Beatrice sat by the window, slowly twisting a strand of her long brown hair between the fingers of her left hand, the other clutching a half-empty biro, the pen drifting to tap against her teeth every so often in an unconscious indication of a distracted mind. The piece of paper before her on the desk had begun as a letter to a distant friend, the kind of brief summation of recent events that requires padding to make it seem like a personal contact, and, as is usually the way, the paper was becoming slowly covered in small doodles and half-remembered slogans from her youth. She knew deep down that she would have to rewrite the whole thing, but she was putting it off for as long as possible.

 The reason for her distraction was the same one that had ruined her last fourteen attempts to dash out the letter. In a way she cursed the constant distraction but, deep down, she knew that she chose to keep the desk by the window for a reason… the same reason that had caused her to turn down the chance to buy that little penthouse in New York that had been offered to her for a snip. In the sweeping grounds that opened out, seemingly infinitely, before the window of Fosdyke Manor laboured Pedro, the gruff, bearded, gardener with the floppy hair that clung to his skull like a damp mop as sweat began to break on his brow in the hot sun.

 It seemed like a lifetime ago… those high-powered days at the bank, millions passing through her fingers every day, until finally, when she had made her own million, she had fallen in love with the tumble down manor and it all had changed. In a burst of impetuousness, inspired by Hemmingway and a bottle of champagne that she really hadn’t enjoyed, she had thrown every penny she had onto 21 red and walked away, leaving a friend to watch. The roulette wheel had spun, the ball had begun its slow circling, and finally, with an agonising final bounce, it had nestled calmly under 21.

 She had in fact placed more than mere money on that spin of the wheel, she had placed her entire future, her entire approach to life upon a single number… If it hadn’t come up she would have been left with nothing and would have had little choice but to sink into a grim little spiral of matrimony with Simon Fizzlebottom, the wealthy, privately educated, but undoubtedly uninspired and grimly uneventful son of Lord Byron Fizzlebottom, the eminent bathroom tile manufacturer. She knew deep down she would have eventually either stifled the man with a pillow in his sleep, or slowly poisoned him with arsenic, if only she weren’t crushed beneath the mundane horror of ritual existence.

 Yet the ball had landed on the number she had staked her fanciful dreams upon and in the process it gave her both the means and the sense of destiny that she needed to sink a fortune into the crumbling manor. She had, deep in her heart, instantly become bewitched by the charms of the place, by the snaking ivy around the door, and the immaculately turned-out gardens that seemed so out of place around a building so obviously dilapidated. She had put it down to an eccentric former owner, perhaps a man who suffered a perverse claustrophobia, yet it had turned out not to be the case.

 Turning up to sign the papers on that warm Autumn day, the gentle breeze teasing the first of the golden leaves from the branches of long lines of oak trees that led up the drive and seemed to be carpeting her approach, she had heard the first rumours of the gardener… and the awkward legal circumstances that meant she had little choice but to accept the unusual arrangement. It was something long and rambling in the will of the last owner, an elderly woman who had finally passed away in a blissful haze of gin a month or two before, something that meant that the gardener must remain with the house or else invalidate the lease. Beatrice had frowned and eventually, with a little reluctance, had agreed to the deal, any doubts swept away by a gust of wind that embraced her with a scent of lilac that made her skin tingle.

 It had been several months before repairs had been finished, the dusty Victorian interior stripped away, taking with it woodworm, moths, and mildew. She’d spent the last year of her life designing the home of her dreams, working out the position of every rug, every piece of furniture she’d dreamed of, which artworks to commission to grace each wall. Her mind had provided the paint and now, finally, she had the canvas. Every moment until she finally turned the heavy iron key in the antique lock of the great oak door had seemed like millennia. Even the door had its history, an inscription on the gigantic key informing the holder that it had been crafted from a tree that had grown in those very grounds until it fell to an axe in a long-ago war, the plaything of generations of children serving to protect those very same bloodline from those out to harm them. It bore the scars of axe blows from rampaging peasants, yet it had held firm that day and for the centuries that followed.

 Inside the great building she had stood, alone, amidst air that still held the very faintest hint of fresh paint amongst the rich tang of the gigantic oak staircase, and she had danced, giddy with glee, from room to room, sucking in the scent of history and freedom from all that had pulled constantly at her for what seemed far longer than her tender years. Only as night was falling, as the gentle sound of crickets began to rise above the birdsong, had she ventured out into the gardens. As she had walked barefoot across the grass she had heard the splash as a streamlined carp leapt briefly above the surface of the lake, as if to catch a glimpse of its new landlord, before gracefully gliding back beneath the water. Beatrice had smoked the most blissful cigarette of her life as she had slowly rocked on the beautifully carved tree-swing, kicking her feet languidly in the air to feel the night breeze between her toes, and watched the sun slip beneath the rolling hills. She had never felt as happy and at peace as when she slipped between the sheets of the massive and inviting bed, her bed.

 Beatrice had been woken the next day by the sunlight filtering through the white cotton curtains that hung over the gigantic bay windows of the master bedroom and reached over to flick on the built-in coffee machine on the bedside table. She stretched out slowly and let herself sprawl in the warm embrace of the sheets, giggling joyfully as she wriggled her toes and realised that there was nothing demanded of her that day but to embrace her new world. The final drawn-out gurgle and the last few drips of the fragrant Colombian coffee splashing into the pot finally drew her to slide out from under the covers, fill a much-treasured and protected mug, tear open a fresh pack of cigarettes, slip on an old dressing gown, and go to the window.

 The curtains opened in a graceful glide, letting light filtered through a grove of elms play over her as she gently stretched and filled her nostrils with the thick nutty scent of the coffee. She casually withdrew a cigarette from the packet and lit it, casting open the window to feel a warm breeze playing over her skin. It was then that she noticed the man in her garden.

 Her first reaction was to rush to the phone and summon the police yet she found herself watching the figure as he strolled casually across the grass. When he disappeared from sight she began to move to lift the receiver and reach to dial but then he returned pushing a rusting wheelbarrow and she remembered the enigmatic gardener that her lawyer had told her was as immovable a feature as the pond or the cellar overrun by dormice. He calmly went about his work, slowly forking compost onto the huge flowerbeds, pausing to remove scoop a handful of dead leaves from the shallows of the lake. His threadbare jumper hid most of his frame despite its tatty nature, yet there was a certain wiry strength that lay beneath as was amply demonstrated by his swinging himself causally up into the branches of a sprawling and knotted apple tree, shifting his weight onto branches that she swore would snap beneath him yet held. He lowered himself down in one fluid motion, a single red apple in his hand. Ah well, she thought to herself, I can’t begrudge him that.

 Beatrice had watched for a while longer as he drifted in and out of sight, until he had finally loaded his tools back onto the wheelbarrow and made his way off down the garden, disappearing into the grove of elms, smoking a cigarette that she could see was spotted with faint drops of blood from the pricks of a dozen rose thorns. An odd man, she thought, so quiet and focussed on his work, his presence not even disturbing the pair of pheasants and family of rabbits that casually ambled and hopped their way back and forth across the lawn, the animals seemingly dismissing his presence as just another natural feature. A definite enigma, she thought to herself as she slowly padded down the stairs with a second cup of coffee keeping her company, but seemingly one that wasn’t going to have too much of an impact on her life. Beatrice couldn’t help but smile slightly as she opened the back door and saw the apple resting on the doorstep.

 The days had passed by in a happy blur, both her and the house seeming to embrace each other, a casual comfort filling every room. One night she had held a small torch-lit dinner party out on the lawn, a dozen old friends sipping red wine while sitting cross-legged on the grass, cigarettes dangling from between gesturing fingers, the warmth of the company taking away the faintest hint of a chill. They had complemented her on the beauty of Fosdyke Manor and its grounds, on her dress, on her hair, and on the newfound tranquillity that seemed to have brought her out of her shell. They had all staggered to bed leaving behind them a jumble of paper plates and upturned wine glasses. She had awoken the next day to find everything neatly piled by the door beside the now-usual apple. Even the glasses had been washed, judging by the strand of weed around the base of one, in the lake. Only the paper plates were missing and she later discovered those being used as mulch in the freshly turned rosebed.

 Winter came to Fosdyke Manor, a bleak snowy few months that made Beatrice feel glad of the great fireplace in the sitting room, bathing in the warmth of the crackling logs as she shared drinks with Simon. She had found that he had re-entered her life with a casual ease and, in a way, she found him inoffensive enough and he did have a passable taste in slightly pretentious wine. Beatrice had not seen much of the gardener of late, letting herself sleep-in, rising late in the day, relaxing, before settling down to work on her novel in the oak-panelled study. She had left it as the only untouched room in the building, thinking that its austere nature would inspire her to concentrate on her work, as it had done for the many that had sat in there beforehand. The oak desk had seen many pensive authors over the years, everything from a worn spot on the corner from the knocking of a pipe, to a line of cigarette burns marking the passage of some long-forgotten work.

 Evenings were either spent at the desk or with Simon telling her about his day at interminable length, albeit in an amiable enough way. As time rolled by she grew increasingly unsure as to which she preferred. Her book continued, sprawling over the vellum pages of the antique tome she had been given by her staff as a leaving present. She found a soothing calm in the quiet scratching of the nib across the thick paper, sometimes flipping to the back and the final blank page, to add to the collection of poems that threatened to begin eating their way back into an increasing limited amount of unfilled space.

 Spring was spectacular, there was no other way of describing it. The blast of birdsong, especially from the robins nesting just above her bedroom window, was so unlike her days in the city. There was no roar of traffic to cut through the unadulterated sound of life, merely a raucous blend of trills that never grated despite her expectations. The trees grew thick with buds as many lumbering ancients chose to extend their stays for another year and new growth sprouted blossom for the first time. The figure of the gardener returned to his slow ambling, the clank of the ailing wheelbarrow once more causing her to rise from her bed to watch from the window.

 The splashing of spawning in the shallows of the lake drew her to watch huge fish bathing in the sunshine, and, one April day, to notice the tiny house hidden amongst the elms. She had barely ventured this far down the garden, the grove seeming quite claustrophobic amongst the wide open lawns that held so many nooks and crannies that she had yet to explore, and this was the first time the undergrowth had been thin enough for her to see the small clearing amongst the trees. It seemed lighter than she thought it would be, a tiny ramshackle place that seemed to be doing its very best to fall apart despite numerous wooden braces and much patched stonework.

 Something drew her to the door, a strange inquisitive side to her personality that overrode any suspicions that she might be stepping upon hallowed ground. She peered through a window that was clouded with dust and laced with a thin tracery of spider’s webs, trying to make out the faint outlines within. There were hints of crude handcrafted furniture, and of what appeared to be an exceedingly shaggy dog slumbering on an old armchair. Just as she was reaching up to try and wipe away some of the dust from the window she heard a rustle in the bushes and the clank of the wheelbarrow. She spun round, her face flushed, feeling a strange guilt considering she owned the land and was well within her rights to be there.

 “I’m sorry Miss, I shall leave you be.” The gardener looked awkward as he stood there, his threadbare jumper seemingly on the verge of falling off in tatters, his eyes turned to the ground.

 “This is your home?” asked Beatrice, suddenly feeling it was a silly question.

 “Yes, I’m sorry it’s a bit of an eyesore,” he appeared to be blushing underneath the thick stubble that threatened to turn into a beard.

 “It’s very nice…” Beatrice replied, offering a quick smile.

 “It keeps the rain off Morrison and I…” The gardener continued to look down at his feet at, what Beatrice noticed, were a rather battered pair of boots that seemed in almost as bad a state as the house.

 “Morrison?” she asked.

 “The dog Miss…” he said and, as if on cue, she heard a flailing of limbs and, moments later, saw a hairy muzzle nudge the door open. It was soon followed by the rest of what may once have had an Irish wolfhound in its bloodline but was now a chaotic miasma of breeds. The creature gave Beatrice a brief, amiable look, and then ambled over to the gardener, hopping, surprisingly lightly, into the wheel barrow, further worsening the gardener’s blushes.

 “He seems sweet… what’s your name by the way?” Beatrice asked the man, in an attempt to ease his nerves. It had almost the reverse effect, his awkwardness growing worse by the moment.

 “Er… it’s Pedro Miss…”

 “That’s an unusual name, were your parent’s Spanish?” Beatrice asked.

 “My mother Miss, the daughter of a pirate I’m afraid.” Pedro looked as if he’d said too much.

 “How very intriguing Pedro…” smiled Beatrice. 

 “I suppose so Miss…” Pedro seemed on the verge of flight yet wrestling with something within. Finally he seemed to reach a decision. “Would you care for a cup of coffee Miss? I was going to make one for me and the dog and I feel it would be rude not to offer you a cup.”

 “Why, that would be nice” Beatrice said after a moment pause and, without another word, the gardener parked the wheelbarrow beside the house and led her inside, the dog hopping down and following her in.

 The inside of the house was dusty, an obvious embarrassment to Pedro, but one he could do little about. Beatrice had lowered herself into the battered arm chair, to the slight disapproval of the dog that now sat patiently beside her, letting her ruffle the fur of his ears, staring at the cutlass that hung on one wall. Every so often she saw Pedro from the corner of her eye as he, as subtly as he could, wiped a threadbare sleeve across a surface as he heated water on an old Arguer. He ground beans in a pestle and mortar before adding them to the water. He did his best to hide the muslin filter, feeling ashamed by its worn and shabby appearance, even though he boiled it in another pan to make sure it was as clean as he could. He finally returned, making sure she received her cup first, before pouring some of the coffee into the dogs bowl and taking a cup for himself.

 “How long have you lived here?” she asked as she sipped at the surprisingly passable coffee.

 “I was born here Miss” said Pedro, perching awkwardly on a tree stump that usually served him as a footstool. “My father was the gardener here back when Mrs. Fosdyke was still alive, God rest her soul… I took over from him when he had the stroke amongst the petunias.” Beatrice almost spurted out a mouthful of coffee.

 “Well, I see why you come with the house” she smiled.

 “There’s been a Bingepuddle gardening at Fosdyke Manor for over three hundred years now” Beatrice once again had to choke back a mouthful of coffee as Pedro continued, “but I think I may well be the last.”

 “Is there no Mrs. Bingepuddle?” Beatrice found herself doing her best not to rock back and forth in time with the silent laughter that was fast threatening to make itself heard.

 “Nay Miss, there was my childhood sweetheart, she was to be mine… but she died in Vietnam ” Pedro stared down at his coffee.

 “ Vietnam ? Jesus… that was a brutal unjustified war…” Beatrice hurriedly said, trying to sound moved while trying to work out which side the woman was on and quite how old she would have been. 

 “Er… Miss?... er… she was on holiday there four years ago… she was an art student… got hit by a bus.” Pedro winced.

 “Ah,” said Beatrice, feeling slightly awkward. “What kind of art did she do?”

 “Well,” Pedro’s eyes were growing heavy with a mournful sadness, “she made grass sculptures mainly.”

 “Pardon?” Beatrice coughed.

 “Sculptures… made from grass…” Pedro shrugged, “she said we couldn’t afford marble and Mrs. Fosdyke used to let us keep the grass clippings.”

 Christ, thought Beatrice, they were an odd breed down this end of the garden.

 “Do you miss her?” she added.

 “Not so much these days, although I dare say she were good with the chickens.” Pedro shrugged once more.

 “Oh, you kept chickens?” asked Beatrice with genuine interest.

 “No” said Pedro.

 They talked for a while longer, Pedro grudgingly telling tales of his childhood, of his dead love, and of many casual beatings at the hands of old Mr Fosdyke. She found the shambolic man strangely intriguing, despite the relative squalor in which he lived, there was something oddly relaxing about his confused and terrified demeanour. She had finally left the little house with a wet parting lick from the old dog, a final cup of coffee, and, with a hint of something that almost resembled ceremony, a single apple fished from a wooden barrel, still crisp even with the months of what must have been very careful storage.

 Her mind had wondered once more and she tapped the biro hard against her forehead in an attempt to jolt her concentration back to the matter in hand, the nib returning half-heartedly to the letter. She did her best to return to the thread of an increasingly uninspiring recounting of her brief holiday with Simon, during which he had resolutely patronised the locals and eventually punched out a waiter. Beatrice tried to put a jovial spin on things, yet her heart wasn’t in it. Outside Pedro’s jumper finally gave way although she missed the unveiling of his rippling, if pallid, chest due to the loud knock on the door.

 “Hi honey,” said Simon, handing her another bottle of that pleasant little Sancerre in whose bag he always left the receipt. He gave her a quick kiss and strolled in, tossing his tweed jacket onto the hat-stand in a casual manner. “I say we crack the bottle open and have a lounge on the lawn before we go off to the regatta” he said and, swiping the bottle back and fishing a corkscrew from his pocket, he continued through to the garden. She heard a loud “ooo… the staff are at large” and winced.

 “What do you think?” he asked and Beatrice tried to resist the urge to point out that it tasted exactly the same as every other damn bottle of the stuff he’d brought round recently. She lit a cigarette and stared with surprise at the embarrassed Pedro as he shuffled away amidst the tatters of his jumper. He was a bit hairy, she thought, but rather dishy.

 “Oi… LACKEY…” Simon shouted with a grin and a wink to her, “I think the lady pays you to wear clothes… or are you one of those Irish-types that keeps trying to convince me to repave my driveway?” Beatrice saw Pedro’s back hunch as if the man had taken a heavy blow. “You Irish types keep away from the women, we all know what you’re like” cackled Simon.

 “Oh give it a rest” said Beatrice.

 “No, I won’t, it’s not fair on a lady to have to put up with that kind of thing…” Simon said and picked up a rock. “This’ll speed him up…” he said and threw it, leaping up and down and shrieking with glee as it bounced off Pedro’s skull. Beatrice held his breath as the gardener stopped… the wheelbarrow handles falling from his grasp. Simon threw another rock to hurry him on. Pedro remained still. “I think the pikey’s gone rabid…” Simon said, picking up a heavy branch, “I think I’ll have to put him out of his misery.” Simon ran and skipped to the still motionless Pedro and cracked him across the shoulders with the branch. Beatrice gasped as the gardener staggered, but stayed upright. Simon hit him again, before swinging the branch round for a third attempt…

 “NO SIMON…” Beatrice gasped, rising to her feet and running towards him.

 Simon was laughing as he swung but then he heard a low mumble that sounded like “the time has come” and a look of surprise crossed his face as his arm was stopped mid-blow. He looked along the branch’s length to see Pedro had swung to block him with the severed handle from his wheelbarrow. “You fighting back pikey?” asked Simon gleefully, “I’ll have you know I had three years on the fencing team at a certain prestigious university…” he leapt back and struck a pose, “EN GARDÉ!”

 “I had a pirate for a mother…” said Pedro quietly and casually assumed a swashbuckling pose.

 “Oh, what a coincidence, my uncle used to hang pirates… when I was a nipper they’d let me pull the lever” Simon laughed.

 “I know… I know from personal experience” Pedro seemed eerily calm as he braced every muscle in his body.

 “STOP THIS!” screamed Beatrice as she rushed up to them, only to be turned aside by Simon, her momentum carrying her on into the lake.

 “You’re not going to hear the end of that” said Pedro.

 “Ah, like she’ll remember once she’s witnessed me in action, she’ll learn her place” Simon flicked back a curl of hair.

 “No, I meant you won’t live long enough to hear the end of that” Pedro said, his expression remaining calm. Simon’s smirk disappeared and he leapt forwards, swinging for Pedro’s head in what turned out to be a clever bluff, allowing him to score a line across the gardener’s muscled chest. Pedro staggered as Simon returned to his stance.

 “The first blood is yours, as for the second, well, that’s written in the stars” Pedro said and suddenly Simon was upon him, Pedro fending off blow after blow, the quick sharp jabs of the sharp branch sometimes breaking through his defence and drawing another line of blood. There was no attempt at a sporting contest anymore, for it was now mortal combat in a way dated back millennia.

 “Die pikey… die quietly and we’ll bury you in a nice ditch” Simon cackled.

 “I’m not a pikey,” said Pedro calmly, knocking away Simon’s downward slash, knocking the man off-balance, “I’m a quarter-Spanish, quarter-Mongolian,” with a brutal slash to the head he knocked Fizzlebottom unconscious… “and one half Lord Pedro Fosdyke” Pedro added quietly.

 Pedro looked around desperately for Beatrice, suddenly remembering her headlong plunge into the lake. He tore away trousers that were so knackered they didn’t require much strength and plunged, in nothing but his long-johns, into the depths. After much frantic splashing he rose to the surface clutching the damn frame of Beatrice, carrying her as gently as he could to the shore and laying her down gently upon a bed of daisies. He brushed water and a small roach from her face and saw her regarding him with a quizzical eye.

 “Sorry Miss…” he turned a very bright scarlet as he noticed quite where his hands were as he tried to make the beautiful young lady comfortable.

 “No worries sweet Pedro, you saved me… well, actually I was swimming back when you dived in and landed on me, but the thought was there. I’m sorry I made your thermals damp.” Pedro looked down and did his best to subtly hold his hands in front of his hips. “Is Simon dead by the way?”

 “Er… no Miss, but he does seem to be bleeding from the ear.” Pedro winced.

 “Was that right what I heard when you were over there… that you are a Lord Fosdyke? And I assume Lord of Fosdyke Manor?” Beatrice said with a moment of shock…

 “Aye…” Pedro blushed and stared at his shoes “but it be your house, it belongs to you and not to some half-breed Fosdyke.

 “Your father… the gardener?”

 “Aye… he was the Lord’s brother, he was unambitious and liked the garden… he was a bit simple-like… Nobody liked to talk about it too much… he travelled every so often… he met my mother when her ship boarded his off the Australian coast… they fell in love in the cells when he was thrown in there for refusing to wear clothes… he always claimed he wanted to be with her and it was the only way he could” Pedro’s awkwardness grew, along with a slightly rolling of his eyes. “They had ten months together living on bread, water, and canapés… and they also had me…”

 “Does that mean you’re…” Beatrice looked increasingly confused.

 “Yes, it means I am both Lord Fosdyke, and the King of the Pirates… I just like to garden.”

 He picked up the damp Miss Beatrice and carried her in his strong arms up into the house as it seemed the right thing to do given the circumstances. What went on within those walls is unknown to only the beautiful Miss Beatrice and The King of the Pirates and is a story that may never be told… Yet the robins chirped a final song before returning to their nest to find eggs hatched and hungry mouths ready to receive their first meal and a new generation of rabbits snoozed in the safety of their warrens. The sun set over Fozdyke Manor and Morrison cast long shadows as he dragged Simon off into the woods.