The Juniper Tree (19 page)

I looked into Miss May’s face and saw that she disliked me very much and I thought to myself, ‘When my honeymoon is over I’ll sack you.’

Chapter Twenty-Five

I
t was very hot in Madrid, hotter than we expected in June. Then sometimes, in the shadow, a cold wind would come creeping round the corners. Our hotel had a large patio with a fountain playing in the middle of it and hotel guests sat at small tables in the shade under the arches. I’d never been to Spain before and thought of Spaniards as men with sombre dark faces under their black hats and perhaps with large moustaches sprouting from their upper lips; but I was years out of date – and there were no señoras disturbing the hot air with their fans either. The people we saw in the streets were little different to northerners except that they were darker and more formally dressed; but there was a delicious smell of coffee, vanilla and cigars, with a touch of brandy, coming from the bars where men sat talking to their friends. The women darted in and out of shops on their high heels or sauntered with their friends, all of them fashionably dressed and with so much care, and the middle-aged señoras, stout but still shapely, appeared to be almost proud of their excessive flesh, sailing over the pavements like swans.

We only had six clear days in Madrid and Bernard had a few business contacts to deal with, so we had to plan our time carefully. The main thing we wanted to see was the Prado. It quite overwhelmed us although Bernard knew what to expect. I managed a second visit while poor Bernard was discussing business with an important associate in a mixture of French, English and a smattering of Spanish. We had both learnt a little Spanish from Isabel and Catalina, but that didn’t carry us far, and although Bernard had studied a lot during the last few weeks, it wasn’t enough. I think not being able to speak Spanish properly put him out. He felt it undignified. Fortunately there was a Señor Castillo, who spoke perfect English and enjoyed using it. He was a charming man with a subtle sense of humour, and generous and kind too. He drove us to Toledo in his imported English car and we spent a few hours there, but I could have stayed for weeks in that ancient and proud city perched on its hill and almost surrounded by the river Tagus. The architecture was so impressive we almost forgot to look at El Greco’s paintings.

On Sunday I very much wanted to visit the Rastro, the famous flea market our friend had told us about. He said you could buy anything there – carved angels, barrel organs, crystal chandeliers, antique dolls, furniture, all the kind of things I loved; but when I mentioned it to Bernard, as we were eating our breakfast in bed, he was very against it. ‘What, spend this beautiful day with the fleas! Certainly not. We’ll go to the Retiro, we’ve hardly seen it at all. I know, we’ll hire a boat and I’ll row you on the river or lake, I’m not sure which it is, but you’ll love it. It will be far better than having our wallets stolen by the fleas.’

So we went to the Retiro, a lovely park, larger than Hyde Park, I think. At first we enjoyed walking among the people, but later we walked almost alone under the trees and then in a rose garden. Eventually we came to a bar beside the water and sat there drinking cool beer and watching the people in the boats. It was very like a Renoir painting and, when Bernard rowed our hired boat, it was as if we were part of the painting too. I’d never seen Bernard so lighthearted as he was that day. We were like a typical newly-married couple, we kissed under the trees and there wasn’t a sign of Gertrude anywhere.

We were to leave Madrid at lunchtime on the Monday. But before we left we paid a quick visit to the Escorial. Señor Castillo called for us early in the morning, saying we couldn’t leave Madrid without seeing it. We were afraid that the visit would result in us arriving late at the airport, but it was worth the little worry, although we didn’t enter the building except for a few minutes in the church. We walked round the gardens and saw the building from different angles, such a beautiful place built with great simplicity, Doric I think it is called. It must have been standing there for nearly four hundred years but was in a wonderful state of preservation, and so immense and severe, but glowed tenderly in the shafts of early-morning sunlight.

It was so early we were practically the only people there and we wandered freely. The air was cool and very pure and made us feel hungry so we drove the little way to a pretty village nestling against the mountains and had breakfast of coffee, rolls and peaches. I thought it would be an attractive place to live in, but Señor Castillo said that although it was a popular resort for Madrileños during the summer, it was bitterly cold in winter. As we drove away I looked back and had a strange feeling that I would come back one day and that I would be alone when I came. I suppose most of us get these feelings and they sometimes come true, but I didn’t like to think I’d be alone when next I came.

Señor Castillo (we called him Eduardo now we were friends) drove us to the hotel to collect our luggage and then to the airport, and presented me with a large bouquet of mixed flowers when we parted. It must have been hidden in the boot of the car and he was pleased to see my surprise. There were cigars for Bernard too, but we had nothing for him; so we asked him to stay with us in Richmond and he seemed to like the idea.

We arrived home to find the children having tea with Greta in the garden and each of us grabbed our own child to hold close and to kiss their honey-smeared faces. There were presents to be given and news to hear and for Bernard a great pile of letters, which he took into his study. Later on I went upstairs and, from force of habit, opened the door of the room I’d always shared with Tommy. There were piles of suitcases containing my clothes that Mary had brought round, and my dresses and coats were hanging in the wardrobe, and someone had laid out my nightgown and put my rather downtrodden slippers under the bed. I felt too tired to face the unpacking that evening and the light would disturb Marline. I’d only take what I needed for the night into Bernard’s room.

I picked out a few things and crossed the landing and entered the large room. Bernard’s suitcase was already opened and clothes were scattered over the bed. A cramping sadness settled on me as I slowly moved towards the great wardrobe and opened the door and saw what I knew I’d see – Gertrude’s clothes, hanging in an almost menacing way as if they were made of concrete. I opened the drawers and there were her hand-embroidered underclothes, exquisite things that had never been near a chain store. They would have fitted Charlotte, why hadn’t she taken them away? There was the newly-cleaned blue dressing-gown, hanging possessively from its peg. Timidly, I felt in the pockets and found a neatly-folded clean handkerchief in one and a tortoise-shell comb inlaid with silver in the other. Feeling I was prying I took my hands away from the soft blue material and wiped them on my skirt, then slowly went downstairs to Bernard’s study.

He was not allowed to be disturbed there, but I went in and disturbed him. He was sitting at his desk with the gold pen I’d given him as a wedding present in his beautiful hand. I was as proud of his hands as if they had been my own. ‘Oh, Bernard!’ I said reproachfully, ‘where am I to sleep? Gertrude’s things are all over the room and there’s nowhere to put anything. Why didn’t you give them to Charlotte or some charity? Do you realize they’ve been there for nearly three years?’

He looked at me as if I were despicable: ‘Are you suggesting I give my wife’s clothes to some charity, the Salvation Army perhaps?’

I said bravely, ‘Well, that’s up to you, or they could be sold and the money given to her favourite charity. Do you remember? She liked the Greenpeace people.’

Dropping the gold pen as if it were burning his hand, he said, ‘I know what my wife likes and dislikes and she certainly does not want all and sundry wearing her clothes. Go away now, we’ll talk about this problem tomorrow in a rational way. You are very aggressive, Bella. Overtired, I suppose.’

Dismissed, I left the room and saw Miss May’s straight back glide towards the kitchen, and as I went upstairs she called, ‘Good night’. I went to the bedroom that I’d shared with Marline for almost four years. She was asleep in her little bed by the wall; sometimes it was moved to Johnny’s room but usually she slept with me. I’d left my night things on Bernard’s bed – or should I say ‘Bernard and Gertrude’s bed’? I couldn’t bring myself to visit that morbid room again that evening, so I took a fresh nightgown from a suitcase that I’d packed so hopefully a week ago, undressed and crept into bed. I felt homesick for my small room over the shop.

During the night I saw Bernard standing by my bed and I was almost frightened of him, he looked so tall standing there in the moonlight. He bent and kissed me on the forehead as a parent would and said, ‘I’m sorry, Bella, we will discuss the problem of the clothes tomorrow, the sleeping arrangements too. We’ll sort it out, my dear,’ then he draped something over a chair, saying, ‘You left this on my bed,’ and went away. It was my nightgown.

We met at breakfast as if nothing had happened and Miss May fluttered round us to make sure we had everything we wanted. ‘Have you all you want, dear?’ she asked me in a mocking way and I assured her that I had. I could hear Marline’s voice in the kitchen and jumped up from the table nervously and said I must get her ready for her school in Twickenham; but Bernard said he couldn’t take her that morning because something important was to be delivered to the house. ‘She’s already missed a week, so another day won’t hurt her,’ he added in relaxed tones and continued to munch his brown toast until there was a ring at the front door bell and Mrs Hicks came to tell us that someone was asking for me, he wouldn’t come in.

I went to the door followed by Bernard. He had an amused smile on his face and last night’s troubles seemed to have vanished. Standing by the bear there was a man who looked like a mechanic and he asked if I was Mrs Forbes (I think it was the first time anyone had called me that). Then he said he’d come to deliver the car and Bernard and I followed him to the gate and there in the street was a little lemon-coloured Fiat, Bernard’s wedding present to me. The man handed me the keys and some papers and went away and the car was mine. I hadn’t driven since the accident – although I hadn’t been driving myself at the time – but this little car looked so friendly and harmless I thought we’d get on very well together if I had a little practice. Then Bernard told me to look through the papers, and there was a receipt for six driving lessons, a refresher course, he said. With Marline in the back we went for a short drive round the park, Bernard driving because I had no licence or insurance. I hadn’t wished for a car since the accident but now I owned this dear little Fiat, I was more than pleased. I couldn’t thank Bernard enough.

When the evening came, we sat rather self-consciously in the drawing-room, with Gertrude’s clothes like a heavy cloud between us. We couldn’t bring ourselves to talk about them, so we talked about the gallery instead. Bernard thought I should work there twice a week and see how I liked it. One day in the office and one in the gallery. There was a Miss Rose, a Jewess, who would be a great help, he said, and added kindly, ‘You may become as devoted to the gallery as you were to your shop.’

Quite shocked I exclaimed that would be impossible, it wouldn’t be mine.

‘No, it would be ours,’ he said coldly and I could see he was hurt.

‘Yes, of course,’ I said quickly, ‘I’d quite forgotten that. I was looking on it as a kind of job, not something we were involved in together.’ Suddenly I couldn’t bear it any longer and I rushed to Bernard and buried my face in his shoulder, although I knew he didn’t like being touched unexpectedly. ‘Dear Bernard,’ I cried, ‘what are we to do about poor Gertrude’s clothes and things? We can’t let them ruin our life together.’

Chapter Twenty-Six

I
n the end we reached a compromise, not a perfect one, but quite a sensible arrangement, in which we both had to give way a little and adjust ourselves. Bernard agreed to have all Gertrude’s things packed away in trunks, with lists of their contents attached instead of labels, and three new trunks arrived accompanied by Miss Rose from the gallery and it was she who was to do the packing. She had been working for Bernard for a good many years and he trusted her; also she was exactly the right person for the job, reliable and impersonal. I had met her once or twice in Bernard’s office, but this was the first time we had really talked to each other and I liked and respected her. Later on she was a great help to me when I was working at the Forbes Gallery. If she thought Bernard’s obsession for his dead wife strange, she never said so. She didn’t pry and revel in it like Miss May.

It was obvious that Bernard didn’t want to share his matrimonial bed with me. He felt in some way that he was being disloyal to Gertrude and found it almost impossible to make love to me in the house they had shared together with so much happiness. In that house I wasn’t his wife, I was the little protégée and in time it became a great strain being the little protégée day and night. Besides almost worshipping Bernard I had this very strong physical love for him; just to put my hand against his face so overwhelmed me that tears came to my eyes.

The large carved bed that Bernard and Gertrude had slept in all their married life, the bed in which Gertrude had died, was dismantled and taken down to the basement, fortunately not to the room where the things from the shop were stored. Two modern beds with elaborate headboards were installed. I don’t know who chose them – they were very un-Forbes – but they were wonderfully comfortable. The hardly-mentioned agreement between us was that Bernard was free to sleep in his dressing-room without reproach. Occasionally he asked me to join him there, but it was never a success from a loving point of view because of his obsession with Gertrude – it was almost as if she were in the room. I suggested moving from the house, but he said he couldn’t part with it and he wanted Johnny to grow up in the house of his mother. It was as if he thought she had impregnated the walls and could influence her child.