Friar Park (George Harrison x gardener!reader)

Chapter 1

"'Ere she is, all brigh' eyed in th'mornin'!" I'm greeted by Somerset Pete as I approach the work van across the gravel parking lot of our office building.

Since long before I came on the scene, he's been a team leader in our section of the horticultural society, one of only a handful of specialists entrusted with VIP projects and high profile patrons. He's a sweet old toad of a man in his work clothes: tufts of white hair billow around his ears and just atop his forehead, always sporting a polo shirt from decades past tucked carelessly into low slung faded jeans that bunch above his 'deygo boots' (skate shoes he adopted in the early 2000s when he discovered how roomy they were in the toe, and so-called because, "Wherever I go, dey go!"). Hardly the image of a man who once prepared hedging for the Queen, but I learned long ago that people are rarely what they appear to be.

"Excited. Anxious. Very nervous, yes," I manage to bubble out, squinting hard in the 7am sunrise.

As the new head gardener, Pete knows more than I do about our project, and though I've tried to ask for some background on the location, he has remained tight-lipped on the details, maintaining that estate projects like this one require a high degree of confidentiality - so much so that I had to sign an agreement paper a few days before, when I accepted the offer to join the team.

Whereas I'd normally toss my gloves and boots in the back of the van without a care, I'm a little on edge today, so they sit at my feet up in the passenger seat. I take a deep breath and manage to catch a faint whiff of my stupid perfume. Why am I still wearing this? I smell like I'm ready for my middle-school dance. I can't relax, and I'm praying I won't make any mistakes on my first day of my first big gig. Work placement jobs were only ever informal, and even my stint at the famous Chelsea Flower Show felt less ominous than this.

"Whereabouts is Henley-on-Thames, anyway?" I ask Pete, unsuccessfully hiding my discomfort.

"Would ye believe it's on the Thames?" he sings, trying to ease my condition with a laugh. "Oh, very posh folk 'round there, I tell ye. Big ol' listed buildings, all yer churches and tha'. Boat people, and rowers. Just far enou' out of London to get away from the noise. Decent pub, I 'ear."

We'll be joining a team of eight other gardeners, mostly from our company. They've been at this estate for several years already, and my mind is soon busy pondering what the place could possibly be like. But whatever I pictured could not compare with what was appearing in front of me.

Trees. As far as the eye can see. For all I know, we're driving into a forest and this was all a big joke and Pete's just gonna dump me here and that's the end for me.

He's mumbling to himself and there seems to be something wrong.

"Now, who'zat, I wonder," he thinks aloud, glaring at something further down the road from us, and soon he's on his radio. After all these years he still insists on using the radio instead of a mobile phone while he's working.

The voice on the other end of the radio belongs to Lynda, one of our seasoned teammates. She explains that there's an oversized lorry occupying the service drive – the entrance we'd typically take – and so we'll have to go around again and use the main entrance. The long way.

Pete's eyebrows start dancing.

"That's a bit o' luck there, ent it? We don't norm'ly go in the front way, so don't get used to this, mate," he squeaks, clearly aware of something still kept secret from me. We pull back out onto the main road and continue driving past more and more trees that tower over a tall fence.

I think he's missed it. There's no way there's a house here.

We reach an intersection at the top of a sunny hill when Pete quietly points a finger to our left... and suddenly it all makes sense.