The Garden of Forgotten Wishes - Trisha Ashley Page 0,105

at all if something more important or interesting turned up. It was very much in the nature of a quirky filler.

A few bold autograph seekers presented themselves, too, but were elbowed out of the way by a woman with an enormous bust atop a thin body and skinny legs under a too-short skirt. When she reached the front, she held out her hand.

‘We meet again, Professor Mayhem Doome,’ she said with an ingratiating social smile. ‘I’m Audrey Lordly-Grace, you know?’ Clara looked blankly at her and she added, ‘Surely you remember me? We met last year, when you opened the new community centre in Great Mumming and—’

‘Oh, did we?’ Clara said vaguely. ‘Is attending openings your hobby?’

‘My hobby? No, of course not! I—’

But at this point, the impatient queue of fans behind her, some of whom had brought copies of Clara’s latest novel for her to sign, jostled her out of the way.

She stood undecidedly on the edge of the group, looking disgruntled and affronted, then finally turned and tottered off through the arch on stilt-like stiletto heels. The gravel wouldn’t do them a lot of good.

I’d spotted Treena and Luke during the speech, as well as lots of other familiar faces from the village. Cress had been there too, though she hadn’t waited for her mother, but instead vanished with the rest of the crowd into the garden.

‘A good turnout,’ said Tottie Gillyflower to Ned.

‘Yes, and they’re still coming in,’ he agreed.

‘Of course they are, it’s going to be a huge success,’ Clara said, disposing of the last book offered to her with a flourish and handing it back. ‘There we are, duty done and now you can show me round this garden of yours, Ned. Henry is going to slip in quietly later for a look – you know how he hates crowds.’

I supposed she meant her famous poet husband, Henry Doome. The local community seemed rife with celebrities – real ones, who’d actually done something meaningful, not TV reality show stars.

We were all still gathered around her, but now suddenly recalled where we should be and the group broke up. Elf went back to the café and Gert into the garden to keep, as she explained, an eye on what the visitors were up to.

‘You can’t trust any gardeners among them. It’ll be out with the snippers and a plastic bag and away with a cutting or even a small plant, if you don’t watch them,’ she said darkly.

Lacking their audience, Lancelot and Guinevere jumped down from the roof and followed the official party into the garden, while I removed the pieces of yellow ribbon, coiled it up and put it in the Potting Shed. Then I took James and Steve a cup of tea each and found that, oddly, some people had made a beeline for the plants for sale before even seeing the garden, and their selections were being put to one side by Steve, for collection as they left.

James and Steve were glad of the tea and said they’d take it in turns to go and have a sandwich later, unless it was too busy, in which case one of them would fetch some over.

‘I’m going to take mine with me now. I thought I’d go and have a good session on the roses in the central beds at the back of the garden. They’re the last ones that need pruning, really; most of the rest are done. Then just a few beds to rake and we can feed and mulch.’

‘If that’s going to be with Gert’s special five-year-rotted manure compost, maybe do it on a day we’re closed,’ suggested James.

But before I went back to work, I simply couldn’t resist a quick walk round the garden to see how it was all going, which seemed to be very well. Groups of people were reading the information boards or wandering round the paths, Jacob’s flowers were drawing a crowd of fascinated visitors and Gertie was near the Poison Garden, keeping an eye on one or two small children whose parents barely seemed in control of them, despite the warnings on the leaflet they’d been given, the information board in front of them and the skull and crossbones on the gate.

‘Some of these parents are so daft, we might need a moat full of piranhas round the Poison Garden, too,’ Gert muttered darkly to me, as I passed.

Over the usually quiet garden hung a bee-like buzz of conversation and although it still felt magical, like