The Memory Garden (17 page)

Overhead, against the sun, she glimpsed the dark shape of a bird of prey, floating on the wind, then poised, ready to drop. This was a garden of watchers. Pearl turned back to the kitchen with the herb. There was Cecily, for instance. A pretty girl of fourteen, but awkward beside her bolder elder sister. Sometimes, when she wasn’t with her tutor at the Askews’ house up the hill she would follow Pearl and Jenna around the house, stalking them, always at a distance, never saying a word. It gave Pearl the willies, to be cleaning a room and hear a creak in the corridor outside, seeing the door shiver when there was no draught.

‘Pearl.’ She was reaching into the linen basket for the last tray-cloth to iron when Dolly’s voice broke through her thoughts once more. ‘Soon as you’ve finished, go and ask Mr Boase for more tomatoes. Some of these aren’t ripe.’

Mr Boase – there was another watcher. Pearl returned the iron to its partner on the range, took a shawl against the rain from a hook in the scullery and let herself out into the garden.

‘He were a soldier once.’ Jago had looked admiring when he said this about the Head Gardener. Pearl glanced at the footman’s too-thin body, the underdeveloped chest. It would be natural for Jago to envy physical prowess. ‘Fought they Borrs in the African war. They say he were shot in the stomach and when they patched him up and sent him home his hair had turned white.’

‘How old do you reckon he is then?’ Pearl had asked him.

‘Maybe near fifty summers,’ hazarded Jago. ‘Same age as my pa, anyway, I reckon.’

The rain was falling steadily as Pearl hurried down the path, waved at the postman clunking over the cobbles on his bicycle, and ducked under the rose-studded arch into the Vegetable Garden. She found Boase sitting in his hut, making careful notes in a large leather-covered book. On seeing her, he stood up slowly, a craggy man with sinewy limbs and unblinking blue eyes, and when she announced her request, without a word he led her over to a greenhouse where he found a clean enamel bowl which he filled with deep red tomatoes.

His large frame and measured movements defined him as a countryman, and as she observed him gently press the fruit to test for ripeness before picking it, she almost couldn’t imagine him as a fighting man. He loved to grow, not to destroy.

But there was steel there, too. She had noticed also that he directed his small team of ‘boys’ with firmness. Even cheeky Martin avoided disobeying ‘old Boase’, despite mimicking the older man behind his back. For to cause Mr Boase’s steady blue gaze to cloud with displeasure was punishment enough. He never stormed, but in Boase, they sensed the truth of the phrase ‘still waters run deep’ and forebore to test him and risk awakening some raging beast within.

Mr Boase’s fingers brushed against hers as she took the bowl from him and he withdrew them quickly as though he’d crossed some forbidden line. Perhaps the Head Gardener was shy of women, it occurred to her, though she guessed there were those who would have found him handsome enough. Jago, who bored anyone who would stop and listen about his unrequited passion for Jenna, had repeated some confidence Boase had shared with him in return, that he had never married because he had never seen a girl he wanted enough.

There was something about the tender courtesy with which he treated her that made Pearl feel special, honoured. When she was with him it was as though she held a dish of water that quivered, full to the brim, but that she didn’t dare let overflow. Her eyes lowered, she whispered thanks for the tomatoes and walked away in as elegant a fashion as her burden would allow.

In the scullery, she ran water over the tomatoes, dried them and carried them through to the kitchen. There sat Aunt Dolly at the table, a letter in her hand. Standing behind her, twisting his cap in his hands, was Jago. They looked up as Pearl walked in. Dolly’s face ravaged with shock, Jago’s furrowed with anxiety.

‘What’s happened?’ asked Pearl, but she already guessed.

‘Adeline,’ croaked Dolly, clearing her throat. She dabbed at her eyes with a tea towel. ‘She passed away yesterday.’

Pearl put down the tomatoes, concentrating her mind on their vibrant glow. She took the proffered notepaper, a letter dictated to a neighbour by Adeline’s sister, and read it.

She held on after the tide had turned, then her soul left her body, sweet as a bird. I swear I saw it fly through the open window and out to sea
. . .

Pearl felt the blood drain from her face and passed the paper back to Dolly without a word. Then, turning, she placed one foot slowly in front of the other until she reached the privacy of the scullery. There she stared sightlessly out of the window and waited for the news to sink in.

As the shock wore off, a cyclone of thoughts began to whirl in her mind, faster and faster, until she feared her head would burst. With a violent movement she swung round then ran, out into the rain, gasping as the now heavy drops soaked through her clothes.

Men’s rough voices. Mr Boase’s boys were sheltering in an open stable. She ran from their catcalls, slipped into the Flower Garden and hid herself in one of the greenhouses. As she leaned against the lime-washed wall, huge sobs began to tear out of her.

Adeline might have been distant, sharp, lacking in tenderness, but she was the only mother Pearl had ever known and now she was dead. The girl had never felt so alone. She couldn’t rely on Aunt Dolly. The memories of her father were dissolving fast. The whole of her life in Newlyn at the inn, the children from her school, fishermen bartering their catch on the beach, the smell of oil and paint and tar, all these experiences were suddenly sucked into the past as though they had never been. She had nothing to go back to, only this life here and now.

Eventually, all strength gone, she slid down the wall, uncaring of the white dust on her uniform, and crouched there on the floor of the greenhouse, wiping her nose on the back of her sleeve, her head throbbing. When she opened her eyes the sodden garden was visible only through a latticework of leaves. Footsteps, a shadow falling across the floor, then the door opened . . . Enveloped in oilskin and with watering can in hand, there stood John Boase.

She scrambled to her knees in confusion, suddenly aware of how ravaged she must look, her hair torn from its pins falling across her tear-stained face. ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean . . .’

In his face she saw surprise and tenderness. He crouched down before her, the rain dripping from his cape. He said, very gently, ‘They’re looking for you, you know.’

‘I . . . had some bad news. My stepmother . . .’

‘Aye,’ he said, shaking his head . ‘She’s gone. Jago just told me. Here.’ He stooped and picked up a hairpin and handed it to her . ‘It’s a great shock,’ he said, ‘but you’ve your life ahead. You must look to yourself. There’s happiness to be sought.’

Pearl was astonished. These were more words in one go than she had ever heard the man utter in all the months she had been here.

‘A moment,’ he said and, leaving the greenhouse, he hurried back through the rain towards his office. She quickly smoothed down her uniform, wiped her nose on the back of her cuff again, tucked the worst of the escaped hair back into its knot and pulled on her cap.

When Boase returned he held out to her an umbrella with a carved ivory handle. She stared at it, then out at the rain. He was being kind, she knew, but something in her didn’t want to be beholden. She shook her head. ‘It’s stopping. I’ll be all right now.’

She lowered her eyes and he stepped back to let her go. Before she passed under the arch she looked back. He was still standing there in the doorway to the greenhouse, regarding her, the umbrella held across his open palms, all nobility, like the picture in one of her father’s books of a knight of old offering up his sword.

‘Patrick! I didn’t think you’d be back till tomorrow.’

It was Thursday after lunch. Mel had just put down the phone to Irina, who had rung to confirm supper that evening, when she had heard his knock.

They stood at the door smiling stupidly at one another. Over the past few days, the details of his face had blurred in her mind, but now she reacquainted herself with his hazel eyes, the way his hair fell down over his forehead, the strong lines of his square face.

He stood, almost shyly, one hand in his jeans pocket, the other cradling a lumpy brown-paper package.

‘I finished everything earlier than I expected,’ he explained, then he held out the package. ‘A present. Careful, it’s breakable.’

‘Thank you,’ she replied, taking it, surprised. ‘Why don’t you come in?’

They went through to the kitchen. When she opened the bag she had to laugh. It contained a little teapot, decorated with flowers and garden tools.

‘I saw it and thought of you, or whatever the ad says.’

‘I didn’t mean you to go to the trouble of buying something special,’ she said, peeling the plastic protector off the spout. ‘But thank you, it’s so pretty.’

Patrick leaned against the worktop near her as they waited for the kettle to boil, then picked up the mermaid plant stick that she had left propped up on the windowsill. She saw him turn it in his large hands as though it were something fragile and extremely precious.

‘There’s a local mermaid legend, you know,’ he said. ‘West of Lamorna there’s a Mermaid Rock. The original story is lost in the mists of time, but it’s said a mermaid with a comb and mirror may appear there as warning of a storm. She sings especially plaintively if there’s going to be a wreck.’

‘A useful mermaid then.’

‘Not entirely. Her siren voice lures young men to their doom.’

‘Ah, the woman’s to blame as usual.’

‘The spell of female beauty gets us every time.’ He smiled lazily at her and she laughed. He replaced the mermaid on the window-ledge.

‘Oh good, it just does two cups,’ she said, pouring out the tea. ‘So how was your week?’

‘Okay,’ he said, taking the mug she held out. ‘I am now the sole owner of the business. Geoff has his money and the deal is done. The only awful bit has been telling the staff that we’re dispensing with their services.’

‘I thought you were keeping the business going?’

‘I am, but I’ve finally decided. I’m moving it down here.’

‘Are you? Isn’t that very sudden?’

‘Not really. I’ve been toying with the idea ever since Geoff announced his plans.’

‘How many people do you have?’

‘Only two. One isn’t too disappointed. She’s going to use her redundancy money to go travelling. The other was quite angry, but I think he should find another job without too much trouble. Still, it’s not fun telling them.’

‘No, of course not. So what now?’

‘Well, a small office unit in Penzance has just come free to rent. That’s the other reason why I’ve got back early. I have to go and see it this afternoon. If it’s right, I’ll instruct my solicitor, get things going. I must also find someone to handle the admin side of the company.’

‘Couldn’t you have run the business from here – the Hall, I mean? You could convert one of the outhouses. That stable with the hayloft looks—’

‘Hey, stop, stop, you’re being like your sister again,’ he warned, wagging his finger at her. This time she laughed.

‘I agree,’ he went on, ‘it would be more convenient in some ways, but I like the idea of being in the town. It’ll be near the station for visitors and, anyway, it’s better for me to at least try to keep work separate from the rest of my life. I find I end up doing nothing else otherwise. Never mind that I value my privacy here.’

Mel nodded, her eye resting upon the mounds of paper on the kitchen table, a dirty breakfast bowl nestling amongst them.

‘I know exactly what you mean about work overwhelming your life.’

‘Did you have a useful week?’ he asked.

‘I went to the Records Office on Tuesday,’ she said. ‘And somewhere under here . . .’ she scuffled amongst her papers ‘. . . is my notebook.’ She told him all about the photographs and the plans and what she’d discovered from the accounts books.

‘It sounds as though the photos and the plan will be useful for the garden. Have the copies arrived?’

‘They should be here soon.’

‘Good.’

‘Oh, and I spoke to your gardener chap, Jim,’ she said. ‘He told me how the garden looked just before the last war. Tell you what, if we go outside, I’ll try and describe for you what he said.’

The sun had come out and Mel stood for a moment, feeling its warmth, as she looked out across the wilderness. She was intensely aware of Patrick close beside her as she pointed to where the old man had indicated the site of the rose garden and the pond and the ravine.

‘And over there was a laurel grove, he said.’ After a moment, they walked the width of the garden to where the rhododendrons flowed up into the trees like a great green wave, now breaking gloriously into crests of white, pink and red.

Patrick, who had been listening to her talk, turned to her suddenly, his face animated. ‘You know, I feel we’re starting to get somewhere with this garden,’ he said. ‘On the basis of the plan and the photographs and what Jim says, we can try some reconstruction.’

Mel nodded. ‘Let’s go and explore for ourselves.’ She ducked her head and entered the tunnel of rhododendrons once more, its strange, secret undergrowth. The wild gnarled trunks and roots everywhere put her in mind of an ancient faery forest. ‘Watch your head here. Ooh, it’s like an Arthur Rackham painting, isn’t it?’

‘Or, more sinister, Tolkien’s Mirkwood,’ suggested Patrick as they twisted and crawled their way through the cool green otherworld.

‘Let’s hope there are no giant spiders.’

‘You’re not keen on spiders?’

‘No way.’

‘Not even little ones?’

‘I had hypnotism once, so I don’t scream any more, I can deal with it, but no, not even little ones. Oh!’ Suddenly Mel, bent nearly double, tripped and would have flown forward except for Patrick grabbing her arm. She swung round to face him, both of them half-crouched under the low canopy.

‘Are you all right?’ he asked in a low voice.

‘My foot,’ she said, screwing up her face against the pain. ‘Don’t worry, just a slight sprain, I think.’ When he took his hand away she missed its warmth.