She felt more at home every day in Hillside. Hearing a throat being ponderously cleared and a short dry cough through the open window, she hurried over her breakfast. Foster, the temperamental jobbing gardener, who was not always reliable in his promises, must be here today as he had said he would be.
Gwenda bathed, dressed, put on a tweed skirt and a sweater and hurried out into the garden. Foster was at work outside the drawing-room window. Gwenda’s first action had been to get a path made down through the rockery at this point. Foster had been recalcitrant, pointing out that the forsythia would have to go and the weigela, and them there lilacs, but Gwenda had been adamant, and he was now almost enthusiastic about his task.
He greeted her with a chuckle.
“Looks like you’re going back to old times, miss.” (He persisted in calling Gwenda “miss”.) “Old times? How?” Foster tapped with his spade.
“I come on the old steps — see, that’s where they went — just as you want ’em now. Then someone planted them over and covered them up.” “It was very stupid of them,” said Gwenda. “You want a vista down to the lawn and the sea from the drawing-room window.” Foster was somewhat hazy about a vista — but he gave a cautious and grudging assent.
“I don’t say, mind you, that it won’t be an improvement…. Gives you a view –and them shrubs made it dark in the drawing-room. Still they was growing a treat — never seen a healthier lot of forsythia. Lilacs isn’t much, but them wiglers costs money — and mind you — they’re too old to replant.” “Oh, I know. But this is much, much nicer.” ‘Well.” Foster scratched his head.
“Maybe it is.” “It’s right,” said Gwenda, nodding her head. She asked suddenly, “Who lived here before the Hengraves? They weren’t here very long, were they?” “Matter of six years or so. Didn’t belong. Afore them? The Miss Elworthys.
Very churchy folk. Low church. Missions to the heathen. Once had a black clergyman staying here, they did. Four of ’em there was, and their brother–but he didn’t get much of a look-in with all those women. Before them–now let me see, it was Mrs. Findeyson–ah! she was the real gentry, she was. She belonged. Was living here afore I was born.” ‘Did she die here?” asked Gwenda.
“Died out in Egypt or some such place.
But they brought her home. She’s buried up to churchyard. She planted that magnolia and those labiurnams. And those pittispores. Fond of shrubs, she was.” Foster continued: ‘Weren’t none of those new houses built up along the hill then. Countrified, it was. No cinema then.
And none of them new shops. Or that there parade on the front.” His tone held the disapproval of the aged for all innovations. “Changes,” he said with a snort. “Nothing but changes.” “I suppose things are bound to change,” said Gwenda. “And after all there are lots of improvements nowadays, aren’t there?” “So they say. I ain’t noticed them.
Changes!” He gestured towards the macrocarpa hedge on the left through which the gleam of a building showed. “Used to be the cottage hospital, that used,” he said. “Nice place and handy. Then they goes and builds a great place near to a mile out of town. Twenty minutes’ walk if you want to get there on a visiting day—or threepence on the bus.” He gestured once more towards the hedge…. “It’s a girls’ school now. Moved in ten years ago.
Changes all the time. People takes a house nowadays and lives in it ten or twelve years and then off they goes. Restless. What’s the good of that? You can’t do any proper planting unless you can look well ahead.” Gwenda looked affectionately at the magnolia.
“Like Mrs. Findeyson,” she said.
“Ah. She was the proper kind. Come here as a bride, she did. Brought up her children and married them, buried her husband, had her grandchildren down in the summers, and took off in the end when she was nigh on eighty.” Foster’s tone held warm approval.
Gwenda went back into the house smiling a little.