‘This is Dorothy and Frances,’ Mrs Montague said, and the two girls came over to greet me.
‘Please call me Dotty,’ one of them said, giving me the same firm handshake as her father.
Both of them shared Jonny’s smooth blonde hair and light blue eyes, and were just as tall as I was, which made me glad not to tower over other women for once.
‘Jonny’s never brought a girl home to us before,’ giggled Frances, whom I guessed was the younger of the two sisters and around sixteen. ‘Has he proposed yet?’
‘Frances!’ Jonny had appeared behind me. ‘You really are the end!’
Over tea, I observed Jonny’s interactions with his family and felt a warm affection for him. I wasn’t used to the affable teasing between him and his siblings, nor the gentle but amused rebukes from his mother, but as I watched clouds of yellow butterflies flitting above the purple verbena in the immaculate garden, I felt relaxed and at ease.
‘Jonny’s told me that you live with your grandmother in Cornwall. It must be a quiet life down there,’ said Mrs Montague as Frances and Dorothy argued vociferously about something on the other side of the table.
‘Yes, it’s peaceful,’ I said, taking a restorative sip of my tea, ‘but very wild, especially in winter.’
‘Jonny also said that you are studying botany. Perhaps you and I could take a turn around the garden tomorrow, and you could give me some advice.’
I looked into her kind blue eyes, and felt a confusing mixture of emotions: joy at being welcomed so generously by Jonny’s family, and envy at the fact that he had grown up with so much love from his parents, and had a mother who took such an interest in his life.
‘That would be wonderful,’ I said to her, swallowing the lump in my throat.
Over the next few days, I helped Mrs Montague, who insisted that I should call her Sally, in the kitchen and gave her tips on slug prevention in the garden. I chatted with Mr Montague about his days in the army and went shopping in the pretty village of Cobham with Frances and Dotty. Every night I fell into my bed in the guest room and pondered whether perhaps this was what it was like to be normal, and I was the last person in the world to receive the script.
On our final evening, before I was to return to Cornwall for the rest of the summer, Jonny borrowed his father’s car again and took me to a restaurant in Cobham. He seemed conspicuously nervous, picking at his braised beef casserole whereas I tucked into mine hungrily.
Over pudding – a lacklustre apple crumble with congealing custard – Jonny took my hand in his and gave me a shy smile.
‘Posy, I just wanted to thank you for being utterly wonderful with my family,’
‘It’s been a pleasure, Jonny, really. They are simply delightful.’
‘The thing is, Posy, we’ve been together now for seven months, and I . . . well, I want you to know that my intentions towards you are honourable. I’m hoping . . . I mean, I hope that one day, I will be able to formally ask you to be mine forever, but it wouldn’t be right until I’ve left Cambridge and am starting to earn my living as an officer. So,’ he continued, ‘I’ve been thinking that perhaps we could promise ourselves to each other unofficially, be engaged to be engaged. What do you think?’
I took a sip of my wine and smiled at him, the warmth of the time I’d spent with his family flooding through me.
‘Yes,’ I answered.
When we returned to the house, the lights had already been switched off and the family were tucked into their beds. Jonny took my hand and we tiptoed up the stairs so as not to wake them. Outside my room, Jonny cupped my face in his hands and kissed me.
‘Posy,’ he whispered into my neck, ‘would you . . . will you come with me to my room?’
If we’re engaged to be engaged, then it has to happen sometime, I suppose, I thought as I let him lead me down the corridor to his bedroom, which was conveniently at the other end of the house to his parents’.
Inside, he led me over to the bed and kissed me some more, then his hands unzipped my dress, tracing a path gently across my skin. Together, we lay back on his narrow bed and I felt his heavy weight on me, skin on skin for the first time. I shut my eyes tightly as he sat up suddenly, opened his bedside drawer and pulled out a small, square package, whispering that he must protect me. A few seconds later, I stifled a yelp of pain as he pushed himself inside me.
It was all over far more quickly than I expected. Jonny rolled off me, then wound his arms around my naked shoulders and held me to him.
‘I love you, Posy,’ he said sleepily, and not long afterwards I heard him snoring gently next to me.
I wriggled back into my underwear, then stood up and collected my dress and shoes before tiptoeing back into the guest bedroom. I lay awake until the first faint glimmer of dawn appeared at my window, wondering what on earth the fuss was all about.
We returned to Cambridge that autumn and settled back into our old routine – with one significant change: once a month or so, we would spend the night together in a bed and breakfast on the outskirts of Cambridge. Due to the penalty of being immediately sent down for undergraduates found with a male or female in their college rooms, the bed and breakfast did a roaring trade and I often saw faces I recognised sneaking in and out of it.
‘Golly, you’re so desperately straight, Posy,’ Andrea had said dismissively when I returned from one of my overnight forays. ‘Only last night I saw Arabella Baskin climbing out of George Rustwell’s window at King’s.’
‘Well, she’s lucky that her beau has rooms on the ground floor, and besides, I’m hardly going to chance messing up my degree, am I?’ I’d retorted.
I kept quiet about my engagement to be engaged and threw myself into my work with Dr Walters. I had joined his prestigious research project on the cytogenetics of plants in the Asteraceae family, and was one of the few undergraduates, and certainly the only woman, working on the project. Under his tutelage, my confidence grew and I found I was no longer afraid of voicing my opinions during tutorials. I’d also developed a reputation around the Botany School for having a knack at bringing plants back to life. My small room in New Hall was now filled with the earthy scent of growing plants, as I was gifted ailing spider plants, cacti, and at one point, a gingko bonsai tree.
‘Apparently it’s fifty years old,’ Henry, one of the lab technicians, had said as he’d handed me the dwarf tree, its leaves drooping miserably. ‘It belonged to my grandfather and I can’t be responsible for killing it after all this time, Posy, my family would never forgive me.’
In the mornings, before breakfast, I would tend to my motley nursery in my room, then cycle to the Botany School. I counted the weeks, months and seasons at Cambridge not by terms or essay deadlines as my friends did, but by the natural rhythms of the flora that grew around me. I made detailed botanical drawings of all the unusual and exotic plants that were collected in the herbarium, and was never happier than when my fingers were digging in the moist, soft earth as I repotted seedlings that had outgrown their original cradles.
After my second-year exams were over, I had a message from Dr Walters to attend a meeting in his rooms. I didn’t sleep the night before, wondering what on earth he wanted to see me about; dark visions assailed me of some unknown misdemeanour resulting in me being sent down in disgrace.
‘Come in, Miss Anderson,’ he smiled at me as I entered the elegant oak-panelled room. ‘Sherry?’
‘Umm . . . well, yes, thank you.’
He handed me a glass, then gestured for me to sit in the cracked and faded leather chair on the other side of his desk. On the walls hung his many intricate botanical drawings, and I wished I could inspect them more closely.
‘Miss Anderson, it goes without saying that you’ve made a great contribution to our project,’ he said, leaning back in his chair, folding his hands over his stomach and regarding me over the rim of his glasses. ‘Have you given any thought to what you might do after you leave Cambridge?’
‘Well,’ I b
egan, my mouth suddenly feeling very dry, ‘I love working with plants, nurturing them, so perhaps if there was a chance to do some post-graduate research for you . . .’
‘I’m flattered, Miss Anderson, but I have something else in mind for you.’ He took a sip of sherry. ‘You’ll have noticed that our research has become ever more focused on the minuscule – the genetic level – but you have a way with nurturing plants that should not be wasted in a laboratory. Have you ever been to Kew Gardens in London?’
The mention of Kew sent a thrill down my spine. ‘No, but I’ve heard wonderful things,’ I breathed.
‘My good friend Mr Turrill is the Keeper of the Herbarium, as well as the various other plant houses,’ he said. ‘I think you would be a perfect candidate to work there.’
I was speechless. ‘I . . .’
‘Of course, it would help to finish with a First,’ he continued, ‘but from what I’ve seen of your marks, I’m sure that will be easily manageable for you. So, would you like me to put in a good word for you with Mr Turrill?’
‘Golly,’ I said, completely overcome, ‘that would be marvellous!’
I was bereft when Andrea and Celia, who had both been a year ahead of me, left Cambridge. On their graduation, they both looked resplendent in their black gowns, the fur-lined hoods draped neatly at their backs. Celia had become engaged a few months ago and I was looking forward to her wedding to Matthew in Gloucestershire in August.
‘Do you think you will ever work?’ I asked her as I watched her pack her possessions away into suitcases.
‘I’ve applied for two teaching jobs, so until the babies come along, yes, I certainly will. We’ll need the money – Matthew has Bar School to get through,’ she said, then hugged me tightly. ‘Keep in touch, darling Posy, won’t you?’
After that, I went downstairs to say goodbye to Andrea.
‘Goodness, I’ll only be in London at the British Library, Posy,’ she said to me when tears threatened my eyes. ‘And by next year you’ll be at Kew, so we’ll see each other all the time.’ She looked up at me seriously. ‘Promise me you won’t marry your Jonny Army too soon? Live your life a little first, will you?’
‘I do hope I will, yes. See you in London,’ I smiled as I left to go and pack my own suitcase for a summer in Cornwall.
My last year at Cambridge felt as if I was speeding through a tunnel with only one destination at the end of it: to work at Kew. In April, just before my finals, Dr Walters sought me out in the herbarium.
‘I’ve heard from Mr Turrill at Kew, Miss Anderson. An interview has been arranged for you there next Monday at ten thirty a.m. Do you think you could manage that?’
‘Of course!’ I said eagerly.
‘I will let Mr Turrill know. Good luck, Miss Anderson.’
The morning of my interview, I dressed carefully in my best skirt and blouse and pulled my hair back into a chignon for some semblance of professionalism. Then I slid my botanical drawings into a smart new leather portfolio that Jonny had given me for Christmas. I hadn’t told him about the interview, wanting to wait until I knew if I had the position before I broached the subject of The Future. So far, we’d done an awful lot of talking about his career and almost none about mine.
I arrived at King’s Cross in the middle of the commuter rush, squeezed onto the Circle Line tube and then changed to the District Line for Kew Gardens station. It was a bright, fresh morning and the cherry trees that lined the roads were in full glorious bloom. Ahead of me was an impressive wrought-iron gate with decorated white pillars on either side. I walked through a little side gate and found myself in a grand park, the centrepiece a lake that reflected the blue sky above it, and winding paths that led to various Victorian buildings and greenhouses. Consulting the directions that Dr Walters had given me, I set off for the main reception.
Inside, I went up to a young woman wearing fashionable cat-eye glasses and sitting behind a desk.
‘Hello,’ I said, wishing my mouth didn’t feel so dry. ‘I’m Posy Anderson, and I have an interview with Mr Turrill at ten thirty.’
‘Please take a seat with the others and your name will be called shortly,’ she said in a bored voice.
I turned and saw three young men in dark suits – all with leather portfolios similar to mine – sitting in a small waiting area. Sitting down amongst them, I felt even more aware of how female I was.
An hour passed as, one by one, the men were escorted into a little office, then returned and departed the building without so much as a nod of goodbye. When the last man had left, I sat clutching my portfolio in sweaty hands, wondering if they had forgotten about me.
‘Miss Anderson?’ called a deep voice.
A tall man in a tweed suit emerged from the office and I saw kind blue eyes twinkling from behind a pair of thick round spectacles.
‘Yes.’ I stood up hastily.
‘I’m rather parched after all that talking. Would you like to come for a cup of tea with me?’ he asked.
‘I . . . yes, please.’
He led me out of the building and we walked companionably through the park, the sun warming my face pleasantly.
‘Now, Miss Anderson,’ he said, putting his hands in his pockets. ‘Dr Walters has told me quite a bit about you.’
I nodded, too nervous to speak.
‘I have been Keeper of the Herbarium since just after the war,’ he continued, ‘and I have seen it change a great deal.’
‘Yes,’ I said, ‘I’ve read all of your work, sir, and your leaf-shape classification system is ingenious.’
‘Do you think so? Well, I am glad. I’m actually retiring this year, and I shall be sad to leave Kew. We are a family here, you see, and choosing a new member to join the clan is a serious task. Dr Walters says that you are quite adept at botanical illustration.’
‘Yes; although I haven’t been to art college, I have been drawing specimens since I was a little girl.’
‘That is the best way to learn,’ he said. ‘We need someone who is artistic and scientific in equal measure. Both the Herbarium and the Jodrell Laboratory will be expanding significantly in the next few years, and we require a staff member who can liaise between them. Ah, here we are.’
We had arrived at a Chinese pagoda that sat amidst a manicured garden. Small tables had been arranged outside it to catch the sunshine, and Mr Turrill indicated I should sit down. A young woman in an apron arrived from within.
‘Your usual, Mr Turrill?’ she asked.
‘Yes, dear, and perhaps some cake for Miss Anderson and I,’ he nodded at her. He turned to me. ‘Now, let’s have a look at your illustrations.’
I fumbled with the latch on my portfolio, then spread out the drafting paper on the table. Mr Turrill took off his glasses to inspect the drawings carefully.
‘You have an excellent eye, Miss Anderson. They rather remind me of the work of Miss Marianne North.’
‘I admire her greatly,’ I said, flattered. Marianne North was indeed a woman I looked up to enormously – a Victorian pioneer who had dared to travel by herself to collect specimens from all over the world.
‘Now, working here at Kew would be varied. You would mainly be at the Herbarium, drawing and cataloguing new specimens, and you would occasionally help at the Jodrell Laboratory with the research into cytogenetics. And we all pitch in at the greenhouses. Dr Walters tells me you have a knack for breathing life into any plant that comes your way.’
I blushed. ‘I simply respond to the needs of the plant and do my best.’
‘Jolly good. We receive a lot of exotic plants from all over the world here at Kew. And more often than not, we don’t have a clue what their ideal growing conditions are, hence the need for experimentation . . . and a large portion of luck!’ He chuckled and regarded me more closely.
At that moment, a woman with tanned skin and short curly brown hair approached the table. She was dressed in a practical trouser suit and had a vasculum – a leather carrying case for plants – slung o
ver her shoulder.
‘William, who are you courting today?’ she called merrily.
‘Ah, Miss Anderson, this is Jean Kingdon-Ward, one of our renowned plant hunters,’ Mr Turrill said, standing up to greet her. ‘She is just returned from Burma.’
‘And covered in insect bites,’ she laughed and shook my hand. ‘A pleasure to meet you, Miss Anderson.’
‘Miss Anderson will soon be a Cambridge graduate, and we are considering her for a position at Kew.’
‘It’s the best place in the world to work, Miss Anderson,’ said Jean. ‘William, shall I take the sample straight to the Herbarium?’
‘Yes, but this time do a thorough check for any of our insect friends before you settle it in,’ he said, raising an eyebrow. ‘Need I remind you of the caterpillar infestation we dealt with last year?’
‘Always a stickler,’ said Jean and gave me a smile before walking towards the Herbarium.
‘Are you a keen traveller, Miss Anderson?’ Mr Turrill asked me as our tea and cake arrived.
‘I can be, yes,’ I said, taking a sip of my tea and thinking that to work here at Kew, I could be anything they wanted me to be.
‘Jonny, darling, I have something to tell you.’
We were lying in bed in the bed and breakfast, smoking after our lovemaking.
‘What is it, darling? You look awfully serious.’
‘I’ve been offered a job at Kew Gardens in London. I’ll be working in the Herbarium cataloguing the plants and sketching them.’
‘Well that’s just wonderful news!’ Jonny replied, turning to me with a genuine smile. For some reason, I’d thought he might be cross, so relief poured through me when he offered me his congratulations.
‘I’ll be down at Mons in Aldershot, which is only an hour and a half’s train ride from London, so we should be able to see each other regularly once I get leave after my initial training. Where will you stay?’
‘Oh, Estelle says I can move in with her. Her flatmate is off to a ballet company in Italy next month, so I can take her room.’
The Butterfly Room Page 28