A Cornish Cottage by the Sea. Jane Linfoot
work our way around the walls we get claggier and claggier, but I’m still no nearer an answer. We’re onto the last wall when Aunty Jo pipes up from nowhere, ‘That’s the other good thing about the classes, you can get a lot of information from them.’
‘Really?’ I’m bracing myself for another very long monologue about quilting. After Fun with Fabric she talked about wadding for two hours straight, but that was a relief because it meant I could skip the details about my afternoon.
The breath she takes is worryingly deep. ‘Yesterday I found out Barney’s not a window cleaner at all – he actually makes shepherd’s huts along the road. That’s impressive, isn’t it?’
That’s definitely not what I was expecting. I look up at the ceiling, count to ten and get to seven. ‘Maybe it’s significant if you keep sheep, otherwise not so much.’ Given a choice, I’d have preferred sewing tips.
‘According to Loella, people your age buy the huts and do Airbnb in their back gardens.’
‘Good for them.’ Not even having a teensy terrace to my name, I wouldn’t know. I was a week away from signing for a lease on my own tiny flat when my stroke happened and I pulled out. At least this way I might be homeless on paper but I’m not worrying about covering rental payments when my salary’s all but disappeared.
‘Unlikely as it seems, if I ever did have a lawn, a shepherd’s hut would be the last thing I’d buy.’ I might as well get it out there. ‘As garden ornaments go, I suspect they’re a bit like designer tree houses – mega hyped, overpriced and underused.’ Even when I lived with Marcus I never had that much cash to spare because we mostly spent it on his place, on eating out at weekends and on far-flung holidays in obscure places. If I struggled to run to a Hush pineapple sweatshirt – which was reversible, so you actually got two for the price of one – I’m damn sure a caravan you can’t actually tow would never have made it to the top of my shopping list.
She’s still going. ‘Every hut is unique, handmade by Barney to individual measurements.’
‘Good luck to his customers.’ I’m scraping so hard I’m making dents in the plaster. We’re going to have to agree to differ on the sun shining out of that particular bottom, because I couldn’t give a flying fuck. He could be making caravans for that ‘rags to riches’ woman’s fairy godmother, but it doesn’t change the fact that he has no idea about social norms. I mean, who hangs around for a conversation up a ladder when they’re crushed against you to stop you falling off, then takes you off for a boat trip you don’t want, or invites themselves in and starts pulling your wallpaper off? I can only hope he’s more appropriate with his boundaries with his clients than he is with us.
Aunty Jo has stopped again. ‘Oh dear, visitor alert. With all this rubbish on the floor too.’ Even though the patch of wall she’s stripped is tiny, Aunty Jo and the dust sheet where she’s standing are both plastered in pieces of gluey paper.
‘Bloody Barney.’ Not again. As I brush the claggiest lump off her cheek I’m suddenly baking in my sweatshirt. I’m picking the biggest pieces of rainforest out of my hair, but not because I give any kind of a damn. Tugging up my jeans because, whoever’s here, I don’t want to be caught out with a muffin top twice in one day.
‘Who said anything about Barney?’ There are wrinkles in Aunty Jo’s forehead.
‘What?’ As I follow her gaze and see Loella hurrying across the courtyard I’m ignoring the fact my insides just deflated faster than one of those things that go ‘pop’. She’s got so many kids with her she looks like a school outing.
As I pull open the door Loella’s smiling over the crowd of tousled heads. ‘Wowsers, are you culling the zebras? Tigers by the sea were never going to work, were they?’ At least she’s overlooked the festive pyjamas. ‘We were dropping Cam off, so I thought I’d pop in. We forgot to say – there’s a book group you might like to join. And the Wild and Blooming Cottage Garden group are having a talk tonight. I could give you a lift down if you’d like to come?’
There’s that familiar feeling of steel hands closing around my stomach. How the hell am I going to explain my way out of this? Book group was one thing I always loved and really miss. Bella, Tash and I have belonged to the same one for years. Obviously I’m not going again until I progress far enough to avoid a pity party when I turn up. Let’s face it, if I was up to going I wouldn’t be here. Reasons not to go … Words … I’m flailing to get to grips with either, when Aunty Jo jumps in.
‘I’m so sorry, my concentration’s shot to pieces, so novels and book group are no-no. Just for now.’
I’m trying not to gasp at how easily she’s covering for me. Reading is the one thing she still does, her to-be-read pile is under the dust sheet and as high as the sofa and, even if she’s driven me to distraction all day wittering about mess, I want to hug her for this.
Loella’s reaching out and patting her arm. ‘Of course. I’m so sorry, Josie, I should have thought.’ Her smile is full of warmth. ‘But you will think about this evening? It won’t be late.’
If Loella bothered to take half a glance at the wreck of the lawn she’d get the picture. Outdoors equals mud, and dirt gives Aunty Jo a hissy fit, so I’m expecting to get a firm ‘no’, but I might as well give it a try. I turn to Aunty Jo. ‘Well, you’ve got a cottage and you’ve got a garden, so shall we try it?’
I know grow-your-own salad is huge now, but Marcus is the trend-freak, not me. I’d be totally out of my comfort zone here, yet again. But Aunty Jo is definitely brighter for getting out, so I’m up for persuading her.
She’s pulling a face. ‘I don’t know.’
Loella catches my eye, then leans in closer. ‘You’ve got quite a kingdom here, with your outbuildings too, Josie-pie.’
‘They’re next on the list …’ I peel a piece of wallpaper off my jeans ‘… after this.’ That’s on the list in my head, obviously. We haven’t got any further with the one on the clipboard. Realistically, seeing how far we’ve got after a whole day working here, and knowing how far the cottage rambles, and the size of the barns, I’m going to have to pull in some help fast. But with my ‘professional’ head on, I know it’ll be better to wait until we make more contacts. Which is another good reason to get out and mingle with the gardeners.
Loella’s straight back at me. ‘Great then, I’ll take that as a “yes”. I’ll pick you both up at seven sharp?’ She doesn’t wait for an answer. A moment later she’s marching off across the courtyard, followed by her band of children.
And I’m wondering what the hell I’ve let us both in for.
Day 142: Friday, 23rd March
At The Deck Gallery
Epic Achievement: Pretending to be a gardener, and not being found out.
If I didn’t know stripping walls was good for you before, I do now – my arms feel like they’ve had a full-body workout, and then some. Not that I’ve actually managed that many of those in my life. If I’m honest, I’m one of those classic fails who signs up for the gym in January then never goes. As I say to Bella, if it wasn’t for people like us, the cross trainers would be horribly overcrowded. But the good news from St Aidan is, we finally wave goodbye to the rainforest in the day room. I’m not the only one around here planning ambushes either. After a meticulous round of tidying up, Aunty Jo literally comes at me out of nowhere me with a pen and paper and an order to do some calligraphy practice. Luckily I get over my horror fast enough to persuade her there isn’t time to do that and get into my Audrey H slim tailored slacks and my little Gap cashmere polo neck. Obviously I will need to work on my writing. It’s just more auspicious when there’s less compulsion and, truly, my biceps have had