she found impossible to explain. When she had insisted to Alex that there was something very special – even spiritual – about The Parsonage he had simply shrugged and wisecracked something about Shirley MacLaine.
Where was he, anyway? Perhaps she should go and see how he was doing.
As if on cue she heard a noise down the path. She turned to look.
In a leather-gloved hand Alex carried a machete. Loppers and a coil of rope dangled from his belt. He was wearing an Aussie-style straw hat with the cord dangling under his chin. Asp, their little Sealyham terrier, bobbed along behind nipping at his heels.
She threw her head back and laughed. ‘The Temple of Doom’s that way,’ she said, pointing up the path.
He smiled. ‘Well, Kate, you’ve got to admit, it is a bloody jungle we’re dealing with!’
‘Well, nobody can accuse you of not being prepared.’
‘A lot of good it does me,’ he sighed. ‘It’ll take a bloody lifetime to sort out this garden of yours. I’ve been working half the morning on one measly corner, and it still looks like I’ve done bugger all.’
She patted the bench next to her. ‘Dump that stuff and come over here, darling.’
Discarding his tools, Alex sat down heavily, took off his hat and wiped his brow.
‘Careful,’ said Kate, as the bench wobbled. ‘It’s a bit shaky.’
He smiled. ‘It’s like me, it needs some love and attention.’
‘Later,’ she purred, kissing him on the cheek.
They talked for several minutes. Finally, Alex got up, plonked the hat on his head, and started to gather his tools. Taking his wristwatch from his pocket, he glanced at it. ‘Almost eleven. How does lunch about noon sound?’
Kate hesitated. ‘How about one o’clock?’
‘I suppose I can hold out till then. You might want to keep an eye out for circling buzzards, though.’
Smiling, she eyed the red handle of the pruning shears protruding from his back pocket. ‘Remember, don’t prune anything or pull anything out, unless you’re absolutely positive it’s a weed. Promise?’
‘Don’t worry, I won’t. You go and talk to the roses,’ he said, pecking her on the cheek. ‘See you at the house,’ he added, walking off up the path.
‘Don’t joke, now,’ she shouted after him. ‘Prince Charles talks to his flowers all the time, you know!’
Smiling to herself, she watched him disappear round the curve of the path. The way he walked, with a sense of purpose and a rolling of the shoulders, had always reminded her of John Wayne. She thought back to the first time they’d met; she’d found it very hard to fathom him out. She recalled being more intrigued than smitten. At first, he gave the impression of being almost saturnine, yet there was something decidedly manly in his face and his demeanour. She had soon discovered that the sober countenance was deceptive, as if he cultivated it solely for the purpose of masking a gentleness and good humour that characterized his true nature. When she had managed to coax a smile out of him and make him laugh, he turned into another person completely. Gone was the stern gaze and distant manner, his face lit up like a flash of light on a crystal. Their marriage was now in its ninth year. She was very lucky, she reminded herself. She loved him, very much.
* * *
Dismissing her parting salvo with the flick of a wrist, Alex kept walking. Kate and her gardening! What on earth did she see in it all? How could she possibly derive such sheer pleasure and fulfilment from planting a puny sprig of vegetation and waiting an eternity for it to grow – then, after its pitifully short life, stand by and watch it perish? And those roses she loved so much – to him, they were downright ugly. Granted, the flowers themselves were beautiful and most of them smelled nice. But the plants themselves? As far as he was concerned, they were little more than hideous thorny sticks.
He glanced back at her. Despite her lack of make-up, frayed jeans and faded Les Mis T-shirt, she looked positively fashionable. Her hair was ash blonde and shoulder length. She was slender but not quite tall enough to be termed willowy. Except for her eyes, her features were unremarkable. But the eyes were inescapable, wide-spaced and aqueous grey-green, making it hard to look away.
He had now reached the long border where he’d been working earlier. He’d far rather be doing something else – playing tennis, or perhaps tinkering with his old Alfa Romeo Spider Veloce – but he had promised the day to Kate. He paused for a moment, sighed, then got back to work.
After an hour and a half of raking layers of rotting leaves and debris from the border, hacking away dead limbs from shrubs and trees, and cutting back wayward canes on ramblers – Kate had approved his doing that – he decided it was time for a breather. In any case, the wind was picking up and it was starting to look like rain. He eyed the border. The results of his work were noticeable. Things looked much tidier. Kate would be pleased with the improvement. He was about to turn and walk back to where he’d left his tools when he stopped.
The area where he’d finished working dead-ended in a brick wall several feet taller than he was. To his left, the wall took a sharp curve and disappeared. Since he’d only walked through the garden two or three times it was understandable that he hadn’t noticed it before. Might as well do a little exploring, he thought to himself.
He followed the old brick wall, occasionally placing his palm on its gritty surface to steady himself. Now he could see that it fell back, to create a crescent some thirty feet deep and sixty long – a hidden bed invisible to anyone on the path. Despite the shade cast by the curving wall, and the shrubs and small trees along the flat side of the crescent, enough light and sunshine penetrated the foliage for the flowers in front of the wall to grow into a colourful jumble. Most of them appeared to be roses. Roses with plump nodding blooms of dusky pink, coral, carmine, damask and ivory. They reminded him of an old Flemish painting – the kind painted on a dark background.
Alex stood, motionless, for what must have been at least a minute, fascinated by the composition: the luminescence, the gradations of shadow, the muted colours and textures.
As he turned to go back to the path he caught a glimpse of a foreign colour, way in the back. No more than a flash, it was nevertheless electrifying.
He stopped.
It had disappeared.
He swayed to the left, then slowly to the right, and – there it was again.
A trick of the light, surely. That colour…
He eased his way in through the shrubs to take a closer look. Something scratched at his arm – he brushed away the thorn stuck into his skin. Pushing the arching cane aside, he halted, then stepped back a pace. What on earth…?
That couldn’t be right, could it?
Goose pimples tingled across his neck and scalp. Even with his scant knowledge of plants Alex knew he was looking at something very peculiar – bizarre, in fact.
He moved forward and reached out his hand to touch it. ‘Jesus Christ,’ he whispered. ‘
Chapter Two
Great discoveries do not inevitably result from research and design. Sometimes they are luck…stumbled upon. That is the romance of the game…the dramatic suspense. On any dewy morning a miracle may occur.
Eugene Boerner, pre-eminent hybridizer, Jackson and Perkins
‘I think the sun’s got to you,’ Kate panted, as she hurried to keep up with Alex. They were now running along the path. What on earth was making him act so un-Alex-like? He was now gripping her hand so fiercely that her fingers were becoming numb. Thorns and branches ripped at her shirt. She was about to yell at him, when suddenly he stopped.
She almost ran into him.
‘Alex, what on earth are you doing?’ she said breathlessly. ‘Have you gone bonkers?’
