‘Whew.’ Hattie blotted her eyes with the end of her gold headscarf, after a phone ping had interrupted her flow. ‘That’s Lizzie off home. I think it’s time we called it a day, too.’
‘It’s nearly six. Has Lizzie sorted dinner?’
Hattie checked her phone again. ‘Mac and cheese. You help yourself when you’re ready. If you don’t mind tidying up here, Flapjack and I will spend a couple of hours in my studio.’
I opted to stay and catalogue the contents of the crate – we’d found birthday and Mother’s Day cards hand-drawn by Hattie, the talent obvious even as a young child. There were a dried posy of flowers, a wonky clay pot and a straw dolly. Tucked in one corner was a velvet case containing Verity’s engagement and wedding rings. Beside it was a tiny Bible, full of notes scribbled in the margins and verses underlined in red ink. Only the rings had any monetary value, and we had both wept that Verity had been so convinced her husband would destroy these treasured possessions she had felt compelled to hide them in a chapel.
After a quick meal, with no sign of Hattie, the shadow of the afternoon’s work still hung heavy around my shoulders, and I knew I needed to find something to help me shrug it off. I toyed with watching a romcom, or seeing if my honorary nephews and nieces were free for a chat, but in the end, I pulled on my jacket, called for Muffin and followed my heart.
16
‘Hey!’ Gideon almost bumped into me, the sun had long since sunk beneath the bend in the river, and it was almost fully dark under the trees.
‘Hi.’ I couldn’t think of anything else to say.
His eyes crinkled at me from beneath his hat. The last time I’d seen someone that happy to see me, I’d turned up to JoJo’s birthday party with a kitten. ‘I was just heading back, if you fancied coming over to the boathouse for a drink.’
In lieu of a normal answer, I burst into tears.
‘Oh!’ Gideon looked at me, his face stricken, before pulling me up against his soft jacket.
I nestled in there for a minute or so, soaking up the solid warmth and how his arms steadied me. Then I shifted, unable to resist pressing up tighter against his chest, and became aware of the thud beneath my cheek. Steady, but not at all calm.
I held my breath, savouring the thumps and what they might mean, until reluctantly pulling away.
‘A drink would be nice. Thank you.’ I groped for a tissue in my coat pocket and wiped my face.
‘Has something happened?’ Gideon’s brow was creased with concern.
‘Just a tough day in the attic.’
We began walking along the path towards the boathouse. ‘Do you want to talk about it?’
‘Yes,’ I replied, with a wry grimace, ‘but I can’t.’
He looked at me.
‘I’ve signed an NDA.’
‘Including speaking to me?’
I nodded as Gideon took hold of my hand to guide me around a puddle. It felt so lovely wrapped around mine – a gardener’s hand, rough and calloused from years of nurturing other living things – that I made no attempt to let go once the path turned to dry gravel.
‘Wow. Surely we’ll find out anyway, once the book is published.’
‘Ifa book is published. It’s Hattie’s story to tell, not mine, either way.’ I shook my head, feeling even worse than usual about the deception while my hand was in his. ‘But a mug of tea and conversation about something completely different will help just as much, I’m sure.’
We talked for a while about his work transforming an elderly man’s backyard into an ‘eco-garden’, designed to attract birds, bees and all sorts of wildlife.
‘He insists on helping, dragging bags of compost and water butts about. It would be far quicker to do it myself, and I can’t help stressing about him injuring himself, but seeing the look of satisfaction on his face… well. I guess doing things together can be more important than getting things done.’
I thought about that as we walked along the river. Who I’d done things with. How usually, after a horrible day, drenched in tears, I’d go back to my motorhome and wallow in the grief, with no companion to help me clamber out of it.
How, perhaps, doing things alone had caused as much sadness as it was designed to protect me from.
‘Look who I found, wandering about in the woods,’ Gideon said as he gave his mum a kiss and adjusted the blanket slipping down her knees.
‘Ah, the nice Sophie who doesn’t push me over in the playground. Have you offered her a drink, Gideon? She looks cold. And tired. You are staying for a drink, aren’t you? There’s some of that fancy cheese from the farm shop in the fridge.’
