With a sigh, Gaby dumped her bag on the floor of her new quarters. OK … so it wasn’t the Ritz. Not even the BudgetLodge, actually. After eight years of student life, she didn’t expect comfort, let alone luxury, but the staff house still came as something of a shock.
Her bedroom was spotlessly clean but tiny compared to the relatively spacious rooms she’d had in her college at university. It had a single bed, a chair, the kind of cupboard her granny liked to call a ‘tallboy’ and a curtained-off alcove that Gaby assumed was the wardrobe. Not that she’d brought much to hang in it. A small table with spindly legs, one of which was propped up with a pile of beer mats, served as a desk, complete with a candlestick lamp with the kind of tasselled shade that even her granny would have rejected as old-fashioned these days. Still, she knew she was incredibly lucky to have a place to stay at all. Jess had explained that staff houses were as rare as hen’s teeth and not everyone who worked at the farm got to live there. Some of the temporary workers had to rent out-of-season holiday lets or get rooms in guesthouses, while the younger permanent staff still lived with their families.
Like most people her age, she couldn’t envisage ever being able to afford a place of her own and definitely not on a poetry expert and flower picker’s wage. But she wasn’t here for the money: she was here to enjoy the view, smell the sea and the scents – and have some solitude.
Not that there would be much of that. The sound of people arguing about a football match was clear and the thick partition walls shook when a door slammed. Jess had shown her the shared shower rooms and the communal staffroom/kitchen area with a large TV where most people congregated after work.
The communal room had been furnished with cast-offs too, probably from the Godrevy farmhouse. The stuffing was escaping from a mismatched sofa. The dining table was surrounded by an eclectic mix of chairs ranging from an oak carver to a deckchair. It was a far cry from the MCR at her college, but actually, Gaby thought with a smile, it wasn’t that different to home: her parents’ place, a ramshackle thatched cottage in a village on the unfashionable side of the city. Hardly anything got thrown out there either.
She unpacked the one small case that she’d been allowed to take on the tiny plane here. If she wanted any more of her stuff, it would have to be shipped over on the ferry. For now, her clothes took all of five minutes to put away and she’d miraculously managed to compress a whole cupboard’s worth of make-up and toiletries into one bag. Judging by the state of Len’s fingernails, she thought the varnish was going to be superfluous, but even if there were no clubs, there had to be some opportunity for glamming up, even if it was only to watch an episode of Countryfile.
At the bottom of the case, wrapped inside a jumper, she found her two most precious treasures. She set one on the table: it was a photo of her with her parents, her older sister Carly and Steven – Stevie – her younger brother. The three siblings had all squeezed onto an old garden swing behind the cottage, with their parents piled in behind. A friend of Gaby’s had taken the photo on Stevie’s twenty-first birthday not long after he’d taken delivery of his motorbike. He’d always been a daredevil, spending all his spare time climbing, or mountain biking, surfing and trying out extreme sports. He was working as a courier while he saved enough to travel the world, and unlike Gaby had no desire to go to uni or to join the rat race like Carly. He lived for the moment …
Since his death, every photo with the bike in had been deleted or destroyed, but the memory of his special birthday would be treasured forever. Besides, everyone had been smiling in the photo, no one had their eyes closed or ‘looked fat’, so it had been deemed a suitable memento of the occasion, printed off multiple times and framed before being given as gifts to numerous members of the Carter clan.
Shortly after that photo took place, Stevie had taken a corner too fast, been thrown off the bike and struck an oak tree at the entrance to the village. He’d survived, technically, but the brain damage had been so extensive that he hadn’t been able to breathe on his own. Even worse, all the tests had shown no brain activity at all and they had been told there was no prospect of recovery. A month after the accident, the Carters had made the most heartbreaking decision any family could ever face and in March, Stevie was taken off life support.
Gaby stared at the photo. That dreadful moment had been almost half a year ago now. How could that be? How fast time flew, even though recently, some days had felt as if she was walking uphill in the darkness against a wind so strong and merciless she thought she might be blown off her feet and never get up again.
The late afternoon sun streamed through her window. Gaby pushed it open and let the cool breeze air the room. Could she smell the sea on it? Possibly not but she could imagine it. She’d made it here and Stevie would be proud of her. He’d be cheering now, just as he would have at her PhD graduation in June.
Gaby had managed to fund her doctorate with the help of several jobs, and scrimping and saving, plus being fed by her parents from time to time. She’d completed her thesis even during the darkest hours. She’d written up the last few pages, sitting by Stevie’s hospital bed.
Shortly after he’d died a minor miracle had happened – her college had offered her a junior fellowship that enabled her to teach the undergraduates and would have covered some of her accommodation and living expenses. The opportunity was as rare as rocking horse poo, and there were very few jobs that required a PhD in poetry, but it wasn’t the miracle Gaby had really wished for. She wasn’t going to get her brother back. And so, with him in mind, she had turned down the offer to pursue a job that combined the two passions in her life – poetry and flowers – and decided she would work on a flower farm.
She’d been in academia – at school, at university – for almost all of her twenty-seven years. She couldn’t see herself in another twenty-seven, a crusty academic, rarely having been outside Cambridge. She’d thought long and hard about her future as she sat by her brother’s side. He’d never be able to pursue all the things he wanted to do: travel the world, work abroad, enjoy life to the full but she could.
When she’d told Carly her plans to work at the farm she’d gasped in exasperation. ‘But a flower farm? On the Scillies? You may as well lock yourself away in Cambridge!’
‘It’s Scilly or the Isles of Scilly. Never the Scillies,’ Gaby had corrected, trying not to rise to the bait. Carly genuinely meant well, but for her, achieving a dream meant getting a flat in a smart postcode with a car and salary to match.
‘I don’t care if it’s Timbuc-bloody-tu. You’re out of your mind.’
‘I rather fancy it. I love flowers.’
‘OK. I can just about get that, but why there? Can’t you go somewhere … oh I don’t know. Exciting? Exotic? Like the Caribbean. They have lots of flowers there.’
Gaby had suppressed a sigh. ‘But I love narcissi and Tresco Abbey Gardens is on Scilly – that’s one of the most famous gardens in the world.’
‘Really? Oh Gaby, I despair.’
That made two of them, thought Gaby, knowing her sister would never understand her obsession with flowers and poetry. She didn’t even bother explaining why she’d chosen Scilly specifically because Carly would have been incredulous and disapproving to hear that Gaby had fed her addiction to gardening and countryside programmes during the long hours at the hospital. The TV had been on in Stevie’s room for some company and normality mainly, and she’d sat through endless episodes of Gardener’s World, Countryfile, Countrywise and their lookalikes.
One programme had stuck in her mind. Ironically it had been at her lowest ebb, after a moment when she’d thought she’d seen Stevie show the flicker of an eyelid, the twitch of a finger. She’d imagined the movement of course, but luckily, she’d never told her parents about it. The consultant had come and done thorough tests and said there was absolutely no brain reaction recorded at all, they were incredibly sorry … she must have dreamed it … maybe she might want to go home for some rest?
A few hours later, after Gaby had finished crying, she was half-dozing in her chair and woke to find the TV on. She saw a smiley presenter in a wax jacket tell the audience about the tiny islands where the Gulf Stream ensured the climate was so mild in the winter that subtropical plants thrived all year round and daffodils bloomed in September. The sea had been azure, the flowers and plants dazzlingly bright and the people cheerful and resilient. It felt so removed from the dim hospital room, even though it actually was on her doorstep in global terms. It was beautiful, soothing and peaceful and exactly what she wanted to do.
‘Flowers seem intended for the solace of ordinary humanity.’ John Ruskin’s words had slid into her mind after the feature had finished.
She would go to Scilly, she resolved. She would see the flowers, visit the gardens, live, breathe and work with the narcissi when this was all over …
Looking back, Gaby realised that was the moment when she accepted that it was all over for Stevie. But not for her and that he would never want her to give up or give in. Stevie had escaped the shell of his body the day he crashed the bike. She didn’t know where he was now, but her life had to go on, for her sake, for his, for her family’s …
Unlike Carly, Stevie had understood what Gaby’s idea of ‘adventure’ was. She sat on the bed and unwrapped her other treasure: her last birthday present from him: a book called 100 Gardens to See Before You Die. Since he’d gone, she hadn’t been able to open it and re-read his message inside; it was just too heartbreaking. Besides she had committed it to memory long ago.
To Gaby,
I dare you to visit them all!
Don’t dream your life, live your dreams – whatever they may be.
Love, Stevie xx
Visiting one hundred gardens might not count as a wild adventure to some people and Gaby doubted if she’d see more than a fraction but after she’d finished her contract at the farm she could make a start, helped by the money she’d earn as a picker. She’d already seen some of the UK gardens and made a list of her favourites – Versailles, Giverny, the Majorelle in Marrakech, Kenroku-en in Japan, the Desert Garden in Phoenix and Adelaide Botanical Gardens.
OK. Her first day hadn’t been that exotic so far judging by her encounter with the scowling Will Godrevy and his muddy wellies. However, it was only the first step on the journey and she had at least made it. She turned away from the window and back to her room. She heard swearing from the next room and a thud as the partition wall shook. The bedside table trembled on its beer mat prop. Then there was giggling and shortly afterwards the rhythmic bumping of headboard against wall, accompanied by grunts and groans like someone was trying to finish a marathon.
Hmm. She rolled her eyes. It wasn’t much different from her college after all, only the walls were thinner here.
She’d call her parents shortly to let them know she was here and absolutely fine. She might even call Carly, if she could track her down between her high-powered job in the City, and her personal training appointments, yoga and mindfulness classes.
Gaby shouldn’t be too harsh. Throwing herself even more crazily into her job had been Carly’s way of coping with Stevie’s accident and the agonising decision that the Carter family had been faced with four weeks later. Carly had decided to leave no space or time for grieving, and Gaby had decided to run away from it.
She didn’t just have her own grief to deal with. She was worried how her parents would be able to cope with the loss of a son at only twenty-one. She phoned and Skyped them regularly and intended to go home over Christmas. In the midst of their grief, the one thing they’d been adamant about was that Carly and Gaby should get on with their lives. After Stevie had passed away, her mother and father had virtually pushed them out of the door insisting that their daughters should ‘make the most of every minute’.
Had they really meant it, thought Gaby, gazing around this strange little room on a tiny island where at least two of the inhabitants – Frosty Will and Scary Len – were hardly delighted to see her. Was flying out here to work on a flower farm ‘making the most of every minute’ or just a way to hide from pain that would resurface again at any moment? She wished she could fix her grief and sorrow as easily – and miraculously – as the water pump. She was sure things wouldn’t run so smoothly in the weeks to come, from any point of view.
Gaby’s gaze lingered on the photo of Stevie again. The only personal touch in that bare little room so far from home. It lingered that bit too long and she had to squeeze her eyes hard as the tears stung the back of them.
She mustn’t get homesick or maudlin when she’d only been here ten minutes. She wasn’t a snivelling postgraduate any more: she’d chosen to come here. Stevie would be rolling his eyes and telling her to grow a pair.
‘Everything up to scratch?’
Gaby swung round at the sound of a gruff voice.
‘Mr Godrevy. Sorry – Will. Yes, I’m just trying to find room for all my stuff.’
Was that a flicker of amusement as he took in the few possessions?
‘It’s not Buckingham Palace, but we’re planning to do up the entire staff house next season, so I hope you can manage for now,’ he said, returning to saturnine mode. ‘Not that it’s any help, since you’re only here for a short while.’
‘It’s better than a lot of places I’ve stayed in. I know I’m fortunate to get somewhere to stay on site,’ she said, surprised that he felt the need to apologise for the standard of decor. ‘And besides, I approve of recycling.’
‘Good job.’ Will took a sudden interest in the rickety bedside table with its short leg. ‘Anyway, I was passing by and I wanted to say thanks for the tip about the pump and I er … thought I’d mention if there’s anything you need, let us know and we’ll do our best. The basics we can probably do, the Earl Grey and the gluten-free sponge might take a little longer.’
Oh my God, thought Gaby, was that an actual smile making his eyes crinkle at the corners? His actually rather gorgeous eyes … His dirt-streaked jeans were still tucked into the muddy indigo Hunters and it was hard not to giggle because Gaby thought she was one of the few people who could find a man in wellies sexy. He looked a few years older than her, his hair was tousled and his eyebrows could do with a bit of a trim, but she had a feeling he might scrub up pretty well. Very well – she could imagine him in black tie at a college ball … though he’d probably rather wear a clown outfit and stick a feather up his bottom, she thought and had to suppress an actual snort.
In fact, if he wasn’t such a sarcastic git with no charm or people skills, Will Godrevy would do nicely as a younger hot presenter of Countryfile or Gardening Today, two programmes she still secretly caught up with on iPlayer. Come to think of it, this place had better have decent wi-fi or she really would go mad. Dare she ask Will?
He glared at her.
OK. Perhaps not right now.
He gave a sort of humph that could have meant anything from ‘get lost’ to ‘hope you have a lovely stay’, shoved his hands in the pockets of his jeans and gave the room a glance.
‘Jess has shown you where the bathrooms are, I take it?’
‘Yes, and the kitchen and um … common room. Very practical.’
‘That’s one way of putting it. Is that your family?’ He inclined his head towards the photo.
‘Yes.’
‘Hmm.’
And? And? What the hell did ‘hmm’ mean?
‘Long way from Cambridge, aren’t we?’ he said.
Gaby’s hackles rose. ‘Three hundred and twenty miles, actually. That’s as the crow flies.’
His brow furrowed. ‘That’s not what I meant. I meant that this place is different to what you’re used to. A big change.’
‘That’s why I’m here,’ said Gaby firmly, determined not to show a moment’s weakness.
He exchanged a glance with her, very like the one they’d shared when she’d teased him about his buns. This one lasted slightly longer but had the same effect: giving her a prickly sensation that was both pleasurable and a little bit worrying.
He glanced away first though. Re-sult.
‘Right. I’ll leave you to it,’ he said, taking a strong interest in the tassels on her bedside lamp for some reason. ‘Oh. I’ve remembered the reason I wanted to pop in in the first place. I don’t know if Jess told you. Training starts tomorrow. Seven-thirty sharp at the packing shed. Len will show you the ropes and we’ll see how you shape up.’ He smiled encouragingly as if he regretted his choice of words. ‘I’m sure you’ll be OK with the right training, is what I meant. We’ll give you plenty of support.’
‘Sounds terribly exciting. I can’t wait.’ She tried to keep the edge of sarcasm out of her voice and failed miserably.
Damn Will Godrevy, how dare he come in here being nice to her – because he was trying to be nice in his own blunt way, she was convinced. Whereas she was acting defensive because she was tired and suddenly horribly afraid she had, in fact, made a huge mistake in running away to this outpost where no one gave a monkey’s that she had a PhD in poetry and only cared if she could pick a daffodil correctly.
‘Exciting?’ He gave the kind of tiny smug smile people do when they think they know some great truth about the world that you clearly don’t and wait until you do … ‘That’s one way of describing Len’s training. I expect Jess’ll be back later to see how you’re getting on and you’ll get to know everyone in the common room tonight. Enjoy yourself. See you tomorrow.’
Enjoy yourself? Gaby picked up the photo and sighed, then pushed up the corners of her mouth with her fingers. She was here. She knew what he was thinking, what they were all thinking: Grouchy Will, Scary Len, Gentle Giant Adam and even kind-hearted Jess. Despite fixing the pump, they all thought she was an airy-fairy flake and that she’d crumble within five minutes.
Gaby ran her finger over Stevie’s face. ‘And, Stevie, forgive me, but I may well do exactly that.’