Windflower Wedding. Elizabeth Elgin

sir.’ The soldier held out a hand which was reluctantly taken. ‘Sergeant Sydney Willis. Would you be the orchid expert I’ve been hearing about?’

      Catchpole’s expression softened. He liked being addressed as sir and having his undoubted knowledge in the cultivation and propagation of orchids deferred to.

      ‘Happen I’m the gentleman you’m looking for.’ He laid aside his fork and reached for his pipe to clamp it, empty, between his teeth. ‘But you wasn’t expected, sergeant,’ he admonished in order to establish that visits to his garden were strictly by appointment.

      ‘No. I’m sorry, but I took the chance, in passing, of finding you. I was told of your experience with orchids, you see, and –’

      ‘By who?’

      ‘By sergeant Tom Dwerryhouse. I was talking to him in the pub. Famous for your orchids, he said, and being a gardener myself I took the liberty of calling. Leeds Corporation Parks and Gardens,’ he added hastily, eager to establish a rapport. ‘Keen to learn more about orchids, they being a favourite of mine.’

      Catchpole, mollified, returned his pipe to his pocket, dolefully remarking that he’d clean run out of tobacco, but if the sergeant would care to stay for a sup of tea, his apprentice would soon be making one. At which, Sergeant Willis offered a fill from his own pouch, then settled himself eagerly on the proffered apple box.

      ‘You have a fine garden, Mr Catchpole. I envy you.’ He gazed with a practised eye at near perfection.

      ‘’S now’t like it should be. No specialist growing now on account of there being no coke for heating the glasshouses. Time was when I had two under-gardeners and at least three ’prentices.’ His eyes took on a yearning look. ‘But nowt’s the same with two dratted wars to contend with, though my land girl is a grand lass and willing to learn. Had me doubts when Miss Julia landed me with her,’ he murmured through a haze of tobacco smoke, ‘but her’s got the makings of a gardener in her if she don’t go getting herself wed like most females do.’

      It was then that Tilda, in search of her apples, appeared by way of the small back gate, eyebrows raised questioningly at the stranger who had inveigled his way into the garden.

      ‘Now then, Tilda! Gracie’s got your apples. Her’s in the shed, mashing a pot of tea.’

      ‘Who’s he, then?’ Tilda demanded in a whisper to which Gracie whispered back that he was a gardener, or had been in civvy street, and was here to see the orchid house – she thought. And when she had delivered two mugs of tea she gave Tilda the bag of apples, remarking that as far as she knew the sergeant’s name was Sydney Willis and he came from Leeds.

      ‘But you’ll stay for a cup, Tilda? The kettle’s almost boiled again. Think I can squeeze a drop more out of this pot. I should have brought those apples to the house, but I was running late this morning,’ she offered when they had settled themselves in the shelter of the now empty tomato house from which there was an uninterrupted view of the two men. ‘And you know what a stickler for time-keeping Mr C is.’

      Which wasn’t true, really. She was late this morning, there was no denying it, but only because she had hung around, waiting as long as she dare for the red Post Office van – which hadn’t come, of course.

      To which Tilda replied that it was no trouble at all to collect them, it being a nice afternoon and she having time on her hands on account of there being little with which to cook; demanding to know more about the soldier who seemed to be getting on like a house on fire with the crusty head gardener.

      ‘Don’t know any more’n I’ve told you,’ Gracie blew hard on the hot, pale liquid in her mug, ‘’cept that he said he worked for Leeds Corporation.’

      Tilda nodded, keeping to herself the knowledge she had gained in a passing glance; that the soldier belonged to the Green Howards, a Yorkshire regiment; that he was middle-aged, like herself, and like herself was showing signs of greying in places though he was tall and straight and wore a Clark Gable moustache with great aplomb. She nodded again, sipped her tea, and wondered if he was married.

      She was still asking herself the same question as she skirted the wild garden on her way back to Rowangarth, and it came as a pleasant shock to hear her name being called in strong, masculine tones.

      ‘Miss Tewk! Wait!’

      She turned to see the soldier, bearing a carrier bag of apples.

      ‘You forget them, miss,’ he smiled. ‘I volunteered to deliver them.’

      ‘Oh! That’s very – er – kind of you.’ She felt the flush of colour to her cheeks because she’d been so interested in Catchpole’s visitor she had clean forgotten the apples. ‘But you shouldn’t have gone out of your way, sergeant.’

      ‘Sydney,’ he corrected, smiling, ‘And I didn’t go out of my way, exactly. I offered to bring them because I wanted to ask you –’

      ‘Yes?’ Tilda whispered, snatching on her breath.

      ‘To ask if I might call on my next spot of time off.’

      ‘Oooooh!’ She felt distinctly peculiar.

      ‘I’d like a closer look at that grand avenue of lindens over yonder, you see. Mr Catchpole told me his grandfather planted them more than fifty years ago.’

      ‘Now that I couldn’t say.’ Tilda, distinctly disappointed, found her tongue. ‘You’d have to ask Mrs Sutton’s permission for that, her being in charge whilst Sir Andrew’s away at sea. I could mention it to her, though I’m sure it’ll be all right if Mr Catchpole says it will – him being head gardener.’

      ‘He did give me permission, Miss Tewk. I just thought it might be nice to have the pleasure of your company, you being familiar, so to speak, with the trees on the estate. He did mention that Rowangarth has some very fine English elms.’

      ‘We have. On the far edge of Brattocks Wood.’

      A walk in the woods with a soldier – next Wednesday, weather permitting, at half-past two, she thought tremblingly as later she fretted over unaccustomed lumps in her bechamel sauce.

      She wondered yet again if Sergeant Willis was married and knew, deep within her love-starved heart, that he was, which was just Tilda Tewk’s bad luck, she supposed, sighing deeply. She, who had always wanted a gentleman friend of her own, had never been lucky in love, there being so many young men taken in the last war and plain girls like herself shoved to the back of the queue. She had given her young heart to the Prince of Wales, him so boyishly handsome and with such a wistful smile. Her love for him was pure and from a great distance and she had only removed his picture from the kitchen mantel when Mrs Simpson got her claws into him.

      At one time, Tilda pondered, as she squashed another lump against the side of the pan with her spoon, she had longed for a husband and children, then downgraded her hopes to perhaps just one passionate love affair. And since passion had never chanced her way, she had long since decided to settle for a dalliance, however brief. Now it seemed as if her prayers had been answered in the handsome form of Sergeant Sydney Willis and she would walk in Brattocks with him on her next afternoon off and show him the elms and the old, propped-up oak that folk said was almost as old as Rowangarth itself – if looking at trees was what interested him, that was. And if asked, she would continue their friendship until he admitted he had a wife and children when, as had happened with the Prince of Wales, she would be forced to give him up.

      But until that happened, she decided with stiff-lipped determination, she would make the most of what the Fates allowed and be thankful for small mercies. And a dalliance.

      ‘I hoped you’d come.’ Alice dried her hands and took off her pinafore.

      ‘You knew I would.’ Julia pulled out a chair and leaned her elbows on the kitchen table. ‘It’s just a year now since …’ She glanced at the clock on the kitchen mantel.

      ‘Since we were celebrating