The Five-Year Baby Secret

‘I’m fine,’ he said a touch irritably. ‘Don’t fuss, just put that on the bench.’

She watched him for a moment, concerned that he was overdoing it, but after a moment he reached for another plant and carried on working, leaving her to ponder the more urgent question of finances.

The fact of the matter was that they needed a true yellow to make the breakthrough. Primrose was a lot closer to cream. And cream wouldn’t do.

If he was just fooling himself…

Pushing the uncertainties to the back of her mind she said, ‘Ms Johnson said she would come out to the nursery and have a look around next week.’ She looked along the ranks of fuchsias that had been planted at weekly intervals, staggering the peak of flowering over a three-week period in order to guarantee perfection for a single week in May. Would she be impressed? Or simply see a glasshouse packed with plants that were all outlay, no income? ‘I’m going to have to tell her what we’ve got.’

‘You’ll do no such thing,’ he declared roundly.

The vehemence of his reply took her by surprise. ‘Dad, I don’t think you understand—’

‘I understand perfectly. Do you want to see someone else inviting the press to look at their stunning breakthrough a week before Chelsea? Years of work with someone else’s name on it?’ He seemed a little—hectic, she thought as he gestured at the bench in front of them. Too keyed-up. It wasn’t good for his blood pressure. ‘We can’t afford the kind of security that would be needed if so much as a hint gets out that I’ve made the breakthrough.’ Then, without warning, his face creased in a wicked grin that reminded her of the way he used to be. ‘That’s one of the advantages of everyone thinking you’re past it, my girl. You can stop worrying about who’s going to steal your new cultivars.’

She laughed to cover her sigh. Security. Just one more thing to worry about. ‘At least this is one thing we’ve got that Katherine Hanover isn’t interested in.’

‘Katherine Hanover would kill to have her name instead of ours on this.’

She frowned. ‘Why? No one would believe she’d bred it.’

‘Possession is nine-tenths of the law in this game, but this isn’t just about pride, or about putting the Gilbert name back at the forefront of plant breeding. This is to secure Tom’s future.’

‘I don’t think you understand, Dad. Ms Johnson needs something to justify supporting us.’

‘Exactly. She’ll tell her head office, some bright spark there will ask around to see if she knows what the devil she’s talking about and once she’s done that it won’t be a secret any more.’

‘But—’

‘No buts.’

‘Won’t the fact that we’re making the effort to go to Chelsea this year, after such a long break, have already aroused some speculation?’

‘If anyone asks, we’re relaunching Gilberts, and if they snigger, think I’m fooling myself, you let them.’

That was so close to what she had been thinking that she almost cringed with guilt, but facts had to be faced.

A major grower would have used the latest cell propagation technology to produce thousands of plants in the first year. Because of her father’s secrecy they’d had no choice but to propagate the old-fashioned way. Amongst the hundreds of plants being prepared for the show, only a small proportion were cuttings from the precious plant her father claimed to have produced the previous year.

If only he’d shown her, allowed her to photograph the blooms so that they had something to show for all his work, but he hadn’t said a word until the RHS had offered them space at Chelsea and she’d demanded to know what on earth he thought he was going to put in it.

It was such a very fragile thing, a plant. A single mishap could wipe them all out, at least for this year, and next year would be too late.

‘Oh, well,’ she said, doing her best to look cheerful, ‘we’ll be packing the second crop of plugs for despatch next week. At least we’ll look industrious if Ms Johnson does decide to come and take a look around.’

‘Just keep her out of here,’ he said, his attention already back on his work.

‘Dad?’ She swallowed. ‘I’ll have to slip out later this evening for an hour or so. I promised I’d give Sarah Carter a hand with the arrangements for the village Easter egg hunt next week.’

The lie stuck in her throat. Had her mother made excuses like that to cover her illicit meetings with Phillip Hanover? Afterwards, she’d tried to remember, but she’d been too busy inventing her own reasons to escape the house to take much notice what her mother was doing—after all, parents weren’t expected to have a life. They certainly weren’t supposed to be indulging in the same thrillingly illicit passion that had become the centre of her own secret world.

Feeling slightly sick, she said, ‘Can you keep an eye on Tom for me?’

‘I won’t be going anywhere,’ he said, not looking up from what he was doing.

What did you wear to meet a man you’d once thought the world well lost for? A man who, when it had come to making a stand, a choice, hadn’t loved her enough?

A man you wanted to impress, even while you wanted him to see that you didn’t care a hoot for his opinion?

Making an effort for the bank manager had been child’s play in comparison. A tidy suit, shoes brightly polished, neat hair.

A no-brainer.

But that had been business.

What did you wear when you were going to be begging a man not to destroy the one infinitely precious part of your life to have emerged from the wreckage? All that remained of the bright future they had planned together, the single joy that gave a point to getting out of bed each morning.

In the event, it was the weather—the damp chill rain of a spring slow to get started—and her destination, an ancient barn at the end of a muddy, little-used footpath, which decided the matter for her, saving her from any pathetic attempt to look alluring. To turn his head. Remind him that he’d loved her once.

As if she could.

Six hard years had knocked the bloom from her appearance. Warm trousers, sturdy ankle boots, an old soft shirt worn under a roomy sweater would do the job. And the clothes dictated the rest of her appearance. The minimum of make-up, her hair tied back in a plait. That was who she was now. A young village matron, more concerned with school, church, keeping her business ticking over, her son’s welfare, than her own appearance.

She tied the laces in her boots and straightened her back, doing her best to ignore the ache. She’d spent the afternoon on her knees fixing the pump that drove the mist sprays. Her back hurt, her fingers were sore and bruised where she’d knocked them against unforgiving metal.