The Mermaid Garden

by Santa Montefiore

  “Get out of here!” Sylvia put down her scissors and came closer to perch on the edge of her desk. She crossed her legs and folded her arms. “Go on.”

  “He arrived yesterday.”

  “And you’ve already slept with him.”

  “No.” Clementine waved her hand dismissively. “Of course not.”

  “Poor Joe. He’ll be devastated. Have you told him?”

  “There’s nothing to tell.”

  “Joe thinks you’re The One.” She sniffed disapprovingly. “God bless him, the fool!”

  “Well, I’m not. I never have been.”

  “Freddie’s not The One, either.” She glanced at her red nails and clicked her tongue. “Though he won’t be convinced.”

  “Is that why he’s sent you flowers?”

  “He senses he’s losing me. Proof that if you treat them mean, you keep them keen. My mother would say that a woman has to play hard to get all her life.”

  “How tiring.”

  “The curse of womanhood.”

  “One of them,” Clementine added.

  “The others being?”

  “Childbirth.”

  “But think of the dear little thing you get at the end of it.”

  “Do you want children, Sylvia?”

  “Oh yes, but I’m getting on, you know. That’s why I’m keeping Freddie on the spit, basting him every now and then like a nice chicken.”

  “I don’t mean with Freddie. He’s already got children.”

  “He might be my only option.”

  “You can’t give up yet.”

  “On finding love? You know I don’t believe in it.”

  Clementine grinned and turned to her screen. “Well, I do.”

  Rafa set up two chairs and easels on the lawn in front of the house, facing the cedar tree. The brigadier had gone home to change into something more suitable and now took his seat in a pale blue linen jacket his wife had bought him years before but which he had never worn. He didn’t like the way it hung; a good jacket had to follow the line of the waist. He had placed a Panama on his head to shade him from the sun and now looked in bewilderment at the blank sheet of paper.

  “So, I’m to draw that tree, am I?”

  Rafa nodded. “Yes, but I want more than a picture of a tree.”

  “Oh, yes, the birds in it, too, I suppose.”

  “Perhaps. I don’t want you to just see the tree. I want you to feel it.”

  “Now that’s jolly difficult. Seeing is one thing, feeling is quite another.”

  “Not really, Brigadier. If I wanted an exact copy of the tree I would take a photograph.” He rubbed his chin a moment in thought. “Tell me, how does this tree make you feel?”

  “Nervous,” said the brigadier with a chortle.

  “Really? How so?”

  “Because I don’t know where to begin.”

  “Look at the tree.”

  “I’m looking at it.”

  “Don’t say anything. Just look at it. Take as long as you want.” The brigadier did as he was told and looked at the tree. He looked at it long and hard until his eyes stung and he had to blink. “Now how does it make you feel?”

  The brigadier was about to say “nervous” again when he felt a strange sensation in the middle of his chest. He looked at the tree and thought of his wife. It reminded him of the day they had taken their eight-year-old daughter to boarding school for the first time. There had been a big cedar tree beside the chapel, and it was full of children climbing the branches like monkeys. “It makes me feel sad,” the brigadier said gruffly.

  “So, you see, the tree is more than a tree. It inspires you to feel things. I want to feel those things, too, when I look at your picture.”

  “Oh dear, that’s a tough order.” He cleared the unfamiliar emotion away with a cough.

  “I don’t care whether your painting is accurate or not, I care that you are moved by what you see and that you try to translate that feeling into the paint on your paper. Give it a go. Don’t worry about it. Don’t think too hard. Just dip your brush in the paint and let your feelings carry it onto the page.”

  So, with his thoughts drawn back to his wife, the brigadier began to paint.

  14.

  Ah, isn’t it delightful to be back in this charming place?” said Veronica Leppley, sweeping into the hall with the enthusiasm of an actress returning to the stage after a long absence. She raised her angular face and closed her eyes, inhaling through dilated nostrils. “It smells just the same.”

  “Lilies,” said Grace Delennor in her southern Virginia drawl, running her string of pearls through long fingers. “Hotels always have lilies.” It took a lot to impress Grace Delennor, who had stayed in the finest hotels in the world.

  “Careful you don’t get the pollen on your cashmere. It’s a damn nuisance to get out,” warned Pat Pitman. “Sue McCain swears by baking soda, but I’m not convinced.” No one else in the group had ever met Sue McCain, but Pat brought her into every conversation as if she were an old friend they all had in common.

  Grace moved away from the lilies and ran her eyes over the room. “I remember the wood paneling. It’s so British.”

  “I can smell that, too,” said Veronica excitedly. “That and the lingering smoke from a winter of log fires. Isn’t it lovely, don’t you think?”

  Grace shook her head and a single blond curl escaped her coiffure and bounced onto her forehead. “You must have a very acute sense of smell, Veronica. I can’t smell anything at all. Not even lilies.”

  Jane Meister hadn’t said a word. She was quietly taking it all in, like a pigeon on a rooftop, watching everything going on about her. So much had changed since the last time she had been there, her world turned upside down by the shocking death of her husband, Henrik, at the age of eighty-six from a heart attack at the bridge table. She watched the two porters come in with their luggage and thought how young they were, with their whole lives ahead of them. She wondered what joys and sorrows lay in store.

  At that moment, Marina walked into the hall to greet them. All four ladies recognized her at once.

  “Well, hello there,” said Grace, extending her hand where a large diamond ring glittered on her bony finger.

  “Welcome back,” Marina said, smiling broadly. “I’m so excited you’re here. Our artist-in-residence is already on the lawn giving a lesson.”

  “Paul?” said Veronica. “He was lovely, wasn’t he? Such a gentleman. Didn’t you think so, Pat?”

  “I’m afraid Paul wasn’t able to return this year. We have a new one,” Marina explained.

  “I hope he’s young and handsome,” said Grace, narrowing her eyes. Pale blue, like topaz, they were all that remained of a once beautiful face, Botox and surgical lifts having destroyed what nature had so generously bestowed.

  “Oh, he’s very handsome,” said Marina. “He’s from Argentina.”

  “Oh, down there,” said Grace disparagingly.

  “How glamorous,” enthused Veronica. “The Argentines are a beautiful people, don’t you think so, Pat?”

  “Sue McCain once had a roaring affair with a polo player. We’re talking back in the fifties. She’s never got over it.”

  “Hello, Mrs. Meister,” Marina said, remembering how easy she was to overlook, being so quiet and shy. Marina noticed how much she had aged in the last year. Out of all of them, she had had the most youthful skin. Now she looked like she had been rinsed in gray.

  “It’s so nice to be back, dear. I have such happy memories of our stay last year.”

  “I’ve chosen to put you in the same rooms.”

  “Now they are very pretty,” said Grace. “Especially the handpainted wallpaper. I tried looking for something like it for the house at Cape Cod, but nothing came close.”

  “How sweet of you to take such trouble,” said Jane, smiling at Marina.

  Marina accompanied them upstairs to their rooms. As they climbed the stairs, Grace sidled up to her and hissed under he
r breath, “Poor Jane’s husband died last autumn. She wasn’t going to come, but we persuaded her it would be good for her to get out. It’s hit her very hard, poor darling.”

  “How sad,” said Marina, now understanding why she was even shyer and quieter than before.

  “My husband, on the other hand, goes on and on and on. He was old when I married him, but now he’s ancient, and still he hangs in there with steely determination. It’s that pioneer spirit he’s inherited from his ancestors. I haven’t got that spirit. My ancestors were spoiled British aristocrats with no drive at all. I hope the good Lord will bump me off the minute my face starts to show my age.”

  Marina opened the door to number 10. “This is Mrs. Leppley’s room,” she said, taking pleasure from their admiration. Veronica swept across the floor with light, happy steps, her gypsy skirt floating around her slender body and delicate ankles as if it had a life of its own. Having been a ballet dancer for most of her youth, she was unable to wear flat shoes, so her small feet were clad in tailor-made wedge espadrilles, which gave her a little more height and a great deal more comfort. “It’s beautiful,” she exclaimed, gesticulating with all the grace of her art at the pictures of birds and butterflies on the walls. “Even more beautiful than I remember. And the bed.” She gasped. “Oh, the bed. So high I have to take a running leap.” She jumped lithely onto the mattress and laughed with girlish delight.

  “At least you can leap,” said Grace. “If I leap, I’ll break. My bones are so brittle.”

  “It’s a proper bed,” Pat interjected approvingly. “Nothing worse than staying somewhere where they don’t understand about beds.”

  “I like high ones,” said Jane meekly. “And these are very high.”

  “Let me show you to yours,” said Marina, stepping back out into the narrow hall.

  “I like to imagine what this place was like as a private house,” said Grace. “I suspect my ancestors lived in a mansion like this.”

  “This was not the duke and duchess’s main home,” Marina reminded her as she walked down the corridor to the next room. “This was their holiday house, where they came to spend the summer.”

  “How very grand,” said Grace.

  “The sea air was good for the duchess’s asthma,” Marina continued, putting the key in the lock of number 11.

  “The sea air is good for everything,” said Pat. “Unless you’re a piece of furniture, of course.”

  Jane smiled at the sight of her room and took a deep breath, pleased that she had come. She went over to the French doors that gave onto a small stone balcony. She opened them wide and stepped out into the sunshine, gazing over the navy sea to the misty horizon beyond. Then she looked down to the front lawn, where Rafa was busy painting with the brigadier. She caught the brigadier’s eye as he took his attention off the cedar tree for a moment. He lifted his hat and nodded politely. Jane was a little surprised and waved her fingers shyly, retreating into the safety of her room.

  “I see your artist is at work,” she said.

  “Yes, he’s teaching the brigadier.”

  “Is that who he is. I can’t see with my bad eyesight.”

  “You would have met him last year,” said Marina. “He comes up every morning for breakfast. Rafa has managed to persuade him to do a little painting. I think he’s rather enjoying himself.”

  Once she was on her own, Jane opened her suitcase and pulled out a picture of her husband in a shiny silver frame. She placed it carefully on her bedside table, then sat on the bed to look at it.

  Pat strode into number 12. “Jolly nice,” she said heartily, tossing her sensible brown handbag onto the quilt. Pat would have been happy anywhere, for she was unspoiled and practical, and abhorred people who made a fuss. She tolerated Grace only because they had known each other for so long and because Grace was funny, though her humor ran out pretty quickly if she was uncomfortable.

  English boarding schools had trained Pat to accept what she was given and never to complain, however uncomfortable she was. Hardship was character building, after all, and Pat rather relished challenge, and being the only one in the group who rose up like a rhinoceros in the face of adversity. In her youth she had climbed the south face of the Eiger and would have sailed the whole way around the world had her boat not appealed to a great white shark off the coast of Australia, forcing her to radio for help and abandon it altogether.

  Now in her eighties, Pat’s life ran on a more predictable track. She had handed her torch to her youngest grandson, who was now in his thirties and halfway up Kilimanjaro. She walked over to the window and admired the view. The sea always stirred in her a deep longing to set sail.

  Marina had left the best for last and showed Mrs. Delennor to the duchess’s suite at the other end of the corridor. Grace was suitably enchanted to find herself upgraded. Now, not only did she have a view of the garden and the sea, but a hand-carved four-poster bed—the duchess’s very own bed—crafted in 1814 and handed down the generations, until it was eventually sold along with the house and its memories. Marina knew how difficult Mrs. Delennor could be and had made a special effort to please her. On reflection, Mrs. Meister should have had it because of what she’d been through, but Mrs. Delennor was the most likely to complain and Marina wanted to avoid that at all costs. “Très jolie,” said Grace without even trying to put on a French accent. “I shall enjoy staying in here very much.”

  “I’m so pleased you like it. It’s very special.”

  Grace draped her cashmere coat over the back of the chair. “The others are going to be wildly jealous. Except Pat, of course, who doesn’t have a jealous bone in her body—only the strong bones of a very sturdy animal.” She laughed at the mental picture. “It’s a mighty fine room. Thank you.”

  It wasn’t long before the women appeared on the lawn to meet the artist. The brigadier had been enjoying the peace and the progress of his painting, and was unamused at the invasion. He watched the old women flap about the Argentine like moths, and grumbled as he was forced to stand and greet them out of politeness. He had a vague recollection of seeing them at breakfast the year before, which had been perfectly fine as they had kept their distance. Now they were mounting an assault, he was none too pleased.

  Rafa was charming, turning his smile and laughing eyes onto each woman as if she were young and beautiful. The women sparkled with pleasure, even Pat, who considered it very silly to be seduced by flattery.

  “Sue McCain would appreciate him,” she hissed to Veronica.

  “He’s very attractive,” Veronica agreed. “He makes me want to be twenty again. Really, at times like this my old body feels very alien, as if I shouldn’t have put it on. It doesn’t go with how I feel inside. Do you know what I mean, Pat?”

  “Oh, I do, Veronica. My head tells me I can still do all the things I used to do, but then I get out of breath climbing the stairs. Still, one mustn’t complain. I’ve had my fun and there’s still a lot I can do, like a good route march along the cliff. Yes, I shall enjoy that very much.”

  “I can’t wait to put my brush onto paper again. I haven’t painted a stroke since last year.”

  “And you’re very talented.”

  “There’s always something else to do, don’t you find? It’s hard to get down to it.”

  “One has to make time. It’s all about prioritizing.”

  “Well, we have seven whole glorious days here without any distractions.” She grinned at the artist. “Apart from our teacher.”

  Jane Meister always felt on the periphery of things. She hovered a little away from the rest of the group, listening to their conversations but not really taking part. She was happier like that, letting the other women take center stage. Veronica was a born performer, used to being watched and applauded, and even though she was old she still retained the enthusiasm and light steps of her youth. Pat thought she was head girl and captain of the lacrosse team even now. She had the confidence of her class, years of Pony Club camp, and debutante
parties, which she professed to have found very silly. Nothing fazed her—neither a bucking horse nor a roomful of people. Pat took everything in her stride and confronted every challenge with a vigorous snort.

  Grace expected everyone to admire her, and if they didn’t she just brushed them aside with a dismissive wave of her elegant hand. She had grown up in the highest echelons of American East Coast society, and what she hadn’t been able to acquire by way of her charm, she had simply bought with her vast wealth. It was hard to tell by which means she had won her three husbands.

  Jane was an officer’s daughter. She had grown up in a close-knit army community in Germany, met Henrik, and married at eighteen. If it hadn’t been for a random painting class her daughter had encouraged her to join in Knightsbridge eight years before, their paths would never have crossed.

  Jane observed the artist. He was indeed very handsome and pleasant. She watched him laugh at Grace’s jokes and knew that they would all have an enjoyable time in his company. She wasn’t so sure about the brigadier. He looked rather gruff. It wasn’t that he lacked politeness—on the contrary, he was the very epitome of politeness—it was just that behind his good manners he didn’t look very happy to meet them. Unlike the artist, whose smile was broad and genuine, the brigadier didn’t smile at all. Jane decided she would make sure that she was sitting as far away from him as possible.

  Grace wasted no time and invited Rafa to join them for lunch. The brigadier went home, leaving his painting in order to continue the following day. He didn’t like the idea of sharing his teacher, and would normally have put his paints away for good, but he was enjoying the tree and the memories it evoked. It was like sinking into another world when he painted. As if his past was there, submerged beneath the branches, just waiting to be rediscovered.

  Grace, Pat, Veronica, and Jane sat outside on the terrace, beneath a green umbrella. Grace was wrapped in a pale pink pashmina, although the sun was strong and the breeze light and warm. Rafa was pleased to join them.

  Jake watched him sit down and noticed the ripple effect he had on the whole terrace. It was by no means full, but the guests who were there stopped whatever they were doing to look at him. It was as if he glowed brighter than everyone else, and even Jake’s gaze was drawn to him, quite against his will. The artist had to endure his stepmother and sister buzzing about him like a pair of dizzy bees. The attention would go to his head, and he’d become unbearable. Jake was sure he wasn’t so magnetic in his own country.