bare, muscular calves, and he has black Reefs on his tanned feet. I stare at his silver toe ring and the inky black Celtic tattoo round his ankle.
“Soft day,” he says with a grin. Even drenched and wearing that old oilskin he still looks edible.
I drag my eyes upwards and meet his. Zing! Oh dear God, he’s even better-looking close up, if that’s possible. I nod mutely, my heart thumping loudly.
He rests his pitchfork on the grass, prongs upward, like a devil’s, and stares at me. “Hate fruit flies.” He eyes the top of the open compost bin. “Not so many in the rain.”
I nod again. Say something, Amy . He’s going to think you’re some kind of mute weirdo. “I’m Amy,” I manage. “I’m staying in Haven House with my family.” It comes out as a squeak.
“Aye,” he says. “I know that.”
“And you’re Kit. Martie told me.”
“Did she, now?” His eyes narrow, probably because he’s wondering what else she said, but he still doesn’t speak. Instead, he goes back to staring at the compost bin.
Talk about awkward conversations: water from a stone and all that. But I’m not going to give up yet. “Um, we have compost bins at home,” I say, then wince. Brilliant, Amy. Inspired. Not! But he looks at me and seems interested, so I carry on. “And a wormery. We use the compost for Mum’s roses.”
He still says nothing. (He’s clearly blown away by my scintillating conversational skills. As if.)
“They’re my favourite flowers,” I add, then stop. I’ve completely run out of things to say.
“There’s a rose garden here,” he says after an agonizingly long silence.
“Really? Cool. I love the way roses smell. I like white ones the best. And pink and red. But white mostly. Have you ever seen a blue one? They’re quite unusual, but I have—” I clamp my mouth shut before I can spout any more rubbish. I stand there feeling useless while he forks the last bits of grass into the compost bin and slams it shut.
“Follow me, so,” he says.
“Where’s your dog?” I ask as he throws the fork into the rusty old wheelbarrow.
“Jack? Sheltering. Doesn’t like rain. Sensible lad.”
He leads the way round the high granite wall to the side wing of the house, where there is another narrow gateway.
“Door to the rose garden,” he says. Pulling a jangling set of keys out of his pocket, he searches for one, then unlocks the padlock. He grinds back the rusty bolt and stands back to let me walk in first.
I half-expect him to push me from behind and ram the bolt home, trapping me for ever in a creepy dungeon full of bats and flesh-eating rats – but clearly I’ve been watching too many horror movies with Clover. He’s just being polite – which instantly reminds me of Seth. Seth’s manners are Fairy Tale Good. Polly has terrorized him into it.
Seth.
I feel a twist of guilt in my stomach. But as I walk through the gate I forget everything; I’m so overwhelmed by the remarkable smell. It’s like walking into Clover’s bedroom after she’s just sprayed herself with her posh perfume. Only better. Because this scent is the real thing. I take long, heady breaths and start to walk down the wet cobblestone path; the rounded stones press into the soles of my flip-flops, giving my feet a pebble massage.
I look about me. I’m in a tiny walled garden, full of waist-high rose bushes. The beds have been separated into four quadrants, each one full of white, red, light pink or dark pink roses, each smelling subtly different. In the middle is a paved circle with a fountain: a stone dolphin with a trickle of water splashing out of its mouth. I walk towards it and study the water in its mossy pool, expecting to see goldfish or a magical frog, but it’s full of murky water and dark green weeds.
“It’s beautiful – like the Secret Garden.” I beam at him. (I can’t help it; it’s just so unexpected.) “Thank you so much for showing me this place. The smell” – I give a big sniff
“Soft day,” he says with a grin. Even drenched and wearing that old oilskin he still looks edible.
I drag my eyes upwards and meet his. Zing! Oh dear God, he’s even better-looking close up, if that’s possible. I nod mutely, my heart thumping loudly.
He rests his pitchfork on the grass, prongs upward, like a devil’s, and stares at me. “Hate fruit flies.” He eyes the top of the open compost bin. “Not so many in the rain.”
I nod again. Say something, Amy . He’s going to think you’re some kind of mute weirdo. “I’m Amy,” I manage. “I’m staying in Haven House with my family.” It comes out as a squeak.
“Aye,” he says. “I know that.”
“And you’re Kit. Martie told me.”
“Did she, now?” His eyes narrow, probably because he’s wondering what else she said, but he still doesn’t speak. Instead, he goes back to staring at the compost bin.
Talk about awkward conversations: water from a stone and all that. But I’m not going to give up yet. “Um, we have compost bins at home,” I say, then wince. Brilliant, Amy. Inspired. Not! But he looks at me and seems interested, so I carry on. “And a wormery. We use the compost for Mum’s roses.”
He still says nothing. (He’s clearly blown away by my scintillating conversational skills. As if.)
“They’re my favourite flowers,” I add, then stop. I’ve completely run out of things to say.
“There’s a rose garden here,” he says after an agonizingly long silence.
“Really? Cool. I love the way roses smell. I like white ones the best. And pink and red. But white mostly. Have you ever seen a blue one? They’re quite unusual, but I have—” I clamp my mouth shut before I can spout any more rubbish. I stand there feeling useless while he forks the last bits of grass into the compost bin and slams it shut.
“Follow me, so,” he says.
“Where’s your dog?” I ask as he throws the fork into the rusty old wheelbarrow.
“Jack? Sheltering. Doesn’t like rain. Sensible lad.”
He leads the way round the high granite wall to the side wing of the house, where there is another narrow gateway.
“Door to the rose garden,” he says. Pulling a jangling set of keys out of his pocket, he searches for one, then unlocks the padlock. He grinds back the rusty bolt and stands back to let me walk in first.
I half-expect him to push me from behind and ram the bolt home, trapping me for ever in a creepy dungeon full of bats and flesh-eating rats – but clearly I’ve been watching too many horror movies with Clover. He’s just being polite – which instantly reminds me of Seth. Seth’s manners are Fairy Tale Good. Polly has terrorized him into it.
Seth.
I feel a twist of guilt in my stomach. But as I walk through the gate I forget everything; I’m so overwhelmed by the remarkable smell. It’s like walking into Clover’s bedroom after she’s just sprayed herself with her posh perfume. Only better. Because this scent is the real thing. I take long, heady breaths and start to walk down the wet cobblestone path; the rounded stones press into the soles of my flip-flops, giving my feet a pebble massage.
I look about me. I’m in a tiny walled garden, full of waist-high rose bushes. The beds have been separated into four quadrants, each one full of white, red, light pink or dark pink roses, each smelling subtly different. In the middle is a paved circle with a fountain: a stone dolphin with a trickle of water splashing out of its mouth. I walk towards it and study the water in its mossy pool, expecting to see goldfish or a magical frog, but it’s full of murky water and dark green weeds.
“It’s beautiful – like the Secret Garden.” I beam at him. (I can’t help it; it’s just so unexpected.) “Thank you so much for showing me this place. The smell” – I give a big sniff
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