Sowing Secrets. Trisha Ashley

again, and Rhodri gave us tea and chunks of Caerphilly cheese on limp crackers and told her all about Gabe Weston (which I hadn’t mentioned since I wasn’t sure my face wouldn’t give something away) and the trunkful of family documents he had found in the attic.

      ‘I haven’t had time to go through them yet, but there might even be a plan of the garden, or at least some lists of plants or something,’ he said hopefully. ‘That’s the sort of thing they like on Restoration Gardener.’ He picked up his own well-thumbed copy of the accompanying book and read out: ‘“All kinds of family documents can offer clues to vanished gardens, from detailed plans and planting lists to chatty family letters. Even a passing mention might be the one missing piece that will make the picture clear.”’

      ‘Most of the top ones appear to be old household accounts and linen lists,’ Nia said, ‘but goodness knows what’s at the bottom. They seem to have been tipping paperwork into it for centuries.’

      ‘There’s bound to be something interesting in there,’ Rhodri agreed optimistically.

      While Rhodri is much better at using his hands than his head, he’s pretty knowledgeable about antiques and the history of his house, so when he has time he will be compiling a guide that he can sell to visitors.

      I gave him that cartoon I drew of him and he loved it so much he is going to have it on lots of items in his gift shop, from postcards to mugs and tea towels: the Lion of Plas Gwyn! And he is not quite such a sad lion any more, for he has cheered up no end now Nia has taken him in hand. Some men just love to be bossed around.

      Once I became aware of Gabe Weston’s existence I seemed to see or hear mentions of him everywhere, as though my ears and eyes had tuned into his frequency. And I even bought another copy of the book so I could give Carrie’s back, because I found the workings of his mind strangely fascinating, especially combined with what I’ve already learned of his history. As he says on page 56, ‘It is amazing what can be grafted on to tough native rootstock.’

      And the more I stared at his author photo, the more doubtful I was that he could be Rosie’s father: I couldn’t see the least resemblance. Could I have got it wrong, and it was really Tom after all? But she doesn’t look in the least like him, either!

      I still didn’t want Gabe Weston anywhere near St Ceridwen’s Well, but as time passed I started to think nothing would come of it – until the day Rhodri heard that Gabe was about to tour the six properties on the long list in order to decide which three would go forward for the TV vote-off.

      Rhodri was terribly excited about it – think of the publicity if Plas Gwyn were featured! – but unfortunately he will be in London doing his Father of the Bride stuff when the Great Gardener turns up, and so has had to delegate the honour of showing him the estate to his cousin Dottie as Token Family Member. Nia will be around too, in case Dottie totally blows it, since she has not only got a screw loose but a whole bolt, a gasket and several vital rivets.

      And I know I ought to lie low that day, but I am terribly tempted to go up and spy on him! I have this burning curiosity to see him in the flesh, and this could be the only opportunity I ever get. I could watch him in perfect safety from Nia’s workshop, because he’s bound to park out front in the paved courtyard.

      Dare I?

      Fairy Glen is about to go into the property papers and this morning I heard hammering from up the lane, which turned out to be the estate agents putting up a ‘For Sale’ sign. This seemed pointless since the lane peters out into a farm track beyond the glen and no one uses the old rear drive to Plas Gwyn, so there is virtually no passing traffic except Ma and tractors.

      I went up there to give it a quick vacuum through, but was so exhausted I gave up halfway. I can’t imagine what’s the matter with me lately; my legs feel as if someone sneaked in and filled them with lead. Wonder if I’ve got that ME thingummy? I hope not, I haven’t got time to do an Elizabeth Barrett Browning on a chaise longue – especially without a large and devoted family to run about after me.

      I’m juggling cartoons, card designs and the first illustration for next year’s rose calendar as it is, not to mention Alphawoman – and