The Gamekeeper's Wife

by Clare Flynn

  And then there was Private Biddle, who had arrived at the Front for the first time and, despite the warnings, was unable to resist a peek over the top of the trench at the enemy. Part of his skull was blown off by a sniper. He’d survived but was brain damaged and physically incapacitated and would never work again. An invalid, a living vegetable, for what was left of his life.

  Instead of ‘a land fit for heroes’, England had become a country eager to forget the war, to shovel men like Dougie Middleton and Private Biddle into corners, lest they upset and embarrass others.

  And women? They’d featured in the posters that had been stuck on every tree, wall and building, exhorting men to go to fight the war on behalf of their womenfolk. What had Mrs Walters said? No man wants to be given a white feather. When Christopher had landed in England on his return from Borneo, women were waiting on the dockside, pressing recruitment pamphlets into the hands of disembarking men returning from the colonies. Apart from the expectations of his mother and the responsibility he felt to follow in his dead brother’s footsteps, it would have taken a harder man than he to resist those harpies as they encouraged men to take up arms in defence of king and country.

  How little he knew of women. He had no sisters. Only his snobbish, self-centred mother, who had always kept him at arm’s length as a child. His beloved paternal grandmother had been taken too soon from him. But women as objects of desire? His experience was limited to an unsatisfactory interlude with a Belgian girl, in a hostelry behind the lines. He had turned up with the intention of losing his virginity, but in the end had bottled out, terrified of contracting a venereal disease. A pinched-faced matron in one of the hospital stations had lectured Christopher and a group of fellow officers, encouraging them to instruct their men on the perils of Belgian brothels, lamenting that it was bad enough treating wounds caused by German munitions without having to deal with self-inflicted ones too.

  The young Belgian prostitute had spoken little English, appeared barely more than a schoolgirl and Christopher had baulked at the idea of handing over money in exchange for sexual intercourse. He had paid her the cash and headed back to the bar to seek oblivion in wine instead.

  But now he was consumed with desire for Mrs Walters. To hold her in his arms, to feel her lips against his, to touch her with his hands where he had never touched a woman before. She was at least ten years older than him. She was uneducated. From another class. So why did he feel this unquenchable desire for her?

  He lay back on the bed, drew the covers over himself and tried to shut her out of his thoughts. He closed his eyes and said the prayers he offered up silently every night for those who were dead, lost and damaged. But her face was the last thing he was aware of before he drifted into sleep.

  * * *

  The following morning, mindful of the need to appease his mother, Christopher went to talk to the head gardener, an old man who, during the war years, had single-handedly taken care of the grounds while his workmates were away at the Front. It had been an impossible task. Only four men returned from the war out of a group of sixteen gardeners who had set out together. Nine had been killed, most in the first battle of the Somme. The remaining three were wounded in hospital, unfit to work again.

  Christopher found the old gardener, Joe Hobson, in one of the greenhouses, pricking out seedlings. He doffed his cap when Christopher entered.

  ‘Weren’t expecting you this morning, Cap’n Shipley.’

  ‘I thought I’d come along and find out how things are going, Joe. Any luck in recruiting more help?’

  The old chap shook his head. ‘No, sir. There’s no workers to be ’ad locally. Looks like there’ll just be the five of us for some time. I’d like to talk to you about what you want us to concentrate on. Only there’s more work ’ere than we can manage.’

  Christopher suggested they take a walk around the grounds. As they strolled, he explained what he wanted doing, conscious of his mother’s wish that the area closest to the house should be returned as soon as possible to its former state. Edwina Shipley was keen to have garden parties again, to restore the croquet lawn, to picnic beside the ornamental lake.

  The lake had been Samuel Shipley’s pride and joy. As well as adding to the beauty of the parkland, its construction had been a feat of engineering. Covering several acres, it occupied a former quarry, created by the diversion of a stream. It was edged with trees on one side, with an open vista up to the house on the other. Christopher’s grandfather had stocked the lake with trout and now, sixty years later, it had become a haven for wildlife, including colonies of ducks and Canada geese, the neglect over the wartime years having further encouraged nature to take hold.

  They walked on and entered the extensive sunken gardens beyond the stable block. These walled gardens were a nine-acre wonderland of streams and small ponds, ornamental bridges, manicured lawns, summerhouses, pavilions and statuary. The paths were overgrown with weeds and brambles, in some areas impassable. Ivy and bindweed had spread their tentacles everywhere, choking treasured plants and hiding away the various sculptured eagles, Grecian urns and Roman gods that had once presided over the area.

  ‘It’s worse than I thought.’

  ‘Aye, it’s bad.’

  ‘How long do you think it would take to tidy it up?’

  ‘Months. Nay – years, more like. And without the men to do the work it’s not possible. Just keeping the main lawns trimmed is a full-time job, without trying to tackle these in ’ere. There’s dandelions everywhere. Ground elder n’all, choking the life out of everything.’

  ‘But couldn’t we at least cut back some of the undergrowth?’

  The old man snorted. ‘Too big a job, sir. Either we do this or the main lawns and shrubberies. Then there’s the kitchen garden, n’all. Mrs Shipley is most particular about us tackling that too. Can’t do everything. Mrs Shipley and your late father always preferred the rose gardens and the terraces.’ He took off his cap and scratched his head.

  ‘Then I’ll tackle it. Can you spare me one of the lads and we’ll see what we can do together?’

  ‘You, sir?’

  ‘Why not? I am a botanist after all. Plants are my expertise.’

  ‘But not a gardener, sir. All due respect but it’s not the same thing at all.’ Hobson had witnessed Christopher’s passion for plants since he was a young boy. ‘Digging and hacking back all this mess ain’t the same as doing your beautiful drawings.’ He assessed Christopher, with a sceptical expression. ‘It’s ’ard labour.’

  ‘Well, I’m going to try. You may be right, but I don’t want to stand by and let this garden go to rack and ruin without doing something. And I did manage to cut my way through dense jungle in Borneo – and in intense heat.’

  ‘So, this is what Mrs Shipley wants?’

  Christopher bristled. Why was it so obvious that his mother had the final say in everything? ‘It’s my decision. I’m running the estate now.’

  Joe thought for a moment. ‘Maybe young Fred Collins could give you a hand. ’E were too young to serve. Only started ’ere as an apprentice a couple of months ago. ’E’s a skinny one, but a good little worker. Stronger than ’e looks. I’d forgotten about ’im. If it’s only clearance work Fred should be up to that. ’E’s only fourteen, mind.’

  ‘Fred it is then,’ said Christopher. ‘He can do the full days and I’ll join him most afternoons. I have to do other things in the mornings, but we’ll see how we go. We can at least make a start while we keep a look out for more hands.’

  ‘Very well, Cap’n Shipley.’

  He was about to head back to the house when he had an idea. He called to Hobson. ‘What about women?’

  ‘Sir?’ Joe frowned, puzzled.

  ‘To work in the garden. Maybe not with the heavy digging, but helping out with weeding and planting.’ He was thinking of the large hole Mrs Walters had dug to bury the dog and her experience in the Land Army. She was a strong woman and if there was no situation for her in the house, why
not out here? Better than her being thrown workless onto the streets.

  ‘Never ’eard of anything like that, Cap’n Shipley. Don’t sound right to me. And what woman would want to do a man’s job?’

  ‘Plenty did in the war. We’d have had no munitions if they hadn’t gone into the factories. And no food if they hadn’t worked the land. And now the men are back from war they’re taking back those jobs. There must be women who want to work.’ He hesitated then added, ‘Widows who need to get by without a husband to provide for them.’

  Joe stared at him. Pulling off his grubby cap, he scratched his head again. ‘Don’t rightly know. Sounds queer to me. But if you think so, sir.’

  ‘There’s Mrs Walters, the keeper’s widow. I understand she’s need of employment.’

  ‘She’s a rum one, that lass.’ Joe frowned and shook his head. ‘Never opens ’er mouth.’

  ‘We’re not looking for a talker. Just someone to help out. I’ll find out if she’s interested. If so, she can assist Fred and me here in the sunken garden.’

  The elderly gardener shrugged, his expression sceptical. ‘You’re the master, sir.’

  * * *

  That evening at dinner Christopher broke the news to his mother that he planned to work each afternoon in the sunken garden. He did not mention his intention to employ Mrs Walters.

  ‘Have you lost your mind? You can’t labour alongside the gardeners. Sometimes I just don’t understand you.’

  ‘I’m a botanist. I’ve dug up plants in the jungle in boiling heat, working alongside natives. A little work never harmed anyone and it will help build back my strength.’

  She snorted in derision. ‘And what about running the estate? That’s a full-time job.’

  ‘I will deal with estate matters in the mornings.’

  ‘And the business?’

  ‘There is a perfectly competent board to oversee matters and I intend to propose we hire a managing director to run the day-to-day operations.’

  ‘Hire an outsider?’

  ‘I have neither aptitude nor inclination to do it myself.’ He took a sip of wine. ‘Or we could promote one of the managers?’

  She huffed and rolled her eyes.

  ‘You know I’d make a complete hash of it if I tried to get involved myself.’

  ‘You could at least try.’

  ‘I’d have to leave here and live in Yorkshire. Then what about running this place? I can’t do everything.’

  Mrs Shipley was about to answer but evidently though better of it.

  ‘Anyway, until now I’ve had no involvement whatsoever in Shipley Industries. That was Father and Percy’s domain. But I do know about plants.’ He smiled at her.

  ‘Oh, Christopher, what shall I do with you? You are such a trial to your mother.’ She gave a loud sigh, then smiled back. ‘But you will look after the estate management in the mornings? No shirking and spending your time galloping around on that great beast of yours?’

  ‘I promise. I’ll get up early and ride before I start work. And I won’t be alone – Joe Hobson has found a lad to help me.’

  ‘I still think it’s a waste of energy. That place gives me the creeps. And so old fashioned these days. You and the lad would be much better employed working on the main garden.’

  ‘At least I’ll be hidden away if I’m in the sunken garden. I didn’t think you’d be keen on me working alongside the rest of the gardeners in full view.’

  ‘There is that,’ she admitted. ‘And who am I to argue? I’m only a weak and foolish woman.’ She said the words in a way to leave her ironic intent in no doubt.

  In bed that night Christopher went over what he would say to Mrs Walters. If she accepted his proposal he would be able to spend every afternoon in her company. But would she agree?

  Chapter 5

  Christopher spooned marmalade onto his plate and spread it onto a piece of toast. At the other end of the table his mother was behind her newspaper, absorbed in the Court announcements and society pages. Her two spaniels lay sleeping on the floor in front of the fireplace.

  If Edwina Shipley had seen her son holding the gamekeeper’s widow in his arms she would have been horrified. Christopher, momentarily amused at the thought of her indignation, then remembered that he had not resolved the problem of removing Martha Walters from her home. And now, with his intent to invite her to work as a gardener, he was risking more approbation from his mother if she found out.

  A shaft of spring sunshine fell across the white damask tablecloth, making the silver cutlery sparkle. What was the point of all these things? The finest of everything. A vast estate, an enormous house, the charade of social engagements that were the raison d’être of his mother’s existence? Most of all, what was the point of his life at all if he couldn’t be the person he wanted to be? Defiance bubbled inside him. After what he had gone through, he had every right to choose how he wanted to live.

  His mother placed the folded newspaper beside her on the table and addressed her son. ‘We’ll have poussin with the Bournes on Friday then when the other guests join us on Saturday, I’ve told cook to do beef.’ She took off her reading glasses, folded them and placed them back in their tortoiseshell case. ‘You’re not listening to me, Christopher.’

  ‘Sorry, Mother. I was distracted for a moment.’

  She tutted. ‘Always daydreaming. Thinking about your wretched plants again no doubt. You’d better make sure you’re not doing that when the Bournes get here.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Really, darling, for goodness’ sake, listen. I was saying that Lady Bourne and Lady Lavinia will be here for luncheon tomorrow and I expect you to pay Lavinia the attention she deserves. Such a delightful girl.’

  She heaved a sigh and Christopher knew she was thinking how much better it would have been were Percy to be sitting here, eagerly anticipating his fiancée’s arrival.

  ‘Perhaps you could take her for a walk after luncheon and show her the walled garden and tell her your plans for the estate.’

  He felt panic rise and his hand began shaking. ‘I can’t. I told you. I’ll be working in the garden. I start today. I’m afraid I won’t be able to join you for lunch either. Today or tomorrow.’

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous. You have to be here. These next two days are a golden opportunity for you to prepare the ground with Lavinia. Get to know her. By Sunday morning I’m hoping Lord Bourne will have invited us to visit Harton Hall this summer. I want you to seize every opportunity. You need to win him round. He’s a tougher nut to crack than dear Lavinia and Lady Bourne. He was so close to your father and so attached to Percy. If only…’ She gave a little cough then smiled at Christopher. ‘Wouldn’t it be perfect if we could announce the engagement after Ascot? Then a wedding the following May. I do so love a May wedding.’

  Christopher dropped his toast onto his plate, appetite gone.

  Edwina anticipated his resistance. ‘I know we haven’t talked about this in detail, darling, but you’ve always understood that it’s the perfect solution. Dear Lavinia is such a treasure. Such a beauty. You’ll make a delightful couple…’ Her words tailed off and she turned to look towards the sleeping dogs.

  ‘I can’t marry Lavinia. She was to be married to Percy. It wouldn’t be right.’ He tried to keep calm in the face of mounting panic. Why was his mother always wrong-footing him?

  ‘Don’t be silly.’

  ‘Please don’t talk to me like a child, Mother.’

  ‘Percy is gone but life must continue and we must all make the best of things. We must all do our duty. And your duty is to marry Lady Lavinia Bourne.’

  Christopher said nothing. He picked up his teaspoon and twirled the handle round in his fingers. He was starting to get one of the headaches that had plagued him since the Somme.

  ‘Really, darling, anyone would think I was asking you to do something frightful, when most young men would jump through hoops to marry a girl as lovely as Lavinia. You must agree she’s beautiful?’r />
  Christopher raised his hands in a gesture of resignation. ‘How could I disagree?’

  ‘And she comes from one of the best families.’

  ‘Yes. Her pedigree is impeccable.’ He didn’t bother to conceal the sarcasm, but his mother was oblivious to it.

  ‘Well then. What more do you want?’

  ‘To marry someone I love? Who might even love me back?’

  Edwina Shipley laughed. ‘You are incorrigible, Christopher. You’re not a servant. No one of our class marries for love. If you want love, do what your father did, if you must. Take a mistress. But make sure Lavinia gives you a son first.’

  Christopher thumped his fist on the table. ‘You’re talking about us as if we were a bull and a heifer on the home farm. As if poor Lavinia is good for nothing but breeding.’

  His mother rolled her eyes, raising them to the stuccoed ceiling. ‘If you put it that way it sounds so vulgar. But you know as well as I do that that’s the truth of it. No need to express it so crudely though. You have a duty to our family and to the futures of Newlands and Shipley Engineering. Marrying well is part of that.’ She began counting on her fingers. ‘Producing an heir is part of that. Making and using powerful contacts is part of that. You’re fortunate that you’re one of the few who made it though the dreadful war, otherwise–‘

  ‘Otherwise a woman like Lady Lavinia Bourne would turn up her nose at the idea of marrying me? A man with a missing leg, and no interest in money or running the estate he was unlucky enough to have inherited. A man who is not his better-looking, braver, altogether more eligible, older brother.’