The Garden House

by Marcia Willett

  She couldn’t quite say the words outright. He stared into his wine glass, turning the stem in his fingers so as to catch the gleams of ruby light, not pretending to misunderstand her.

  ‘Just for one moment, I was allowed to be me,’ he answered at last.

  His downturned face was serious, almost stern, and she was silent. He glanced up at her and smiled apologetically.

  ‘You might say that it was a very costly moment.’

  She could see that to continue the conversation would be complicated. She guessed that he enjoyed his freedom but at what expense? He lost companionship, family life, Freddie’s respect. Yet there was a contentment, a self-sufficiency, about her father. She longed to ask who the woman was but knew she never would. He made no excuses or apologies: his pleasure in his daughter’s company and ongoing love was evident. It pleased her that their friends were clearly in his corner, he wasn’t condemned or cast out, and she wondered whether her mother – critical, pessimistic – had ever been popular with them. Even Marina, Angus’s wife, was unmoved by the gossip surrounding the divorce. Marina was a generous, warm-hearted woman but her sympathy for the wronged wife seemed well under control.

  El rolls on to her side, hugging her pillow, remembering those morning coffee sessions in the Bedford with Marina and Angus, Cass and Tom, Kate if she happened to be staying with Cass. They had such fun together: shrieks of laughter, gossip, shared anecdotes of family. They welcomed El into these, praising her cleverness, her prettiness, her youth in general, and she felt herself expanding into the warmth and friendship of these much older people. She simply couldn’t imagine her mother as a part of this group.

  ‘Much too busy,’ she would have said, with that familiar look that was part irritation, part contempt, ‘to sit about drinking coffee and gossiping.’

  How sad they all were when Marina died. The little group still met, encouraging Angus, sharing in his grief, but still with that underlying, life-giving humour that raised the spirits. His daughter and her husband were posted to Washington and, though Plum made short visits to see her father, they were too far away to bring any real comfort.

  ‘It’s such a pity,’ El heard Cass say to Kate whilst the men were at the bar. ‘Plum would be so good for him. She’s so strong and positive. I’ve only ever seen Plum desolate once, and that’s when she had the stillborn child. How terrible that was.’

  And then the men came back to the table, carrying drinks, and Kate raised her glass encouragingly to Angus.

  ‘People don’t know what to say to me,’ Angus told them. ‘Some people are embarrassed, some try to avoid me. Some keep telling me that it doesn’t change but that I’ll learn to handle it. Others tell me that they know how I feel.’

  El wanted to give him a hug but she felt too young and inexperienced to know what to say. Cass leaned forward.

  ‘But the worst are those who tell you how sorry they are for your loss,’ she said. ‘As if you’d left Marina at the railway station like poor old Paddington Bear.’

  There was a tiny silence, then Angus burst out laughing. ‘You are so right,’ he exclaimed. ‘Where has that awful expression come from?’

  The mood lightened, and when the party broke up Cass smiled at El.

  ‘The crucial thing,’ she said, ‘is never to lose one’s sense of humour or we’re all done for.’

  Now, lying in the dark, El remembers this and instinctively thinks of reasons to be cheerful. She is here at the Pig Pen, she has good friends, she can make a start on her novel, and Will is coming down on Wednesday. A combination of relief, expectation and anxiety tenses her. How will that be? She hardly knows him, and yet here he is offering sympathy, understanding, prepared to drive down to support her, just as he’d driven down for the funeral. She remembers his instinctive reaction to that kiss all those years ago and wonders if her mother could be right: that Will is gay. El is well aware that Will enjoys winding her mother up. She remembers a New Year’s party when Christian and Will wore matching pink shirts, and her mother’s reaction, yet she can’t forget how kind Will was at Pa’s funeral.

  ‘You did well,’ he told her after the service at St Eustachius.

  ‘I didn’t want to read,’ she told him, ‘but Father Steven thought that Pa might like it. That passage from Paul’s letter to the Romans, “Who shall separate us from the love of Christ?” was one of his favourites. I was so nervous.’

  ‘You didn’t look it,’ he assured her. ‘Father Steven was right. Is he the rector?’

  ‘No, he’s the curate,’ she said. ‘He’s been so kind. Come and meet him.’

  How odd it was, thinks El now, introducing Will to Pa’s friends and not knowing how to describe him. Somehow she couldn’t quite bring herself to call him her stepbrother though she didn’t know why, which confused her further. To her relief Freddie behaved as if Will were an old friend so there was no awkwardness.

  She groans aloud as memories jostle in her head, longing for sleep, wondering what the time is, and suddenly remembers a comment from Tom to Angus on that same morning in the Bedford.

  ‘When you wake in the night watches never ever look at the clock. It’s so disheartening to know that it’s only three o’clock.’

  ‘So what do you do?’ Angus asked.

  ‘I recite the shipping forecast,’ answered Tom. ‘Never get past Malin.’

  Smiling to herself, El makes herself comfortable and silently begins to recite Carol Ann Duffy’s poem ‘Prayer’.

  By the time she reaches ‘Malin’ she is asleep.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Plum is glad to be home again: in England, in the flat in London, and here in the big Victorian house in Whitchurch on the edge of Tavistock. Washington was amazing, a wonderful experience, but it’s good to be able to see the girls, her friends and her father without the travelling.

  She stands in her childhood bedroom, which she prefers when she visits on her own, dumping things out of her suitcase on to the bed, fishing out the chocolates she’s brought for her father. It was good of him to let them use his big double garage to store their car whilst they were in Washington; keeping it checked over, letting the girls drive it when they came down from uni to stay with him.

  And it’s clear, thinks Plum, that he is very happy to have her and Ian home. He was so pleased to see her as she got off the train at Plymouth, hugging her, kissing the top of her head, which always makes her feel like a child again and helps to ease the sadness now that her mother is no longer standing there on the platform beside him, waving, hurrying to greet her.

  This is the first time she’s seen him since they arrived back in London, so there’s a lot of catching up to do. She’s relieved to see him looking fit and in such good spirits and she’s enjoying the prospect of spending a few days with him before taking the car back to London.

  ‘No need to be in a rush,’ Ian told her. ‘It’s been a long time and he’ll be so pleased to see you. My debrief will take days, so enjoy yourselves.’

  She can hear her father calling up the stairs and she leaves her unpacking and goes down to find him in the kitchen, a big room with a high ceiling and tall sash windows with painted wooden shutters. Her father’s two golden Labradors, Blossom and Dearie, come to greet her, tails wagging, and she bends to smooth their heads, talking to them. She looks around, smiling at the old familiar things: the cream Aga, the built-in dresser crammed with a muddle of plates, photographs, small objects; her mother’s cookery books on a shelf above a shabby old sofa.

  She sinks on to the sofa, a dog at each knee, and smiles at her father.

  ‘This is so good,’ she says. ‘So. Where shall we start?’

  * * *

  Angus has no idea where to start. It’s been such a long and lonely three years without Marina, and with Plum and Ian so far away, that he still can hardly believe she’s here in the kitchen sitting on the dogs’ sofa, beaming at him. In her jeans and a shirt, her long fair hair looped back casually over her ears, she seems u
nchanged.

  ‘You’ll get dog hairs all over you if you sit there,’ he says automatically, and Plum laughs, hugging the dogs, who are ecstatic to see her.

  ‘No change there, then,’ she says. ‘So I told you all our news in the car, there must be something new happening in Tavistock.’

  ‘First of all let’s decide on what you want to do this afternoon. Anything special?’

  ‘Yes,’ she answers promptly. ‘I want to take the dogs up on the moor for a walk. I’ve been dreaming about that for weeks. And it’s such a heavenly day. Are you OK with that?’

  ‘Very OK,’ Angus replies. ‘It’s what I would have been doing. So lunch and then a walk. How about some soup?’

  ‘Great. Something quick and easy. But I’m still waiting to hear the gossip.’

  As he begins to prepare lunch, heating the soup, she stands up to help him, laying the table, peering into the fridge, and he feels an uprush of pleasure, of gratefulness for her company. He casts about for something to tell her and suddenly thinks of El. Plum knows that Martin has died, though she and Ian were still in Washington, but she doesn’t know El’s plans.

  ‘Well, you know about poor old Martin,’ he begins.

  ‘Yes,’ she says opening a drawer, her back to him, taking out spoons and knives. ‘That was … just awful.’

  He glances at her. He knows how fond she was of Martin, how distressed by his separation and then divorce, which happened a few months after she’d given birth to her stillborn baby. It’s a very sensitive subject and coupled with Martin’s death Angus knows he must tread carefully.

  ‘Well, El has decided to keep the Pig Pen. She wants to live there.’

  Plum turns to stare at him. ‘In the Pig Pen? Alone?’

  ‘Yes. In fact she moved in yesterday.’ Plum looks so shocked that he is surprised, but he smiles at her encouragingly. ‘I think it’s very brave of her. Of course, Felicity is out of her mind.’

  ‘Felicity?’

  Angus shrugs. ‘Well, she would be, wouldn’t she? She’s never approved of El sticking by Martin and she thinks this is a crazy idea.’

  Plum puts plates on the table. ‘How old is El now?’

  ‘Nearly twenty-two. She’s just graduated with a First in English from Durham. She doesn’t quite know what she wants to do career-wise yet, but she wants to keep the Pig Pen.’

  Angus pours soup into two bowls and puts them on the table with baguettes and some cheese. He is puzzled by Plum’s reaction. There’s a kind of grim introspection, a distant look on her face that worries him. It’s still a shock to think about Martin, of course, and the suddenness of his death, and he wishes that Marina were here to guide the conversation back into more light-hearted channels.

  ‘Anyway,’ he says, as they sit down, ‘that’s the latest news. Tom and Cass are looking forward to seeing you. Kate’s staying, so we thought we’d all have a get-together. Have you got any plans?’

  She glances at him and almost visibly pulls herself together.

  ‘Not really. I’ve texted a couple of friends to say that we’re back so I’ll probably see them while I’m here. Just for coffee, nothing special.’

  ‘So it’s just me and the dogs?’ he asks, and is relieved to see her smile return.

  ‘Just you and the dogs,’ she agrees.

  He pushes the bread board towards her and she takes a baguette and breaks it, cuts some cheese.

  ‘So where would you like to walk?’ He wants to steer the conversation away from Eleanor and Martin. ‘Pew Tor? Whitchurch Common?’

  ‘The Common,’ she says at once. ‘Willy’s ice-cream van might be there. The weather’s still warm enough.’

  He laughs, relieved by her response, feeling that the awkward turn in their conversation has been safely negotiated. He begins to talk about his granddaughters – Lauren just settling in at Warwick University, Alice working at a literary agency in London – and soon he feels that Plum is relaxed again and all is well.

  * * *

  Whilst Angus prepares himself for the walk, Plum wanders out through the utility room into the garden. Her mother kept it as a moorland garden. Mossy boulders edge a thin trickle of a stream, and in the spring ferns and primroses grow amongst the roots of the silver birches, and there are lakes and pools of daffodils and bluebells.

  Now, on this warm October day, there are cyclamen on the grassy banks and along the border; under the high sheltering stone wall are golden rudbeckia and tall purple salvia. Plum stands beneath the beech tree, gazing out across the Down, thinking about her mother – always so present here in her beloved garden – of Martin, and of her baby.

  ‘His name is James,’ she told the naval chaplain firmly, as he sat by her bed in the hospital. Ian was at sea, not able to be present at the small private ceremony in the hospital’s chapel. The chaplain kept her strong. As she stands in her mother’s garden, Plum remembers the words prayed at her funeral.

  ‘The souls of the righteous are in the hands of God and no torment shall touch them … In the eyes of the foolish they seem to have died…’

  The moor flows away, hazy and mysterious to the horizon. A tiny movement of warm air stirs in the branches above her and suddenly she is surrounded by gently twirling flakes of gold that land lightly in her hair and in the crook of her folded arms. To catch a falling leaf means a year’s good luck and she takes one and smooths it in her fingers. Suddenly the silence is disturbed by the thud of feet and here are the dogs, nuzzling her legs, tails wagging. Blossom and Dearie. Her mother brought them home as puppies just after James was born. Perhaps she hoped that these wriggling, engaging little creatures would go a little way to heal the pain.

  ‘Blossom, Dearie,’ she said, hoping to make Plum smile. ‘They’re litter sisters. Adorable, aren’t they?’

  And they were. Kneeling to gather their warm little bodies into her arms, Plum felt comforted. Now she bends to pat them, to lead them towards the car where her father is waiting. Plum knows that he is worried about her, confused by the pain she was unable to hide at lunch, and she is determined to put it aside, but almost on cue a text pings in. She takes her phone from her pocket and reads the text.

  Good to hear you’re back. Looking forward to a catch up.

  The text is from one of her oldest friends, Isla: Issy. They were at primary school together, then at Plymouth College. Issy has a research post at the university. She is quick, clever, spiky – and suddenly, just at this moment, Plum wishes that she hadn’t been so quick to tell her oldest friend that she was home. She remembers a conversation with Issy, quite a few years back, when she’d been a little too confiding. Issy was being so sweet about James, so understanding, the wine was flowing and the combination of these things made Plum more talkative than usual. Somehow, whilst Ian was at MOD and they were living in London, and then in Washington, this moment of indiscretion hadn’t caused more than a pinprick of regret. Now, as they are about to move back into closer contact again after nearly five years, Plum feels uneasy. Her instinct is to delay answering Issy’s text; to wait until she is back in London. Her father is coming out, calling to the dogs, and she goes to meet him, pushing her phone back into her pocket.

  ‘Come on,’ she says, helping the dogs into the back of the car. ‘Last one in’s a cissy.’

  She climbs into the passenger seat and smiles at her father. He looks happy, ready for the walk, and she leans over briefly to kiss his cheek.

  ‘It’s great to be home, Dad,’ she says.

  As they drive up on to the moor, bumping over the cattle grid, turning right into the car park, Plum feels all her tension and sadness slipping away from her. She climbs out of the car and looks around her at the familiar landmarks: the bony outline of Cox Tor, that distant glimpse of shining water that is the River Tamar and, to the far west, half hidden in mist, the Cornish hills vanishing into eternity. Two crows are in contention over a discarded piece of ice-cream cone but they fly upwards, squawking angrily as the dogs are released fro
m the car.

  ‘Willy’s here,’ she says, nodding towards the ice-cream van, and her father smiles.

  ‘Walk first. Ice creams after.’

  Blossom and Dearie hurry out on to the sheep-grazed turf, following a scent, tails waving. He locks the car, their leads in his hand, and they all set off together towards Vixen Tor.

  * * *

  El crosses Duke Street into Church Lane, hesitates for a moment beside the path that leads through the churchyard and then turns into the café opposite. She orders a pot of tea and goes out into the courtyard. It’s still quite warm enough to have her tea outside and she sits at a small table, looking across the wall at the church. Even the memories of Pa’s funeral there a few weeks ago can’t diminish this new excitement she’s feeling. He would be proud that she’s taken her courage in both hands, gone into Book Stop and talked to the owners, Simon and Natasha, about the possibility of working there. Of course, they knew Pa very well – he was a regular customer – and they’ve been very kind to her. Nevertheless she felt rather shy just coming out with it.

  To her relief neither of them was particularly surprised at her question and she could hardly believe it when Natasha said that they were thinking of taking someone on in a part-time capacity before Christmas. Of course, she added, they would need to see El’s CV and any job references.

  Sitting in the afternoon sunshine, sipping her tea, El can hardly believe her luck. Of course, nothing is settled yet, but it isn’t a refusal. Mentally she reviews her CV and plans to get in touch with the owner of the small second-hand bookshop she worked in during her last holidays from uni. Perhaps she should have gone straight home and got it sorted, but she felt a need to celebrate this wonderful opportunity rather than to go back to the Pig Pen where there is nobody with whom she can share the news. She longs to tell somebody, to have some encouragement, but both her closest friends are out of the country – one working with a charity in Ghana and the other on a family holiday – and she knows that Freddie’s enthusiasm would be muted because he hopes that she will regret her decision to move to the Pig Pen. Despite these high spirits she is still very nervous about her decision to start a new life here – sometimes her courage evaporates and she is filled with panic – and she can’t allow herself to be unnerved.