Читать книгу Sowing Secrets - Trisha Ashley - Страница 14

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘Shaker?’

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

‘I’m not surprised!’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Dare I?

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

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

I’m juggling cartoons, card designs and the first illustration for next year’s rose calendar as it is, not to mention Alphawoman – and