Putting Down Roots: Larchdown Valley, #1

By Jem Wendel

Can love be found in a derelict garden in this small town romance?

 

Jackson's plan had been a simple one—fill the van with fuel and drive until it ran dry, then start his life all over again. He was running away—from his ex-wife, his ex-boss, his ex-life. He was excited for a fresh start opening a plant nursery with no one to bother him. But when his van breaks down, he is forced to stay in Larchdown and the longer he stays in the strange village, the more it gets under his skin. When he meets the beautiful but troubled new owner of Larchdown House, his life gets a lot more complicated.

 

Luca's art career is on the rocks after a spiteful review from his art critic ex-lover. Amid the scandal, he can't bring himself to leave his apartment or even think about picking a paintbrush. Inheriting his great aunt's home in the country gives him the chance to escape London and his dismal new life for a while. When he meets a gorgeous gardener on the property, he finds he has a reason to stay. Except the guy is straight . . . isn't he?

 

Both men must confront their own demons if they want to find their way to each other and learn to trust again.

 

But no one can run from their past forever and when it finally pays a visit, have they done enough to conquer it?

 

Re-edited edition.

Content Warnings: Depression, anxiety and panic attacks. Homophobic slurs. Mention of - Historical violence, childhood sexual abuse and self-harm. Death and suicide of parents.

 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Larking About Press
• Release date: Aug 11, 2023
• ISBN: 9781916758001

Book preview

PART I

SPRING

CHAPTER 1

Jackson

I slap my hand down on the dashboard. Nope, that doesn’t work. The engine light resolutely stays on, so I give it another slap—you never know.

The light stays on, but the engine emits an ominous sound. Shit, I’m gonna need a garage.

My plan is simple; fill the van with fuel and drive until it runs out. I’m getting away. Away from Natasha—my ex-wife. Away from David—my brother and ex-boss. There isn’t anything else to get away from. All I have is this van and what’s in it; a few clothes, some seedlings and the money in my wallet. This is all that’s left after the divorce.

C’mon Betsy, I croon to the van, You can do this. The noise gets louder—another woman letting me down. I need to get off the motorway, but the last thing I want is to be stranded by the side of the road waiting for a tow truck.

Where would they even take me?

Home?

Ha! I don’t have anywhere to call home.

Taking the next junction, I glance at the fuel gauge and head towards the nearest town—although fifty miles won’t nearly be far enough away. Right. I need to find the closest garage, get Betsy fixed, and keep on moving.

It looks like a commuter town, with a train station and a pub—but no garage.

The noise develops into a permanent rattle. Hang in there girl, we got this.

I drive through a small village next, but this one doesn’t even have a pub. I really need to find somewhere soon. The road narrows then, and passes through a wood, before some hills come into view. And nestled at the bottom—another village.

Larchdown. I don’t know it—but there’s a niggling feeling in the back of my mind that I’ve heard of it somewhere. It certainly looks more promising. There’s a row of shops, a village green, and a pub—how quaint—and yes, a garage. I pull Betsy onto the forecourt, where she gives a last rattle before stopping.

An old guy in stained overalls appears through the large garage doors, wiping his hands on an oily rag. He stoops slightly and walks with a lilting gait.

Heard you coming a mile off. He opens.

That bad?

I reckon.

Can you fix her?

Sure I can.

Great, thanks. I need to be on my way.

Ain’t going anywhere for a while. Wait, what?

I thought you could fix her.

I’ll need parts, but it’s Friday. Won’t get them this side of the weekend. It’ll be Monday if you’re lucky. Reckon you won’t be going anywhere until Tuesday. Shit, that’s all I need—being stuck in the middle of nowhere for nearly a week.

Can’t do it any quicker? It’s worth a try.

Nope, but you’re welcome to take her elsewhere—if she’ll start.

No, I sigh. I’m stuck here then. Thanks, Tuesday will be fine. I’ll have to work out how I’m gonna pay for it later, and if I’m stuck here, I’m also gonna need a place to stay.

Um, is there anywhere to stay in this town, til Tuesday?

You can try the pub, they have rooms there.

Thanks. Another expense I don’t need, but I also don’t think sleeping in the van on the forecourt of the garage would be the thing. It hasn’t come to that—yet.

I look up at the pub—The Blacksmith’s Arms. It really is quaint, like the whole damn village. In fact, scanning around, there doesn’t seem to be anything which has been built in the last fifty years. Behind the pub, downland heads up into hills, and woodland spreads around the village, giving it the impression of being protected from the outside world. The village that time forgot—except that isn’t true. The cars in the street are modern, well, most of them. But still, it feels old-fashioned somehow.

The pub squats at the edge of a flat village green, its thatched roof sporting several windows. Pushing open the door, even the dark interior with a few scattered rays of afternoon sun seems in keeping. It’s actually very charming.

Give me a minute, I’ll be right with you. A voice calls out, followed a minute later by a short woman with curly brown hair and a beaming smile.

Hello there, can I help you? We don’t open til three.

I was told you might have a room.

You here to look at the Abbey?

The Abbey? Um, no.

Oh well, walking then, though you don’t look geared up for it. She continues, almost without pausing for breath.

No, my van has broken down. I’m told it needs parts and won’t be fixed until Tuesday.

"Ah, Old Pete will do a good job. And yes, we do have a room. To be honest, we don’t get many tourists in these parts—a few walkers, and those who want to see the Abbey. This woman can talk for England. Are you passing through?"

Kind of. She has a disarming smile, and it would be easy to give too much away. I feel reluctant to say too much, not that I have many answers anyway.

Well, I guess you’re stuck here for the weekend. Did you have plans? Anyone special missing you?

No. I’m getting tired of this—it isn’t how I’d planned my life when I set off a few hours ago. I was going to be far away and carefree, but here I am in some godforsaken place with no transport and a woman who talks too much.

Well then, I’m Darla. Welcome to Larchdown. Let me show you to your room.

The room is comfortable and homely. A bed stands along one wall with a small cupboard next to it. In one corner is a wardrobe and in the other, an armchair. It isn’t modern enough to have an ensuite, but Darla said the bathroom was just along the corridor. Although I hadn’t planned to be here, it’ll be a welcome change from the van—the last couple of nights have not been comfortable. The roof is low and I can barely stand upright, except near the dormer window, which is leaded. As I stand at the window and look out across the village, I can see the garage and poor Betsy sat on the forecourt. Old Pete, as Darla had called him, is bent over the engine bay of another car. The road through the village carries on past the garage and heads into the woodland. I can see what looks like ruins poking above the treeline—the Abbey I presume. Turning the other way, I look down the street. There are a few shops—more than I would have thought for a small village. A general store and post office, a bakery, and a few others. Mostly though, there are houses. I sigh.

What am I gonna do for four days?

I also have another problem. In my van are seedlings—my chance for a future—my first step to setting up a nursery somewhere. Plants are the only thing I know. I’d watered them well this morning, and the van is dark, so I think they’ll be okay for a few days, provided the weather doesn’t get too warm and dry them out. But four days might be pushing it. I’ll have to see if anyone has a greenhouse or polytunnel I can rent.

My stomach grumbles—I haven’t eaten anything yet today, although I’d thought about stopping for lunch at a service station on the motorway. But lunchtime’s been and gone, so, deciding to see if the bakery is still open, I leave my bag on the bed and head out for a look around the village.

I cross the village green, and see a small church in a graveyard bordered by yew trees. That’s one thing I’ve noticed—there are a lot of trees in this village. Some villages are sterile, with greenery ousted in favour of block paving and manicured hedges. Larchdown has a far more rustic feel, though as a gardener I know this is a look that also takes some effort.

The first shop I pass is a hairdresser’s and barbershop, and I run my hand through my hair. I’m cultivating a more rustic look. Natasha had always liked me clean shaven, and my hair short and tamed. It’s been many years since I allowed my stubble to grow a little—maybe since I was in college. But I like it. And my hair, well, I guess when it annoys me I might get it cut, but we aren’t there yet.

There’s a wool and craft store, a gift shop, then a general store and post office. The last shop in the row is a bakery with a couple of cast iron tables outside. I guess this is what passes as a cafe in Larchdown.

Hello. A tall, slim, blond guy dressed in an apron and standing behind a glass fronted display cabinet, greets me. His smile reaches his warm grey eyes.

The interior of the shop is painted blue, with wooden shelves along the walls, trimmed with bunting. A small table with a bright tablecloth and chairs sits in the corner, a vase of early tulips in its centre. The effect is all very cheery, but it’s all very bare of food.

I’m sorry, the guy continues, We don’t have a lot left. We’ll be closing soon.

I’ll have whatever you have left then please. This amounts to a couple of sausage rolls and a few cheese straws. Not a feast, but it’ll keep my stomach from rumbling until the pub starts serving food.

The guy genuinely looks apologetic as he hands them over, and I pay him.

The tulips look beautiful. Are they local?

Thank you. They are pretty, aren’t they? He beams at me. Not local though. I have a subscription. I nod. I’m in two minds about subscription flowers. Whilst they make lovely blooms available to many people, they also help to reduce the number of small nurseries. I know a few people who’ve lost their livelihoods, having to shut their nurseries down because of competition from mail order services.

Did you know that different coloured tulips have different meanings? Take the yellow ones there—they represent cheerfulness, happiness, and hope.

You obviously know your flowers Mr . . .

Blake, Jackson Blake. I’m a gardener. Flowers are about all I do know.

Welcome to Larchdown. I’m Ben, Ben McCullen. If you’re around tomorrow, come earlier and I’ll have a greater selection for you. I know he’s referring to the meagre offerings, so I smile. It’s okay.

Hold on. He disappears through a doorway behind him that’s hung with an old-fashioned plastic strip curtain, and comes back with a small cardboard box—the type that would hold a single serving of cake. He holds it out.

These are for tomorrow’s stock but, well, I think you need it today. On the house.

I take the box and open it up. Sitting inside is a cupcake. It’s topped with a swirl of purple frosting and rainbow sprinkles—Goddamn rainbow sprinkles. A decade of conditioning bubbles up. A decade of being around blokes who describe themselves as men’s men—whatever that means—though it usually amounts to drinking a lot of beer, behaving in embarrassingly laddish ways and certainly not eating purple cupcakes. A lifetime of being bullied threatens to spill over, and I begin to respond in the way I’ve become used to —which might have been something along the lines of, A purple rainbow sprinkle cake? Do you think I’m some kind of poof?

But when I look up at his earnest, kind face, the words die on my lips. I don’t even think that, do I? I’m not some sort of homophobe, though I have certainly hung out in groups who’ve cast slurs at gay people. It’s because I’ve always been scared of the guys—well, my brother in particular. Scared of their taunts and beatings if I showed one iota of weakness. Standing here in this brightly coloured shop, in this wonderfully quaint village, my thoughts feel as shameful and as inappropriate as the devil in a cathedral. The natural friendliness of another man towards me, which wasn’t delivered with the twist of a spiteful joke, floors me. A wave of embarrassment washes over me, and it’s all I can do to stammer out my thanks with what I hope is a passable smile.

It isn’t until later, when I walk down to the river bank, and sit under a willow tree that’s just coming into leaf to eat my sausage rolls and the cupcake, that I wonder if the baker had been flirting with me.

Wow, that surprises me. Since when did I have so much prejudice? Do I really think that all gay guys want to do is to hit on every guy they meet? Shit, I can’t go around thinking things like that. What is this village doing to me?

I have to admit, it was a really delicious cupcake, though.

CHAPTER 2

Luca

It takes several seconds before I realise the pounding I can hear isn’t actually my head—though that is doing a good job of keeping up—but the door.

I groan and roll off the sofa, shuffling across the room. Had I really fallen asleep on the sofa last night? Opening the door a crack, Anna bursts in.

Thank god, you’re alright. She looks genuinely concerned. I thought you’d done something stupid.

Stupid? I look at the empty bottles on the coffee table. Champagne, which I drank to celebrate the opening of my new exhibition, and vodka, to try to forget that my lover—Claude Daucourt—brought someone else to my opening night. And to try to forget the scene that ensued. It wasn’t a public scene, thank god, but still, I was pretty pissed off. I’d been with Claude on and off for six years, but he had never flaunted any of his other lovers in front of me, and bringing one of them to my opening night had been a step too far.

He’s an artist too. I thought it might be a good education for him, Claude had said airily, when I’d cornered and confronted him.

What else are you educating him in? I found myself asking, which was stupid.

You, of all people, should know that.

"Claude, did you ever think how I’d feel with you bringing him here, to my night?" I could see by the look on his face that he hadn’t. No, Claude never thought of anyone but himself, for all his supposed benevolence. It was all a selfish desire to use what influence he had to get what he wanted—which was adoration from young men. And didn’t they seem to get younger? Or was I just getting older?

Don’t forget, I got you to where you are today, he’d hissed at me. It was true. He was an art reviewer and critic for a major Sunday paper. Gratitude had gone a long way in forgiving him every time I saw him with someone else, but it was an old line he’d used once too often.

Go to hell, I’d replied, before stalking off. I don’t remember the rest of the opening night party.

Reviews for Putting Down Roots

[Rebecca louise · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

Loved it so much! Definitely looking forward to reading more by the author!