Short story

With candles burning, incense smoking and a bouquet of herbs laid out before me, I lifted my hands and began my incantation: ‘Lore of Life and Fount of Love, hear me from your realms above. Around me now your powers bestow. Let my man…’

The Gardeners’ World theme tune rang out from my phone.

I opened my eyes and glared at it. It was Greenfield Suppliers…finally! I’d emailed them days ago to chase up the delivery of manure for my favourite client’s garden.

Hauling in a deep breath, I leaned across and answered the call with a loaded sigh. ‘Maisie Meadows, Garden Maintenance.’

‘Morning, Maisie. Just ringing to let you know we’ll be delivering your order on Monday morning.’

‘Can I check exactly where you’ll be delivering it?’

‘Mulberry House, Drakes Lane.’

‘Good. What time?’

‘Before ten o’clock.’

‘In the morning?’

‘Yes. And definitely before ten o’clock at night!’ The voice at the other end chuckled. ‘Will there be somebody to sign for the delivery?’

‘Yes, I will. Does it matter?’

‘Just for our records. If the goods go missing we have proof of delivery.’

I resisted saying, ‘It’s a ton of horse manure – who’s going to pinch that?’ Instead, I said, ‘Thank you for calling. I’ll be there in the morning to sign for the manure.’

I switched the phone off.

After three deep breaths, I began again. ‘Lore of Life and Fount of Love, hear me from your realms above. Around me now your powers bestow. Let my man, true love know.’

Into my mind swam the image of the man in question – Ben Charlton – my client at Mulberry House, and the object of my affections. Scratch that – the subject of my fantasies and, I was sure, the future Mr Meadows-Charlton. He just didn’t know it yet.

I blew out the candles and stuffed the herbs into a vase. There was basil for love, yarrow for everlasting love, and lavender for devotion and undying love.

‘Probably a load of old guff but worth a try,’ I muttered.

Ben Charlton headlined in all my fantasies over the last six months. I just loved it when he said, ‘I leave it up to you, Maisie. I trust you.’

He said that a lot, ‘I trust you.’

It sounded good. Not quite in the dizzying realms of, ‘I like you, just the way you are,’ but good; sincere and unquestioning.

It helped that his garden had good soil. The previous owners had been keen gardeners and had mulched for England. It was really just a case of keeping on top of their handiwork.

Ben wasn’t a gardener – that was clear – but he loved the results. He’d told me so, many times. He’d told me how clever I was, and how funny I was. He just hadn’t told me he loved me – yet.

We shared a beer on sunny days and tea on others. He was nearly always around because he worked from home. Ben Charlton wrote historical crime novels. Ben Charlton was everything I wanted in a man: intelligent, amusing, friendly and fit. But, sadly, detached. Somehow, despite his lovely nature, I couldn’t seem to get truly close to him. In the six months I’d known him, he’d had no girlfriend, of that I was certain. Maybe writing was such a solitary occupation, he lacked the confidence required to take that leap. Maybe he just needed a little shove.

Eight thirty the following morning found me forking up groundsel from Ben’s borders. I was wearing my best green cargo pants and t-shirt. Last time I wore this combination, Ben told me I looked like I belonged in the garden. ‘Mulberry House’s very own wood nymph,’ he’d said.

The sun was out, Ben was in; I could see his silhouette at the table; working on his latest novel no doubt. I took a quick mental snapshot of him, to file away for later.

‘Lore of Life and Fount of Love, I do hope you were listening yesterday,’ I muttered to myself.

Just then, he looked up – though not at me. He stood and headed out of the kitchen.

I noticed how smoothly the man moved; poetry in motion.

Moments later, I heard, ‘Maisie, we have a delivery.’

We.

Excellent.

He was talking we. Lore and Fount were clearly on the case.

I smacked dry soil from my palms and headed around to the front drive, where Greenfield’s truck was waiting. A noxious niff of animal waste simmered around it. I could feel my nose wrinkling as I spoke to the delivery guy who was unfastening the tailgate. ‘Why isn’t it in sacks?’

‘Sacks?’

‘Yes, sacks, the kind you lift into a wheelbarrow and store until required. Sacks.’

‘Oh. I’m guessing you didn’t tick that box on our website.’

‘You mean the default setting for an order of horse crap is to shovel it yourself?’

He shrugged. ‘No worries. I’ll help. I only have one other delivery today and the client won’t be there till six.’

‘Six?! I really hoped it wasn’t going to take eight hours to dispense this heap of excrement from the truck.

Rolling my eyes as I absorbed the realisation of what lay ahead, I turned on my heel and went to fetch the wheelbarrow.

Armed with large garden forks, we began the task.

‘Hey, you’re tougher than you look,’ the guy said. ‘You’re handling this like a pro.’

‘Thanks.’

‘My name’s Gavin, by the way.’

I nodded. ‘Maisie.’

We continued in silence. Every few minutes I would jump from the truck and wheel the barrow round to the back garden. Gavin had offered but I didn’t trust where he might dump it.

After half an hour, Ben wandered out of the front door with a bottle of chilled water and two glasses. ‘Got quite a job on your hands, there,’ he said, nodding from Gavin to the steaming heap.

‘Not too bad,’ Gavin replied. ‘Saves me ten minutes in the gym.’ He twitched his matching guns and I choked back a chortle of scorn. Did he really think flexing his pecs was the way to impress a girl like me? I had a pretty impressive pair of my own, thank you, and a six-pack to rival Dina Asher-Smith.

‘You can have coffee if you’d rather,’ Ben said, ‘but that looks like thirsty work.’

‘Thank you,’ I said, about to wipe my forehead with a crap encrusted arm and thinking better of it. ‘Coffee would be nice, later,’ I added, thinking it pretty smart to schedule a coffee break for when Gavin had gone.

‘I’d love a coffee,’ the voice of Gavin grated behind me.

How dare he?

‘Okay. How d’you take it?’

‘Just a dash of milk, thanks.’

‘Coming right up.’

I downed the glass of water before preparing to shovel some more.

Deeper into the pile, the pong was getting sharper. It was supposed to be well rotted poo. Unlike cheese, manure is supposed to smell less ripe with age. I’d bought a load of crap in the truest sense of the word.

Five minutes later, Ben was at the front door again. ‘The coffee’s on the garden table, it’s lovely back there, this time of year.’

‘Cheers,’ Gavin said, carefully leaning his fork against the side of the truck and jumping down. I followed him.

Ben’s garden was long and divided into three sections. The table was placed close to the jasmine-festooned arbour which led through into the second section. I spotted the cafetière, Ben’s large, handmade mug – handmade by me at evening class – and one striped mug. One.

‘Sorry, Maisie,’ Ben said, as he saw me loitering. ‘I thought you weren’t ready for a coffee just yet. I’ll fetch you a mug.’

‘No. Absolutely fine. I just fancied a breather. Ooh – shortbread, my favourite.’

‘I’ve just plotted a new scene, I think I’ve earned a break, too,’ he said, leaning over to press the plunger through the coffee.

‘You’re a writer?’ asked Gavin with obvious interest.

Ben smiled. ‘I write historical crime fiction and steampunk.’

‘You do? Oh, wow! I love that stuff.’

‘Steampunk? What’s steampunk?’ I asked, feeling ever so slightly left out.

Ben and Gavin exchanged a knowing look. Ben explained: ‘In a nutshell – it’s like Victorian science fantasy; imagine if Dr Who had an affair with James Watt’s mother, the product of their union would be a steampunk hero.’

‘Oh. Right,’ I said, still at a loss.

Gavin was clearly delighted to discuss his favourite genre. ‘Ever read any BB Spark? He’s the absolute best.’

Ben looked coy. He really did. Coy, like a schoolgirl heading out on prom night in her first evening dress. He glanced at me and back at Gavin. ‘Actually, that’s one of my pen names.’

‘No shit!’ That was me. I’d only ever read his Ben Charlton books. Who the frig was BB Spark?

Ben shrugged. ‘It’s not exactly mainstream. I don’t think it would be your thing, Maisie.’

I’d like to have been the judge of that.

An invisible gremlin twisted my stomach.

Gavin slapped his thigh. ‘Man! This is so cool. BB Spark!’

Ben beamed. ‘It’s always great to hear if someone enjoys my work.’

Gavin’s muscles were rippling again, in a kind of seismic aftermath from the earthquake of his discovery. Ben had certainly made his day, and quite possibly vice-versa.

I wandered over to the garden tap, and rinsed the crud from my hands.

There was a warm chuckle of laughter from behind me and a murmur followed by a louder guffaw – Ben’s.

Were they laughing at me? Some blokey, sexist joke about my steampunk ignorance? Surely not.

I shook water from my hands and turned around, but the two men were now seated, with their backs to me, their faces lifted to the sun.

I joined them, and pulled my chair into the shade. Two tilted faces were smiling in unison.

‘Glorious, isn’t it?’ Gavin said.

‘Hard to better,’ said Ben.

They both filled their lungs with jasmine-scented air and settled back on their chairs, complete in their own little bubble.

Something in my world shifted, and I didn’t fancy the shortbread anymore.

Lore and Fount had been at work. How had it gone? ‘May my man, true love know…’

Darling Ben. Perhaps his days of bachelorhood were finally over.

Mine? I needed to find a better spell.

♥ ♥ ♥