a section. ‘So,’ he said peering over my shoulder, ‘what’s happening with that list?’

Waving the blank piece of paper, I eyed him in the mirror. ‘Nothing! I’m not ready for a list.’

‘Oh yes you are sweetie. Now be a good girl and write. Another coffee will help you out.’ Waving his hand at one of the young assistants, he indicated my empty cup. Vigorously, he began back combing a section of my hair, briefly glancing at me in the mirror. ‘My one-thirty has just cancelled, so I’ve got all the time in the world and you’re not leaving until that list is done.’

‘Thomas please don’t, I’m not in the mood.’ I was having a flat day. It happened like that sometimes. Emerald Green had said it was normal. Two steps forward, one back.

‘Think about it like this.’ He paused. ‘It’s a shopping list.’ He waved a hand at my indignant face. ‘Don’t look at me like that. If you needed an evening gown, you’d hardly come home with a pair denim shorts, now would you? I mean the shorts might be a bit cheeky and fun for a while, but they’re not suitable for a formal occasion. Same thing! I mean how are you going to know, if you don’t plan for it?’

I grimaced. He pulled my hair.

‘Ow,’ I yelled, grabbing at my locks.

‘Down girl, you’re scaring my clients.’

I flashed my eyes in frustration at him.

Thomas took no notice. ‘Let’s start with tall, dark and handsome. Although, I can see you with a blonde.’

I couldn’t keep the acerbic tone out of my voice. ‘Well gee, I’ve already had tall, blonde and handsome and look where that got me.’

‘Pfft.’ He pretended to think. ‘Perhaps it’s someone we already know?’ Cocking his head, he not so subtly eyed me in the mirror.

I ignored him.

That didn’t deter him. ‘Successful, hardworking, manly, nice… I mean it could be someone right under your nose… let’s say… I don’t know… Marty perhaps?’

‘No, it definitely could not be Marty.’ I spun around in the chair. ‘Look Thomas, he is a friend. Let me spell it out to you f-r-i-e-n-d. Get it, friend. What’s wrong with you? Simply because he is single and I am single is not enough. Let it go.’

Unfazed, Thomas spun the chair around so I was facing the mirror once again. ‘It’s just that back in the early days we always wondered which one you’d choose.’ He smoothed the crown of my head.

‘It was never a choice between the two of them. I honestly was in love with Davis.’ Frustrated beyond belief, I wondered why we were even having this conversation.

‘Mmmm,’ he said, pursing his lips in distaste. ‘Come on… tell Uncle Thomas what you want then.’

I exhaled heavily, suddenly exhausted by this ridiculous conversation. Attempting to simplify it, I said, ‘I want someone who likes dogs. No… not likes dogs, loves them. Is that alright with you?’

‘Mmmm. Good start. And?’

I rolled my eyes. ‘And… and must have integrity,’ I said, my exasperation with him building.

‘Good, write that down.’

‘Right,’ I huffed and scribbled across the paper. Eyebrows raised, I glanced at him in the mirror. ‘Happy?’

‘Yes, keep writing. You have to be clear about it. Make sure you put male. The last bloody thing you want is finding a female with all the qualities you’re looking for. We’ve got enough homos in the family already honey.’ He didn’t miss the look on my face. ‘Okay, okay, give me more information.’

I shook my head. ‘God, I don’t know… someone who is secure enough in their own skin, not to constantly have to ring their own bell. Humble… that’s the word!’ I was completely frustrated now, and not only with Thomas. ‘And someone who wants to have a family and thinks that it is a priority.’ I wrote family man. ‘And truly, there was nothing wrong with him being such a hard worker… I have a bit of that in me as well… but for God’s sake there has to be a balance.’ Hastily I scribbled the word balance.

‘And,’ I raised my voice slightly, ‘not so bloody selfish.’ I spat out selfish with utter distaste. In large letters, I scrawled selfless. ‘And someone who can be the man in the relationship.’ My voice rose. ‘I mean, stuff this equality shit, I want to be the woman. Is that too much to ask?’ My hand slapped at the glass bench in front of me. ‘If I need time off to fall pregnant or give birth, I don’t want to feel like I’m letting the team down. I’m meant to be a kick arse boss, loving wife, gourmet chef, look phenomenal all the time, fall pregnant in my non-existent spare time, obviously all by myself, exercise my pelvic floor muscles and run a home.’

I sat fuming for a few moments. Thomas was silent. I glanced around noting the rather busy salon had also fallen quiet, and a few heads had turned my way.

Thomas shrugged. ‘Phew babe, you needed to get that one off your chest.’ A cloud of hairspray assailed me.

‘Mmmm,’ I murmured, feeling a little sheepish, retying the red polka dot scarf at my neck.

Thomas took the piece of paper that I’d scribbled on. ‘It’s a start.’ He folded it and handed it back to me. ‘Keep this in your wallet and add to it from time to time. After all, you know what you don’t want.’ Removing the cape, he gave my shoulders an affectionate squeeze. ‘You’re terribly tight.’

‘I’ve had a headache for days.’ I checked the mirror for the tell-tale dark circles under my eyes. Only yesterday, I had felt as if my head was going to blow off my shoulders. Today, it was fractionally better, although only just.

Thomas gave me a look of concern and began kneading my taut neck muscles. ‘Have you booked an appointment with Chang?’

Moaning with relief at his touch, I shrugged. ‘No, I know I should.’

‘He’s the best acupuncturist around, you know that.’ And then he couldn’t help himself. ‘And he’s bloody hot.’ Leaning over my shoulder he lowered his voice. ‘I can’t believe he’s not gay.’

I cocked an eyebrow at him in the mirror. ‘You’re terrible Thom. In case you’ve forgotten, you have a partner.’

‘I know, I know. But can’t a man dream. Have you seen that smooth olive skin? It’s practically indecent. Every time I see him, I want to stroke him. I’m told he gets it from his Thai mother. Dad’s an Aussie, big guy, just like Chang.’ And then he folded his arms across his chest, and narrowed his eyes. ‘Come to think of it… hasn’t he always liked you?’

‘Oh God… I don’t know.’ My blush gave away the fact I actually did know. He wasn’t exactly my type, whatever that was, but, and this is a huge but, he was terribly, terribly good looking. I felt the colour in my cheeks rise again.

‘Hmmm Miss I-don’t-know, I think you do know.’ He looked knowingly at me. ‘You’d have very good looking children.’

I flashed him a look. ‘Of course, and then my name would be Mrs Peach Chang. Nice ring to it,’ I added sarcastically. ‘It sounds like iced tea! And come to think of it,’ I frowned, ‘is Chang his first name or his last? A few months ago I was having coffee with Dad at Campos and we ran into him. I had absolutely no idea how to introduce him.’

Thomas folded his arms thoughtfully, pursed his lips and watched his reflection in the mirror, something I noted he often did. ‘Hmmm… just Chang,’

‘No one is just anything, unless you’re Oprah.’

‘Well smarty pants, you do know who I’m talking about when I say Chang. You never say, “Chang who?” And listen, I haven’t heard you mention your dad in ages. Is he well?’

‘Abso-bloody-lutely.’

He laughed. ‘That cracks me up.’ And then his voice sobered. ‘But on a serious note, I am going to see if Chang has an available appointment this afternoon. And listen, he may not be the evening gown, but he certainly would be a great pair of shorts.’ And he spun on his heels before I had a chance to swipe at him.

*

‘No a smidge lower Chang,’ my muffled voice said. I knew lying like this was messing up my new blow dry but who the hell cared. ‘That’s the spot. Yes. You’ve got it. Yes,’ I breathed, ‘Yes, yes, yes put it in.’

Chang’s sensitive hands pressed on my upper back once more. ‘And here?’

‘Yes,’ my eager voice said. ‘Yes, yes… that’s it,’ I moaned.

He flicked another needle. ‘And I bet just here?’ His knowing fingers pressed my back feeling for tension.

‘Yes.’ I popped my head up for a second, careful not to move too much in case I upset one of the needles. ‘You really know your stuff.’

I heard the smile in his voice. ‘I trained in Japan with blind monks. It’s all in the touch. My fingers are very sensitive.’ I felt him flick another needle, already the pain in my head lessening.

‘Mmmm they sure are.’ Allowing myself to give thought to my earlier conversation with Thomas, I sighed heavily.

‘By the sound of that, I think your liver is low in qi.’

That wasn’t all that was low in qi, however I felt it prudent not to mention it.

*

I pulled the car into the driveway, just in time to see a blond tail disappearing down that laneway next to the house. I had stressed to all of the tradespeople to be extra careful with the gate. The lock was so impossible, often it was left ajar. I had taken to tying it with a strap, but occasionally it was still left open.

I fumed to myself. I was going to have to do something about it, sooner rather than later. I couldn’t keep the poor dog tied up all day. I was quite sure that wasn’t what Mr Carmody had in mind for Wilbur.

Hurriedly, I stepped from my little car which I had now christened Bambino, and rather unladylike, I hollered to Wilbur. In my teetering nude patent-leather Christian Laboutin heels, I made a mad dash over to the laneway, however I need not have hurried. A few metres along, Wilbur was being restrained by the tall cyclist who I had noticed took this route regularly. He had a firm grip on Wilbur’s new red collar.

‘Is this the Wilbur you’re looking for?’ he asked, ruffling the dog’s head. Once again, I noted his bright white teeth, and now closer, his olive skin. Of average height, but considerably broad shouldered, he carried a strong air of masculinity about him. I can’t say it did not cross my mind that there was something incredibly attractive about this man.

Walking towards them, I tutted loudly and shook my head at the dog. ‘That’s him, I’m afraid. He’s turned into an escape artist.’ I took Wilbur’s collar. ‘Thank you for your help.’ I began to walk back towards the car, leading Wilbur beside me. I turned back. ‘Does the track go down to the river?’ I asked.

‘It does. But it’s narrow and rather secluded.’

‘Really?’

‘Yes. I used to come here when I was a child,’ he explained, walking along beside me, while he pushed his bike.

‘Oh, right.’ I nodded, letting go of Wilbur’s collar as we neared the front gate. On the loose again, Wilbur took advantage of my open car door and jumped in.

I rushed over. ‘No Wilbur, bad dog. Out!’ He took no notice, so I began to beg. ‘Please Wilbur, be a good boy. Hop out of my car.’ Thinking it was a game, Wilbur climbed over the front red leather seats and into the back of the car, no mean feat for such a large dog in such a small area.

‘‘Wilbur,’ I cried. ‘You’re making a mess on Bambino’s upholstery.’ I don’t know why I thought it, but it went through my mind that it was just as well it wasn’t one of the BMWs, as Davis would have had kittens at seeing the large dog in one of our cars. His fleet, as he called them, were his pride and joy. I noted how at times, my mind simply went to him out of sheer habit. I shook my head.

Rather awkwardly in my pencil-cut skirt, I knelt on the front seat, beseeching the dog to remove himself. However, Wilbur stayed put, smiling more than he had in the last few weeks.

‘Can I be of assistance?’

Still kneeling, I turned to see the cyclist, one of his brows quirked, a small smile playing at the edge of his mouth. A rather nice mouth, I decided. I was uncertain if his display of humour was directed towards Bambino, or the predicament I was now in.

Frustrated, and with some effort, I backed out of the car, shrugged and folded my arms. ‘I am turning out to be the worst dog owner possible. I’m not sure I’m cut out for this.’

Still with his helmet on, he leant in the car. Pointing, he commanded, ‘OUT!’

With that tone of voice, I would have obeyed as well. Wilbur leapt from the car, and with his tail between his legs, disappeared inside the front gate.

‘Thank you. I’m quite new at this. The adoption was not that long ago.’

‘I see.’ There was that brief smile again, but it was as if he was unused to it, and before I knew it, it had disappeared. ‘Respect takes time.’

‘The car I mean. The car is rather new,’ I attempted a joke, and laughed at myself, but then exhaled heavily. ‘No seriously, I’ve been thinking I need a dog trainer.’

‘Good idea. They’ll have you in shape before you know it,’ he said, his face unreadable.

I laughed. ‘Touché! Very funny.’

And then, he laughed. I think he surprised himself as well. ‘Simple concise instructions are all you need. A dog is a pack animal and needs a leader. One or two clear words spoken firmly and he’ll get the drift.’

‘Well thank you, once again…’

Before I could finish, I heard the gardener cry out, ‘BAD DOG! WILBUR, DOWN!’ And then his voice rose even further. ‘Will you bleedin’ well get off?’

In a flash, I took off down the gravel driveway, once again struggling in my fitted skirt and heels. I knew I must have looked ridiculous attempting to run on my toes. Halfway along, poor old Brownie was crouched on the ground on all fours with Wilbur on his back. Wilbur’s front paws were bracing the man’s shoulders, and he was nibbling at his ears. The dog looked to be having a wonderful game.

I shrieked. ‘NO WILBUR, OFF.’ Awkwardly, I ran to them and grabbed hold of Wilbur’s collar, and with strength I didn’t know I had, hoisted him off the older gent. The cyclist was one step behind me and helped Brownie to his feet, dusting him off. Meanwhile, Wilbur spotted a couple of inquisitive black and white honeyeaters feeding in the lower leaves of the murraya hedge and instantly distracted, shot off after them.

‘Brownie, I’m terribly sorry. Are you okay?’ I asked, holding the older gent’s elbow. He looked feeble enough without the dog doing him any harm. I brushed a leaf off his shirt sleeve.

Brownie, too, brushed down the front of his overalls, looking for damage. ‘I’m fine Mrs Riding. That dog’s quite some weight, isn’t he? I was busy crouching getting the nutgrass out of the gravel and before I knew it, the dratted dog leapt onto me. He very nearly winded me.’

‘Perhaps you should sit down,’ the cyclist suggested, picking Brownie’s hat up off the ground, and giving it a brush off before handing it to him.

‘No, no, I’m fine. Just gave me a bit of a fright more than anything. Mr Carmody always had labs, but this one seems a bit more mischievous than the others, and that’s saying something.’ He glanced at his elbow, checking to see if it was alright. ‘Anyway Mrs Riding, I was about to pack up, so I might be off. I’ll put these tools away in the potting shed.’

‘How about you sit and have a cup of tea first?’ I offered. ‘I was about to have one.’

‘I think I’ll call it a day, if you don’t mind.’

I watched as he walked back down the driveway towards the house. Wilbur, bored with his game with the birds, ran over to him. The old man waved him away. ‘Go on, git out of here.’ But his tone was friendly. From high above in one of the gum trees, a kookaburra cackled as if in derision. I turned to thank the cyclist yet again.

Standing a few metres away, he was examining the garden. When he turned to me, I caught the admiration in his ark eyes. ‘It’s all still here,’ he said, his voice so quiet, I struggled to hear what he had said.

I watched his face, noting that his deep-set dark eyes were surrounded by long, dark lashes. But what struck me most was not the colour, though it was rich and velvety, but their expression. They were filled with something I could not put my finger on, a sadness perhaps.

‘You know the garden?’ I asked, surprise in my voice.

‘Yes, I spent time here as a boy.’ His face appeared animated as he glanced around. ‘My father was the head gardener here for twelve years.’

‘Really? Here… twelve years… I would love to chat with him and see what he remembers.’

He paused for a few seconds. ‘I’m afraid he passed away years ago.’

‘Oh, I’m sorry.’ I was unsure of what else to say.

He shrugged, and was quiet for a few moments more, but continued to observe the garden. ‘I forgot how spectacular the Lagerstroemia Indica was here.’

‘I’m sorry? The what?’ I gave him a questioning look.

There was the slightest look of amusement on his face. ‘The hedge,’ he indicated.

‘Oh the Crepe Myrtle?’

Nodding, he walked over and peered through a gap. ‘The rose garden. Yes I remember it.’ He turned to me. ‘My father was obsessed with them.’ He gave a small laugh. ‘He’d say they had delicate but wise little faces.’ A pensive look crossed his face and I felt he was sorry for sharing so much information.

‘Would you like to have a further look around?’ I asked, intrigued by someone who actually had seen the garden in its heyday.

‘Yes… I would.’ He removed his helmet and with surprise I noted his closely shaven hair, so short I guessed it to be a number one blade. A haircut like that could go either way. You could either look like a thug, or very attractive. Let’s just say he didn’t look like a thug, but really how was I to know. Luckily for him he had olive skin and a good shaped head, two of the requirements for men who wished to wear their hair that short.

Helmetless, I was able to guess his age as a well preserved perhaps mid thirty something. Hmmm… previously, because of his fit physicality, I had thought him much younger than me. I observed him checking his watch and as he did his sleeve rose up and I noticed the bottom half of a brand new tattoo, on a particularly well-muscled bicep. It appeared to be the bottom half of some letters, however in those few brief seconds I was unable to read it. I guessed it to be only recent by the brightness of the colours and the fact it actually did look rather sore. I was not partial to tattoos.

‘Actually,’ he said, ‘I didn’t realise the time. It’s late.’

‘Of course,’ I said, however the way my mind worked, I couldn’t help but wonder what he was late for. ‘Perhaps another time.’ Suddenly, I was glad it had turned out as it had. His face appeared to say more than what he actually did. He was one of those men who was saving his words.

He turned to walk away, and then turned back. ‘I might have a few pictures. I’d have to find them.’

‘Thank you,’ was all I said, now, odd for me, saving my own words. Silently, I watched his retreating figure, thinking he had to do more than ride a bike to get those guns. A heck of a lot more.

As I walked back to my car, I glanced down at my shoes and saw the damage the pebbles had done to the heels. Annoyed, I tutted loudly. Smoothing my skirt I climbed back into the car, and suddenly felt rather ridiculous. With my purple patterned silk georgette shirt, this was my corporate wardrobe, and somehow it no longer seemed to fit. I checked my hair in the mirror on the visor. Mmmm, for the first time, I contemplated if the big blow-dry was appropriate for my new life.

And then I thought of Emerald Green, and how she had said perhaps I might find my clothes no longer suited. Out of everything she had said, that was the one thing I had been most disbelieving of. Now, I pondered the fact that perhaps she had been right! But I was always going to love my heels.

*

I held the sketches of the gate out to the blacksmith. ‘I like the curly bits here. And that’s where I’d like the letters spelling Carmody House to begin. I should imagine the pedestrian gate to be just here.’

‘Would you like a remote control?’

‘Of course.’ I nodded. ‘Do you think you can have the quote back to me as soon as possible?’

‘Sure. Do you want flat bar or round steel?’

‘Um… I’m not sure. Can I think about it for a few minutes while you measure up?’ I roamed across the road to visualise it from there. I had on my new rose covered Hunter gumboots, a gift from Steve and Thomas. The boys had said that now I was woman of the land, I needed proper shoe attire to go with it. I wore them with a white shirt, the collar up, and a denim skirt. For the first time in many years, I was leaving my curly hair to do what it wished. I was over the glamorous blow dry. Against his better judgement, Thomas had styled it to a curly bob, which when dry shot up to just below my shoulders. I had insisted on attempting to return it to its former honey chestnut colour. I was beginning to like this more casual me. It gave me a feeling of freedom, one of lightness. And I had surprised myself and taken to gardening.

During my adolescence and early twenties, I had given little thought to gardening. In fact, none at all! My interests had been my career, fashion and travel when I could find the time to squeeze it in. I had taken the gardens surrounding me for granted, and had little understanding of the knowledge, creativity and tireless effort that went into them. Now my evenings were spent pouring over gardening books, earmarking pages with ideas I liked. The garden had become my new best friend.

The infrastructure I was undertaking on the house included plumbing, electrical upgrades plus a security system starting with the gate. The appropriate trucks were lined up opposite.

From my position across the road, I watched as Brownie slowly and methodically mowed the grassy nature strip. I knew I was going to have to come to a decision about him. At the rate he was going, it would be ten years before the garden was in order. I pushed it to the back of my mind.

Thoughtfully, I tapped my upper lip with my fingernail and stared at the place my new gate would go. ‘Flat bar or round? Flat bar or round?’ I repeated out aloud, as I noticed I’d begun to do more and more.

‘Round for the uprights and flat bar for any decorative work,’ a quiet voice said from behind me. I turned quickly to see the cyclist. ‘I do take it you’re talking about a new gate?’ he asked, standing astride his bike, gesturing to the blacksmith’s truck parked opposite.

‘Actually I am,’ I said, almost too stunned to say more, the sound of Brownie’s lawnmower so loud, I hadn’t heard the cyclist approach. It unnerved me. I looked sideways at him. ‘What is this? Are you a mind reader?’ More and more, I had noticed him on his bike and his avid interest in the property, or at least that’s what I hoped, and that he wasn’t casing the joint.

I had found being a woman living on my own encouraged my already vivid imagination to often go into overdrive. Thoughts came to me that would never have entered my head in the past. Just the other night as I prepared for bed, I heard a story on the late night news where a woman came home disturbing an intruder. She was murdered in her own home. I swear I spent the entire night sleeping with one eye open. Although I must say having Wilbur did give me a measure of comfort.

My thoughts were interrupted by the cyclist. ‘You’ve undertaken quite a huge project?

‘Did you know Frank Carmody well?’ I found myself wanting to question him.

‘Yes, in the earlier years when my father was alive… and then,’ he paused, ‘and then our paths crossed quite a few times after that. The last was here about eight years ago when he took me on another tour of the garden. I still remember its magnificence. Frank was a very clever man. He’s left a wonderful legacy behind. That’s the thing with gardens…’ he drifted off.

Intrigued by him, I once again attempted to guess how old he was and when his last visit would have been. Physically, he was in great shape, and his olive skin and dark eyes gave an air of health about him. However, there was something about his eyes that I just couldn’t put my finger on. Usually, I was excellent at reading people. He was a hard one to pick.

He interrupted my reverie, his eyes on the blacksmith opposite. ‘The gate will be galvanised?’

‘Ah… yeah… sure!’ I was pensive for a few minutes and then turned to him, my eyes narrowing. ‘And that is?’

‘A zinc coating to protect the steel from corrosion.’ He nodded at the blacksmith. ‘He should have taken that into consideration, or perhaps your husband has already told him.’

‘No husband, just me,’ I said, without giving it much thought, and then wished I hadn’t. ‘I’ll certainly mention it to the blacksmith. Thank you.’

I took a few steps towards the road when he called out to me. ‘I have some photos.’

I stopped in my tracks, now pleasantly surprised. ‘You do? Of here?’

He held an envelope out to me.

‘Oh… thank you. I’ll take a quick look so you can have them back.’

‘No, keep them. They’re yours. I have copies.’

I looked at this mysterious cyclist, who had kindly taken the time to unearth these photos, and wondered not for the first time, at his lifestyle that he could go bike riding whenever he wished. Although, the day was getting on, most people would still be at work.

My guard down, I offered, ‘You’re welcome to take a look around the garden today if you wish.’

He checked his watch. It went through my mind that perhaps he was a shift worker.

‘Sure, I should have time. Thank you.’ We crossed the broad carpet of neatly mown lawn, and he propped his bike against the front fence as Brownie turned the mower off.

‘I’ll have that cup of tea now Mrs Riding, if you don’t mind?’ Brownie called to me.

‘No problem Brownie.’ Horrified at the Wilbur incident, I was continuously making tea for the old gent, who liked a chat at the same time. I’d made a rod for my own back with that one.

The cyclist glanced at me. ‘I can roam around on my own, if you like.’

‘Of course.’ It was what I’d hoped for.

*

Once I might have considered looking out over the same view each day as boring, however from the kitchen window I had begun to constantly note the changing details of the garden. Washing up the teacups in the make do kitchen sink, I glanced out the same window, a couple of times catching sight of the cyclist with Wilbur, the overfriendly escort. Occasionally, the man went down on his haunches to study a plant. I noticed him push palm fronds aside authoritatively, looking as if he knew what he was doing. Once or twice he scraped at the soil and then pushed it back, shaking his head. Bending, he cupped a flower face, turning to see it more clearly. He took his time, and if his body language was anything to go by, he appeared to appreciate the garden as much as I did.

A voice called from the front door. It was the electrician, Pete. I checked the time. It was now after four. How typical of him to come so late. Pete kept odd working hours, however Marty, Davis and I had been using him for years at work and at home, and had become used to his peculiar hours. We had been known to go to bed and leave him working, telling him to let himself out when he was finished. However last night, now on my own, I shooed him out at eleven. ‘Time to go home to Julie,’ I said. ‘Come back tomorrow. I need my beauty sleep. Try to come a little earlier tomorrow hey?’

I flicked the switch on the kettle once again. I knew he would want coffee. I honestly wondered if these guys would expect tea or coffee from a male project manager. Somehow I doubted it, however, anything to keep them on side. Last Friday afternoon, I had even gone to the Brunswick Hotel drive through and bought a carton of beer, a tip from Marty. He said it kept everyone happy and keen to return Monday morning.

I followed the sound of Pete’s voice still booming from the front door. ‘Sorry I’m late Peach,’ he called. ‘You’ll never guess where I’ve been?’ His voice sounded animated. ‘Davis’s. Let me tell you, there’s trouble in paradise brewing over there.’ He laughed. ‘You’ll never believe…’

I put one of my hands up. ‘Not another word Peter.’ My voice sounded sharper than I intended, and without meaning to I noticed I had used his full name. ‘I am not interested.’ The last thing I needed was a setback. Hearing about Davis’s life kept me in limbo, instead of moving forward as I had been doing lately.

‘You’re going to want to hear this one.’

‘No, I am not.’ My voice sounded determined. I reached the front door to see the cyclist standing legs astride, hands low on his hips, surveying the gravel forecourt, just in front. I did hope he hadn’t heard what had been said. But then I caught the forlorn look on Pete’s face. If there’s one thing he loved, it was gossip. My voice softened. ‘I’ve put the kettle on Pete, coffee will be ready in a minute. And… I’m sorry,’ I called out the front door, ‘but I don’t know your name…’

‘Phil… Phil Hunter.’ Walking towards me, he offered a decisive handshake and a brief smile, reminding me once again of his dazzling white teeth. Although he was friendly, I felt the smile did not make it as far as his eyes. It was as if he was holding back and was unsure of what happiness felt like. There was something there, a huge sadness, perhaps a troubled past.

‘Peach Riding,’ I smiled. ‘Phil would you like a coffee?’ I caught him checking the time once again. ‘You can have it while you finish your tour?’ It was the least I could do after he had brought those photos for me, which I still hadn’t had the time to look at.

He looked indecisive for a moment. ‘Sure.’

‘Come in and I’ll show you the kitchen garden.’ I caught his look as he saw my furniture piled in one of the front rooms with drop sheets covering it. ‘I haven’t been here long,’ I explained. ‘I’m still adjusting.’

He paused at the doorway to the room. ‘Change takes time. This is a special place. You will be very happy here.’ He spoke as if he was predicting my future. Although he seemed a man of few words, he said what had to be said and that was that.

‘You’ll have to excuse my make do kitchen, the new one is being manufactured as we speak.’

As a work station was required, the Louis desk Papa had left to me, took pride of place, although I continuously draped an old pink floral flannelette sheet over it, to protect it from building debris and dust. This had become my favourite place to sit. At night, I loved being able to look across the water to the view and the reflections. By day, I loved seeing the garden below.

Phil glanced around and appeared to be studying the renovations to date. ‘Very wise,’ he said nodding his head. ‘Brings the garden in.’

I poured coffee into a mug and handed it to him, pushing the glass sugar bowl his way. ‘What do you do Phil?’

He hesitated, while he tentatively sipped at the hot brew. Then he looked steadily and replied, ‘I’m between things at the moment.’

‘I’m sorry, it’s just that I’ve been frantically looking for someone to help with the garden, and I saw you from the window, you appear to know your stuff. You’re not… I mean… you wouldn’t consider…?’

‘I don’t think I’d have the time.’ He took another sip, glancing down at his coffee.

‘Of course. If you happen to know of anyone…’ Uncomfortable now, I drifted off. ‘Anyway, come this way.’ I was keen to show him the kitchen garden. I led the way through the laundry, but the door was jammed. I pushed as hard as I could but it didn’t budge. ‘The rain we’ve had lately,’ I explained.

‘Let me,’ he suggested. Phil put his shoulder into it and the door freely opened out. I saw the reaction on his face and his eyes lit up at the sight of the garden. ‘I remember now.’ He walked around, hands on his hips, touching the leaves of different species. ‘Much to do, eh?’ But he looked thrilled.

He continued exploring and I stood watching. His obvious enjoyment intrigued me. And then he shared a memory. ‘Frank had a distinct style of dividing larger gardens into a series of garden rooms, creating mystery and enticement.’ And then as an afterthought he added. ‘In here your plantings should be staggered. Plant little and often, that will be the key. You’ll need pea straw mulch around the basses of all the plants to suppress weeds, provide nutrition and retain moisture. And don’t forget the worm castings.’ For a minute he paused, his eyes narrowing as if remembering something. And then without looking at me he continued in a quieter voice. ‘Gardens certainly have a spiritual value. Flowers, herbs and vegetables nourish the soul as well as the body.’

Before I had a chance to respond, he glanced at his watch yet again, and looked startled. ‘I’m sorry, I’ve lost track of time.’

He appeared hurried and I walked him back to the front door. ‘I meant to say,’ he said, turning to me, as if an afterthought. ‘There was another photo but I couldn’t seem to put my hand on it. It had my father and Frank Carmody standing together in the garden. I’ll keep looking.’

‘That’s very kind, thank you. Perhaps when you find it, you’ll finish off your tour of the garden,’ I said stepping out onto the front veranda. The heat of the day was still coming out of the ground in waves, the scent from the roses and jasmine hung heavily in the air.

I needed to shower. Marty was taking me to dinner.