The Rose Garden

Claire’s mind had been travelling on the same line. ‘I feel I ought to send you straight upstairs to have a bath,’ she told me.

‘I don’t think I’d manage the stairs at the moment.’ I leant my head back on the cushions, then brought it back upright to stop it from spinning as Claire asked where we’d taken the ashes.

Mark answered. ‘The Beacon.’

If Claire understood the full meaning of that, she gave no indication. She only said, ‘Oh yes, it’s lovely up there.’

‘It was, today,’ he said. ‘Where’s Sue?’

‘I’m here,’ said Susan, coming in. She stopped inside the doorway, looked from Mark to me. ‘Are you all right?’

‘I’m fine,’ Mark said, ‘but Eva’s had too much to drink.’

I sighed. ‘I have not. Anyway, you can talk. Look at the state of you.’

‘I’m not the one seeing double, now am I?’

Claire’s voice was calm. ‘Children.’

Susan came all the way into the room and sat down on my other side, curious. ‘Who’s seeing double?’

Mark rolled his head sideways. ‘Eva tried to convince me there were two paths in the Wild Wood.’

I couldn’t argue that, but I could lay the blame where it belonged. ‘It’s his fault.’

Susan looked at me in sympathy. ‘What was it, whisky?’

‘Scrumpy.’

‘God. How could you?’ she asked Mark.

His shrug seemed a great effort. ‘Before you rush to judgement, you should know that after drinking Scrumpy with me, Eva started thinking that your tea room was a wonderful idea.’

I elbowed him. He clutched his ribs and half-laughed, ‘Ow.’

‘I thought it was a wonderful idea before the Scrumpy.’

Susan, looking pleased, asked, ‘Did you?’

‘Yes. I was just telling Mark I’d like to help you set it up. Be your PR consultant, if that would be any use to you.’

Mark said, to Claire and Susan, ‘In exchange for room and board. She’ll be staying with us for the summer.’

He didn’t mention anything about my plans to rent a cottage nearby when the tourist season ended in the autumn, presumably because, like me, Mark knew that Claire was generous to a fault, and had she known that I was looking for a cottage she’d have instantly insisted I take hers.

As it was, she smiled approval at me warmly from her corner while beside me Susan said, delighted, ‘Are you? Eva, that’s wonderful. Really, it’s going to be just like old times.’

Mark shot her a sideways look over my head that I took as a silent reminder that things weren’t exactly the same, with Katrina not here, and because I felt Susan’s self-conscious reaction I covered the moment of awkwardness with, ‘So you see, I’ll have plenty of time to help out with your plans for the tea room.’

Susan gratefully said, ‘I can show you the greenhouse tomorrow. Felicity’s coming to help me start clearing it out. There are things stored in there that I don’t think have moved since I went off to uni.’

Claire smiled. ‘Very likely before that.’

I asked, ‘Who’s Felicity?’

‘One of my friends from the village. You’ll like her, I think. Won’t she, Claire?’

‘Yes, we all like Felicity.’ Claire looked with affection at her stepson, who was sinking ever lower on the sofa. ‘You’ll be fast asleep, Mark, if you sit there much longer.’

‘Mm.’ He closed his eyes, and proved her point by drifting off immediately, breathing in a slow and even rhythm.

‘Men,’ said Susan, rather fondly. Then to me, ‘You ought to have a nap as well, I’m sure it’s been a trying day.’

It had, and she was right, except my cup of coffee had kicked in now and I wasn’t feeling sleepy any more. Instead I sat with Claire and Susan, talking of small things while Mark snored on. And when we’d finished all the coffee in the pot and Claire had started thinking about what to make for supper, I felt more awake than ever.

‘I can help,’ I offered.

Susan shook her head. ‘No, we can do it. You just stay here and relax.’

‘You’ve only just arrived,’ said Claire, and rubbed my shoulder as she passed. ‘Let us take care of you.’

The sitting room was filled with things to do, except I couldn’t play piano and I didn’t want to turn the television on while Mark was still asleep. Instead I stood and stretched and went to make a study of the bookshelves, where I recognised the old and battered bindings of the local history books my mother had so loved to give to Uncle George and Claire as gifts. It had been something of a passion for her, hunting down forgotten volumes in her favourite musty shops in London, antiquarian establishments with creaking floors and crowded shelves.

I chose one book and opened it: A History of Polgelly, written in the 1800s by a gentleman who, from his tone, had been an ardent Methodist. He disapproved quite heartily of all that had gone on here and had nothing good to say about Trelowarth, which he said had been ‘a den of godless blackguards though its current owner, Mr Hallett, has done what he can to drive the devil from that place.’

Unfortunately, being such a devout man, the author of A History of Polgelly never did get round to mentioning exactly what it was those godless blackguards had been up to. Losing interest, I re-shelved his cheerless book and tried another one: Polgelly Through the Ages.