The Skeleton Garden (4 page)

“What will you have him do at the station?” Pru asked, walking over to the window to admire the geometric plantings of leeks and chard. They had chosen the bedroom above the kitchen for Orlando, and the view included the small walled garden. One end would be transformed into the new herb garden.

“Filing, errands…although I won't be in the station most of the day so I can't keep an eye on him, but I'll ask the desk sergeant to take charge.”

Pru turned away from the display of vegetables. “Hang on. You don't need to find a job for Orlando in Romsey,” she said, hands on her hips. “He can work in the garden with me.”

A look of relief flashed on Christopher's face, followed by doubt. “He doesn't seem like much of a gardener, does he? I'm not sure sitting at a computer all day and night builds many muscles.”

“He's young—that's the important thing. Surely he can dig a few holes, haul around plants, do some weeding. We'll build up those muscles. And he might quite enjoy it once he begins.”

Simon and Pru had come to the point in their gardening lives where the heavy lifting should be done by another, younger gardener—but they had found no one to fill that role. Now, a prospect had fallen in their laps.

“And he'd be supervised,” Christopher said. He nodded. “You'll ring Simon to make sure it's all right?”

Simon sounded quite pleased with the idea of having an apprentice at hand. “We'll start him digging up the turf and shifting those stones for the new path. The hostas could use dividing. Too bad the hedges have been trimmed—he might've liked to help with that.” The formal hedge around the parterre lawn was sheared each August by a fellow who came out from Winchester with an exceptionally tall ladder strapped to the top of his van, which had How High the Hedge painted on the sides.

“Well,” Pru said, thinking she should back Simon's enthusiasm off just a tad, “I don't believe he actually knows much about gardens. Moving the stones will be a fine place for him to begin.”

I remember the first time I saw you in the lane, kitted out in that Land Girl uniform, your hair all tied up in that way you have so all your curls just fairly burst to get out. I saw you smile at me and I knew you were the one.

—Letter from Ratley Airfield

When the Barnes family arrived, Christopher pulled the door open to a tableau. Tommy, tall, wavy blond hair, and Claire, a study in gray with her severe bob and neutral suit—really, she could've been a nun. But it was to Orlando that Pru's eyes went. He wore skinny black jeans that pooled around his ankles, and a thin gray sweater with a white shirt—its collar stuck up out of the sweater's neckline and its tail hung out at the waist. He had thick, untidy hair, dark brown that matched his mother's and his uncle's; his thin nose and high cheekbones were his father's. He clutched a silver laptop to his breast as if it were his seat cushion flotation device. His brown eyes focused on the threshold.

Greetings and welcomes exchanged, Pru offered tea and Claire followed her into the kitchen, the women waving off the men. Over the boiling kettle they exchanged a few pleasantries as Claire fiddled with the buttons on her jacket. How was the drive; no rain for a week; aren't the hedgerows full of fruit. Claire admired Greenoak, and Pru asked after their other children, Tom Jr. and Bess, after which she said how happy she and Christopher were to have Orlando visit.

Claire's eyes filled with tears, and Pru wanted to reach out and touch her hand, but Claire regained control too quickly, blinking the tears away. “He was always such a good boy,” she said. “Even when he was young, I could leave him at home if I had a meeting to attend. Well, Bess was often around to keep an eye on him, and Mother when he was very young.” She shook her head slowly. “He was never any bother at all. I don't understand how he could…he could've been charged…I've had to face people once they knew…”

Pru longed for a clearer picture of Orlando's misdeeds. “Claire, why would he do it?”

Claire took a deep breath and straightened her shoulders. “You're so kind to take him in like this,” she said, making it sound as if Orlando were a stray dog found at the side of the road.

Christopher pushed open the door from the hall. “All right in here? Do you need any help?”

Pru handed him the tea tray. “Here you go.”

They sat on the two facing sofas, Christopher and Pru on one, the Barnes family on the other, and the low square coffee table between them. Idle conversation continued for a while—Tommy complimented Pru on the almond cake, and she explained it was Evelyn's—and at last reached a lull. Pru saw Claire give her son a pointed look.

Orlando, who had managed to drink tea and eat cake without letting go of his computer, said, “Thank you, Aunt Pru and Uncle Christopher, for allowing me to come and stay with you.”

“Orlando,” Pru said, “we're very happy you're here. It's just the two of us in this big house—it'll be wonderful to have you around. We'll have lots of fun.” God, Pru thought, it sounded as if she was about to break out the Monopoly board. “And Evelyn will be so pleased to have someone else to cook for.” Evelyn would be pleased, Pru was sure of it—as soon as Pru told her. She hadn't wanted to disturb Evelyn's weekend, and thought first thing Monday morning, before Orlando made it down to the kitchen, would be time enough. Immediately after which, Pru and Orlando could get out of the house and into the garden.

Having broached the reason for their visit—to leave their son in Pru and Christopher's hands—Claire and Tommy laid out the ground rules.

“Orlando is giving up his computer and his mobile phone while he's here, and he isn't allowed to use yours,” Tommy said as Claire reached over and took hold of the laptop. For just a moment before he released it, Orlando's arms seemed to be made of rubber, stretching as his mother pulled the computer away from him. “We'll ring him on your house phone, and he can ring us as well. We have every faith he'll abide by the rules, won't you, son?”

Orlando nodded miserably, his eyes on the computer now resting on his mother's lap. “Yes, Dad.”

Tommy brought in Orlando's bag and gave his son a gruff hug, and Claire kissed Orlando's cheek, offering up a sad smile before they got in their car. Christopher, Pru, and Orlando watched as it circled round the hedge and out to the lane.

Christopher picked up the bag, and Pru said, “Come on, now, we'll show you your room. You have a lovely view of the veg garden.” Orlando didn't reply.

“We've spaghetti Bolognese tonight,” Christopher said, and the boy brightened. It wasn't going to be summer camp, Pru thought, but it didn't have to be prison.

Orlando said little the rest of the evening. They all three watched a
Star Trek
film, and what few comments he made were about the movie. “They'll never make warp nine—the engines can't take it,” he said at one point, shaking his head. “And Picard won't leave Data behind.”

As the credits rolled and rolled, Pru said, “Starfleet wins the day.”

“Thanks for the film,” Orlando said, yawning. “Of course,
Galaxy Raiders
has taken the genre much further these days. Will I go to the police station with you tomorrow, Uncle Christopher?”

“No, Pru has thought of a better activity,” Christopher said.

“Yes, Orlando, you're going to work in the garden with me.”

Orlando looked from Pru to Christopher. “Outdoors?”

“My brother, Simon, and I are the gardeners here, and we could really use your help—we have loads of work, and it's been just the two of us until now.”

“There's nothing like being outdoors to take your mind off your troubles,” Christopher said. Orlando's face fell as if his troubles hovered just over his shoulder and were going nowhere.

“I'm not sure I have the kit for it,” Orlando said, holding out his arms as proof of his inadequate wardrobe. “I've only this one jumper, you see. And no proper trousers or…boots.”

“You won't be mucking about too much,” Pru said, hand on his shoulder as they all three moved up the stairs. “And after all, what's a bit of dirt and grime—it's just good, clean soil.”

The next morning, Pru pushed open the kitchen door a few inches and peered inside; Evelyn stood at the stove, stirring. Preparations lay on the counter for that day's menu, for both Greenoak and the pensioners.

“Morning, Evelyn.”

Evelyn looked over her shoulder. “You're down early, Ms. Parke. I'm not quite ready for you.”

“It's all right, don't rush. I had a cup of tea upstairs.” They had a tea tray in their bedroom, complete with a small thermos of milk that Evelyn changed out daily; Christopher had added a bottle of brandy and two glasses to their supplies. Pru sometimes felt as if she lived in a luxury hotel. “I just wanted to let you know that we have someone staying with us for a bit, and…”

Evelyn whirled around to face her. “A houseguest? I wasn't warned—I've had no time to prepare a room. Where is she?”

“It's a he—Christopher's…our nephew has come to stay for a couple weeks, and we put him in the bedroom just above.” Pru nodded to the ceiling at the same moment they heard an enormous thump above their heads. “He's sixteen, and he's going to be working in the garden with me. His name is Orlando Barnes. He's a lovely young man. And the room was already made up, Evelyn. You keep the house so well that we had nothing to do to get it ready. And I'm sure he won't eat much—it isn't as if it'll be extra work for you. Very much…extra work.”
There,
Pru thought, breathing hard.

“We'll see about that,” Evelyn said to the wall.

Christopher walked in, pulling on the jacket of his uniform. Pru still couldn't quite get used to the shiny buttons and gold braid—it was so unlike the DCI Pearse she first met.

“Morning, Evelyn. You've heard about…”

“Yes, Mr. Pearse, Ms. Parke told me about the young man. I'm sure he'll be no trouble,” she said, making it sound as if he would be a great deal of trouble.

“Is he up?” Pru asked Christopher.

“He is now.”

They settled at the table with bowls of porridge. Christopher stuck a finger in his collar and tugged. “Bloody uniform,” he said.

Pru leaned across him for the milk and murmured, “You don't seem to mind when I wear it.”

He grinned and reached for her knee, but was stopped by a commotion at the door.

“Orlando, good morning.”

Orlando appeared dressed in yesterday's clothes, his eyes at half-staff and his mouth wide open in a yawn. “Morning.”

Pru stood up. “Evelyn, this is Orlando Barnes. Orlando, this is Evelyn Peachey. Ev…Mrs. Peachey is a wonderful cook and keeps house for us.”

“Hello, Mrs. Peachey. Pleased to meet you,” he said through another yawn.

“Now, boy, Ms. Parke just this minute told me you were here. You sit down. I've barely enough breakfast here, but I'll see what I can do. It'll mean another journey into the shops today,” she said, sounding as if the trip to Romsey was fifty miles, not three.

Orlando slid into a chair and a bowl was placed in front of him. “Porridge?” he asked.

“Porridge,” Evelyn repeated, standing over him until he picked up his spoon.

“Right,” he said quietly. “Porridge.”

There was toast as well—Evelyn seemed able to conjure food out of thin air. When Simon put his head in the door, Orlando had just inserted the last of six pieces into his mouth. Pru carried out more introductions.

“Pleased to meet you, Mr. Parke.”

“Simon,” he corrected.

The kitchen emptied, and Pru heard Evelyn speaking to the dishes as she washed up. “I don't know how'll I find enough for lunch today.” Christopher gave Pru a quick kiss, offered her good luck, and left for his rounds out toward East Tytherley. The siblings took Orlando on a tour of the grounds. They'd had a light frost, but it had warmed and now steam rose off the grass in the morning sun. As Simon and Pru kept up a commentary about the garden, Orlando trailed behind silently.

Once they'd circled back round to the courtyard outside the kitchen, the young man stuck his hands in his armpits and said, “A bit chilly this morning.”

“You'll warm up soon enough,” Pru replied.

“Will we get a tea break?” he asked.

“Before you've done any work?” Simon asked. He nodded toward the neatly stacked load of Purbeck limestone intended for the Mediterranean garden off the library terrace. Simon had found a good price, but it included limited service: the stone had been delivered and now needed to be shifted to the opposite corner of the house to await the stonemasons.

“Shift it?” Orlando said with amazement. “I couldn't lift all that.”

“You can take a few pieces at a time in the cart—and mind you restack them just as they are here.” Simon gestured toward the task. “Now off with you.”

There,
Pru thought,
that's Orlando sorted.
As Simon went off to the hornbeam walk, she watched the boy begin his task, cringing as he picked up one stone and dropped it, missing his foot by an inch. He bent over, grabbed hold, and yanked, reeling back and swiveling in a peculiar dance before bumping into the cart and dropping the stone in. He stood breathing hard, caught Pru's eye, and gave her a thumbs-up. She smiled and waved; let him get on with it, she thought, taking the half-moon-shaped lawn edger out to the site of the new herb garden.

She returned two hours later to find the stack gone and Orlando wheeling off the last load. Isn't youth amazing? She followed him to find a heap of stone and Orlando unceremoniously dumping the last of the pieces out of the cart.

“Orlando!” She hurried, glancing over her shoulder to see if Simon was in range. She should be helping Simon with something at that very moment, but she couldn't think with what. “It isn't a rubbish tip—you're meant to be stacking them. It'll take the stonemason forever to sort through this lot again.”

Sweat streamed down the boy's face, and he blinked as some ran in his eye. “They're heavy,” he said, running his jumper sleeve across his forehead.

“Yes,” she said, “rocks are heavy.” She took a breath. “Right, come on, I'll help you tidy this up.”

At last, when Pru had the stones reorganized—finding it easier to do it herself than stand over Orlando and point—Simon came round the corner of the house. “I thought we were to divide the daylilies along the copse walk before lunch.”

“Sorry,” Pru said, glancing at Orlando to see him make a slight adjustment to the last small stone. She didn't want the boy starting off on the wrong foot with Simon. “I spent too much time on the herb beds.”

“We don't have a great deal of extra time, do we?” he asked, then looked away, probably remembering that the impending visit from the magazine editor was his doing. He gestured toward the kitchen courtyard. “The bulbs arrived.”

They had ordered two hundred single early tulips named Jenny—their mother's name—to plant against the wall outside the veg garden. They were lemon yellow with warm rose-colored flames and would come up and bloom amid a sea of forget-me-nots. It had been Simon's idea.

“Orlando, you up for planting tulips after lunch?”

“Yes, sir.” He nodded rapidly. “Tulips.”

Lunch couldn't come soon enough for Pru. Evelyn had set out a towering plate of ham sandwiches, but Orlando made short work of them. By the time Simon announced it was back to work, only a few crumbs remained.

Orlando stood, gulping down the last of his tea, and said, “Thank you for lunch, Mrs. Peachey. Those were fine sandwiches.” Pru noticed the brief appearance of a dimple on Evelyn's cheek, something Pru had yet to elicit.

Pru demonstrated tulip planting to Orlando, then left him to it, and went off to work with Simon. When she returned, Orlando had half the bulbs in, but upside down. “I showed you, remember? The pointed end goes up.”

“Sorry, Aunt Pru,” he said, hands stuck in his pockets.

She doubted that. With a sigh, Pru took up a garden fork and began replanting. “You start down at that end, please, and I'll sort these out.” No answer. “Orlando?” Gone. She walked out into the kitchen yard and found him deep into his second piece of cake from the tea tray that Evelyn had set out on the steps. “Orlando,” she said sharply.

“Yes, Aunt Pru, just coming.”

Simon found them just as Pru, working double time and feeling it in her back, had finished righting Orlando's mistakes. She saw the boy make a show of placing the last tulip in a hole.

“The Mediterranean bed,” Simon said, jerking his head off in its direction.

“We're on our way,” Pru replied. She glanced at the look of innocence on Orlando's face.