at the till, she spotted an eight-foot Cornish palm in an enormous terracotta pot and a pair of large, blue glazed pots planted, the label said, with agapanthus. She bought the lot with great satisfaction.
She got back home to find the ivy neatly trimmed and her washing line expertly fixed back to the wall.
‘Tony, how kind of you to fix my washing line! And the privy looks very smart.’
‘I done the ivy all right, but Mr Ambrose fixed the washing line. Said as he thought the weather was so good, you might like to do some washing.’
Piran! Here again. Why couldn’t the bloody man keep out of her way? She looked over to the churchyard and there he was. Smiling his cocky little smile and tipping his non-existent hat at her.
‘Thought you might like to get some of your smalls out in the fresh air. Don’t worry, I’ve seen it all, so I’m not embarrassed,’ he shouted to her retreating back.
Grrrr. She took a deep breath and managed, ‘Thank you,’ through gritted teeth. ‘No plans for laundry today.’
*
It would have been a very pleasurable day if she wasn’t so uncomfortably aware of Piran working just a few feet away over the wall. His radio, his whistling, his phone going off and his loud voice as he answered, all served to jangle her nerves. Little Jack came over the wall once or twice to renew her acquaintance, but she tried to keep any conversation with Piran to the minimum.
At lunchtime, Piran and Jack drove off in the truck and Helen breathed a sigh of relief.
‘Can I get you some lunch, Tony?’
‘No thanks, I’ve got me sandwiches.’
‘Well, sit here with me and we’ll eat together.’
She pulled a wooden bench out into a patch of sun, and went inside to make herself a sandwich and a coffee.
When she came out, Tony was sitting in his upright barrow.
‘Are you comfortable like that?’
‘Yes, Mrs M. ’Tis lovely.’
She settled herself on the bench. ‘Tell me about your mum and dad.’
‘My dad was a fisherman and me mum was me mum. Dad went to hospital one day and died and Mum broke her heart. Broke my heart when she died ’n’ all. People can die of broken hearts, you know.’
‘Yes, I believe you.’ A silence. Then, ‘Do you have brothers or sisters?’
‘Nope. Mum and Dad said they broke the mould when they made me. Couldn’t have another like me, they said. “Simple Tony Brown, you’re a one off, you are.” That’s what they said. That’s what everyone says.’
‘You share the name of another gardener. A very famous one called Capability Brown. I think he’d have liked you working with him. You could have called yourselves Brown and Brown.’
‘Do you know him?’
‘Oh no, only of him. He died a long time ago.’
‘Broken heart?’
‘I’m not sure. But you are my Capability Brown from now on. May I call you Mr Brown? If I’m truthful, I prefer it to calling you Simple Tony.’
Tony looked at her, weighing things up.
‘OK.’
‘Thanks. Come on then, Mr Brown, we’ll just plant these last few crocus bulbs and then let’s get digging the vegetable patch.’
*
Together they dug really deep into the fertile soil, and Mr Brown trundled his old barrow back and forth across the village green at least a dozen times to collect the well-rotted manure from Pendruggan Farm. The farmer and his wife were only too happy to let it go.
Helen took her sweatshirt off, her muscles really warm now. The last bit to go was to dig two trenches for the runner beans and fill them with manure too. She and Mr Brown had a quick drink, he Ribena, she Diet Coke, and then they started.
As Tony thrust his spade into the ground, they heard a thud as it made contact with something hard.
‘Ow,’ said Mr Brown, shaking his jarred wrist. ‘What’s this?’
He carefully felt round with the spade, and gradually unearthed a black, painted tin box. It was around two feet across by sixteen inches wide and ten inches deep. He bent down and lifted it out.
‘Treasure, Mrs M.!’
‘Let’s have a look, Mr B.’
They carried it to the wooden bench and brushed as much soil off as they could, revealing a gold pattern in the Indian style which decorated the top and sides.
‘It’s so pretty,’ Helen said, lifting it and shaking it gently, ‘There’s something in it. I’ll wash this mud off my hands and get a damp cloth to wipe it over in case there’s something really precious in here.’
Once it was clean, she dried her hands on her discarded sweatshirt and eased the rusty lid open.
No water or rust had got inside to spoil anything. The first object was a beautiful jet brooch shaped like a black bird. It lay on a white blanket, which, when Helen shook it out, looked to be a baby’s shawl, the yarn spotted with age but the lacy crochetwork still beautiful. Under this lay a photograph of an Edwardian couple. The woman was holding a baby in her arms, and the man had his hand resting gently on the shoulder of a young boy aged no more than four or five years old. The final item was an ancient Peek Frean’s biscuit tin, which was something that looked like crushed ash. Perhaps the cremated remains of something, or somebody.
‘Oh my God. What is all this? Who does it belong to?’ gasped Helen.
‘I don’t know,’ said Tony, looking a bit pale. ‘I think we should bury it again so as not to disturb any spirits.’
‘Mr Brown! Don’t go soft on me now. This must be so precious to someone that they hid it. It’s our duty to return it to its rightful owner so that it has a happy ending. Don’t do you think?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Hmm. Well, I’m intrigued. Leave it with me and I’ll have a think what to do next. Maybe I’ll ask around – someone might know something. Exciting, isn’t it?’
‘No.’
‘Mr B, this is an adventure for us. What an end to our day! Tomorrow we’ll clear out the privy and see if there’s anything interesting in there, all right?’
‘OK. Bye, Mrs M. See you tomorrow.’
When he’d gone she closed the Peek Frean’s tin securely. As she did so, she noticed a small sticky label on the lid. In copperplate handwriting, it said Falcon.
A clue? She put everything back into the larger black tin and carried it carefully inside.
