Phillipa Ashley - Spring on the Little Cornish Isles - The Flower Farm

Since his death, every photo with the bike in had been deleted or destroyed, but the memory of his special birthday would be treasured forever. Besides, everyone had been smiling in the photo, no one had their eyes closed or ‘looked fat’, so it had been deemed a suitable memento of the occasion, printed off multiple times and framed before being given as gifts to numerous members of the Carter clan.

Shortly after that photo took place, Stevie had taken a corner too fast, been thrown off the bike and struck an oak tree at the entrance to the village. He’d survived, technically, but the brain damage had been so extensive that he hadn’t been able to breathe on his own. Even worse, all the tests had shown no brain activity at all and they had been told there was no prospect of recovery. A month after the accident, the Carters had made the most heartbreaking decision any family could ever face and in March, Stevie was taken off life support.

Gaby stared at the photo. That dreadful moment had been almost half a year ago now. How could that be? How fast time flew, even though recently, some days had felt as if she was walking uphill in the darkness against a wind so strong and merciless she thought she might be blown off her feet and never get up again.

The late afternoon sun streamed through her window. Gaby pushed it open and let the cool breeze air the room. Could she smell the sea on it? Possibly not but she could imagine it. She’d made it here and Stevie would be proud of her. He’d be cheering now, just as he would have at her PhD graduation in June.

Gaby had managed to fund her doctorate with the help of several jobs, and scrimping and saving, plus being fed by her parents from time to time. She’d completed her thesis even during the darkest hours. She’d written up the last few pages, sitting by Stevie’s hospital bed.

Shortly after he’d died a minor miracle had happened – her college had offered her a junior fellowship that enabled her to teach the undergraduates and would have covered some of her accommodation and living expenses. The opportunity was as rare as rocking horse poo, and there were very few jobs that required a PhD in poetry, but it wasn’t the miracle Gaby had really wished for. She wasn’t going to get her brother back. And so, with him in mind, she had turned down the offer to pursue a job that combined the two passions in her life – poetry and flowers – and decided she would work on a flower farm.

She’d been in academia – at school, at university – for almost all of her twenty-seven years. She couldn’t see herself in another twenty-seven, a crusty academic, rarely having been outside Cambridge. She’d thought long and hard about her future as she sat by her brother’s side. He’d never be able to pursue all the things he wanted to do: travel the world, work abroad, enjoy life to the full but she could.

When she’d told Carly her plans to work at the farm she’d gasped in exasperation. ‘But a flower farm ? On the Scillies? You may as well lock yourself away in Cambridge!’

‘It’s Scilly or the Isles of Scilly. Never the Scillies,’ Gaby had corrected, trying not to rise to the bait. Carly genuinely meant well, but for her, achieving a dream meant getting a flat in a smart postcode with a car and salary to match.

‘I don’t care if it’s Timbuc-bloody-tu. You’re out of your mind.’

‘I rather fancy it. I love flowers.’

‘OK. I can just about get that, but why there? Can’t you go somewhere … oh I don’t know. Exciting? Exotic? Like the Caribbean. They have lots of flowers there.’

Gaby had suppressed a sigh. ‘But I love narcissi and Tresco Abbey Gardens is on Scilly – that’s one of the most famous gardens in the world.’

‘Really? Oh Gaby, I despair.’

That made two of them, thought Gaby, knowing her sister would never understand her obsession with flowers and poetry. She didn’t even bother explaining why she’d chosen Scilly specifically because Carly would have been incredulous and disapproving to hear that Gaby had fed her addiction to gardening and countryside programmes during the long hours at the hospital. The TV had been on in Stevie’s room for some company and normality mainly, and she’d sat through endless episodes of Gardener’s World , Countryfile , Countrywise and their lookalikes.

One programme had stuck in her mind. Ironically it had been at her lowest ebb, after a moment when she’d thought she’d seen Stevie show the flicker of an eyelid, the twitch of a finger. She’d imagined the movement of course, but luckily, she’d never told her parents about it. The consultant had come and done thorough tests and said there was absolutely no brain reaction recorded at all, they were incredibly sorry … she must have dreamed it … maybe she might want to go home for some rest?

A few hours later, after Gaby had finished crying, she was half-dozing in her chair and woke to find the TV on. She saw a smiley presenter in a wax jacket tell the audience about the tiny islands where the Gulf Stream ensured the climate was so mild in the winter that subtropical plants thrived all year round and daffodils bloomed in September. The sea had been azure, the flowers and plants dazzlingly bright and the people cheerful and resilient. It felt so removed from the dim hospital room, even though it actually was on her doorstep in global terms. It was beautiful, soothing and peaceful and exactly what she wanted to do.

‘Flowers seem intended for the solace of ordinary humanity .’ John Ruskin’s words had slid into her mind after the feature had finished.

She would go to Scilly, she resolved. She would see the flowers, visit the gardens, live, breathe and work with the narcissi when this was all over …

Looking back, Gaby realised that was the moment when she accepted that it was all over for Stevie. But not for her and that he would never want her to give up or give in. Stevie had escaped the shell of his body the day he crashed the bike. She didn’t know where he was now, but her life had to go on, for her sake, for his, for her family’s …

Unlike Carly, Stevie had understood what Gaby’s idea of ‘adventure’ was. She sat on the bed and unwrapped her other treasure: her last birthday present from him: a book called 100 Gardens to See Before You Die . Since he’d gone, she hadn’t been able to open it and re-read his message inside; it was just too heartbreaking. Besides she had committed it to memory long ago.

To Gaby,

I dare you to visit them all!

Don’t dream your life, live your dreams – whatever they may be.

Love, Stevie xx

Visiting one hundred gardens might not count as a wild adventure to some people and Gaby doubted if she’d see more than a fraction but after she’d finished her contract at the farm she could make a start, helped by the money she’d earn as a picker. She’d already seen some of the UK gardens and made a list of her favourites – Versailles, Giverny, the Majorelle in Marrakech, Kenroku-en in Japan, the Desert Garden in Phoenix and Adelaide Botanical Gardens.

OK. Her first day hadn’t been that exotic so far judging by her encounter with the scowling Will Godrevy and his muddy wellies. However, it was only the first step on the journey and she had at least made it. She turned away from the window and back to her room. She heard swearing from the next room and a thud as the partition wall shook. The bedside table trembled on its beer mat prop. Then there was giggling and shortly afterwards the rhythmic bumping of headboard against wall, accompanied by grunts and groans like someone was trying to finish a marathon.

Hmm. She rolled her eyes. It wasn’t much different from her college after all, only the walls were thinner here.