* * *
‘I think it’s incredible what you’ve done with this place,’ David said to Everett as they strolled towards the end of the allotment. ‘Especially in so short a time.’
The bottom half of their plot was still an unreclaimed wilderness of brambles and nettles growing through heaps of debris, but the space between that and their over-sized shed – roughly ten yards of the overall length – had been cleared, dug over, and marked out with sticks and twine.
Everett waved the compliment away with his beer. ‘Thanks, but this is mostly Gareth’s handiwork. He’s an absolute fiend for digging.’
‘So, come on then, what are your plans for it? When you sit on your deck at the end of a long day and you gaze across your empire, what will you see?’
‘Mostly heritage varieties, you know, streaky tomatoes, purple carrots, that sort of thing. I want to bring something old out of the ground.’ He gave a little laugh.
‘Ah, going for the millennial market. Too bad avocados don’t grow in this climate.’
‘Give it time. But no, not really. This isn’t a style statement – it’s the exact opposite, as a matter of fact. A hundred years ago, farmers and gardeners grew vegetables to be sold at local markets for greengrocers that were just around the corner instead of flying them halfway around the world, and they grew varieties that they liked the taste of. Somehow we’ve lost that. I just think, here I have this opportunity to make something of my own, why am I going to grow the same crops that are cultivated over thousands of square miles and bred to be wrapped in plastic so that they can sit in a fridge for two weeks?’
‘I know exactly what you mean.’
‘I have a particular fondness for the Hutton Wonder Pea.’
‘What’s that?’
‘Genuinely, I have no idea. I just love the name.’
They walked on for a bit, passing the tangled wilderness, the sounds of merriment fading behind them as they headed towards the very end.
‘And yours?’ asked Everett. ‘What’s the Pimblett Project?’
‘Nothing as ambitious,’ David admitted. ‘As organic as we can be, I suppose. We took the allotment just after Alice was born because we wanted her to grow up eating something not so much full of pesticides and antibiotics and shit like that. Then just to prove that the universe has a sick sense of humour she was diagnosed with acute lymphoblastic leukaemia—’
‘Ouch.’
‘Yeah. And we haven’t been able to keep it up, obviously. She’s still not out of the woods but she’s slowly getting better, so I’ve tried to give it a bit of TLC. Maybe I can pay your fiend of a brother to come and have a go at it.’
Everett smiled. ‘Well, I genuinely hope that we can arrange something like that.’
They passed the end of the allotment and walked back up the other side to rejoin the party.
* * *
At around teatime the turves were removed, the cinders raked away, and the half dozen large foil parcels brought out to be unwrapped. The aroma that rose from them was rich and warm, gravy and rosemary and apples and cloves, drawing murmurs of appreciation from the guests, and despite Dennie’s fourteen years of vegetarianism even she found her mouth watering.
‘Now before I do this,’ said Ardwyn, holding a corner of foil between finger and thumb like a magician about to whip away a handkerchief, teasing her audience, ‘I just want to say on behalf of myself and Everett that we never expected to be lucky enough to find ourselves in a place with so many new friends and neighbours. In the short time that we’ve been here we’ve been bowled over by your helpfulness and generosity. I’m not a religious person—’
Everett suppressed a snort of laughter.
‘—but I do believe in coincidence and good timing, and I don’t think it’s an accident that this is the spring equinox, or as near as, a time for renewals and new life. I mean look who I’m talking to!’ She laughed. ‘You’re all gardeners, you know this. This is a new beginning for me and my partner, but I hope that maybe this can also be the start of a new tradition, because I’d love to have one of these parties every year.’
‘Hear hear!’ came a shout from the back, to general laughter.
‘Now,’ she continued, peering at what was under the foil. ‘Having said all that about timing, I hope this is done…’ and she whipped it away to reveal a joint of pork studded with cloves and gleaming in its own juices. The meat was so tender that she didn’t have to carve it – it fell apart beneath a pair of forks that she used to pile it onto bread rolls that were passed out amongst the crowd who watched her, rapt. It’s like she’s feeding the five thousand, Dennie thought. It was a performance. Ardwyn Hughes knew exactly what she was doing.
And then she is bathed in bright sunlight and it is 2007 and Sarah has invited her to a late summer picnic on their allotment. Little Josh is four and about to start Reception at school next month. Brian has only been dead a year and Dennie hasn’t yet made the resolution to go veggie yet, so she’s looking forward to one of the burgers that Colin is pushing around on the cheap disposable barbecue in its silver foil tray – ideally with a side helping of the salad made from lettuces and tomatoes that Sarah has grown herself. Colin has insisted that he do the cooking as it is the man’s job (and here is a thing she’s never been able to fathom: why they won’t go near the kitchen cooker but get them outside with a pile of charcoal and they think they’re Jamie bloody Oliver), but the problem is that Colin has been drinking steadily since the morning and
