by Leah Fleming
Then he saw the girl, dark-haired, roughly dressed, yanking up the bluebells by armfuls and staring at him.
He jumped up, furious at her wanton waste of flowers. ‘Here, you! Stop that at once, you vandal… they’ve just as much right to live as you. They’ll be dead before you can get them home to a vase.
‘Oh, it’s you, Miss Bagshott. We meet again. Hasn’t your own garden any flowers?’
‘Not any more, Captain. It’s all been dug over for tatties.’ She was looking down at his bare foot but was too embarrassed to say anything.
‘I’m sorry. You liked your garden.’
‘How do you know? You never saw it. Aggie did, though.’
‘Still, when someone likes a garden they can make one anywhere.’
‘Like the man who made the garden in a trench?’ Those black eyes looked up at him questioningly, expecting an explanation. They sat down and she cradled the bluebells in her arms.
Fancy the girl remembering that, strange child. He would have to amuse her… damn it, she was distracting him from his purpose, Henry mused.
‘Last summer, when it was a bit quiet before a push, a group of men decided to dig out a garden. There was this lad, Percy Allport, who at home was a gardener in a big place near Walsall. He set to and built a rock garden. There was no shortage of white stones and boulders to place around it and he collected all the coke cinders and clinker to make a path edged with stones. He found many wild flowers in clumps, poppies and broom and wild geraniums, and dotted them about his patch. Set quite a fashion for a while. Talk about green fingers! He got lads bringing in seeds and cuttings to sprout. There, in all that mud, he made this lovely garden.
‘Then they had a competition to find the best blossom garden in “no man’s land”. Really and truly. I can’t explain how but it got them fired up. One group created a funny garden out of shrapnel and tin hats and statues made from broken bits of machinery. I liked Percy’s flower garden best, though. It was the first and the best.’
‘I suppose flowers don’t know there’s a war on, do they?’ said Iris. ‘Did he miss his own garden back at home?’
‘Yes, he missed his bit of turf so he made another where he was. There were so many poppies… fields of red poppies. How they grow on the battle field! Percy said they liked freshly turned soil, and there was plenty to feed them.’ He stopped, hearing the quaver in his own voice.
‘Is it still there then?’ Iris leaned forward, fascinated by his clean white toes and the bumps on top of his foot.
‘No. When the shell fire came back the garden disappeared but Percy kept on making them wherever he was until he…’
‘Until he went home or went west,’ Iris prompted. She knew about going west. It meant more black armbands and wreaths on the door.
‘I expect so, but you mustn’t give up. You could make a rock garden anywhere like Percy Allport did. It makes one think.’
‘How would I get the rocks?’
‘Some boulders out of Fridwell brook would do the trick. You find another spot and we’ll see what we can do, eh?’
Iris nodded solemnly. What a strange thing, for the Captain to be standing here with one shoe on and one shoe off. Didn’t he realise?
‘Will you help me?’ she asked.
He smiled at her.
‘Yes, I think I can manage that. Or at least give you a start.’ He could see her looking down at his bare foot and wondering.
‘I think you’d better wear both your shoes, if you do.’
He turned back for the boot and his gun, feeling both foolish and grateful at the same time.
*
Captain Henry was true to his word. The following week he called in at the garage-cum-barn to discuss the purchase of a touring roadster, a four-seater Chevrolet, with her dad. Iris hovered by the door, listening to all the guff about double declutching, horse powers and miles per hour which seemed to get them all excited. She wandered back to the kitchen, bored by this grown-up talk. Mam peered out of the window, watching the tall young man and her husband as they pored over a mechanical diagram.
‘Just what yer dad needs to get his mind off things. What is it about those carriages that has them jumping about like dogs with fleas… nasty stinking things!
‘Poor Captain Salt. He’s hanging about like a knotless thread most of the time. Can’t stick at anything, they say. Too much money and time on his hands, I say… still all the stuffing’s been knocked out of him.’
Mam darted back, seeing the young man coming towards the kitchen door. Iris went to greet him shyly and ushered him inside. ‘I’ve come to borrow your daughter,’ he said. ‘We’re going to build a special garden, aren’t we?’
Mam looked puzzled. ‘Has she been bothering you?’
‘Not in the least. But I promised, and a promise is a promise. So where shall we start, young lady?’
During the weeks that followed, Iris paced over Friddy’s field to decide just where to put her new garden and plumped on the corner by the old fish pond which was choked with bulrushes and green weeds. There were plenty of old stones and the Captain marked out her patch with twine. She wanted to make it in the shape of a heart, edged with stones. Captain Salt nodded and began to dig out the turf, pausing to draw breath every so often as if the task was draining his strength. Once the ground was cleared it was redug and sieved and extra soil added to make a mound in the centre.
‘What did Percy Allport have in his garden?’
‘Only wild flowers, I told you.’
‘Then we can have a clump of soldiers and sailors. They’re red and blue mixed up, like an army.’ Iris pointed up their garden path to the straggly clump of spotted pulmonarias lying under the old hedge.
‘I suppose they might do, but why not have something which will stay green all the year round?’
‘Like what?’
‘A bit of lucky heather for winter days. I like heather. It reminds me of Scotland and the hills.’
‘I don’t know it,’ she sniffed. ‘I want poppies, bright red ones, dancing…’
‘I’ll see but it’s a bit late to plant them now. We can sow seeds for next year perhaps. ’Til then I’ll scrounge what I can from the gardeners at The Grange.’
*
Henry felt like a child again, poking about the formal borders, annoying the old gardener who liked to keep a strict eye on what went in and out of his garden. He was one of the old school and much preferred the Squire to let him get on with it unquestioned. Mr Reginald never followed behind him like a ghost while this young man did and actually had the cheek to dig up a clump right before his very eyes for some silly patch he was growing. The war must have addled his brains for him to be concerning himself with things which were not in his realm at all. It made the gardener nervous. Whatever next? People like the Salts might start digging their own gardens and what would become of him then?
Henry took to reading up on all the plants which took his fancy. It was funny how he had never noticed how tall the monkey puzzle tree was growing, the way the pampas grass waved in the breeze, the file of red pelargoniums lining the driveway like an escort of Guards.
Sometimes when Iris was at school he would dig up more earth and extend her patch further, slipping in extra boulders for effect. Jim Bagshott got used to seeing him pushing the wheelbarrow off down to the field though Granny Bailey thought it mighty peculiar for a toff to be down the bottom of their land, thrashing about like a navvy.
To Henry it felt good to be lifting, sorting, digging. Pulling out the weeds from the pond became almost an obsession. He had planted a mixture of bedding plants to give bright colour, some evergreens, anything which took his fancy. The next Saturday morning Iris went down to Percy’s Patch and didn’t recognise it any more. It was one huge flower bed with red salvias stuck next to French marigolds and snap dragons. To her eye it looked a bit of a mess.
‘Did you do this?’ she said to Captain Henry accusingly, dark brows furrowing into a deep frown, her li
p curled.
‘Don’t you like it?’ Henry stood back, admiring his handiwork.
‘It’s not Percy’s Patch any more, is it? It’s like the flowerbeds in the Valley Park. Why did you change it? I thought we were going to make it red, white and blue and put flags in?’
‘And I thought you would be pleased.’ Henry felt deflated by her obvious disappointment.
‘Is this what Percy Allport’s garden was like in the trench then?’
‘Well, no, his was smaller and there was a lot more earth, I’ve told you before.’ He could see every detail of that pathetic bunch of weeds with its paper flags and stones tracing out the Staffordshire knot. A special garden, never to be reproduced anywhere except the trenches. ‘I wanted to make ours a bit more cheerful.’
Iris put her hands on her hips.
‘But it’s not cheerful, is it? It doesn’t fit in this field, does it? I wanted everything jumbled up…’ She was nearly in tears.
‘I thought you’d be pleased but you’re a fuss pot like all the rest,’ he snapped impatiently.
‘I know what I wanted and now you’ve spoilt it.’
‘I see! Thank you very much, young lady.’ What a cheek, criticising his artistic endeavours. He thought he’d captured the spirit of Percy Allport’s garden, embellished it even, but the girl was right, damn her. It did look out of place in this field.
*
There he goes, spoiling it all, thought Iris. Why did grown ups have to interfere, take over and ruin her dreams? First her fairy kingdom with its dainty plants and hedgerow pickings, pixie stops and magic circles. That had gone under the plough, and now this silly garden wasn’t at all the way she’d thought it would be.
Captain Salt had been her hero, someone who had bothered to give her his time. Now he was just like all the rest: dim, dull and deaf to her dreams. Once again Iris felt very alone in this topsy-turvy world. She would never understand the rules.
She was fed up with silly gardens and broken promises and things she didn’t understand. From now on Iris would stick to playing with Nella and Muffy among the sheds, teasing Aggie Salt and getting under Granny Bailey’s feet.
*
Henry whistled as he lurched his way down the winding lane from the Red Lion at Longhall. He was drunk enough to feel merry and mellow at the same time. If his CO could have seen him, building a garden to the orders of a nine-year-old girl and then taking the huff at her displeasure! What did he know about gardens anyway and what did he care? Why had he even bothered to humour the child?
Because it amused me and because it kept me alive, giving me something to get up for each morning. The stare of that fiercesome child stopped me from using my gun, ending it all in the forest, and I’ve never dared go out shooting alone since.
But you’re still alive, old boy. Nat and the other village lads weren’t so lucky. You have choices, the dead have none. Time to stop farting about, dear fellow, and find yourself something useful to do with the rest of your life.
I can carry on feeling sorry for myself and give up. Shoot myself. Or I can get on with the life I’ve been given back, move on, find some new interest to absorb me fully…
The more Henry thought about it, the more he felt that perhaps his future lay with motor vehicles, bikes and transport. There was definitely a business to be made there. He was never happier than when racing around the country lanes at speed. The excitement and danger got the sap rising again. Just because he was crippled in one place didn’t mean he was useless everywhere.
Jim Bagshott was a sound chap. Henry would need a good motor mechanic with ideas whatever he did. Perhaps they could rent some premises in the city, hire out vehicles for outings or run a fleet of charabancs. The ideas were flowing fast.
They could invest in the future, maybe get the old Pater to cough up some dosh to fund the business. When all the soldiers returned there would be a new demand for transport using engines not horses.
For the first time in months Henry Salt was thinking forward not living in the past and that challenging prospect no longer terrified him.
*
On the morning of 11 November 1918 there was a frost and a sharp bite in the air. Iris was sitting at the wheel of the latest vehicle in for a decoke, pretending to be Lady Oftenbroke. Dad was cranking up the starting handle, yanking it round, his breath hanging in the cold air. Nothing happened so he tried again.
‘It’s frozen. Usual rigmarole, our Iris. Get the kettles going.’
He found the enamel basin and began to drain the radiator. Iris dashed into the kitchen.
‘Kettle drill, Mam. Hot water treatment.’
They all knew the routine. First the kettles had to be boiled on the range, then in came the sparking plugs for a clean and warm up. If all else failed they would be doused in petrol. ‘I’ll give your dad hot water! Coming in with all that grease and them smelly fumes on him. Don’t you get dirty before you’ve even got to school.’
‘Do I have to go?’ moaned Iris, for the news of the Armistice was far too exciting for her to be thinking of school. Mam waved her towards the door.
‘Take our flag and join the parade. It’s only right to honour the day. But don’t ask me to join in any of it.’
‘Do as your mam says and get out of her hair,’ said Grandad Bailey, who was composing a celebratory verse for his Armistice sermon.
Soon the kettles had boiled and were poured into the radiator, the warmed up sparking plugs were put back in the engine, Dad and Grandad took turns to start up the engine and, wonders of wonders, it pished and spluttered into action. The best treat of all was to be driven up the lane like a princess alongside Dad who was taking the car back to its owner in Longhall. All the boys stopped to admire it when Iris got out.
No one could concentrate on lessons that day, not even Old Dog Barker who was quite pink in the cheeks and smiley for he knew his son would be coming home from the prisoner-of-war camp at last. Iris couldn’t get her tongue around the word ‘Armistice’. Was it something to do with arms being stiff after all that saluting? Agnes said she was a dumb cluck and everyone knew that an Armistice was a piece of paper which was signed to say there wouldn’t be any more fighting ever again. So Iris kicked her and made her cry and then gave her her own snot rag and said she was calling an Armistice in the playground. Aggie ran off and went to play with some of the other flower girls, Ivy and Vi. Iris joined the crocodile of boys as they wound down the school lane into the village and in and out of cottage gardens, singing and dancing. No one seemed to mind the noise.
The village was awash with coloured bunting, flags, red flannel petticoats hanging out of windows. Even those who were sick with this new Spanish ’flu managed to get themselves to their window to join in the celebrations. From the Cathedral to Barnsley Green Chapel and Longhall the bells rang out, filling the air with their glad news. Only then did Granny Bailey actually believe that this terrible war was over. Mother brought out some of her hidden rations and baked some buns to hand around on the green. Everyone stood chatting out of doors, wanting to stay close to each other. The war widows and bereaved mothers in black made their own special huddle, weeping gently into their shawls, and for the first time Rose Bagshott shed healing tears for her son. Iris was too busy playing tag to notice any of this. Someone brought out jugs of ale but the Bagshotts drank only sweetened tea.
‘The cup that cheers but does not inebriate,’ intoned Grandad.
Henry Salt heard the news and walked alone along the banks of Fridwell brook, cursing and weeping and thinking of the dead. He passed the church gate and the bottom of Friddy’s Piece field where Percy’s Patch lay forgotten like an overgrown grave, the flowers wilted and the stones silted with mud. A few clumps of greenery limped on sadly but its brief hour of glory was past.
As far as the eye could see the Bagshott plot was thronged with vegetables like a market garden. Yet here, in this ramshackle corner, he had found the path back to life. Henry could not take his eyes fro
m the stream as it rushed past.
‘Time like an ever rolling tide bears all its sons away.’ He remembered that hymn. Iris was right. Theirs would never have been a proper trench garden. It was too green, too full of hope. There would be other memorials and statues to come, all clean, white and unreal. No garden of remembrance could ever bring the dead back to Fridwell or tell the true horror of war. But thousands would return, a silent army of walking wounded who had visited the borders of Hell and now could not speak of it.
Yet Henry sat by the water full of gratitude. What contrary spirit had moved across this piece of earth and saved him from himself?
In the Heart of the Garden
Iris
Iris surveys the lofty barn roof with its crack beams swathed in cobwebs, sniffing the lingering odours of her childhood; oily rags, petrol, rubber, polished leather upholstery and exhaust fumes. In this old barn were the humble beginnings of S & B Motors. Out of it grew the Fridwell Garage and petrol station, the charabanc tours, taxi and car hire services, which saw both Salts and Bagshotts through the inter-war years and into new premises on the main road. Their modest prosperity enabled the Bagshotts to buy the freehold of Friddy’s Piece and to knock the cottages back into one when Granny Bailey finally passed on.
Now the barn houses only her ancient Sunbeam Talbot which sees Iris safely into the city for the weekly shop and back; the sum total of her driving these days. Each year she threatens to give up her licence but each year conveniently forgets her vow.
Iris shuts the barn door and closes the gate, hovering by the ‘For Sale’ sign. Should it be there at all? The goodbye gate was always left open to let in cars for repair; the gate through which she bade farewell to Nat, and to her own childhood when she went off to teacher training college the year Granddad Enoch made his last journey to Barnsley Green Chapel.