Chapter 3

CHAPTER 3

J ackson

I'm only half surprised when I find myself back at the bakery the next day, only this time it isn't the friendly, warm-eyed Ben serving. Behind the counter is a hulk of a man—a man mountain. I'm tall, but he has height on me, and bulk. A full head of red hair and an impressive beard to match.

I order a pasty, and after confirming I'd like it warmed, I look round for the cupcakes. Ben had said they were today's stock.

Have they sold out already? Shame, I was really looking forward to one. Perhaps I could ask.

I internally laugh at myself. Ask this huge and muscled guy for a purple cupcake? He'll laugh me out of the shop.Then I remember where unconscious bias had gotten me the day before, and anyway, I'm leaving the village in a few days. What does it matter what they think?

"Erm." I swallow. I can do this. "Do you have any of the, err, cupcakes, the err, purple ones?"

The man's eyes twinkle. "The ones with the rainbow sprinkles?" he asks in a Scottish accent. It doesn't help that he holds up a massive hand and rubs his fingers and thumb together to mimic sprinkling.

Shit . Ah well, too late now. I try my best level voice as I reply, "Yes please?"

The man breaks into a wide smile, showing a row of huge, perfect white teeth. "Aye, that we have." He turns and then I see them on the countertop behind him. His bulk had been concealing them from my view. He reaches for a cake box and then, going to the doorway through to the back of the shop, he shouts.

"Ben. Ben, you get in here now."

Ben, the man from the previous day, appears a few seconds later, wiping his hands on a cloth. He glances at the man and then he sees me and smiles. "Ah Mr Blake, back again."

"This young laddie here has been asking for yer cupcakes." Ben's smile widens. "What have I told you about giving away cupcakes to handsome guys?"

"Well, we'd run out of most things yesterday and he looked like he needed it."

The man turns back to me with his eyes twinkling. "That's how he got me, you know, though I think it was a yellow one with a star on it. I said I'd try anything once, though that wasn't all I tried, eh?" The man guffaws at his own joke.

"Though once wasn't enough." I must have looked perplexed as he continues. "I wasn't this size when I met him." He pats his ample stomach complacently. "For the other, I had to marry him." He guffaws again and sticks out a huge hand. "Keith McCullen. Welcome to Larchdown."

"Jackson Blake." I shake his hand.

"You stopping long?"

"A few days. I'm waiting for my van to be mended."

"So you won't be at the fete next week?"

"Fete?"

"We always have a village fete on May Day bank holiday. Call it May Day, Beltane, whatever yer celebrate. But we always have a good time on yon village green. There'll be more cupcakes," he promises, and laughs as he hands me my pasty and cake box.

"Maybe I will." I don't know how else to answer. I'm a little overwhelmed by Keith, but he seems good natured enough. A fete. Well, I'll be gone by then, but I haven't been to anything like that in years. Another mark on the quaintness-of-Larchdown tally I'm keeping.

"On the house." Darla gains my attention by plonking a pint down on the bar in front of me. Until then I'd been reading a book, comfortably sitting on a bar stool and leaning against a wall at the end of the bar. It's Saturday night. It had been quite busy earlier, with several villagers coming in for something to eat and to have a few drinks. But it's starting to empty as it's getting late. Darla's assistant, Olivia, is clearing glasses and plates from the tables.

"Thank you." I look up from my book.

Darla wipes the bar in true barman fashion.

"What's your story then?" She tries to sound casual.

Ah! No such thing as a free pint, then. I regard her and she looks determined, probably from many years of gaining information from people. I often wonder if that's why people own pubs—they want to know things about other people. I'm not so easily fooled.

"What's your story?"

"Not gonna be that easy then, huh?" Her mouth quirks. "Okay, my parents owned the pub. I lost my mum a long time ago. I ran it with my father until he died ten years ago, now it's mine. Your turn."

"No significant other?"

"Why are you doing this the hard way? You should know the time-honoured tradition of the drink-information exchange. I should take that pint back." In response, I pick it up and take a mouthful. As I put it down, I raise an eyebrow and give her my best "patiently waiting" face.

She sighs, "Fine, no, there was once, a long time ago. Emily." She gives a part amused, part resigned huff. "She wanted to travel the world. Part of me wanted to go with her, but I couldn't leave my father to run this place alone."

"You run it alone?" I'm good at stating the obvious, but it's a poor excuse and there's more she isn't saying. I rarely get involved in other people's business, but I'm now curious and, well, she started it. My comment gets a sharp look, and she looks like she's going to say something, but bites her lip instead for a few seconds before replying.

"I guess I'm just a stay at home kinda gal." She tries to give a nonchalant shrug, but there is definitely something else there. Pain and regret flashes in her eyes before she straightens up and gives me a brilliant smile. "Now I have my boys to look after."

Boys? She swings her head to gaze round the pub. There are a few men left in the pub, mostly in twos . . . twos, as in couples. Oh. I met Ben and Keith, but it seems like they aren't the exception.

"What about the girls?" Surely there are women in Larchdown? I'm sure I saw some.

Darla laughs deeply. "Oh, they can take care of themselves."

Now I'm really curious. "Is everyone in Larchdown, um, gay?"

Another laugh.

"Not by a long way. Len—he's the head of the parish council—and his husband, then boyfriend, moved in about forty years ago and the numbers have grown ever since. It's a very accepting community. I think it's that the old ladies on the Women's Institue like having someone who appreciates their knitting, though many of the guys are great knitters too."

Her attention swings back to me with a grin. "Your turn. Now you know all of our dirty secrets. Spill the beans."

I take another swig of my beer. I'm not going to get away with it then, but I can keep it simple.

"It's a usual enough tale. I lost my wife, I also lost my job. I wanted to start a new life, so I left."

"And you came to Larchdown?"

"That wasn't the plan. My van broke down."

"Well, you might find what you're looking for here."

"I doubt that."

"The world works in mysterious ways." I'm about to comment that I think that's bullshit when she disappears to call for last orders.

It's Sunday evening, and I've been in Larchdown for two days. I've investigated most of it—the main street and shops, the riverbank, the church and graveyard, some of the woods, and the Abbey. I walked out as far as the large house, but the gates were shut and padlocked, so I didn't go any further. There are still a couple of days until my van's going to be ready and then I'm gonna be on my way. Somehow, though, the need to leave doesn't feel so urgent, and I still have the problem of how to pay for my van.

As I enter the barroom, hoping to order some food for myself, I see Darla on her own and struggling.

"Can I help?" She shoots me a look of relief.

"If you could, that would be great. Can you just deliver these plates to table six please?"

I grab the plates and dutifully deliver them to the correct customers, only to be faced with another set of food, and then another. Then I'm put to clearing plates away and sending them back to the kitchen. In between, Darla shows me how to pull pints and work the till. I don't even notice time passing until I'm stacking the dishwasher with glasses and realise the pub's empty. Darla is propped up on a bar stool, looking frazzled.

"Phew, what a night. It usually gets busier on the run-up to the fete, but that was something else. Thank you so much for stepping in. Olivia called in sick and I was stuck. You were a real help."

"It was nothing," I reply, and in truth, I enjoyed myself. It felt good to actually be doing something. I've always worked hard—mostly physically, on gardens—so the last couple of days of inactivity have been hard for me.

"You know, I could really use your help for a few more days as well, if you're free." Darla's direct—I can appreciate that about her. You know where you stand. "I don't think Olivia will be well enough to return yet. I'll pay you, of course," she adds. "In fact, I'll pay you for tonight as well."

"Oh, no, that was me helping out," I retort, though I could sorely use the money. "But for a few days, yes, that'd be fine. I'll do it." Darla looks wearily relieved. Then my stomach grumbles.

"Oh, sorry Jackson, I bet you came in for some food. Pop into the kitchen and see if Philip can get you something."

Philip, the chef, and Alex, his son and assistant, are clearing away so there's no chance of anything hot. But they're kind enough to fix me a ham sandwich and at that moment, nothing had ever tasted better.

On Tuesday morning, I go over to the garage, to see how work on the old van is going.

"Coming on nicely. She's not a bad old truck, is she? I often prefer the older vans. They're simpler than the newer ones, full of electronics and computers and flashing up codes. Any mechanic who knows his job doesn't need to look up a code, they just need to listen to the engine. They all have their own rhythm."

Betsy has been mine for the last ten years. I bought her with a bit of money I saved up when I got my first job out of college. I've owned other vehicles, of course, ones Natasha thought were more appropriate for someone on the up—like a Mitsubishi L200 and some Mercedes thing she liked to drive around in—but Betsy was always there, waiting for me.

"Awful rust bucket," was one of the nicer things my ex-wife had said about her—the rest are unrepeatable. I even parked her at my mother's house for a few years when we moved into the larger house, because Natasha said it lowered the tone of the neighbourhood. She was the sort to complain when I came back dirty from a day at work. I'm a gardener—I'm not sure what she expected.

"David never gets all covered in dirt and compost," she'd whine at me. No, that's because David is the owner of the landscaping company. He just drives round in his Range Rover Sport and pays others to get their hands dirty.

Good riddance to the pair of them.

I ask Pete how much it will be. He runs his hand up the back of his head and gives it a scratch, an action I notice him doing when he's thinking.

"I reckon it'll be five hundred," he says at length. Five hundred! I know he probably knocked a couple of hundred off that. Even so, it's more than what I have left in my wallet.

"Ah, the thing is—" He stops me with a hand on my arm.

"Pay me when you can, son."

"How do you know?"

"You wouldn't have taken a job at the pub if you had enough money to get you through these few days waiting for your truck." Well, that's true.

"I can leave the van here so you know I'll pay you."

"You'll pay me, but I reckon you're in need of your van." I frown. "For the plants in the back. I don't know much about plants—I only know vehicles—but I know enough to know that they don't grow well in the backs of trucks." That's true enough.

"How do you know I won't take off and you'll never see me again?"

"You won't." He's direct and to the point, I'll give him that.

"Thank you Pete. I don't know what to say."

"Nothin' to say. Come back in a couple of hours. She'll be all done then."

I cannot believe his trust and generosity, and I say as much to Darla later.

"And will you be driving off and leaving without paying?" She asks.

"No," is my derisive snort.

"There you go then. Pete's an excellent judge of character." There it is again—a recurring theme for the village—the absolute faith in people to be decent and kind human beings. It's both comforting and highly disconcerting. But it feels safe, like you don't have to watch your back to see who's stabbing you in it. It's a strange little village, and it looks like I'm going to be staying a bit longer, at least until I pay my debt to Pete.

My more immediate problem is to try and find a place to put the seedlings. They need a couple more weeks in a greenhouse until I can harden them off, and I'm counting on them to start me off in my own business. I ask Darla, and a couple of the villagers who come into the pub, but no one has any greenhouses, or even greenhouse space, for them. I need to try and find somewhere to rent. I collect the van from Pete. I don't know what he did, but Betsy sounds better than she has for many years. I drive out of the village—not back towards the motorway, but in the direction of the hills—I'm sure there's another town along there somewhere. I pass the gates to the big house. They're still firmly padlocked, but as I travel along a rise in the road, I can just see some greenhouses not too far inside the gardens. And further along the wall is another gate, smaller than the main ones—just a pedestrian gate—but again, I can see the greenhouses. I stop the van. What if . . . what if they're empty? Surely no one would mind if I borrow them for a little while, just until I pay off the van, then I'll be on my way. Not having to rent greenhouses would mean I could pay it off sooner. I drum my hands on the steering wheel. I'll just go and see if there's anyone home first, I reason with myself and, making a U-turn, I drive back to the main gate.

"Hello! Hello," I call into the overgrown drive, and give the gates a good rattle. They move slightly, pushing last autumn's leaves in their wake. Looks like they haven't been opened in a long time.

Okay . I blow out a large breath. I'll see if the smaller gate opens. If it doesn't, then I'll carry onto the next town. Breaking and entering isn't on the list of things I'm comfortable with— just entering then. I push the thought away. I'll cross that bridge when I come to it.

I park Betsy again, at the small gate, and look it over. It isn't chained and padlocked like the main one, though it does have a piece of wire holding it shut. Damn . I look again at the greenhouses—they really would be perfect. Okay . I start to untwist the wire when it falls into two parts. Shit, is it breaking? Oh well, it just fell apart in my hands. I might as well make use of the situation.

The latch is stiff, but it does work, and within a few seconds I'm inside the walls. I can see the greenhouses about a hundred yards away, and although the paths are overgrown, I manage to push enough of the branches and bits of hedges away to make my way to them. There are two. Both very old-fashioned, possibly cast iron, maybe Edwardian or even Victorian—they're beautiful. Sadly, several panes of glass are broken in one of them, but the other looks mostly intact, and thankfully, the door opens. Well, it opens and then won't close again, but it'll be enough for my seedlings.

It's another half an hour's work to transfer all the plants from the van to the greenhouses. By that time, I've managed to walk a path through the undergrowth, which makes it easier each time. I've located a couple of water butts that were fed from the greenhouse roofs, and although they hadn't been cleaned in years, they weren't close enough to the trees to get clogged up with leaves and dead matter. The one that acts as an overflow is relatively clean—clean enough anyhow. After giving the plants some water, I head back to the van, carefully latch the gate, and make it back to the pub in time for work.