The garden was Wendy’s domain, but it was Kayleigh’s dad who’d always pruned the apple tree . . .
BY SARAH SCOTFORD-SMITH
KAYLEIGH’S mother, Wendy, was gazing at the first bud on a potted hydrangea. She glanced up, her pixie cut framing her face.
“Oh, hello, love, this is a rarity,” she remarked.
“I’ve brought a tray of your favourite bedding plants.” Kayleigh held up the flowers, hoping they’d make up for the lack of recent visits and phone calls.
She placed the busy lizzies on the patio table and sat down on a chair.
Even though the sun was out, there was no warmth in the day.
Her mother dug a trowel into the soil near the hydrangea, prising out a dandelion root.
Kayleigh tapped her fingers against the table. No wonder she didn’t visit as regularly as she should. Her dad would have given her his full attention.
“You’ve had that hydrangea for years,” she said, attempting conversation.
Gardening had never really interested her, but the large pink flowers that flourished annually on this plant were impressive.
“It’s late flowering this year. I expect the cold weather’s to blame.” Wendy pulled the dandelion free and held it up to her daughter.
Wendy pulled herself up to standing.
She pressed her hands against the arch of her back and closed her eyes.
“Everything OK, Mum?”
“Just a twinge.” Wendy strolled off down the path.
Kayleigh folded her arms and followed.
“Did you like the busy lizzies?” she asked, catching up with Wendy by a Bramley apple tree with a gnarled trunk.
“Of course. They’ll look lovely in the pot by the door.” Wendy placed her hand on the tree trunk, running her fingers over the rugged bark. “This tree was here when your father and I moved in.
“It must be as old as the cottage. It was your dad’s job to pick the apples and prune back the branches. The only job he did.”
Kayleigh nodded.
“He hated gardening, didn’t he?”
“Nearly as much as you.”
Kayleigh shrugged. She’d always had more in common with him than her mother.
She missed the chats they used to have about action films or the latest murder mystery he’d read.
It was less than a year since he died, and her childhood home felt empty without him.
She glanced towards the front door, almost expecting him to run out and greet her.
Wendy stepped back, gazing up at the tree.
“It needs pruning.”
“Mum, there’s no way ��
