Page 5 of Once Upon a Thyme

‘Yes, I know!’ In truth I felt a bit stupid, which was making me snappy.

Stupid that I’d fallen for his ‘looking for a part-time job’ spiel.

If I’d hustled him out there and then with the truth that there was no job, none of this current exchange would be happening, and I wouldn’t be wanting to murder my mother.

No, scrap that, I’d still be wanting to murder her, but it would be for some other reason.

‘Sorry. I do know. I just – well. I haven’t thought that far in advance yet; after all, they may decide not to film here at all. ’

There was another silence into which the kettle boiled.

It was clear that neither of us knew what to say from here on.

I knew what I wanted to say – something about him being here under false pretences and my mother having no right to force her way into my life – but we’d covered that and I would only be digging over old ground.

‘I used to be a chef,’ Zeb said suddenly and surprisingly from behind me.

I kept my eye on the kettle, unsure as to whether this was an unasked-for confidence or whether he was following some mental train of thought obvious only to him.

When you worked with Ollie for a while you learned that only about twenty per cent of words actually got said by some people, and sometimes entire conversations with you went on without you even being aware that you’d spoken.

‘A chef,’ I echoed and poured water onto teabags because it gave me something to do with my hands and a reason for not turning around to face him, only to embarrass myself further.

‘Yes.’

Good grief, this was painful. ‘I still don’t know what you’re doing here at this time of night.

’ I turned around and caught him stroking his thumbnail along one of the cracks in the old table, his head bent and his hair flopping so that he now looked like David Tennant’s sad younger brother. ‘You presumably have a home to go to.’

‘A flat.’ He took the mug I held out. ‘In Pickering. Over a takeaway.’

‘Well, that’s…’

‘I had a house. A lovely house and a wife.’ He spoke very quickly now, as though he wanted to get the words out.

‘But being a chef can be dreadful hours and split shifts. We wanted to start a family but I was never home and she didn’t know when I’d be coming back half the time.

’ He wasn’t looking at me, he was keeping his eyes firmly fixed on the riven surface of the table.

‘So we split up and I retrained and I’m having to start again. ’

I had no idea why he was telling me this, and no idea how I was meant to react.

‘I’m sure that was all very painful.’ I sat back down in the slouchy chair.

It had kept Granny’s imprint so well, after the sixty or so years of her having sat in it, that I had to form myself into the shape of an eighty-five-year-old woman just to get comfortable.

‘So I need this job.’ Zeb slumped further forward until he was sitting almost by accident on one of the stools.

‘I’ve lost everything and I have to start again, and your mother is willing to give me a shot.

I’m hoping that telling you this will appeal to your better nature and stop you slinging me out of the door. ’

‘Ah. You want me to pity you.’ His confessions made more sense now.

‘No!’ Now he sat upright and looked more like the assertive Zeb who had talked to Simon about payment this afternoon. ‘I’m trying to explain why I’m here. Why I want you to give this a go, just for the month. What have you got to lose, after all?’

I sat back in the chair, cupping my hands around my steaming mug and looking at him, his elbows on the table and an urgent expression on his thin, dark face.

What did I have to lose? My autonomy. My independence from my mother, hard won after years of fighting and a continuation of border skirmishes.

I mean, I understood her need to keep me close, of course I did.

Her life hadn’t been easy, filled with losses and fear, and I was all she had. But even so…

Then I thought of the band, traipsing around our carefully laid out acres, those casual hands scooping at flowers and fingers snatching at leaves, releasing scents to the air and a confetti of petals strewn in their wake.

The dark eyes of Mika, watching me, and I realised how desperately I wanted them to come and film here.

‘Do you know how to get in touch with The Goshawk Traders?’ I asked.

Zeb sat straighter again and put his mug down on the table. ‘Simon gave me his details.’

‘Then I think you should do that. Tell them we’d be delighted to have them film their video here. Lay it on a bit thick about how much we’d do for them – make the whole place available for as long as they wanted, close to the public, all that.’

‘Payment?’

‘Think of something. Not so much as to put them off, but enough to compensate for being closed while they’re here.’

Zeb was scrabbling through his pockets. He finally pulled out his phone and started tapping in notes. ‘That’s great.’

‘And you are not to tell my mother anything.’

He paused, fingers mid-tap. ‘When you say “ anything” …?’

‘I mean about this place. No inside information, nothing about the band filming here or our turnover, what we’re doing, what we’re planning. Nothing. You can just about tell her what day it is, because she’s always a bit hazy on that one. Did she ask for regular reports?’

‘No, she…’

‘She will. And I know she’s the one paying you, but I’m the one who will kick you out on your ear if I find out that you’re spying for her, okay?’

He looked at me steadily, as though he were reading the subtext in my words. ‘You and your mother…’ he began, carefully.

‘If I use the phrase “it’s complicated”, that doesn’t even touch the sides. She’s paying you but I’m the boss and if you want your testimonials and some pictures for your website, then I’m the one you have to stay on the right side of.’

The steady look continued. It was as though the apologetic Zeb, the Zeb who’d been telling me about his past life, had flown out of the door like a sprite, and here I was, left with the businessman.

But I’d seen the vulnerability, that half-closed expression when he’d told me about his life.

Zeb had offered me something that not many others had, an insight into life outside this little valley, an intimacy that tingled at the edges of my brain.

Very few people treated me as though I were worth talking to, but he had.

After a moment or two Zeb said, ‘That sounds remarkably Mafia-like for someone who runs a herb farm.’ I didn’t reply and eventually he sighed. ‘Right. I’m paid by her but I’m working for you, got it.’

‘You never know, perhaps the Goshawk people might put some work your way too, if you play your cards right.’

I got a sudden smile for that, a brightening that lit his eyes. ‘Never thought of that, good call.’

‘But you absolutely and totally do not tell my mother anything .’ I gave the words such heavy emphasis that he frowned.

‘Right. Got it.’

‘Especially about the pig.’

‘The pig?’

I sighed. ‘The pig in the kitchen. The pets’ corner was my idea and my mother thinks – look, never mind.’

‘Pig silence will be maintained.’

‘Better be.’

We drank our tea in a slightly more comfortable silence, whilst outside the owls continued their haunted conversation across the garden.