The Garden of Forgotten Wishes - Trisha Ashley Page 0,116
and croissants!), before Ned and I went over to the Village Hut.
Steve had already opened up and was pinning some of the bunting, which had been returned after the garden opening ceremony, along the fence.
In one of the small back rooms, used as a dressing area when they were staging pantomimes, I donned the all-in-one bunny costume, and zipped it right up. It was quite a good fit, but in the mirror I could see my heart-shaped face surrounded by brown and white fake fur and topped with big, floppy ears, and I didn’t think it was a good look.
Elf was waiting outside when I emerged and drew whiskers on my face with her eyeliner pencil, as the finishing touch. It certainly finished Ned off, because he couldn’t keep his face straight.
I stomped out into the garden, observed only by a puzzled Japanese couple, who took a million long-distance snaps as I obeyed Elf’s instruction to: ‘Hop, dear, hop!’
Carrying the big basket of chocolate eggs, I half-heartedly lolloped off, followed by Elf with the little paper flags, while Ned took a few photos before dashing off back to his office to print them out on A4.
The grounds of the Hut weren’t extensive and just tussocky grass and small bushes, so the eggs were not really hidden, just laid down in clutches, or singly if large, marked by a flag.
It seemed to take ages, but finally the basket was empty, and by that time Ned had returned with the pictures of the Easter Bunny printed out in glorious colour. He and Steve fixed them to the fence by the gate, over which now rose a wire arch, covered in yellow tissue paper flowers. A sign had been put out, announcing that the annual Easter egg hunt would open at eleven, for children of eight and under, and a small table covered in a white cloth now stood just inside the garden.
On it was a stack of small plastic baskets, borrowed from the pub, a heap of triangular cellophane bags (completely biodegradable, according to Elf), and a collecting box for the fifty pence admission charge. Under the table, hidden by the cloth, stood an open box of small chocolate eggs, ready for the less successful hunters.
With relief, I went back into the Hut to change and left the bunny costume draped over the back of a chair, like a very peculiar empty chrysalis. But when I attempted to remove the whiskers in the cloakroom, they proved surprisingly resistant. Elf must use waterproof eyeliner pencil. I managed to scrub them off eventually, though, leaving temporarily rosy cheeks.
Outside, there were now more people about and Elf went back to the café to open up, while Ned and I retired to the garden office for a well-deserved cup of coffee.
‘There’s plenty of time before we open. I expect James will be in soon, so you could pop over to the Hut just before eleven and watch the egg hunt start,’ Ned suggested. ‘I’ve seen it a million times so I’ll stay here and give the gravel paths an extra rake, then we can carry on digging out the long beds when you get back.’
I was curious enough to agree and found Gertie there with Steve, and also the vicar.
The Reverend Jojo Micklejohn was a small, plump woman who might have been in her late sixties or early seventies, with short, silvery blond curls, bunchy pink cheeks and shrewd dark blue eyes.
On being introduced she said, rather alarmingly, that she’d heard a lot about me and that I would always be welcome at St Gabriel’s, if Ned ever allowed me any time off.
‘I’ve been told about your lovely angel window and I’m going to visit the church as soon as I get the chance, so I can see it,’ I told her.
‘It’s a very old church, well worth seeing,’ she assured me.
Apparently, she was semi-retired, and St Gabriel’s, Jericho’s End and a couple of remote moorland hamlets comprised her whole parish.
Elf, who’d reappeared, whispered in my ear, ‘There’s a big monster of a Victorian church in the middle of Thorstane. The vicar there has a much bigger parish to look after, but St Gabriel’s has always been the Jericho’s End church, even if it is only just outside the Thorstane boundary.’
She glanced back at the café, where I could see customers already sitting outside at the small tables and the stripy awning pulled out. It looked like another bumper day for ice-cream.