The Victory Garden

by Bowen, Rhys

  “We use Hamlin’s in the market square,” she replied. “They have our ration cards there, and I wouldn’t say no to a nice pork chop, or some lamb chops. It’s been a while since we’ve seen either. Or failing that, there’s Dunn’s, the fishmonger opposite, and Her Ladyship likes a fillet of plaice.”

  “All right.” Emily nodded. “I’ll see what I can do.”

  “Her Ladyship must think highly of you, letting you have the motor to go into Tavistock,” Ethel commented, looking up from her macaroni pudding. “What with petrol being so hard to get.”

  “Simpson had to go to arrange for a coal delivery, so he suggested I go to the nursery for seedlings,” Emily said hastily, noticing Mrs Trelawney’s face. “We need to get the winter veg going if we are going to eat, don’t we?”

  Then she made a hurried exit. It was a pleasant drive towards Tavistock. They stopped first at the nursery, and with the help of the owner, Emily selected a tray of small plants, plus onion sets and seed potatoes. She came away well pleased, and they drove on into Tavistock.

  “Take your time, my lovey,” Simpson said. “I’m going to pop in on an old friend and see how he’s doing. I hear he got this flu that’s been going around.”

  A free afternoon—Emily couldn’t remember when she had had any free time to herself. How often she had been bored at home when the hours had stretched out ahead of her with nothing to do. Recently, every moment had been occupied. She looked forward to having time to browse, but first she had a list of commissions from Lady Charlton and Mrs Trelawney. She started with the easy ones: cotton wool and corn plasters at the chemist’s. While she was there, she remembered her tramp, and bought a bottle of antiseptic lotion and some cotton wool for herself. She posted two letters for Lady Charlton, as well as her own letter to Clarissa.

  Then she went into the butcher’s, but the man shook his head sadly. “I wish I could help Her Ladyship,” he said, “but I haven’t seen a chop in weeks. I can offer her kidneys or sausages or a neck of mutton, but that’s about it.” He paused, then added, “I could give you a nice rabbit if the old lady might like that for a change.”

  Emily decided to risk the rabbit. She also took the sausages, and then added a fillet of John Dory from the fishmonger. Having completed her commissions, she walked up the high street, her basket over her arm, enjoying looking in the shop windows. The toy shop, the dress shop and the shoe shop all looked sadly depleted. She bought darning wool for Mrs Trelawney and a small sewing kit for herself at the haberdasher’s, then headed for the bookshop.

  “Can I help you, miss?” the owner asked.

  “Might you have any books on herbs?” Emily said.

  “Herbs to use in cooking?” he asked.

  “No, books on cultivating herbs and using them medicinally.”

  He frowned. “I do have a herbal dictionary that might be of use.” He found it. “It gives the Latin names and drawings of the plants.”

  It was three and sixpence, a large expense for someone who had fifteen pounds to her name, but Emily wanted it. At least it would be a start in identifying what was growing in her herb garden. She paid for the book, and was going to leave the shop when she remembered Daisy and Alice. She had promised to teach them to read, and so far had not done much about it. With the winter coming and its long evenings, it would be an ideal time. So she wandered to the children’s section to look at reading primers. She found what looked like a helpful book and was coming back to the counter when she heard an imperious voice saying, “I am looking for a novel by Baroness Orczy. A friend has particularly recommended it. I’m not sure of the title, but it is about . . .”

  Emily froze, then stepped back between the shelves. It was her mother’s friend Mrs Warren-Smythe, mother of Aubrey, with whom her parents had hoped she would make a match. What she was doing as far afield as Tavistock Emily couldn’t imagine, but it was imperative this woman did not see her. She waited in the shadows, holding her breath until the shopkeeper came back with three Baroness Orczy books and put them on the counter in front of Mrs Warren-Smythe.

  “These are the ones I have at the moment, madam. If you’d care to take a look and see which one was your friend’s recommendation?”

  As Mrs Warren-Smythe bent over the books, Emily put down the primer with regret, then sidled towards the exit, moving as silently as possible. Once outside, she looked around, making sure that Mr Warren-Smythe was not lurking outside waiting for his wife, then she walked away as quickly as possible. All the way home, her heart was beating fast. The almost-encounter had unnerved her. She hadn’t considered before that Devon society was small and that her father was a well-known figure. The chances of being recognized were high. Then she told herself that she was overreacting. If she had actually encountered Mrs Warren-Smythe, all she’d have had to say was that she was still working with the Women’s Land Army. It wasn’t as if anyone could tell she was expecting yet. Her hand strayed to her stomach. But soon, she thought. Soon it will be obvious. Then she would have to stay put in the village.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  The rabbit, fish and sausages were all deemed acceptable by Mrs Trelawney, and Emily carried her new book on herbs back to the cottage. The drawings were old-fashioned woodcuts, but they were good enough for her to be able to identify many of the plants. She drew a plan of the garden, then went outside and started to write down names. Some plants had died off this late in the year, and she would have to wait until spring to identify them, but others still had enough leaves to make them recognizable.

  What’s the point? she wondered as she came back into the cottage. If I don’t know what to do with them, then I’m wasting my time.

  She sat down and picked up the journal from the table. She felt a reluctance to go on reading, Daisy’s words still whispering a warning in her head. “It’s bad luck to read someone else’s diary.” But this wasn’t a living person. She’d had the bad luck already, and anyway, she was an educated woman of the twentieth century. Surely she didn’t believe in folk superstitions?

  The next entries were frustrating because they referred to the recipes she hadn’t been able to find. But they told her that Susan had also felt compelled to take on the role of herb wife, and had thrown herself into the task with enthusiasm. Emily skimmed over the domestic details, like making new curtains, harvesting herbs and hanging them to dry in the attic. Then visiting her classroom, meeting her pupils. At least there were a few valuable details here and there that she could use. But then she read a sentence that made her pay attention again. “I hope Tabitha won’t mind my using her book, but I left home in too much of a hurry to think about bringing a journal with me. And now I have no money to spend on such frivolities, even if the local shop stocked ladies’ diaries, which I’m sure it doesn’t.”

  Using her book? Emily frowned. Then she gave an excited little laugh and turned the leather-bound volume over. The front and back covers were identical. And there, on the front page at the other end of the book, were the words “Being the recipes for the creation of tinctures, salves, infusions and all manner of medicinals produced from the garden of the herb wife, Tabitha Ann Wise.”

  Eagerly, Emily turned the page. The writing was badly faded and the script so old-fashioned that it was hard to read, but there were drawings and a list of plants.

  Necessities for all manner of healing in the herb garden: Hyssop, Wormwood, Rue, Coriander, Pasqueflower, Rosemary, St John’s Wort, Costmary, Lady’s Mantle, Lady’s Bedstraw, Angelica, Heartsease, Lily of the Valley, Marigold, Milk Thistle, Thyme, Sweet Woodruff.

  To these I plan to add, as time permits: Wood Betony, Comfrey, Coltsfoot, Cowslip, Hawthorn, Lavender, Lemon Balm, Meadowsweet, Sage, Valerian, Yarrow and Winter Savory.

  Emily had no idea what most of these plants looked like and whether they were actually all growing in the herb garden. She turned the page to what were indeed recipes. She translated from the ancient spelling as she went along:

  For the easing of a
chesty cough: Coltsfoot syrup.

  Place two ounces (a goodly handful) of coltsfoot in two gills of water. Place a saucepan on the hob and cover with a lid. Simmer for twenty minutes then strain off the liquid and discard the herbs. Reduce by one third. Dissolve six ounces of sugar or honey into the liquid. Allow to cool.

  Administer one spoonful three times a day.

  She realized something else, too. Local people had spoken of the wise woman, and Emily had taken this to be an attribute of hers. But the writer’s name was Wise. A doubly wise woman. She looked up with reluctance when the church clock chimed the hour and she realized she should go up for her evening meal.

  “I am going to start working on the herb garden around the cottage,” she said casually to Lady Charlton.

  “Are you really? I am impressed with this enthusiasm for gardening.”

  “I just thought Mrs Trelawney might appreciate herbs for cooking,” she said, not wanting to say anything about the recipes and the role of herb wife until she could prove that she was capable of making some of the remedies.

  “Don’t tire yourself out too much,” Lady Charlton said. “I think you will find that the herbs can wait until spring. Most of them have probably died back for the winter anyway.”

  “Yes, you’re right,” she agreed.

  Lady Charlton looked up from her sherry. “Did you have an agreeable visit to Tavistock this afternoon? I never thanked you for bringing my items from the chemist.”

  “It made a change to look in shop windows,” she said. “It’s something I haven’t had time to do for ages.”

  “I don’t go out much any more,” Lady Charlton said. “I find it so depressing. One realizes how dreary everything has become since the war started—shabby, outdated clothing, tired-looking people and no young men on the streets. When the war ends, I wonder if we will have the energy to recover.”

  “I’m sure we will,” Emily said, more brightly than she felt. “We are a resilient nation, after all.”

  Lady Charlton nodded. “It is young people like you who give me hope. You have been through the fire, and yet you choose to believe in the future.”

  “I have no choice,” Emily replied. “I am responsible for a child now, so I can’t give up or give in.”

  “Quite right.”

  Lady Charlton looked up as Mrs Trelawney came in with the main course. “The young lady managed to find you a bit of John Dory,” Mrs Trelawney said. “And there’s a rabbit, too. It will make a rabbit pie for tomorrow and a stew after that.”

  “You seem to be a worker of wonders,” Lady Charlton said. “How long since I’ve had a decent piece of fish, Mrs Trelawney? And rabbit? What a treat.”

  Mrs Trelawney gave Emily a sharp, hostile glance as she went away.

  Emily hurried back to the cottage, anxious to read more of Tabitha Ann Wise’s book. She had just started making notes for herself when there was a tap at her front door. She opened it cautiously, half-expecting to see another tramp there, but instead Alice barged in.

  “Well, there you are,” Alice said. “I hear you’ve gone all hoity-toity on us. Dining with Her Ladyship every night!” She put on a false upper-class voice. “And not enough time to visit your old mates any more.”

  “It wasn’t my idea to dine with Lady Charlton,” Emily said. “I tried to tell her I needed to learn to be independent, but she wouldn’t hear of it. She’s starved for company, and I’m not saying no to a good meal.”

  “And what about your poor, old friend?” Alice asked.

  Emily laughed. “You’re not starved for company. You’ve got Nell Lacey and anyone who comes to the pub. How are you getting on there?”

  “We get on like a house on fire, Nell and me. We’re always laughing and joking. Of course, it’s not all tea and crumpets, you know. We got a new barrel of beer delivered today and we had to get it down the steps between us. I don’t know how she managed before I arrived.”

  “Any news on her husband?” Emily asked.

  Alice shook her head. “Still much the same. I wonder if he’ll ever leave that hospital. So what have you been doing with yourself?”

  “Working in the garden. I went into Tavistock to buy seedlings for winter vegetables.” She took a deep breath. “And I’ve found out that there is a herb garden around the cottage. I’m planning to see if I can make herbal remedies. You know they said a witch lived here once? Well, I think it was a woman who made healing potions. I’m going to try some.”

  “You want to be careful,” Alice said. “You might end up killing us all. And from what they say, the women who lived here all came to bad ends.” Then she grinned. “Anyway, how are you feeling?”

  “A lot better,” Emily said. “The sickness is improving—apart from after having to eat tripe and onions, that is.”

  “Tripe and onions? That’s enough to make anyone throw up.” They exchanged a grin.

  “Would you like a cup of tea?” Emily asked.

  “No thanks, love. I’m looking forward to my nightly gin. But this place is looking better already. More homely, somehow. And Daisy’s getting on all right?”

  “She’s taken on all the hard work, so they all adore her. I don’t think she minds. She enjoys being appreciated.”

  “I expect we’ll see you on Sunday then, if you don’t come down to the pub before that,” Alice said. “The harvest festival at the church. You’ll be coming?”

  “Oh yes. I think so. Mrs Trelawney was talking about what vegetables to bring. Apparently, it’s something of an ongoing competition. And she’s baking apple pies for the supper afterwards.”

  “What’s that?” Alice jumped as Shadow appeared and sidled up to her.

  “It’s my cat,” Emily said. “He’s adopted me, apparently. Actually, I’m not sure what sex it is, but he seems like a male. I’m calling him Shadow. I leave the scullery window open and he comes and goes as he pleases.”

  “Don’t let the locals know you’ve got a black cat or they’ll start saying you’re the new witch. They’ll be on the lookout for you riding past on your broomstick.” Alice laughed.

  “I must say, I enjoy his company,” Emily replied. “He’s quite undemanding, and he brought me a mouse this morning as a present.” She bent to stroke him. “Do you know, I’ve never had a pet before. Mummy had an aversion to animals. They thought they made the place dirty.”

  Alice gave her a long, hard look. “I don’t know how you turned out so well. That mother of yours sounds like a right old grouch, if you don’t mind me saying so.”

  “I don’t mind, and I have to agree with you.” Emily laughed.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  Emily rose extra early the next day and started on the task of harvesting some of the herbs. She tied together stems of lavender, rosemary, thyme and sage, as well as others she had not yet identified, and hung them in the attic to dry. Then she set to work preparing the bed in the kitchen garden and planting out her seedlings. Simpson came to watch and advised her to use mulch to keep out the frost. Then he came back with a roll of bird netting.

  “You’ll need this over them little plants, my lovey,” he said, “or you’ll find the rabbits will get them all.” He helped her stake out the netting over the bed. By the time darkness fell, she looked with satisfaction at the neatly planted beds. If my parents could see me now, they’d be amazed, she thought. Then a picture of Robbie came to her. “My word, you’re turning into quite a farmer,” he’d say, smiling at her. “And I thought the farm in Australia would be too much for you. But I can see you’re going to do splendidly.”

  “Oh Robbie,” she whispered, staring out into the night sky. Was there a heaven, she wondered, and was he there, looking down on her? It was all too painful to contemplate. She brushed away a tear and started picking up her garden tools.

  That evening, she wanted to begin transcribing the remedies, but Lady Charlton lingered over dinner.

  “Shall you be coming to the harvest festival at church on Sunday?”
Emily asked.

  The old lady shook her head. “I don’t think so. I’m too old to be jostled by crowds, and frankly, I am not particularly popular with the villagers.”

  “Why is that?” Emily was surprised to hear herself asking this.

  The old lady sat, her face having taken on that haughty expression Emily had first encountered. “I suppose it was my own fault. After the business with my grandson—who was extremely well liked locally, I might say—and then the death of my son, I virtually shut myself away. I had no wish to be polite to anybody. So I reverted to acting the grand lady of the manor.”

  “You should come with me,” Emily said. “I think we all need each other these days. There isn’t one family around here that hasn’t lost a husband or a son. We’re all hurting.”

  The old lady sighed. “I suppose you are right, but not this time. You can tell them the cold wind is not good for my aged joints.”

  “I don’t think there is anything wrong with your aged joints,” Emily said, giving her a critical frown. “You need to get out more. Come and talk to me when I’m working in the garden. It would do you good.”

  “If I thought you were going to be my new governess and order me around, I’d never have invited you for sherry in the first place,” Lady Charlton said, but she smiled.

  On Sunday, Emily, under Mrs Trelawney’s supervision, picked the basket of vegetables to be placed at the altar.

  “It’s not like the old days,” Mrs Trelawney remarked critically. “But the pumpkin’s not bad. And nobody will be able to find fault with my apple pies, that’s for sure.”

  Emily carried the vegetables and Daisy and Mrs Trelawney took the apple pies down to the church hall. The altar steps were already piled with fruit and vegetable offerings, and Emily noticed there was one large marrow. Mrs Trelawney would not be pleased about that, she thought.

  The harvest service of thanksgiving was conducted with lusty singing of “Come Ye Thankful People, Come.” The vicar preached a sermon saying that, in the toughest times, God still revealed his bounty to us. Afterwards, everyone assembled in the parish hall, where the tables were now covered in a fine array of food.