interest a grower in a restoration project.’
‘And have sponsorship signs all over the place? I’ll stick to the bedding plants, thanks.’
‘All they’d want is a discrete little plaque somewhere, acknowledging their contribution. I’ve seen them in other great gardens.’
‘So what do they get out of it?’
‘In this case I imagine they’d love the chance to take cuttings, use modern methods to breed from your old varieties,’ she offered. ‘Their PR people would commission a book on the restoration project—you could sell it to your guests—and provide articles for gardening magazines, the Sunday supplements, lifestyle magazines. Everyone wins.’ She put down the mug, aware that she was letting her passion run away with her tongue. ‘I have to get back to work, Hal.’
‘Next time bring cake.’
‘Is that an open invitation? I do a great Victoria sandwich with homemade raspberry jam—’
‘Goodbye, Claire.’
‘I make the jam myself,’ she said, her mouth running away with her, even while her head was saying, ‘Go. Now.’ ‘With raspberries from my garden.’
‘That would be perfect. And don’t forget that you owe Archie two applies.’
‘Two?’ He’d remembered her desperate appeal as she was chased down the path? ‘While I’d be the first to admit that Archie is a smart donkey, I doubt he keeps a tally,’ she said. ‘Besides, since he didn’t deliver on the deal, I don’t think he has a leg to stand on.’
‘Then just come yourself. He gets lonely.’
‘What about you, Hal? This is a big place to live in on your own.’
‘Two apples, a Victoria sandwich,’ he said, ‘and you can send me the name of a rose specialist. Just in case I change my mind.’
HAL stood at the open French windows, listening to a blackbird sing, trying to blot out the image of Claire Thackeray.
Her concerns for an old donkey, a neglected garden, for Gary were beginning to eat away at his armour, undermine his determination to visit the sins of the father on her head.
Bea was right. He should have left this to the professionals.
* * *
Claire walked home, her head in a whirl, scarcely noticing where she put her feet. Talk about the good news and the bad news…
All she’d wanted to do was reassure herself that Archie was okay. Job done. But walking into the courtyard and seeing Hal on his back with a motorcycle in bits around him had been a heart-leap moment, a flashback to the boy in leathers astride his own bike. Today, though, she hadn’t been an outsider. She’d been there, working alongside him and for a while had felt like a kid herself.
It couldn’t last.
On some subconscious level, she’d always known that her father must have been involved in Hal’s banishment. He’d been the estate manager, he ran Cranbrook Park. He engaged and dismissed staff, dealt with maintenance, arranged shoots and fishing parties.
Keeping order had been his responsibility.
She might be reduced to jelly-bones by Hal, but she could well understand why he’d been so peppery when they’d met. It hadn’t just been the crash. She was a Thackeray and in his shoes she wouldn’t have wanted to have anything to do with her, either.
She was amazed that he answered her phone calls. He could easily have left them to Penny, or let them go to voice mail. And he’d listened to her on the rose garden. That was good news. It would mean he was invested in Cranbrook Park, in the Hall.
As for that moment when he’d challenged her commitment to her job, being a journalist was what she did.
It put food on the table, kept Ally safe. It was what she’d always been going to do. She might not be working for the BBC, or be a high-flying correspondent for one of the broadsheets, but she was doing her best to fulfil the ambitions of her parents. Speaking of which—
She sat on a grassy bank, took out her phone and called Brian.
‘Where on earth have you been?’ he demanded.
‘It’s a big estate, Brian, but I haven’t seen any sign of surveying so far.’
‘Nothing?’
‘Nothing.’ Which was true. ‘But I have heard a whisper that Mr North is thinking about restoring the rose garden.’
‘And?’
‘It’s a famous garden. Bags of history.’ She glanced at her watch. ‘It’ll be a waste of time coming back to the office. I’ll do some research at home and maybe we can run something tomorrow?’
‘We’re running the Teddy Bear’s Picnic story tomorrow.’
‘I haven’t finished it.’
‘I have. Mr Mean Targets Teddies. The garden story can go in the home supplement on Saturday.’
She muttered an expletive she wouldn’t have used at home and dialled again.
‘North.’
‘Hal…’
‘Claire… Twice in one day.’
‘Sorry, but I need to talk you out of cancelling the Teddy Bears Picnic.’
‘Sorry.’
‘Not a chance?’
‘No.’
‘That’s a shame. The news editor’s wife is the treasurer of the animal-rescue charity that benefits from the event.’
‘Then I’ll brace myself for tomorrow’s edition.’
‘Don’t buy it unless you want to see a really sweet photograph of you, aged six, dressed as one of the three bears in a primary-school play on the front page,’ she said,
‘I take back everything I said. You are ruthless.’
‘Absolutely,’ she said, heart sinking.
‘Why don’t they hold it at Memorial Park?’ he suggested.
‘You’re not getting it. We need woods. If you go down to the woods today…?’ She sang a snatch of the song.
‘You are not doing your case any favours.’
‘You’ve got until the paper goes to press to reconsider.’
‘Don’t hold your breath.’
‘No.
