The Memory Garden Page 13

  ‘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.’ Ja"; font-weight: bold; expectGogo 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"; font-weight: bold; t. is 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 copies. Then

  Chapter 11

  ‘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 eve
r since Geoff announced his plans._hisDJ5’

  ‘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"; font-weight: bold; .. is 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.

  Soon, strands of laurel mingled with the rhododendron, and after a while thick tangles of the dark shrub made progress impossible.

  ‘Let’s try round this way,’ suggested Patrick, and he surged deeper into the banks of rhododendron. Mel limped to where he had forced a way through the bushes. Now she was lost in thick shiny green leaves that scratched her face.

  ‘Patrick,’ she called, ‘where are you?’

  ‘Here,’ he shouted back, and she shoved through the greenery in the direction of his voice. Dry branches scraped her face and leaves rattled. She was blinded. ‘Patrick, tell me where you are!’ His answering voice seemed further away. The greenery seemed to be pressing in on her like some malevolent creature. She tripped again and nearly fell. Panic welled. ‘Patrick!’ she cried again.

  ‘Mel? Come on,’ he said, somewhere up ahead. ‘I’ve found something.’

  ‘What? Ouch. Where are you?’

  ‘This way.’ And suddenly, she emerged into a small clearing. There he was, sitting on a little bench, and it was all right again. The laurel rose around them like green walls of a castle keep, open to the sky. The bench was made of stone, with scrolled arms and a low back.

  ‘Is there room for me?’ she asked, and squeezed thankfully onto the seat beside him.

  ‘How’s your foot?’ In a hesitant gesture he put his arm around her.

  ‘Not too bad.’ She felt herself relax into him.

  ‘Good.’

  ‘Where on earth are we?’ she said. ‘I completely lost my sense of direction.’

  ‘A secret world at the centre of a maze. No one in the world knows we’re here. Fun, isn’t it?’

  They sat together in companionable silence, listening to the birds singing, noticing the distant cracks of twigs and the rustle of the wind in the leaves.

  ‘No giant spiders, thank God,’ remarked Mel.

  ‘That grab you and wrap you up tight,’ Patrick joked, and hugged her quickly. She gave a little scream, and this immediately started up the urgent chik chik chik of several blackbirds. Then an eerie silence.

  Mel and Patrick sat frozen, all senses alert. The shadow of a cloud fell across the grove and the air turned chill. Patrick removed his arm. Mel shivered, then remembered something.

  ‘Patrick, your gardener said something odd. I wonder whether he was hinting that someone was buried in the garden. I’m not sure – I couldn’t make him explain.’

  He looked at her, perplexed. ‘That’s weird. What did he say?’"; font-weight: bold; jeGo

  ‘Well, it’s not exactly what he said. Just that “She’s still hereabouts” and he told me not to go digging.’

  ‘Who was he talking about?’

  ‘An old Mrs Carey, I think, but I’m not sure. As I say, I couldn’t get him to explain. Perhaps he’d be more helpful with you.’

  Patrick stood up; his face looking troubled. ‘This place is suddenly giving me the willies,’ he said. He glanced at his watch. ‘Heck, I’ve got to be in Penzance in three-quarters of an hour. Come on.’ He reached for her hand and pulled her up. For a moment they stood looking at one another. Then he squeezed her hand gently and said, ‘Shall I go first again?’

  He said to meet him at the bench in the laurel maze, but I’ve waited and waited and he hasn’t come. Now the shadows grow long and it’s getting cold. I’m tired of pacing up and down and Aunt Dolly will be looking for me. But what can I do? Evening is falling and this secret place is full of eyes. Why hasn’t he come? The scrape of boots on gravel. Leaves clink. Is this him at last . . .

  Chapter 12

  That evening, when Mel walked down to the cove to have supper with Irina, she hardly noticed the silver mist-wreathed beauty of the valley; her mind was occupied with thoughts of Patrick and of the unquiet atmosphere in the garden.

  After Patrick had left she had retreated indoors and sat down at her laptop to reshape the opening paragraph of her book, but she felt too muddled. She
sat in a daydream remembering his arm around her again. Had he just been friendly? And had the sudden shift of mood in the garden merely been a change in the weather?

  When she reached Irina’s cottage, her knock was answered so quickly she was taken unawares.

  ‘Are you all right?’ said Irina. ‘You look . . . dazed.’

  ‘Do I? Sorry, I was woolgathering.’

  ‘What?’ Irina asked, baffled. She still looked tired and strained, Mel saw.

  ‘Daydreaming,’ Mel explained. ‘Too much time alone with my thoughts. I’m becoming thoroughly unfit for human company.’

  ‘Oh, I’m sure that’s not true. Come in, please.’

  Mel handed over the bottle of wine she had brought.

  ‘Thank you. Come into the kitchen. Lana has her friend Amber here. They’ve been helping me with the cooking.’

  The two girls were sitting together at the table scraping out a mixing bowl with teaspoons. Lana looked up and smiled at Mel with her spaniel eyes. Where Lana was dark, Amber was Nordic blonde, with skin so fair the veins showed through the delicate lids of her pale blue eyes. An ice queen, perhaps. But no, Amber’s ‘Hi,’ was warm enough. The fragile princess on the pea then.

  ‘We’ve made torta,’ said Lana, licking her spoon.

  ‘I hope you’ve left some for me,’ said Mel.

  Lana laughed. She seemed less wary, more like a normal child today. ‘It’s in here,’ she said, and a blast of hot air filled the tiny room as she pulled open the oven door to reveal a cake rising.

  ‘Close it quick, Lana dear,’ called Irina, who was pouring some wine, ‘or it won’t rise properly. Now, why don’t you take Mel into the sitting room while I finish here.’

  In the sitting room, Mel was instantly drawn to the window to stare out at the darkening cove. What a wonderful view it was, even on a foggy evening like this. No moon was visible tonight. A light from a passing boat twinkled through the mist. She shifted position to see the quay and the cliffside better and knocked into something metal and spiky, sending papers drifting to the floor.