Digging For Victory

Bringing the wild land back to life brought her back to life too, and gave her a sense of belonging…

to believe she’d ever had a manicure!

Instead of watching the news, which was too gloomy, she turned to Gardeners’ World on the iPlayer. She got Rob’s grow-your-own books out of the attic and devoured them. The more she read the less she realised she knew. But her ignorance was no great drawback: every day locals would lean on the railing and offer advice… “Plant up by All Fool’s

Day, you’ll be fine”… “Don’t sow carrots: the badgers’ll dig’em up”… “Rotted seaweed makes a good feed.”

People she said hello to in passing now became daily acquaintances and her loneliness began to recede. Finding herself suddenly living alone at the outset of a pandemic had been a terrible shock.

“They’ll lock us down soon,” Rob had said. “It’s what they’ve done elsewhere.”

She’d nodded, distracted. It felt unreal.

For a moment she thought about joining them. Then she remembered Spain was in lockdown: besides, staying with her parents for more than a day rendered her fourteen again – bolshie and frustrated.

If he’d heard her, he gave no sign of it, but this was nothing new. During the past year or more she’d often felt they were having a one-sided conversation, one in which she was becoming increasingly inaudible. And now she was to become invisible as well.

When they’d hugged goodbye she’d taken in a deep breath to commit the smell of him to memory – musky underarm, fresh tang of lemon soap – and then he was gone.

“I’ll call you!” he’d called over his shoulder. He hadn’t.

For a week she’d gone into a catatonic state, unable to sleep or talk to anyone about her catastrophe. Everyone’s life was catastrophic right now and it seemed too selfish to pile extra misery on top of anyone else’s. She’d taken to walking on the cliff road, leaning on the wooden railing, looking out to sea, wondering if one of those distant vessels might be Rob’s, coming home. Then she’d acknowledge the lunacy of this, and cry.

That was where Arthur had found her that first time. He’d stood apart from her and when she became aware of his presence had tipped his cap.

“Keeping a fathom apart, like they say.” Two metres… six feet… a fathom. She’d wiped her tears away, embarrassed.

“When I were a lad all this were flowers,” he said after a while. “Violets, for sale in the London markets.”

Hannah smiled, trying to imagine a time when people would buy a posy of violets. Simpler, more innocent times.

“After the war though people didn’t want violets any more. They’d dug everything up for veg. Dig For Victory! You’d never think it, seeing it now, but I grew all sorts here. Missus used to work it when I were out at sea. I’d bring home the fish and she’d bring home the chips and peas!” He turned his sharp blue gaze upon

away. There were rows of lettuces and spring onions, tomatoes, chives and mustard and salad leaves; pods hung heavy from the cane obelisks; courgettes had sprouted overnight, huge golden flower trumpets announcing their arrival like gaudy heralds.

Along the hedge backing onto the sea, which now sparked with sunlight as if diamonds had been cast across the wave-tops, wild roses bloomed in fragrant profusion; speedwell and pimpernels, daisies and fumitory decorated the path’s edge. There was too much for her to eat, so she went from house to house in the village and left bags of salad and vegetables on doorsteps. She added a bunch of wild roses to Arthur’s.

Just after dawn on Midsummer’s Day, Hannah stood with her chin resting on her hoe, gazing out to sea, surrounded by plentiful bounty.

“You’re up early.”

She turned around, startled, and there, standing by the railing was the sandyhaired man with the wolfish smile. He held up a plastic bag. “You caught me out.” “I think I owe you several thank yous.” “In normal circumstances,” he said in his foreign lilt, “I’d let you buy me fish and chips at the pub. But we may have to settle for making our own.”

However, it wasn’t fish he brought out of the bag, but a woven circlet of wildflowers: roses and honeysuckle and Queen Anne’s Lace. “Where I come from, we celebrate midsummer with a crown of flowers.” He laid it carefully on the path. “When I first saw you, you looked like a winter princess out of a fairytale, drained of all life and colour, but now you’re Queen of the Summer.”

For the first time since Rob had left all those months ago, Hannah felt her heart blossom like a briar rose.

TheSeaGate by Jane Johnson, Head of Zeus, HB £18.99. Out September 3.

After the sudden death of her mum, artist Rebecca Young sets about clearing out the family home where she finds a letter from a desperate elderly relative, living in Cornwall. Set between the present and the past, this book, complete with a secret tunnel from the cellar to the sea, is as deep as the mystery surrounding it!

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