Treasures of Time (6 page)

Hmn. Well, well. Suggestive, that, but in different ways, depending on who cut it out and left it there. And out there, moving slowly down the garden path, doing something to roses from her wheelchair, was Nellie, Aunt Nellie, reaching with slow frustration for an evasive stem. Should one offer to help? Or not?

The garden consisted of a large rectangular lawn, approached across the stone terrace onto which the french windows of the drawing room opened, and a further area beyond, screened by a high yew hedge with an opening in the middle. The lawn was walled on the other two sides, with herbaceous borders against the walls. In one corner was a decaying rustic summer house with thatched roof. Beyond the yew hedge was a further flower garden, a more arranged affair of paved paths and beds of low cushiony plants, a bright section of which was visible through the opening in the hedge. This, in turn, led via a low wooden gate to a vegetable garden, now almost completely uncultivated. The whole garden, indeed, suggested decline from better days: there was an uncontrolled air about trees and shrubs, a furriness of hedges and lawn, the flowerbeds were choked with growth. In photos in that album, the place had looked spick and span. Now, it seemed to have settled into a state of resigned recollection.

Like people, Tom thought, pleased by this piece of anthropomorphism, still watching Nellie, who was passing, now, through the opening in the yew hedge into the flower garden beyond. Very like people.

These two, her and Mrs P. – living on here like this – photo albums, cupboardsful of Hugh Paxton’s stuff, Mrs P. –
Laura
– bored to tears. Why not go out and find a job? But of course ladies like that don’t. The odd morning in the Oxfam shop; a bit of organized indignation about threats to the environment – those would be the only options open. Aunt Nellie, of course, seems to be a different kettle of fish, from what one hears.

And he set off now across the lawn, propelled by guilt and a heave of curiosity, to see if help mightn’t be acceptable with this pruning or whatever it was she was up to.

And Nellie, intent on a battle with the suckers of a Madame Butterfly in which most advantages were held by the rose, and in her thoughts not present at all, but busy with the reconstruction of this same spot on an afternoon some thirty odd years ago, turned at the sound of movement and saw a man standing in the dark frame of the yew.

And there surges that exquisite tide of pleasure, of excitement, of fear.

And I say quickly, to cover my feelings because I am very unsure, as yet, what his might be, ‘It’s a lovely garden, Hugh – or at least it will be when you can get it going again, of course it’s all in a dreadful mess now.’

It has been blighted by the war, as we all are… Five years older, gathering ourselves together, starting out again. Hugh does not look five years older; his hair is as thick and black as ever and he has the remains of a Far Eastern tan still: he is recently back from India.

I have not seen him since 1939, that Hampshire dig. Though one has thought – oh yes, thought a great deal, through long dreary hours at the Ministry, or firewatching, or sorting evacuees.

And the actuality is up to the expectation, and beyond, and here, now, am I with him on a visit to this house that he is almost certainly going to buy. And this afternoon we shall go up to West Kennet to take some measurements he needs and then back to London, hours of time with him, hours and hours, and beyond that there stretches ahead the whole amazing unbelievable prospect of the Lillington dig. I shall see him, on and off, all summer.

Beyond the garden, the landscape blazes; it reflects my feelings; it glows and beams and all is right with the world. I should like to sing. Instead, I say in what comes out as a governessy voice, ‘I suppose you would be wise to find out about main drainage – I believe cess pits can be an awful bother.’

Tom said, ‘Hello. Can I give a hand?’ and she looked startled, guilty even, as though caught out in something she shouldn’t be at. ‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘Could you – that bit there…’ And together they worked their way along the path, Tom grabbing at indicated growths of rose, and conversation took place, in mutual defiance of Nellie’s difficulties, and assessment of one another. Nellie thought: yes, I like him, a bit over-confident maybe, but perceptive with it, a serious person. I think he will do very well for Kate. And he could be a match for Laura. I hope it all goes all right… And Tom thought: she’s a nice old thing, sharp too, when she can get out what she means to say, it’s a hellish way to try to talk to someone you’d really rather like to talk to, like trying to fight your way through some language you can’t manage properly, French or whatever.

They came back across the lawn towards the house, to Laura on the terrace calling, ‘Tea! Oh, there you are, Tom, Kate has been rushing round like a cat on hot bricks, I do believe she thought you might have walked out on her, poor darling! Come and have some tea, anyway.’

Seeing them into the car that evening, she kissed Kate and then turned to Tom, leaning forward so that, confused, he also proffered a cheek only to see her step back and hold out a hand, neatly wrong-footing him with a relegating smile. A remarkable performance; the most experienced actress would be impressed.

‘Well, Tom,’ she said, ‘it’s been lovely to see you at last – the myth made flesh as it were. Come again soon, both of you – next time I must see about laying on some social life for you. And Tom, thank you for being so awfully kind to Nellie – I saw you from the window, being sweet in the rose garden – it does mean a lot to her to have people take a bit of notice.’

Laura stood on the steps, waving, as Kate drove out of the gates and into the lane, abusing the gears in her agitation.

On the A4, headed for London, she said, ‘Phew!’ and Tom burst out laughing. ‘Well, it’s all very well for you…’ Kate complained, and then laughed too, and in hilarity they drove into the rushing Wiltshire darkness, where the shafts of light from juggernaut container lorries blazed down the Old Bath road (from which Charles II made a detour, once, to visit Avebury and Silbury Hill in company with John Aubrey) and where Yamaha and Suzuki motorbikes buzzed between Stukeley’s survey lines of the West Kennet Avenue.

And where, much more recently, Kate Paxton rode in a car behind the familiar, sustaining, enriching back of her father, a hairy tweed back, leaning forward to get the warm tweedy smell of it and to hear him properly.

He says he is going away to dig up something in Spain and I say can’t I come too? and he says, sorry, Katie, I’m afraid not, not this time. And I say, is Mummy going? and he says nothing for a minute and then, no. And I say, is Aunt Nellie going? And he is busy with driving the car for a minute and then he says, I’m not sure yet. I want to go, I say, in a whiny voice, I don’t want to stay here with Mummy.

And then he begins to tell me a story, a silly story about a dog that lived here a long time ago, a dog that belonged to the people then, the Stone people, the people he digs. The story makes me laugh, and I am happy suddenly; we fly through the dark and I smell his smell and listen to his voice and everything is all right, there is only now, there is no more what has happened or what is going to happen.

Chapter Three

‘I am going to Marlborough,’ Laura said to Mrs Lucas. ‘I have the library to do, and the supermarket, and – oh, and a thousand things, I shall be in a dreadful rush, I daresay I won’t be back by lunch-time. So would you please be kind and see to something for my sister, there is a tart that could be heated.’

She cashed a cheque, did the supermarket, bought expensive bath stuff from the chemist, looked in the window of the bookshop and met, in the doorway, a literary acquaintance who confided shyly that her book had found a publisher. Laura laid a hand on her arm, ‘My dear, that is the most marvellous news! You must be so relieved!’ She moved on to the library in company with this woman, meeting another mutual acquaintance on the way to whom she was able to say, quickly, to forestall her companion who would be too modest for further confidences, ‘Mary has at last found a publisher for her book, isn’t that lovely for her! It just shows what perseverance will do.’ At the library she changed her books, and Nellie’s, saw with sudden depression that it was only eleven-thirty, and the morning yawned ahead, looked round for Mary to suggest a cup of coffee, and found her unaccountably vanished. She went outside, and stood in fretful uncertainty, looking down the wide market street, that pleasant county town landscape of brick and timber-frame, of centuries juxtaposed, of the good and the vernacular and the deplorable in architectural confusion. Down the centre, a herring-bone formation of parked cars flashed in the sunshine, Marinas and Fiats and Volvos where, in the old days, and with greater ease, she had used to park the Ford.

She stood on the pavement, in her Jaeger wool suit (years old now, but cheered up with a new silk shirt) and the unspent morning hung on her like a weight. She looked at the street, and saw, not change or stability, not the new meters nor the faded nineteenth century lettering that advertised a Corn Chandler and Fuel Merchant on the side of a building, but the lamp-post against which, once, she had clipped the shining new wing of the Ford.

It is not my fault, of course, I am the most careful driver and it would never have happened if I had not been upset like this. I am trembling still, that is how it has happened.

It is their fault, they
made
me get in a state like that, lose my temper, make a scene, which is not like me, I am not that kind of person.

I am all on edge, I have been on edge all day. Am I pregnant, is that it? If I am pregnant then upsetting me like this will make me have a miscarriage, and that will be their fault.

I feel silly, that is the worst thing of all. I can see them still, all standing there with croquet mallets in their hands – ridiculous stupid game – staring at me. Hugh saying ‘Laura, what the hell…’ Nellie on the far side of the lawn, Hugh’s dig notebook in her hand. Kate screaming. The Sadlers and the rest of them gawping.

All week it has gone on. They have been there in the study together, working on the Charlie’s Tump stuff, by themselves, heads together over the desk, talking, not talking.