Flowers in the Rain & Other Stories (23 page)

“I … I never meant it to happen.”

“You’re not to blame. Nobody is to blame.”

“I’ll stay, of course. Until you find somebody to take over my job.”

“And you?”

“I’ll find another job.”

*   *   *

He did, too. In Scotland, with the Forestry Commission. When he told Mrs. Hawthorne, she smiled wryly. “It could scarcely be further away,” she said.

“Perhaps that’s what I need. Perhaps that’s what we all need.”

“Oh, Miles. Dear Miles. How much I shall miss you.”

“I’ll come back,” he promised her.

*   *   *

But he did not come back. He moved forward, to a new life in more senses than one. He went to solitude as he had never known it before, to a small granite house in heathery hills that stretched forever. He went to new attitudes, new problems, new solutions. He made, gradually, new friends. Learned to drive thirty or forty miles for any sort of social contact. Lived with bitter cold and wide skies, endless rain and drifting snow. He planted trees, and brushed trees and felled trees; ploughed land that had never known anything but heather and ling and the cries of grouse and curlew. He learned to melt ice when the water from the tap trickled to a standstill, learned to fish for salmon, to dance an eightsome reel. He learned to live alone.

He worked, sometimes seven days a week, using self-imposed labour as a sedative, numbing his memories and his heartache. Sometimes there was leisure to read a book or a paper. One morning, more than two years after he had said goodbye to Brookfield, he went the twenty miles to Relkirk for Market Day, and along with a few crates of necessary groceries, he bought a
Times.
In it, he read the announcement of Julia’s engagement to a man called Humphrey Fleet. He had meant to drive straight home, but instead took himself into the nearest pub with the intention—for the first time in his life—of getting slowly, systematically drunk.

He did not. Because in the pub he met an old friend from Agricultural College, and with this extraordinary coincidence, the whole course of his life took a new turning.

And now the road ran downhill and Brookfield lay below him in the valley, a cluster of cottages around a crossroads, surrounded by farmland and shallow hills. He came to the vicarage and the church, passed the Flower in Hand, the grocer’s shop that sold everything from frozen scampi to floor polish. He came to the oak copse, the white gates standing open, the cattle-grid. Brookfield Farm. He went through the gates and up between the white-painted fences and over the little bridge, and the house revealed itself, rose-red brick smothered in wisteria, the garden concealed by banks of rhododendrons.

He drew up at the back of the house, stopped the car and turned off the engine. He could smell the rich, sweet fragrance of the farmyard, heard the soft, contented squawks of Mrs. Hawthorne’s free-range hens. He got out of the car and opened the back gate and made his way down to the house and through the open kitchen door. The Aga hummed companionably. There were roses in a lustre jug in the middle of the scrubbed pine table, and all the old lustre plates still ranged upon the open shelves of the dresser.

“Mrs. Hawthorne?”

No sound. No reply. He went through the kitchen and into the hall, and the door to the garden was open to the warm afternoon, and beyond it lay the terrace and the long lawn, sloping down to the river. A wheelbarrow stood in the middle of the grass, and he stepped out into the sunshine, and there was Mrs. Hawthorne, on her hands and knees, peacefully weeding her border.

He walked across the grass towards her. She did not hear him, but suddenly became aware that she was not alone. She turned her head, putting up a muddy gloved hand to push back her hair with her wrist.

He said, “Hello.”

“Miles!” Astonishment, delight filled her face. She dropped her weeding fork and got to her feet. “Oh, Miles.”

They had never been on kissing terms, but he kissed her now, and she put her arms around him to give him a hug, and then held him off in order to gaze into his face.

“What a wonderful surprise. Where have you sprung from?”

“I was on my way to London from Southampton. I thought I had to call in and see you.”

“And I thought you were in Scotland.”

“Yes, I am. I’m still working there, but I’ve been on holiday with some friends, they’ve got a cottage in the Dordogne. Now I’m on my way back. I’m putting the car on the Motorail to Inverness this evening. It saves a long drive.”

“But how wonderful that you came. I am touched.” She pulled off her gloves and dropped them onto the grass. “Let’s go and sit in the shade. Would you like a drink? How about some lemonade?”

“That would be delicious.”

She led the way back to the house and he watched her go and thought that the years had still not touched her. She remained as slim as a girl, her fair, greying hair cut casually short, her step long-legged and supple. She disappeared indoors for a moment, and then returned with a tray, a jug of lemonade clinking with ice, and two tumblers. She put this down on a battered table that had seen many such al-fresco occasions.

“Don’t look too closely at the garden, Miles. I’ve been so busy, there’s been no time to tie things up or get rid of the weeds.”

He turned from his contemplation of the familiar view and came to sit beside her.

“How’s the farm going?” he asked.

“Splendidly.” She poured him a glass of lemonade, picked it up and handed it to him. “Derek’s out of the Army, finished with Cirencester, and now he’s in charge. So far everything seems to be going according to plan, but I’m afraid you won’t meet him, because he’s gone over to Salisbury today, to see about a new tractor.”

“And the farm manager who took over when I left?”

“A great success. He’s moved on to work for some friends of ours who farm near Newbury. The only thing was that he wasn’t as keen a gardener as you were, and I’m afraid your little garden at the cottage has gone back to rack and ruin again.”

“There’s nobody living in that house, then?”

“No. Derek thought we’d maybe let it. He hasn’t decided yet. Now, tell me about you. Tell me about everything you’ve been doing. Are you still with the Forestry Commission?”

“No. No, I’m not. I’ve gone into partnership with a chap called Charlie Westwell. We were at Cirencester together, and I met up with him again in a pub in Relkirk, quite by chance. He’d come north to look at a farm that was for sale, but he couldn’t raise sufficient capital to buy it on his own. So, right then and there, we went off together to look at the place. It’s a good farm, in the Vale of Strathmore, south-facing, incredibly fertile. The sort of place I’ve always dreamed about. I rang my father that evening, and put the scheme to him, and he came up trumps with just about enough cash for the half-share, and a long-suffering bank manager lent me the balance. We’ve been working together now for four months, and I think it’s going to work out.” He grinned. “The best thing about having a partner is that you can sometimes take a holiday. This is the first one I’ve had in years.”

“And I’m sure you needed it! He sounds a good friend to have met again. Do you share a house?”

“No. Charlie’s married, you see. He and Jenny live in the farmhouse and I’ve got the grieve’s cottage. It’s actually quite a big house, with a new kitchen and central heating and all sorts of luxuries. I scarcely know myself.”

“And you…” She smiled at him. “You never married?”

“No.”

“You should be, Miles.”

He took a long drink of the lemonade. It was sour and refreshing and the ice clinked against the glass, and touched his mouth. When he had drained it, he set down the empty tumbler and said, as casually as he could, “How did the wedding go?”

She said, “It didn’t.” Miles looked up quickly, and her blue gaze met his own.

“You mean, it didn’t go well?”

“No, I don’t mean that. I mean it didn’t happen. Five days before the wedding was due to take place, Humphrey and Julia came to me and said that they had decided they didn’t want to get married after all. We put an announcement in the paper, but of course, if you were in the Dordogne, you wouldn’t have seen it.”

“Dear heaven,” said Miles.

His voice sounded quite ordinary and calm, but inside he felt as though he had been kicked in the stomach, knocked to the ground, left in some gutter, bruised and incapable. A sort of panic knocked in his chest, and it was a second or two before he realized that it was simply the beating of his own heart.

“Luckily,” Mrs. Hawthorne’s gentle voice went on, “they at least came out with this before the marquee went up. So I was able to cancel that. But it took a good deal of organization to put off the caterers and the guests and the lady who was going to do the flowers; and the man with the crates of champagne, and the poor vicar.”

He said, “But
why?
”

She shrugged and sighed deeply. “I don’t know. I simply don’t know. They neither of them were able to find any particular reason.”

“Did you imagine that this was going to happen?”

“No, I didn’t.”

“Did you like him?”

“Yes. Yes, really, I did. Very much. He was a very nice young man. Really, everything any mother could wish for. Nice-looking, plenty of money, a good job. I always thought, perhaps, that Julia was more in love with him than he was with her, but you know what sort of a person she is. Demonstrative and outgoing. She was never any good at hiding her feelings. I think he had learned to be a little bit more reserved.”

“Is Julia back in London?”

“No. She’d given up her flat, given up her job. She’s still here. She won’t see anybody. She’s very unhappy.” Once more their eyes met and held. “I don’t suppose,” said Mrs. Hawthorne, “that you would want to see her.”

“What you mean is, that Julia wouldn’t want to see me.”

“Oh, dear Miles. I don’t know what I mean.”

She looked, he thought, all at once exhausted and distraught. As though, suddenly, she felt that she could let down her defences, and stop pretending to be practical and strong.

“It’s such a mess,” she admitted. “Derek was furious with her. He’d bought himself a new morning coat. He said that if he was going to give his sister away, he couldn’t do it in a hired outfit from Moss Brothers. He kept saying, ‘And I’ve bought myself a bloody morning coat,’ as though that were really all that mattered. Poor man, he’s been a tower of strength to me, but he doesn’t seem to be able to do anything for Julia.”

“Where is she now?”

“Do you remember the raspberry canes you planted at the back of the cottage when you were living here? I don’t think you stayed long enough to harvest the fruit, but they produce the most beautiful berries. Julia went down there to see if she could find a bowlful for our supper. Perhaps … perhaps if you’re not in too much of a hurry, you could go and help her…?”

It was a humble plea from the heart, and Miles recognized it as such.

He said, “You know, if I’d known what had happened, I mean, about the wedding being called off, I don’t think I’d have turned off the Motorway today. I’d have just bombed on to London.”

“Then I’m glad you didn’t know.”

“I don’t want to start anything up … the same way. I wouldn’t want it to end all over again.”

“If I didn’t know you better, I’d say that was a selfish thing to say. Julia doesn’t need a love affair. But she certainly needs every friend she’s got. You were always such good friends…”

“Until I had to spoil it all by saying something stupid like ‘I love you.’”

“It wasn’t stupid. I never thought it was stupid. It was just ill-timed.”

*   *   *

The bumpy lane led from the back of the house, down between stone walls smothered in convolvulus. The cottage, where he had lived for those twelve, never-to-be forgotten months, nestled in the lea of its own garden wall. The little gate had come off its hinges and now hung lopsidedly, and beyond it the weeds had taken over. Where once had grown cabbages, potatoes, carrots was a riot of groundsel and waist-high grass. Only the raspberry canes bravely raised their heads above the jungle. There was no sign of Julia.

The back door of the cottage was closed and locked. He went around the flagged path, ducking long thorny branches of bramble and pushing aside the tall spires of purple willow-herb. At the front of the house, he had once grown flowers and had planted a little lawn. The lawn had disappeared, and the flowers were buried in weed. Only the orange marigolds had somehow survived, seeding themselves to spread all over, a carpet of bitter-smelling sun daisies.

She was there; not picking raspberries, not doing anything. Just sitting waist-deep in fiery flower heads. Her dark hair was bundled carelessly up at the back of her head; one or two fronds had escaped and fell across her face. She looked very thin. He did not remember her being so thin. She did not hear his footsteps, and when he said her name, she looked up vaguely, like a person awakened from a dream.

“Julia,” he repeated, and crossed what had once been his garden towards her.

She pushed a lock of hair away from her eyes and stared at him.
“Miles.”

“Surprise,” he said, smiling and squatting beside her. “I thought you were meant to be picking raspberries.”

“What are you doing here?”

He explained, simply and briefly.

“Have you seen my mother?”

“Yes, I found her gardening.” He settled himself beside her, crushing the flowers beneath his weight. “But she stopped and gave me a glass of lemonade, and we caught up on all the news.”

“She told you.”

“Yes.”

Julia’s eyes dropped. She picked a marigold head and began to tear it apart, petal by petal. She said, “You must think I’m mad or something.” She sounded as though she was on the verge of tears. He was not surprised. He imagined that she had spent most of the last couple of weeks in floods of weeping. She had always cried easily. For ridiculous reasons, like seeing beautiful sunsets, or hearing choirboys sing “Oh, for the Wings of a Dove.” It was one of the things about her that he had most loved.

He said, “Not at all. I think you were very brave. It takes a lot of courage to call off a wedding at the last moment. But it was right. It was the right thing to do, if you didn’t believe yourself that it was right.”