The Garden of Forgotten Wishes - Trisha Ashley Page 0,17

‘My sister in Great Mumming, who I stayed with over the weekend, has been storing a lot of things for me while I was away and I thought I’d bring some of them with me to sort out, if you don’t mind.’

‘Not at all – that seems very sensible.’

She took over the counter and Charlie soon had the contents of my car transferred to the flat and everything stacked in a corner of the living room. Then he hurtled precipitously back down the stairs to take over again from Elf and I was alone.

Faintly, through the floorboards, came the silvery celestial chime of the café doorbell – not noisy or disturbing at all but just gently welcoming.

5

Men Are from Mars

When I’d closed the door to the stairs behind Charlie I explored my little domain, which was simple, but just right. I thought there must originally have been two or three small rooms, which had been knocked into one to create the large living and kitchen area, and I’d certainly have plenty of space to bring over the rest of the things I’d stored at Treena’s and sort them out at my leisure. Assuming I had any leisure, that is, for I had no idea so far what my hours and days might be.

But Mum’s velvet-covered chair would look perfect by the hearth, and the small white bookshelf with my childhood favourites in it would fit against the wall next to it.

Someone – probably Elf – had thoughtfully stocked the fridge with milk, eggs, butter and cheese, and there was a fresh loaf of bread, a jar of honey and canisters of teabags and coffee. I loved good coffee and had a cafetière and a couple of bags of my favourite ground coffee in my luggage, but I made a cup of instant while I began to unpack my bags: my working clothes first, which was most of my wardrobe, my coats on the rack on the landing, with my boots and wellingtons underneath.

Then the box of favourite kitchen utensils, including my cafetière and a tea strainer in the shape of a slightly squat Eiffel Tower.

That would do for now: I’d enjoy arranging everything else later, putting my collection of French cookery and gardening books on the empty shelves and making a little display of the bits of old Quimper pottery I’d picked up at markets.

Already the flat looked like home, not just a temporary resting place. In fact, the moment I’d set foot in Jericho’s End, it had felt strangely welcoming, soft wings of familiarity folding around me.

Mum had said it was a special place and she was right – I knew already that I could bloom again here and reconnect, quite literally, with my native soil.

Perhaps I’d also be able to reconnect with Mum on some level? There were special places she’d mentioned in her stories, especially up by the Fairy Falls, even if there did seem to be some difference of opinion about the nature of their winged and elusive inhabitants. But they had been angels to Mum … and, I suspected, going by the paintings downstairs and the name of the café-gallery, to the as-yet unknown Myfanwy Price-Jones, too.

The sisters must be older than Mum would have been by now, but they surely had known her – and she had known the ice-cream parlour. It was an odd thought, a ripple in the fabric of time.

When I went downstairs to the café, Charlie was patiently explaining to a young family that no, they didn’t sell Coca-Cola or Dr Pepper, or anything like that, just home-made soft drinks. They seemed to be finding this concept difficult to grasp. He winked at me as I went past, then turned a serious, helpful expression back on his customers and said, ‘No, we don’t sell anything in bottles or cans that you can take away, just in glasses, to drink here …’

I tapped at the stable door, which was now closed, turned the handle and went in, finding myself on the threshold of a warm, large kitchen of the old-fashioned country variety, with an Aga, a long pine table with bunches of herbs and lavender hanging from a rack over it, shelves of jars and bottles … and an extremely large and hairy marmalade cat, staring at me from narrowed green eyes.

‘Do come in, Marnie,’ invited Elf, who was assembling what looked like Welsh rarebit at one end of the table. I hoped it was, because I’m very partial to it