The next morning Alex was jolted out of a blissful sleep by what he first thought was a pneumatic drill. It was the old-fashioned wind-up alarm clock Nell had left by the bed. ‘Just as bloody well I don’t have a weak heart,’ he mumbled. He got dressed and went down to the kitchen to feed Asp and see if he could find some coffee. Nell had thoughtfully left everything out for them: coffee, tea, sugar, cups, and a loaf of fresh bread. Not five minutes later, as the coffee was starting to percolate, Vicky joined him. ‘That alarm clock probably woke up half the population of Market Drayton,’ she said, in the midst of a lengthy yawn. ‘Nell must wear ear plugs.’
Outside, it was unseasonably nippy and a thin mist robbed the garden of all colour. It looked even more of a shambles than it had yesterday. For the best part it was nothing more than an impenetrable mass of brambles, overgrown shrubs and tortured coils of rambling roses and vines. Trying to negotiate a path through it was frustrating. Only a chain saw would have made any real forward progress possible. After ten minutes, Alex and Vicky finally came across a suitable home for Sapphire: a long kidney-shaped flowerbed that had miraculously evaded the encroaching wilderness, providing a rare stretch of earth where enough sunlight penetrated for the rose to flourish. It was well out of sight.
Alex set about digging the hole while Vicky went to fetch Sapphire. Earlier, they had lifted the rose from the van into a decrepit wheelbarrow that had probably seen neither oil nor use in the last quarter century. After several unsuccessful attempts to get the wheelbarrow moving, she finally had to call Alex for help. The rose was simply too heavy for her to handle alone.
‘Remember the old saying, “It’s better to plant a five-quid rose in a ten-quid hole than vice versa,”’ Vicky said, as she watched the pile of soil alongside Alex getting higher.
‘The hole’s more important than the rose, eh?’
‘Right.’
‘Gonna be shaking hands with an Aussie soon, if I go much deeper.’
‘Tell you what, Alex. Lay the shovel across the hole and we’ll measure the depth. We need plenty of extra space for the compost that’s going in there.’
Vicky decided that the ‘crater’, as Alex called it, was wide and deep enough. She up-ended the large bag of compost and shook it into the hole. As she did so, Alex spaded it in with the earth.
‘How’s it going, you two?’ It was Nell carrying two bottles of mineral water. ‘Thought you might be thirsty with all that digging.’ She handed them each a bottle.
Alex took a long swig. ‘Mmm, that’s good. Thanks, Nell. The hardest part’s done, I think.’
‘That’s an awfully large hole for that bitty rose, isn’t it?’ Nell asked, eyeing the wheelbarrow.
‘We’re playing it really safe,’ Vicky replied.
All this time, Alex had been fighting a losing battle to keep Asp from jumping in the hole. ‘Nell,’ he said, ‘could you take Asp till we’re finished here. I’m going to bury the little chap if I’m not careful.’
‘Of course,’ said Nell, picking up Asp and tucking him under her arm. ‘Well, you don’t need me here – I’ve got some ironing to do.’ She turned and walked back toward the house, and Alex and Vicky turned their attention back to Sapphire.
‘Let’s run some water in the hole to check the drainage.’ Vicky looked up at Alex and smiled. ‘Then we can introduce Sapphire to her new home.’
With effort, they managed to lift the rose off the wheelbarrow. With short shuffling steps they walked it the short distance to the hole. Just as they were about to lower the heavy root ball, Vicky stumbled and lost her grip. The weight was too heavy for Alex. He couldn’t hold it. The rose hit the ground with a soft thump and the thorny canes whipped around, raking Vicky’s arm. A five-inch tear in the sleeve of her white shirt was instantly soaking up blood like blotting paper.
‘Damn! That hurt,’ she said, gritting her teeth and grasping her forearm tightly.
‘We’d better get up to the house – clean that out with some hydrogen peroxide and put a bandage on it. They look like pretty deep gashes to me,’ Alex said, taking her free arm and leading her back to the house.
In a matter of a few minutes, Aunt Nell, working calmly and efficiently, had treated and bandaged Vicky’s arm.
‘I’ll leave you two together, then,’ she said, getting up from the kitchen chair and walking over to the sink to rinse her hands. ‘I’ve got to go and call my neighbour, Arthur. He’s got some tomatoes for me.’
‘Rotten bit of luck, that,’ said Alex, after Nell had left the room. ‘Don’t worry, I’ll finish up out there,’ he said, getting up from his chair.
‘No, I’m fine, Alex.’
‘You sure?’
‘Positive.’
He put a hand on her shoulder. ‘Before all this business started, I’d always thought of roses as being beautiful and benign,’ he said. ‘But this one’s getting to be positively dangerous.’
‘Don’t be silly, Alex. It was just an accident. It’s not the first time I’ve been attacked by a rose. I’ll be fine. And so will Sapphire.’
Chapter Twelve
The morning rose that untouch’d standsArm’d with her briers, how sweet she smells!But pluck’d and strain’d through ruder hands,Her sweets no longer with her dwells.
Sir Robert Aytoun
Kenji Tanaka – Ken, as he preferred to be called – stared out of the window of his tastefully appointed Hampstead Heath flat, lost in thought as he sipped from the cup of hot green tea. His tea ritual was one of the few Japanese customs that had endured from his childhood in San Francisco, where his maternal grandmother had raised him. Ken was fifty-two, but could pass easily for a man twenty years younger. His hair was neatly barbered, jet black and shiny. He had yet to discover – and he searched conscientiously every day – a single lurking grey hair. At a glance his Asian ancestry was not readily apparent. This was due, in good part, to a fastidiously trimmed moustache and narrow beard that circled his lower face drawing attention to his thin-lipped mouth. Everything else about him – his choice of clothes (expensive London boutiques), taste, demeanour and general lifestyle – was distinctly Western. His speech, a deceptive mix of American and cultured English, bore no trace whatsoever of Japanese, despite the fact that – thanks to his grandmother – he spoke the language fluently.
Tanaka had lived in London for nearly twenty years, enjoying a civilized and comfortable life made possible by brokering art and real estate to wealthy Japanese individuals and corporations. Despite his being a nisei – born in America of Japanese immigrants – he had developed, through family and friends, a network of important business contacts in Japan.
He was contemplating his good fortune, thinking about the phone conversation he’d had two weeks earlier with a business acquaintance, Roger Maltby. Roger was an executive with Bonham’s, the London auctioneers in Knightsbridge. It wasn’t at all unusual for Roger to give him advance notice about forthcoming auctions. But this particular auction, he had said, was not about paintings or antiques. It was a rose that was going on the block. Ken had started to laugh but quickly stopped when Roger told him the rose was blue. ‘It’s the world’s first ever blue rose and it’s going to break every auction record in the book. I’m talking huge money,’ he said. And Ken Tanaka was desperately in need of money.
It was almost a year to the day since he had made a deposit into his brokerage and bank accounts. Three years ago, before the dotcom collapse, and before the Japanese art and real estate buyers had bailed out of the market, his portfolio in stocks, bonds and cash was over two million dollars. His most recent Schwab statement and his TD Waterhouse retirement account totalled little more than £25,000. Allowing for fixed monthly expenses and curtailed spending, only for day-to-day living, it would all be gone within a few months. Borrowing was out of the question, he had no tangible assets or equity of any kind. For the first time in his life he would be broke. Even now, he refused to accept that possibility. The humiliation alone would be more than he could take.