would fight back, that the undergrowth would tear at his skin and be full of thorns.
He managed it in the end, freeing the door of everything but cobwebs, the rusty latch hanging off, the padlock that had once secured it dangling uselessly from its hasp. He gritted his teeth and pulled. The door didn’t move. He pulled again, careless of the blood dripping from his fingers and from the deep scratch across the back of his hand. He was sweating from his exertions, the cold seeping into his body now he had stopped, and he was exhausted. When the door resisted, he wanted to sit down and cry. He gripped the edge of the rotten boards once again dragging at it with the last of his strength and reluctantly it began to move. He pulled one more time and with a deafening squeak and groan of rusty hinges it opened. He was past caring if anyone had heard as at last he shone his torch inside.
The shed was a lean-to, mostly empty. In the far corner was an ancient mower, draped in rotting tarpaulin; there were broken rakes and spades leaning against the wall and a pile of ancient flower pots. The ground was beaten earth. He shone the torch upwards and saw the underside of the roof, some of it tiles, some rusty metal, all precariously balanced on split and sagging beams. It looked as if the slightest breath of wind would bring it down.
He bit his lip. It would do as a temporary hiding place but not for long. It was not secure and it was far from weatherproof. If the paintings were left in here for more than a few days they would be destroyed. He cursed again. He should have thought of bringing something waterproof to drape over everything. He shivered. He could not change his mind now. There was no plan B. His only option was to cart the stuff from the car, stack it in here, behind the mower, refasten the door and drape the ivy back into place as best he could. Once he was safely home in the warm and dry he could try and think of somewhere better to hide the stuff. He glanced towards the house. It was all in darkness. They must have gone to bed. He was amazed at the shot of jealousy and disgust that knifed through him at the thought of Ruth and that fat slob together.
Ruth was eating a bowl of breakfast muesli the following morning when there was a knock at the kitchen door. She froze, her spoon halfway to her mouth.
Slipping off the stool, she opened the door to a tall, lanky man with fiery red hair and bright blue eyes. ‘I’m Lachy.’ He held out his hand.
‘Lachy?’ She shook it, bewildered.
‘Did Finlay not mention I’d be coming to tidy the garden?’
He accepted a cup of coffee, and stood leaning on the sink as he sipped from it. ‘Have you heard from Finlay?’
‘No. I was going to text him to see if he had arrived safely.’
‘He’s not very good at keeping in touch when he’s on one of his research trips.’
She laughed. ‘You obviously know him very well.’
‘We go back a long way. I come in from time to time to keep an eye on things here. If I didn’t, Finlay would be lost in the jungle by now. The man doesn’t understand that things grow and when you cut them down they grow again.’ He laughed.
‘Isn’t that odd. You would think as a cook he would have a fantastic kitchen garden. There’s plenty of room here.’
He blew the steam off his coffee and took a sip. ‘Gardening needs to be a passion to keep on top of something like that. He hasn’t the time. And he knows someone who grows wonderful organic veggies for him.’
‘You?’
‘Me.’ He laughed again.
‘And is that your main job?’
‘No, I design software. That’s why I have to get out in the air sometimes. I have my allotment and I have this place to indulge my need of sun and wind and rain. Sun today, so I thought I’d rake up some of the leaves.’
‘And he pays you for all this?’ It was none of her business, but she was intrigued.
‘No. He offered, but I told him he couldn’t afford me! We keep it informal. My wage is the joy of being here. Besides, I like Fin. I bring my kids sometimes to play; they adore him.’
That was a side of Finlay she had never suspected.
Lachlan drained his cup and put it in the sink. ‘I will be on my way out then. If there’s anything you need, give me a shout or call me. Fin’s got my number on his corkboard over there. I’m very happy to come over. And don’t be afraid to explore the garden. It needs to be loved.’
She sat for a long time after he had let himself out. It was strangely reassuring to know there was someone there for her.
She had started building a timeline of Thomas’s life. The night before she had read a copy of the letter he had sent to his brother about his stay in Jamaica and how he had sent a tortoise to his mother. She wondered idly if the creature ever reached England safely and what Lady Buchan had thought about the strange animal destined to wander in her garden.
She picked up her pen. It was a year later. HMS Tartar was sailing north towards Florida on her regular patrol up and down the western seas. The sea was blue, a pod of dolphins leaping and diving under the bow of the ship, the wind steady from the north-west. She had discovered there were actual log books from the ship still in existence and online. The lieutenant had spotted the tell-tale signs of a storm on the horizon. She wondered at what point he would have made sure the captain knew. Was that when they would take in sail and batten down the hatches?
In the garden, Lachlan went on raking the leaves into piles ready to put them on the bonfire. Methodically he worked his way across the lawn, as usual lost in thought. It was a while before he noticed the trail of footprints in the long wet grass. They led from the front drive round the back of the garage and into the undergrowth behind the fir trees. Puzzled, he stared at them for several seconds, then he decided to follow them to see where they went. Leaning his rake against a tree, he ducked into the cold wet shadows.
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