Sowing The Seeds Of Love Part 21

The doorbell rang a third time.

'Oh, for f.u.c.k's sake.' Flinging the cus.h.i.+on aside, she jumped off the couch and marched out to the hall. It had better not be someone trying to sell her something. She flung open the front door.

Seth. Leaning up against the wall, his arms and ankles crossed, his expression sardonic. 'For a second there I thought you weren't going to answer.'

'What do you want?'

'You'll have to work on your Irish welcome, now that you're back on the oul' sod.'

'Sod off.'

She turned and went back into the sitting room. Seth closed the door behind him and followed her.

Aoife was immediately conscious of several things. Her appearance: had her face calmed down yet after her prolonged bout of sobbing? Were her eyes still swollen and was her nose still red? Then there was the matter of the used tissues on the coffee-table. She bent down and shoved the bulk of them into her pocket, just as Seth came into the room. As for the tasteless decor she had inherited from the previous inhabitants of the house, she'd had no time to do anything about that. He'd just have to suffer it.

It occurred to her that Seth had never been to her house before. 'How did you know where I lived?'

'I didn't realize it was a state secret.'

'It's not.'

She sank down on the couch and folded her legs under her. Seth sat in the armchair opposite. It unsettled her to have him in her home.

'Nice wallpaper.'

'Have you come here to mock me?'

'No. I've come here to stop you making such a f.e.c.king eejit out of yourself.'

'I'm not!'

'Yes, you are. The old bag's trying to apologize and you're throwing it back in her face.'

'What does she expect?'

'Did she ever tell you she wasn't going to sell the garden?'

'No.'

'Well, then.'

'I just didn't think she'd actually go through with it. I see that now. After all the work we've put into it. After all the work she's put into it, for G.o.d's sake. I don't understand.'

'Maybe she needs the money.'

'Her! You're joking. The woman's minted.'

'You don't know that.'

'Yes, I do. Have you never seen her clothes? All her stuff? It's the best of everything.'

'Well, why don't you come along anyway and see what she has to say for herself? Maybe it'll help you understand.'

'I don't think I could stomach it.'

'She probably wants to thank you too.'

'She needn't bother.'

'And you could always give her another piece of your mind.'

'I could, couldn't I?'

So that was how Liam and Aoife ended up at Mrs Prendergast's at half past seven that evening. Aoife marched up to the front door and knocked aggressively. She was d.a.m.ned if she was going to use the tradesman's entrance tonight.

'Why don't we just go through the gate, Mummy?'

'I forgot my key.'

And she couldn't bring herself to walk through the garden on such a rare and beautiful balmy summer's evening, when she knew it would be at its glorious best. Aoife closed her eyes and tried not to imagine to imagine it there and imagine it gone. As far as she was concerned, her garden, and everything in it, was about to be murdered.

The door opened and there stood the murderer.

'Aoife. So glad you could make it. And Liam. Come on in. Kathy's already here.'

Aoife tried to hide the hostility in her eyes but it was impossible. It was as much as she could do to keep her mouth shut. Mrs Prendergast's eyes were hooded and wary. Aoife thought she detected ironic amus.e.m.e.nt too. She looked away. She couldn't afford to become more annoyed than she already was.

'We brought you some wine.' Liam was jumping up and down on the spot, as he did when he was excited. He smiled openly at the woman who had become to him a kind of surrogate grandmother. How on earth was Aoife going to explain to him that they wouldn't be seeing her any more? The little boy had had too many loved ones taken away from him during the course of his short life, but she honestly didn't see how they could go on seeing Mrs Prendergast in the circ.u.mstances.

Aoife handed her the bottle of wine.

'Oh, how very kind. Wolf Bla.s.s. One of my favourites.'

Mrs Prendergast's manners were impeccable. She had to give her that. Then again, so were Hannibal Lecter's.

Aoife and Liam walked into Mrs Prendergast's hall, for only the third time since they'd known her. Aoife recalled the first time vividly. Who could have predicted all that had happened since then?

The older woman led them to a small reception room at the back of the house. It felt unlived-in. But it opened out into a spectacular sunroom. Aoife had heard Mrs Prendergast refer to it many times but she'd never been inside it. It was a conservatory, really, of the curvaceous, domed variety. The furniture was wicker and the plants numerous. The colour scheme was all reds, oranges and yellows sun colours. A cus.h.i.+oned window-seat ran around the sides and a long oak table dominated the centre. It was set with crystal goblets, silver cutlery, delicate china and linen napkins. At least ten tea lights were scattered on the surface in pretty gla.s.s holders, and the centrepiece was a crystal bowl filled with water in which five bosomy, blossomy, blowsy, yellow roses floated. But by far the most beautiful thing about that beautiful room was the view of the garden through the open wooden door. Which tonight did nothing but add insult to injury.

Uri and Seth were seated at the table. Kathy was sitting on the floor, tying a sun bonnet on Harriet's head. Liam ran over and knelt beside them. Uri was his usual impeccable self: he stood up when Aoife entered the room and inclined his head to her. 'You look lovely,' he said.

'Thank you.' She loved his old-world manners.

Seth stood up too, more awkwardly than his father. 'You look very nice.'

'Thanks.'

She had actually dressed up. She was wearing a red dress with sparkly bits that she'd bought in Monsoon. It might have been the first time that any of them had seen her in anything other than jeans and wellies. Seth had dressed up too. She'd never seen him so clean. He was wearing chinos and a spotless white linen s.h.i.+rt. He scrubbed up well. She felt the full force of it.

It was strange to be with the people she saw week in, week out in unfamiliar clothes. And to be in the same location but in an unfamiliar room with an unfamiliar view of the garden. A different perspective of everyone and everything. It made Aoife feel shy suddenly and at a loss for anything to say.

'Wine?'

'White, please.'

Uri poured her a gla.s.s and a goblet of sparkling water. She sipped them both, grateful to have something to do with her hands. Grateful also that Mrs Prendergast chose that moment to bring out the starter.

'Onion tarts with goat's cheese,' she announced. 'The onions and the tarragon are from the garden.'

'Mummy, I don't like them.'

'Don't worry, Liam. I have fishfingers and chips for you and Kathy.'

'Yippee.' Liam returned to the floor and to the ongoing torment of Harriet.

'Oh, my G.o.d, these are exquisite.' Aoife hadn't meant to be so effusive in her compliments to Mrs Prendergast that evening, but she couldn't help it. The tarts were divine. 'I didn't know you could cook like this.'

Mrs Prendergast shrugged, but real pleasure showed on her face. 'I seldom get the chance to cook for anyone nowadays.'

Aoife quizzed her as to the recipe, but only half listened to the response. She was thinking how glad she was that they had the food to talk about. Normally, they mostly talked about gardening but that topic seemed redundant. She ate too fast in her nervousness and washed down the food with too many gulps of wine. She could already feel her head becoming light and the familiar heaviness in her thighs. She was glad. Being slightly drunk was the only way she could envisage getting through this evening.

She had to admit that Mrs Prendergast was being extremely nice to her, given her behaviour earlier on. She hadn't even apologized for being so rude. It was too early for her to say she was sorry, though. She didn't feel it yet. Some day she would and she'd say it then. Perhaps Mrs Prendergast's attack of niceness had been brought on by guilt. Or maybe she was thinking about her lovely pile of dosh. Aoife swallowed down her recurrent anger with another gulp of wine.

Mrs Prendergast brought out the children's food next and they all watched them slather everything with tomato ketchup and listened to them chattering. Harriet sat under the table hopefully, ears p.r.i.c.ked, antic.i.p.ating falling debris. Seth was quiet, she noticed, but not Uri and Mrs Prendergast, who both seemed remarkably cheerful and relaxed. Didn't they care? More anger. More wine. The warning voice inside her head was ignored. If she didn't know better, she'd think Uri and old Hatchet Head were flirting with one another. Mrs Prendergast wasn't so much laughing at whatever Uri was saying to her as giggling. Which, in Aoife's opinion, she should have grown out of a good fifty years ago.

The children's plates were cleared away and the main course presented.

'Broccoli and chicken lasagne, baby potatoes and salad. All the vegetables, herbs, spuds and salad are from the garden.'

'Good for you,' Aoife muttered, under her breath. If anyone heard her, they chose to ignore her.

There was no denying that the food looked and smelled superb. Mrs Prendergast had even decorated the salad with pansies. The taste almost made Aoife forgive her. Dessert was white chocolate and raspberry cheesecake ('Raspberries courtesy of Uri'). Afterwards they sat there, officially stuffed, sipping Earl Grey tea.

'I'd like to propose a toast,' said Uri. 'To Mrs Prendergast, for making us this magnificent feast.'

'Mrs Prendergast.' They raised their gla.s.ses and clinked with one another.

'And to Aoife, for growing most of the ingredients.'

'Not any more,' said Aoife, failing to clink. She was sick of it now Uri's cheeriness, Mrs Prendergast's girlish giddiness. 'How can you both act this way? As if this is some sort of celebration? We have nothing to celebrate. Nothing! You'd be better off having a funeral ma.s.s.'

'Don't you think that's a little over-dramatic, my dear?' Mrs Prendergast smiled at her. To Aoife she looked incredibly smug.

'No, I do not. I don't know how you have the gall to sit there smiling when you're destroying everything we've done, everything we've worked towards. And for what? For money! Money you don't even need. You can't eat money. Don't you know that what you already have is far more precious by far? Priceless, even. It's an act of desecration to dig up those apple trees they're even older than you are.'

'Aoife, that's enough now.'

But she couldn't be stopped. 'The roses. Emily's garden that she poured her heart and soul into. What about the insects, the bees, the b.u.t.terflies? The robins! Where are they going to nest next year? You're just going to let them pour concrete over the whole lot. Destroy it all. Well, it's nothing short of sacrilege.'

Aoife's heart was beating wildly now as she stared down Mrs Prendergast. She knew she was quite drunk but she didn't care. She was glad, in fact. Glad that the wine had given her the Dutch courage to say what she felt she had to say. They were all looking at her. Except Mrs Prendergast, who took a demure sip from her teacup and placed it daintily back in its saucer. 'You know, my dear, I couldn't agree more.' She looked across the table at Aoife, her expression imperious. 'That's why I've sold it to Uri.'

There were a few seconds of silence.

'Did you just say you sold it to Uri?'

'That's exactly what I said.'

'Dad. Is this true?'

'Yes, it is.'

Aoife covered her face with her hands.

'Yes!' Seth leaped to his feet and punched the air. Then he grabbed his father, who was sitting beside him, and hugged him. 'Nice one, Dad.'

Uri laughed.

'And Mrs P.' Seth held out his arms to her in an expansive gesture. He advanced slowly around the table, not taking his eyes off her. Mrs Prendergast shrank back into her chair as he went down on one knee beside her.

'Mrs P,' he said again. Then he hugged her so tightly that Aoife was afraid he might break one of her ribs. He planted a big, noisy kiss on her right cheek. 'Mrs P, you're a legend.'

'Oh, good Lord,' said Mrs Prendergast, her face pink.

'I can't believe it. This is fantastic,' said Aoife. 'Oh, Mrs Prendergast, I'm so, so sorry. I've said some awful things. Please can you forgive me?'

Mrs Prendergast raised her eyebrows. 'I'll think about it.'

But Aoife knew she was already forgiven.

'Why didn't you tell us before?' asked Seth.

'We wanted to surprise you.'

'Well, it worked.'

A terrible thought occurred to Aoife. 'You're not going to... I mean... you wouldn't consider building on it, would you?'

'Absolutely not,' said Uri. 'It's going to stay a garden for as long as I have breath in my body. And hopefully a long time after that.' He looked at Seth, on whom the possibility that the garden would one day be his, at least in part, was just beginning to dawn.

'I'd like to propose another toast,' said Mrs Prendergast. She raised her gla.s.s. 'To the garden.'

They all held up their gla.s.ses. 'The garden.'

There was a knock on the front door, loud, angry, insistent. As if the knocker had been unheard for quite some time. It was possible, given the commotion in the sunroom.

'I'd better go and answer that,' said Mrs Prendergast, throwing down her napkin, her face flushed, eyes bright, as she left the room.

'Are you sure you can afford it, Dad?' said Seth, when she'd gone.