The Garden of Forgotten Wishes - Trisha Ashley Page 0,7

a sudden lurch, dragging back my thoughts to the present. It was plunging up and down in a way that I found exhilarating, but I was feeling chilly and searched out a sheltered spot behind a lifeboat, where I took out Ms E. Price-Jones’s last missive to read again, even though I knew it pretty well by heart.

My sister and I are so glad you have accepted the position! The pay is not munificent, I have to admit, but the accommodation, a small self-contained flat, is of course included. The flat is situated at one end of Lavender Cottage, over the café-gallery, and comprises a bedroom, sitting room/kitchenette and the usual offices.

Your working hours will be divided between our small garden (largely given over to varieties of lavender, as you may have guessed!) and that of my nephew’s house next door, Old Grace Hall, the two being conveniently linked by an old, but sadly neglected, rose garden.

The Grace Garden behind the Hall was originally set out in the seventeenth century as a walled apothecary garden and is currently being restored. I am sure you will find it most interesting.

There certainly sounded plenty to keep me occupied there, even without the vague mention later in the letter of ‘occasional other duties as required …’

I hadn’t heard of the Grace Garden, but found the whole idea of a walled apothecary garden enchanting. I’d once visited and been fascinated by the Chelsea Physic Garden in London. And I also loved roses, so the challenge of a neglected old rose garden made me itch to come to the rescue, secateurs in hand.

It all sounded like my idea of heaven …

I suddenly realized that either the wind had shifted, or the boat had changed direction, for a gust tried to tear the letter from my hands and I hastily stuffed it back into my rucksack and headed inside to thaw out over hot coffee and croissants.

My drive north from Dover seemed endless, though I didn’t remember it taking so long when I was fleeing in the other direction.

I stopped often for coffee to keep me awake, and coffee had certainly improved in my absence, even in motorway service stations.

By the time I could finally abandon the M6 and head for the increasingly small roads that would take me to Great Mumming, I was very tired and having constantly to remind myself to drive on the left.

I felt an unwelcome pull of tension when I saw a sign for Merchester, and I wished Mike wasn’t still so close, even if he had totally lost interest in me. I tried to banish a sudden mental image of him sitting like a squat spider in the middle of his dark web, waiting for me to twitch the edges.

He wouldn’t even know I was in the area unless I bumped into him and I vowed to avoid Merchester like the plague.

It was All Fools’ Day, but I’d been there and done that, and I’d never be anyone’s fool again.

I got to Treena’s tiny end-terrace cottage on the very edge of the small town and, dazed by exhaustion but happy to be there, was borne indoors on a wave of warmth and dogs, fed supper and then fell into bed and instant oblivion.

3

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I woke very early, with the panicked feeling that I didn’t know where I was – but then, I’d often had that during the last few years, due to moving around so much.

Then I registered the familiar shape of Mum’s small, scroll-backed antique chair, upholstered in rubbed gold velvet, and it came back to me: I was in Treena’s spare room, into which had been wedged a narrow bed, a tiny chest of drawers with a mirror on top and a stack of boxes and bundles under a bright throw, which contained all the things Treena had been storing for me all this time.

The door opened slightly and Treena peeped cautiously round it, then when she saw I was awake, came and deposited a mug of coffee on the bedside table.

‘I didn’t want to wake you, but I’m just off for a ride and I’ll be back in a couple of hours. I’ll take the dogs with me. The cats have eaten; don’t let them tell you any different.’

‘OK, have a lovely ride. I feel wide awake now, so I’ll get up.’

‘Water’s hot for a shower, and help yourself to breakfast,’ she said, and vanished, though I could hear her boots on the stairs and then her voice