jet to New York.’ Sian laughed. She watched as Andy rummaged in her shopping bag for the bottles she had found in the house.
Sian reached for one; unscrewing it, she sniffed the liquid and grimaced. ‘As far as I can tell, that’s the right one. Rosehips and nettles with burdock, plus one or two other secret ingredients no doubt. To build them up before the winter.’
Andy looked down at the dogs under the table. ‘They look pretty fit to me.’
‘They are. Thanks to Sue.’ Sian sipped her coffee again. ‘Was Bryn there this morning?’ She reached down and scratched a dog’s ear.
‘Bryn?’
‘The gardener.’
‘I didn’t see anyone.’
‘I expect he will come when he’s good and ready.’ Sian looked at her thoughtfully. ‘Remember, a lot of Sue’s herbs are what you probably call weeds. Don’t go rooting about without checking with him first.’
‘I’m not going to touch the garden.’ Andy picked up her spoon and stirred her coffee. ‘That was part of the agreement. I’m in charge of the cat and keeping an eye on the house, that’s all.’
‘So, what are you going to do up there all day on your own?’ There was a long pause. ‘Sorry. None of my business.’
‘No. It’s not that.’ Andy sighed. ‘The truth is, I haven’t really thought. I’m a professional illustrator. I specialise in painting flowers, so I suppose I will go back to doing that.’
Go back.
It made it sound as though she had stopped.
But she had. She had worked with Graham for years. They had been a partnership in so many ways, kindred spirits, lovers, flower geeks. She smiled quietly as she recalled the term given to them by one of her half-brothers.
And now all that had gone.
Sian reached over and touched her hand. ‘Sorry. I can see I’m treading on painful ground.’
Andy took a gulp of coffee. ‘I have to get used to it.’ She took a deep breath. ‘I illustrated the books my partner wrote. He died two months ago. That part of my life is over and I have to rethink myself. I thought …’ She paused. ‘Sue thought coming here would be a good way of doing that, and I agreed with her.’
‘It will. A complete change of scene is the best possible medicine.’
Andy laughed. ‘Painting nettles and burdock would be a tonic on its own. I was painting rare orchids for Graham’s last book.’
A woman at the next table stood up and began to manoeuvre her child’s buggy out of the narrow corner. Andy and Sian grabbed for their table as their coffee cups rocked and slopped into the saucers. They waited in silence for the woman to extricate herself and then settled back down. ‘You’d think she would have apologised,’ Sian said quietly. She poured her coffee back into the cup from the brimming saucer.
Andy was chewing her lip. Babies were another thing to tug the heartstrings. Graham had not wanted any. She did not even have a child to comfort her in her loss.
Sian accompanied her back to the car park then waved goodbye. She had walked down to Hay from her house and firmly refused the offer of a lift back. ‘Good for me and the dogs to walk.’ She smiled. ‘I’ll ring you. You must come to supper soon.’
For a few minutes Andy stood staring wistfully after the retreating figure as Sian set off across the car park, through a gate in the far corner and into the field behind it, her dogs racing round her in delight as soon as she let them off their leads. Andy watched until she had vanished through a hedge on the far side of the field then she turned back to unlock her car.
There was an old mud-splashed Peugeot van parked in her spot outside the house. She edged her own car in beside it and ran up the steps to the front door. Letting herself in she glanced round. Presumably the mysterious gardener had at last put in an appearance and she wasn’t sure if he had a key. There was no sign of him indoors however. Nor could she see him from the kitchen window.
He was digging in a bed at the far end of the garden. She watched him for several minutes before approaching him, aware that Pepper was sitting on the path near him, apparently intent on studying his digging technique. About six feet away from him she stopped. He went on digging, seemingly unaware of her presence. Losing patience she cleared her throat. ‘Bryn, I presume?’
He paused in his work then, thrusting the fork into the ground, turned to face her. He was tall, his hair an unruly tangle, his eyes clear light grey, almost silver, his face weathered. Over a dark plaid shirt he wore a leather waistcoat. He didn’t smile nor did he say anything. He surveyed her in silence, presumably waiting for her to speak again. Determined not to be wrong-footed, Andy narrowed her eyes. ‘You are Bryn?’ she repeated firmly.
He pushed his sleeves up to the elbow, revealing muscular arms, one of which bore a small tattoo. She couldn’t see what it was from where she was standing. He nodded in answer to her question. ‘I’m Andy Dysart,’ she went on. ‘I presume Sue told you I was coming to stay here for a few months.’
‘A year, she said.’ His voice was strong with a slight lilt.
‘A year,’ she confirmed.
‘She left me instructions on how to run the garden,’ he said. ‘I won’t need to bother you.’
‘Would you like to come in and have a cup of tea while we talk about how it is going to work?’ From his expression she could already guess his answer and as she expected he declined.
‘I have a flask, thank you. As I said, I won’t need to bother you.’ And with that he turned away. He pulled the fork out of the ground, and swinging it over his shoulder he walked off towards what looked like an orchard on the far side of the herb beds.
Andy glanced at Pepper, who was looking inscrutable. ‘So, that went well,’ she said out loud. The cat raised a paw and cursorily swept it over his ear. ‘You’re right,’ she added. ‘My fault for even starting the conversation.’
Heading back towards the kitchen she let herself in and pulled off her jacket. If she had been looking for the occasional chat to relieve the solitude of this house she would not find it in Bryn, whose second name she didn’t even know and whose timetable she would no doubt find out by seeing which days he turned up. She felt a flash of irritation.
She spent the afternoon unpacking. Tidying the desk and putting all Sue’s papers in a drawer out of sight, she surveyed the empty space with satisfaction before turning to lay out her paints and brushes and sketchbooks on the large table. It was a gesture to stake her claim on the house, she realised, as she lovingly touched the tools of her trade. Up to now she had not been able to bear even the sight of them; somehow she had felt she could never paint again without Graham’s encouragement, his compliments, his quiet certainty in her skill but seeing them lying there on an unaccustomed surface in a different setting, she felt the lure of the paint again. When the time came her brushes would feel right in her hands once more.
Leaving them in place, ready for action, she turned away and began a tour of the house, slowly visiting every room, reminding herself of her previous visit with Graham. The house
