Chapter Twenty Two

J une has become July, and Mara has spent the last two days pottering in the garden at Lavender Cottage and loving it, to her surprise. It could be the ghost of Ellen, gently chiding her for her botanical ignorance.

More likely it’s the cheery presence of Mr Gregory, the weekly gardener. A born and bred Forester, as he told Mara the day she met him, Mr Gregory is well into his sixties if his weather-creased face and bony hands are a judge, and has enough botanical knowledge for the two of them.

On his third visit, Mara offered to show him Aaron’s journals, saying they belonged to her mother, and Mara believes Lavender Cottage is the subject of the sketches and entries inside.

Mr Gregory washed his hands at the outside tap, dried them on his trousers, and lifted the pages of the first journal with care. He hmm’d and ahh’d softly, muttered well, well. When he finally looked up, Mara was sure his eyes were moist

‘Ellen, with her first chick,’ he murmured. ‘My old grancher used to tell tales about this here cottage.’ He closed the book, laid a hand on the leather cover as if giving or receiving a blessing.

‘Your grancher?’

‘My grandfer,’ Mr Gregory explained with the patience of one long used to the ignorance of outsiders. He’s tended the cottage garden since before Jack bought it and has met his share of holiday-makers, or ‘vurriners’, as Mara has learned.

Mara’s pulse pumped harder. ‘What kind of tales?’

‘Simple ones, ’bout how he be sent here as a boy to fetch ointments, potions for his own grandmama who swore by Mrs Hester’s medications, made from these here flowers and what she gathered in the woods and the meadows.’ He grinned. ‘Course the old lady died eventually, ’twas expected at hundred and one.’

Mara tried to be delicate with her next question. ‘Are you old enough, Mr Gregory, to remember Hester and her daughters living here? And Aaron too?’

‘Mrs Hester died when I be near grown. As for Aaron … No man living here as I recall, not ever.’ He peers at the journal, frowns. ‘Were allus women. That were part of it, you see, they be women on their own.’

‘Yes,’ Mara said. Women on their own must be strange, or worse, suspect. Not much changes.

‘Granny Goode, Ellen, too, ’member her well,’ Mr Gregory went on. ‘Husband died in first war, if I be right.’

‘Yes,’ Mara says.

‘Her daughter went off to London when I be a youngster. What were her name?’ He screwed up his eyes, mumbling about his lack of memory.

‘Kathryn?’

‘Yes!’ Triumph followed by a questioning frown. ‘Kathryn be relative of your’n?’

‘My mother. She died at the beginning of the year.’ Mara tells the rest in a rush, about finding the journals in the loft – a proper beginning to an adventure, she says, laughing – and the coincidence of renting the cottage from Jack Hewson, and discovering they are cousins of sorts. Once or twice removed, cousins nevertheless.

‘Cousins?’

‘Ellen had a sister, Rose. She’s Jack’s grandmother.’

‘Ah.’ Puzzlement creased Mr Gregory’s high forehead. ‘She didn’t live in Barnley, then.’

Mara smiled. If she didn’t live in Barnley, Mr Gregory wasn’t aware of her existence.

‘Shiphaven,’ she said, and he nodded.

‘Right, standing here jabbering won’t weed the beds.’ Mr Gregory tipped his head towards the waiting flowers.

‘My mother, Kathryn,’ Mara said, ‘was an avid gardener. Had a magic touch, I’m told. My daughter has it too. Bypassed me.’ Her laugh this time hid the uncalled-for shame which rose in her chest.

‘Magic touch.’ Mr Gregory stroked his chin. ‘Rumours still about in the village,’ he said, ‘’bout the women here being of the wise folk, what some might call witches.’

A shiver tingled up Mara’s spine. There it was again, witches. ‘I’ve heard.’

‘Last century,’ Mr Gregory said in a conspiratorial tone, the flowers forgotten, ‘there be all sorts of goings on, according to Grancher.’ He pressed his lips together. ‘Story ’bout a fisherman be drowned in river, right at t’ end of stream here, and witches be there.’ He gestured across the garden. ‘Gossip and rumours.’

Mara’s interest was more than piqued. She recalled the librarian in Cinderford, Miss Griffiths, muttering about Barnley, the 1890s, a story which may or may not have involved Hester or Aaron. Miss Griffiths hadn’t been in touch with any details. Was she thinking of Mr Gregory’s story? Mara should call, see if it sparked her memory.

‘Mayhap be best you not be the gardening type.’ Mr Gregory grinned. ‘Can’t be accused of being a witch. Besides, flowers tain’t everyone’s cup o’ tea.’

Mr Gregory was gracious, and when Mara brought him a literal cup of tea shortly afterwards, he was happy to answer her questions about the various plants. She had asked, tentatively, what he knew about their medicinal uses. Rosemary for memory was about the extent, he told her.

Having her fingers in the dirt frees Mara’s thinking – random, rambling notions, happy and otherwise.

Uppermost is Peter’s phone call the night she went to Shrewsbury and his veiled accusations of her desertion. She pushes the garden fork – found in a cane basket in the laundry shed – into the dry soil and sits on her heels.

The fact Peter needs her has been a constant, making sense of Mara’s existence. Her role, as well as taking care of Josie, has been to agree with him when he grumbles about office politics, cheer his successes, care for home and hearth when he is required to burn the midnight oil, put food on the table, clean sheets on the bed, ironed shirts in the wardrobe. A career wife and mother. For these things, yes, he might need her, although he’s doing fine, she assumes, while she’s here. No, his complaint wasn’t about a lack of physical care. On the other hand, neither did he say he missed her, as a presence.

The sneaky notion she’s being set up rears its drowsing wicked head. The one who abandoned the marriage, left him to his own devices. Pushing the guilt on to her.

Except, if she’s right about Peter having an affair – she’s losing the energy to convince herself he’s not – Peter abandoned their marriage many months ago, long before Mara took herself off to England.

***

Half the tables in the King’s Shilling’s beer garden are strewn with empty crockery and glasses, the other half have couples or groups sitting at them with tall beers, fat ciders, red or white wines, soft drinks before them and plates piled with burgers, pasta dishes, salads.

Mara finds a table in the shade. Her stomach rumbles. Gardening gives you an appetite. Taking note of her table number, she leaves her summer jacket on the table to claim ownership and walks into the cool of the bar. The same young lass is taking orders and pulling beers and ciders.

‘Hello.’ The girl hands a tall gentleman in walking gear his change and addresses Mara with a friendly smile. ‘What can I get you?’

She orders a chicken salad and a sparkling water, asks if the boss is about today. He’s in the kitchen. Tom, the cook, had to leave early, medical emergency with his mum, which means Jack is doing what he can to make sure the customers don’t starve.

‘Pretty certain he can do a salad okay.’ The girl giggles and takes Mara’s credit card to run through the machine.

Under the shade, Mara drinks and reviews the notes she made at the Records Office in Shrewsbury. She’s keen to tell Jack what she learned, even though her findings don’t solve the mystery of what happened to Aaron Appleby and why his daughters, especially Rose, didn’t use his surname.

The chicken salad is eaten, her drink emptied. It’s a few minutes past two, and no more food will be served. Mara takes her plate and glass inside, leaves them on the bar. The girl, clearing tables, nods a thank you. Given Jack has a double workload, Mara is about to leave when he comes out of the kitchen, wiping his hands on a towel.

‘Hi,’ he calls. ‘Emmy said you were here. Salad good?’

Emmy tosses a smile across the room at the mention of her name.

Given the serious tone in Jack’s question, Mara responds with an enthusiastic, ‘Best I’ve ever eaten,’ and he laughs at her hyperbole.

‘Thought you might be interested in what I dug up in Shrewsbury,’ she says, ‘but you’re extra busy today. Let’s leave it for another time.’

‘You found something?’

‘About Aaron Appleby. Proof of his existence, his age and where he grew up.’

‘If you can hang on for a bit while me and Emmy finish clearing, I’ll buy you a drink and you can tell me.’

Mara considers. She has nothing better to do. Yes, she does. ‘I’ll go one further. I’ll help with the clear-up –’ she holds up a hand ‘– in order to get my drink quicker.’

‘I can’t possibly –’

‘Yes, you can.’ Mara throws out her hands, grinning. ‘Given I’ve been digging in flower beds all morning, slaving in a pub kitchen sounds like the right way to round out the day.’

Twenty minutes later, they are at Mara’s table, which is losing its shade as the sun shifts across the hot sky. They sit on the same side, hogging the shadows, and Mara is aware of Jack’s warm body close to hers. She focuses on the notepad.

‘Census records gave me the Appleby family on the outskirts of Shrewsbury,’ she says, ‘and Aaron’s there in 1861, less than a year old, and in 1871 age ten.’ She glances at Jack who is peering at the page. ‘No sign of him in 1881 or 1891, although his parents are at the same address.’

‘And you didn’t find him in this area in 1891 either, did you?’

‘No. He could have been anywhere.’

‘Congratulations, anyway. You’ve found out when he was born, 1860.’

‘A lot older than Hester.’ Mara flicks to her Barnley Parish register notes. ‘She was nineteen in 1891, with a baby.’ She does a quick calculation. ‘Twelve years younger than Aaron.’

Mara conjures the sketch of Ellen and the yellow chicken, with the Appleby in brackets. ‘Do you suppose Aaron adopted Ellen, informally or not, after he married Hester?’

Jack lifts an eyebrow. ‘Or he was Ellen’s father, and he didn’t find out until later. He might have been travelling, or with his parents.’

‘He seduced her?’ Heat flushes Mara’s cheeks, ridiculous for a woman pushing fifty

‘Ooh la la.’ Jack laughs. ‘Those Victorians did get up to naughties, for sure.’

‘If so, he came back, married her, made her a respectable woman.’ Mara consoles herself with this fact. She doesn’t want Aaron to be a seducer of virginal girls. The notion doesn’t gel with the lovingly drawn images.

‘Except Ellen wasn’t given his name.’ Jack scratches his chin. ‘And what about Rose? If she’s Aaron and Hester’s child after they married, wouldn’t she be Rose Appleby?’

‘I guess it’d be a long shot to ask if you knew when your grandmother was born?’ Mara widens her eyes, waiting for the affirmation.

It comes with a splutter. ‘Find it hard to remember my own birthday these days.’ Jack’s eyes glitter with fun. ‘Mostly because I spend a lot of hours trying to forget it.’

Is it polite to ask how old he is? Mara puts him in his early fifties. She holds up her glass in a salute. ‘Snap,’ she says, and they tap glasses, mouths stretched in matching mockery. The moment is oddly intimate, a shared sense of time passing.

Jack holds her eyes a moment longer, clears his throat. ‘Where to from here?’ he asks. ‘In the search for your mystery man.’

Mara crosses her arms on the table and gusts out a breath. ‘Mr Gregory,’ she says, ‘told me he’d never heard of any man living at Lavender Cottage, just women.’ She wrinkles her nose. ‘Which was behind the reason for the witchy rumours of course.’

‘Of course,’ Jack repeats. ‘A woman should have a man about the place to keep her respectable.’

Mara tries to glare at him, loses the battle and laughs. ‘Not us old women,’ she counters.

‘Who’s old?’

His voice is too soft to be a joke.