The Peas and Carrots Series Boxset 1, page 1
part #1 of Peas and Carrots Series
The Peas and Carrots Series
Volume One (Inludes books 1, 2 and 3, plus an exclusive short story)
Hannah Lynn
Also by Hannah Lynn
Amendments
The Afterlife of Walter Augustus
Fiona and the Whale
The Peas and Carrots Series
Peas, Carrots and an Aston Martin
Peas, Carrots and a Red Feather Boa
Peas, Carrots and Six More Feet
Peas, Carrots and Lessons in Life
Out Feb 2020
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Contents
Peas, Carrots and an Aston Martin
Foreword
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
The Mole Fiasco
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Peas, Carrots and a Red Feather Boa
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Epilogue
Peas, Carrots and Six More Feet
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Epilogue
Peas, Carrots and Lessons in Life
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Stay in touch
Review
These stories are a work of fiction. All names, characters, organisations, places, events and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to any persons, alive or dead, events or locals is almost entirely coincidental.
Text copyright © 2018-19 Hannah Lynn
First published 2019
ISBN: 9781090580542
Imprint: Independently published
Edited by Emma Mitchell @ Creating Perfection and Jessica Nelson @ Indie Books Gone Wild
Cover design by Vector Artist
All rights reserved.
No part of this book should be reproduced in any way without the express permission of the author.
Peas, Carrots and an Aston Martin
Book 1
For Sally,
Wherever you are…
Foreword
A brief history of allotments:
With roots spreading all the way back to the Saxons, small parcels of land, known as allotments, have long been a way for people to grow and enjoy their own produce. Varying in size and located throughout the UK, allotments – which can consist of anything from just a single plot, to hundreds of plots gathered together – are leased from local councils or parishes, with tenancies costing anywhere from a few pounds to substantially more.
Allotments became most prominent during the Second World War and the "Dig for Victory," campaign, where their numbers rose to over 1.4 million. Nowadays, numbers are not so high. While it is estimated that less than ten percent of those original plots are left, they are still tended enthusiastically by those ‘alloties’ that remain.
Often hidden behind housing estates or on the outskirts of towns these are places where a discerning few choose to opt out of the consumerism the arises with vast super markets and convenience stores and instead choose to sow and harvest their own produce. And they do so in the company of quiet, like-minded individuals, all sharing tips on pruning and pest control over cups of tea and homemade cakes and cider. For many it is refuge from the hectic-ness, noise and commotion of the modern world. A place where an Englishman’s shed is his castle, hidden full of treasures and capable of providing all the sustenance a person could need.
Chapter 1
ERIC SIBLEY SAT across from the solicitor. He was unsure as to what the appropriate or expected response was, given the current situation. He blinked a few times and rubbed the bridge of his nose, then shuffled around on the chair and tried to find a more comfortable seating position.
In Eric’s opinion, the entire room, from the Blu-Tacked A3 posters on the window and the laminated desk to the worn blue carpet and instant freeze-dried coffee, reeked of skinny budgets and cutting corners. There was no class, no style. On the other side of the desk, the solicitor looked just as cheap, with his polyester jacket, comic tie and supermarket aftershave.
‘Just explain it to me again,’ Eric said. ‘You’re saying I get nothing? None of it? Nothing at all?’
The solicitor removed his glasses and rubbed his eyes.
‘No. As I have explained, your father has left you the remaining tenancy on his allotment and his 1962 limited-edition Aston Martin DB4 series four, affectionately known as Sally, on the condition that you fully tend to the allotment on a weekly basis for the next two years.’
Eric shook his head.
‘But the house? Everything in the house. The paintings, my mother’s jewellery, all of that, it … it’s …’
‘It’s been left to the church,’ the solicitor finished for him.
‘But he didn’t even go to church!’ Eric thumped the table with his fist. ‘He was a bloody atheist!’
The solicitor – who was presumably named Eaves or Doyle, judging from the sign above the door – shuffled the papers in front of him, then returned his glasses to the end of his nose.
‘I realise that this is a difficult time for you. But your father was very specific about his wishes. The car will remain in your possession, permanently, provided you adhere to the specified conditions.’
‘And if I don’t?’
‘Then your father has made provisions for that situation too.’
Eric drew in a lungful of air, which he let out with a hiss.
‘But Abi? He must have left something to Abi? She’s his only grandchild for Christ’s sake.’
Eaves-possibly-Doyle massaged his temples with his knuckles.
‘I’m very sorry, Mr Sibley, I don’t know what to tell you. Perhaps your father felt you’d value these gifts more than the house or money.’
‘Like hell he did.’
Eric pushed back the chair, snatched the papers from the table, and strode over to the door. When his hand was on the handle, Eaves-possibly-Doyle coughed. Eric spun around.
‘Mr Sibley, before you leave, I have to tell you that it would be considered trespassing if you were to step on your father’s property from now on.’
Eric’s lungs quivered.
‘Exactly how am I supposed to collect the car without going on the property?’ he said through clenched teeth.
‘Your father has seen to that as well.’
The car was being stored in a garage on the outskirts of town. Fortunately, it was a walkable distance as, having travelled from London by train, Eric’s only mode of transport was by foot or taxi, and you had as much chance of finding a taxi in Burlam as you did hailing Father Christmas for a lift home from the pub at midnight on Christmas Eve.
The sky was blanketed in dense grey clouds, although for mid-November it was relatively mild. As he walked, a cool breeze pushed him from behind, carrying the scent of damp grass and river water. Eric’s feet skidded on the wet autumn slush. So much for crisp copper leaves and frolicking squirrels. His insides lurched. What was he going to tell Suzy? Only last night they’d been discussing what they would do with the money. Their mortgage would’ve been paid off for sure, with more than a bit to spare. They talked about buying a holiday house, somewhere in Italy, Tuscany perhaps, maybe a skiing holiday, or the Maldives even. She’d been so excited.
Eric bit back the resentment. He wasn’t being callous, he wasn’t. Yes, his father had died, and that was all very sad, but he was an old man who’d lived a long life. Far longer than he probably deserved. Old people die, there’s no getting around it, Eric told himself, and the fact remained, he deserved the house. Growing up as an only child with his father, he deserved a dozen houses. How many other children began doing spelling tests at three? Or couldn’t have dinner before they’d recited all the imperfect and perfect past participles in Latin, French, and Spanish? How many teenagers were made to run three miles every weekend morning to earn ten minutes as a passenger in his father’s car? A car that he’d got by swindling a ninety-year-old widow four decades earlier. What kind of normal person did that? There was a traffic cone on the side of the pavement. Eric stopped and kicked it.
‘Screw you. I hope you burn,’ he yelled.
Then, noticing an old woman walking her Jack Russell on the other side of the street, waved his hand apologetically and carried on walking.
The workshop was littered with tools, reeked of petrol, and was run by men who wiped their hands on their work trousers. It was not the type of place you’d expect to find a half-million-pound vintage sports car, stored away in the corner with only a half-on dust sheet for protection.
Eric’s lungs seized with terror as a bald mechanic ran his hand along the bonnet of the car, stroking and caressing the bodywork like it was his own personal prized possession. Eric flinched at each and every movement.
‘She runs like a dream,’ the mechanic said.
‘You’ve driven her?’
‘Aye. Never thought I’d get behind the wheel of one of these in my lifetime. But I’d see ’er goin’ up and down them roads. And then when your dad’s ’ands went, he came an’ asked me one day. Just like that. Wanted to be in her again I guess. Can’t blame ’im. Sally, ain’t it?’ Eric nodded. ‘Anyways, we made it pretty regular since then. He had me coming up to the house, taking him out on the bends near every week. I guess that’s been what, ten months?’
Eric blushed. He hadn’t seen his dad since last Christmas, and he certainly couldn’t remember anything wrong with his hands then, although he did remember something vague about letting Abi tear the wrapping paper off his Christmas present.
‘Somewhere around then,’ Eric said, then straightened his shoulders and asserted himself to the matter in hand. ‘If you could just get the keys, I’m in a bit of a rush. I’ve got rather a lot of things to be getting on with.’
‘’Course, ’course. I’ll get them rightly. I take it you’ll be heading up to the allotment?’ he said.
‘How do you know …’ Eric started, but cut himself short. Of course the mechanic knew about the allotment, everyone knew. This was Burlam.
Eric’s parents had moved to Burlam when he was eleven and already at boarding school. As such, the place had never been anything more than an unpleasant vacation home that he was thrust into for three holidays, three half terms, and six exeats a year. He abhorred it. Only an hour from London by train, it was the antithesis of culture and class. In the summer it was full of tourists who wandered along the riverfront, nosing in the quaint shops that sold nothing but tat, while protecting their fish and chips from opportunistic seagulls. In the winter Burlam was a ghost town, other than on the occasional weekend when good weather yielded hordes of bikers to gather at the local greasy spoon and belt around the narrow, twisting lanes, causing havoc to anyone on four wheels. It was not a place Eric liked to be associated with.
Suzy, on the other hand, adored it. She spent her mornings strolling around the marina, taking in the air, and revelling in the grudgingly slow pace. Once or twice she’d suggested they move there, or at least buy a holiday cottage and give Abi the chance to grow up knowing her granddad better. Eric never pandered to the discussion.
He started the engine and closed his eyes. The vibrations buzzed up through the leather work. Tending an allotment for two years? Easy. Eric would tend to a whole farm if he had to. No one was getting their hands on this car. Not in his lifetime.
The car drove exactly as Eric remembered. Loud and stylish and still as argumentative as ever in third gear. The sills looked as though they would need an overhaul in the next twelve months, but apart from that and a little rusting around the inside of the bumper, she was in perfect nick; the way his father had always kept her. Cars had been George Sibley’s lifelong love. Gardening, by contrast, was an exceptionally ridiculous dalliance.
This was Eric’s first trip to the allotment. Part of the reason was time; visits to George were usually planned in conjunction with a visit to Suzy’s sister, Lydia, in nearby Woodham, and thus adhered to a somewhat rigid schedule. Arriving at Lydia’s late often resulted in her offering a bed for the night in their tie-dye clad spare room that smelt somewhere between a chiropractor’s office and a compost heap. To Eric, spending the night there was only marginally better than spending the night on the toilet floor of a seedy sports bar in Wales the night after a Six Nations rugby match. Better to be in and out quick where his relatives were concerned.
The other reason he’d not visited the allotment was that Eric had no interest in it. He had no interest in feigning enthusiasm over rows and rows of green leaves, each one no different to the next. Nor did he want to hear about what potato blight was. Or how the aphids had ravaged this bean or that bean, or how important it was to get your strawberries covered before the birds came and got them all. And more importantly, he had no interest in spending time alone with his father. After all, it wasn’t like he bothered taking an interest in Eric’s life.
It had been bearable when Eric’s mother was still alive. She’d been the link, the tie, his father’s one redeeming feature that allowed Eric to see him as more than merely a dictator who had strived to control every aspect of Eric’s life, from his university choice to the houses he lived in, and even the colour that his best man wore at his wedding. After all, if she could love George Sibley, there had to be good in him somewhere, right?
His mother, Josephine, had been the polar opposite of his father. While in public she supported her husband’s decisions, privately she’d nourished Eric’s creativity. It was she who convinced George that Eric did not need to attend remedial maths classes after he received his first B grade in a test. It was she who persuaded George to allow Eric to play lead trumpet in the school jazz band as opposed to screeching away at his second-hand violin in the back row of the orchestra. Josephine vocally and controversially supported Eric’s choice to study anthropology at university rather than economics or accounting, and had wept with joy, rather than disdain, when he told them that he’d proposed to Suzy, a divorced writer. Josephine was the link, the bond, the elucidation. And when she died, all that was gone.
