City of Night

Northern Rain

The click of the patio door startled me from my thoughts, and Robert stepped out into the garden.

'Mr. Rashleigh, a call for you,' he said, in his usual unsmiling manner.

'Thank you Robert,' said Julyan, then turning to me: 'I suspect it's the works. They may want me to go off for a while.'

I smiled at him, not really sure what to say. 'Don't tire yourself out, dear.'

'Tea for my wife at the usual time whilst I'm gone,' instructed Julyan before disappearing inside. Robert followed.

I supposed I could have gotten my jumper now, but I didn't want to look lost, like I was trailing after them. What had I said to him before? Something mindless, parroted. God knows I hadn't gotten too much scope to be witty but I could at least try to be mildly interesting.

It took about ten minutes for Robert to re-emerge with the news that Julyan had gone to London. He hadn't left me a message.

'London?' I said, but he just nodded.

The breeze had really picked up, and my knitting lost its interest in the face of having to redo my work, so I ventured inside to ask Mrs. Wicklow about the gardener before tea.

She was chatty, but compliant as usual. It would be very easy, she said, because the family down the road had just had their garden done a year ago. She would pop down to theirs and ask for his card in a minute.

I hadn't seen their garden, but it sounded very modern. I hoped our garden wouldn't turn out the same, although I couldn't bear the thought of standing out there and directing the gardener. He would smile at me quite politely if I did, but I would know by the look in his eyes that he was thinking I was telling him how to do his job. I could almost see him now, working with one eye over his shoulder, dreading my interference.

Mrs. Wicklow caught me again after tea--a lonely affair without Julyan--to tell me that the gardener would come next Wednesday. Soon, but he was free, and she was sure Mr. Rashleigh would like the garden cleared up as soon as possible. We had been back for some time now, so it only made sense.

I agreed, listening to her build the poor gardener up to such an extent that when he actually arrived it shocked me. He was a lot younger than the grizzled old bear I'd expected, and even more reluctant to see me than I was him, to the point of almost jumping into the bushes to escape whenever I was forced to walk by.

Julyan was back by then. I'd started the habit of walking Mrs. Wicklow's dog time to give me something to do in the evenings. Julyan didn't seem to mind about the dog-walking. I didn't want to let the Mrs. Wicklow down, or else I would have given it up for him, but he didn't mention it.

I often slipped back into the house via the garden, to see the progress that had been made without facing any questions.

It had hurt me, the first time, to see the long cut blades of grass lying there like wounded soldiers. Next time I had looked they were vanished, but pale prunings of azalea slept there, taking their place.

The petals were already turning brown.

* * * *

'There,' said Julyan, looking satisfied. 'Isn't that so very nice?'

I gazed across the lawn, freshly mown into little stripes. A gravel path so rigidly defined that it might have been done with a ruler lead up to the garden door. Bushes of flowers hemmed the path, perfectly pruned. Although their sporadic growth pattern didn't fit exactly with the symmetry of the garden, I was glad they had survived.

There was a nice space under the tree that would be just right for summer picnics, down to colour coordination of a tartan blanket with the garden. Even the squeaky old door had been given a coat of varnish to spruce it up a bit. The gardener had done his job very thoroughly.