Spring on the Little Cornish Isles: The Flower Farm. Phillipa AshleyЧитать онлайн книгу.
parents about it. The consultant had come and done thorough tests and said there was absolutely no brain reaction recorded at all, they were incredibly sorry … she must have dreamed it … maybe she might want to go home for some rest?
A few hours later, after Gaby had finished crying, she was half-dozing in her chair and woke to find the TV on. She saw a smiley presenter in a wax jacket tell the audience about the tiny islands where the Gulf Stream ensured the climate was so mild in the winter that subtropical plants thrived all year round and daffodils bloomed in September. The sea had been azure, the flowers and plants dazzlingly bright and the people cheerful and resilient. It felt so removed from the dim hospital room, even though it actually was on her doorstep in global terms. It was beautiful, soothing and peaceful and exactly what she wanted to do.
‘Flowers seem intended for the solace of ordinary humanity.’ John Ruskin’s words had slid into her mind after the feature had finished.
She would go to Scilly, she resolved. She would see the flowers, visit the gardens, live, breathe and work with the narcissi when this was all over …
Looking back, Gaby realised that was the moment when she accepted that it was all over for Stevie. But not for her and that he would never want her to give up or give in. Stevie had escaped the shell of his body the day he crashed the bike. She didn’t know where he was now, but her life had to go on, for her sake, for his, for her family’s …
Unlike Carly, Stevie had understood what Gaby’s idea of ‘adventure’ was. She sat on the bed and unwrapped her other treasure: her last birthday present from him: a book called 100 Gardens to See Before You Die. Since he’d gone, she hadn’t been able to open it and re-read his message inside; it was just too heartbreaking. Besides she had committed it to memory long ago.
To Gaby,
I dare you to visit them all!
Don’t dream your life, live your dreams – whatever they may be.
Love, Stevie xx
Visiting one hundred gardens might not count as a wild adventure to some people and Gaby doubted if she’d see more than a fraction but after she’d finished her contract at the farm she could make a start, helped by the money she’d earn as a picker. She’d already seen some of the UK gardens and made a list of her favourites – Versailles, Giverny, the Majorelle in Marrakech, Kenroku-en in Japan, the Desert Garden in Phoenix and Adelaide Botanical Gardens.
OK. Her first day hadn’t been that exotic so far judging by her encounter with the scowling Will Godrevy and his muddy wellies. However, it was only the first step on the journey and she had at least made it. She turned away from the window and back to her room. She heard swearing from the next room and a thud as the partition wall shook. The bedside table trembled on its beer mat prop. Then there was giggling and shortly afterwards the rhythmic bumping of headboard against wall, accompanied by grunts and groans like someone was trying to finish a marathon.
Hmm. She rolled her eyes. It wasn’t much different from her college after all, only the walls were thinner here.
She’d call her parents shortly to let them know she was here and absolutely fine. She might even call Carly, if she could track her down between her high-powered job in the City, and her personal training appointments, yoga and mindfulness classes.
Gaby shouldn’t be too harsh. Throwing herself even more crazily into her job had been Carly’s way of coping with Stevie’s accident and the agonising decision that the Carter family had been faced with four weeks later. Carly had decided to leave no space or time for grieving, and Gaby had decided to run away from it.
She didn’t just have her own grief to deal with. She was worried how her parents would be able to cope with the loss of a son at only twenty-one. She phoned and Skyped them regularly and intended to go home over Christmas. In the midst of their grief, the one thing they’d been adamant about was that Carly and Gaby should get on with their lives. After Stevie had passed away, her mother and father had virtually pushed them out of the door insisting that their daughters should ‘make the most of every minute’.
Had they really meant it, thought Gaby, gazing around this strange little room on a tiny island where at least two of the inhabitants – Frosty Will and Scary Len – were hardly delighted to see her. Was flying out here to work on a flower farm ‘making the most of every minute’ or just a way to hide from pain that would resurface again at any moment? She wished she could fix her grief and sorrow as easily – and miraculously – as the water pump. She was sure things wouldn’t run so smoothly in the weeks to come, from any point of view.
Gaby’s gaze lingered on the photo of Stevie again. The only personal touch in that bare little room so far from home. It lingered that bit too long and she had to squeeze her eyes hard as the tears stung the back of them.
She mustn’t get homesick or maudlin when she’d only been here ten minutes. She wasn’t a snivelling postgraduate any more: she’d chosen to come here. Stevie would be rolling his eyes and telling her to grow a pair.
‘Everything up to scratch?’
Gaby swung round at the sound of a gruff voice.
‘Mr Godrevy. Sorry – Will. Yes, I’m just trying to find room for all my stuff.’
Was that a flicker of amusement as he took in the few possessions?
‘It’s not Buckingham Palace, but we’re planning to do up the entire staff house next season, so I hope you can manage for now,’ he said, returning to saturnine mode. ‘Not that it’s any help, since you’re only here for a short while.’
‘It’s better than a lot of places I’ve stayed in. I know I’m fortunate to get somewhere to stay on site,’ she said, surprised that he felt the need to apologise for the standard of decor. ‘And besides, I approve of recycling.’
‘Good job.’ Will took a sudden interest in the rickety bedside table with its short leg. ‘Anyway, I was passing by and I wanted to say thanks for the tip about the pump and I er … thought I’d mention if there’s anything you need, let us know and we’ll do our best. The basics we can probably do, the Earl Grey and the gluten-free sponge might take a little longer.’
Oh my God, thought Gaby, was that an actual smile making his eyes crinkle at the corners? His actually rather gorgeous eyes … His dirt-streaked jeans were still tucked into the muddy indigo Hunters and it was hard not to giggle because Gaby thought she was one of the few people who could find a man in wellies sexy. He looked a few years older than her, his hair was tousled and his eyebrows could do with a bit of a trim, but she had a feeling he might scrub up pretty well. Very well – she could imagine him in black tie at a college ball … though he’d probably rather wear a clown outfit and stick a feather up his bottom, she thought and had to suppress an actual snort.
In fact, if he wasn’t such a sarcastic git with no charm or people skills, Will Godrevy would do nicely as a younger hot presenter of Countryfile or Gardening Today, two programmes she still secretly caught up with on iPlayer. Come to think of it, this place had better have decent wi-fi or she really would go mad. Dare she ask Will?
He glared at her.
OK. Perhaps not right now.
He gave a sort of humph that could have meant anything from ‘get lost’ to ‘hope you have a lovely stay’, shoved his hands in the pockets of his jeans and gave the room a glance.
‘Jess has shown you where the bathrooms are, I take it?’
‘Yes, and the kitchen and um … common room. Very practical.’
‘That’s one way of putting it. Is that your family?’ He inclined his head towards the photo.
‘Yes.’
‘Hmm.’
And? And? What the hell did ‘hmm’ mean?
‘Long