Having caught a glimpse of them assembling on the stage, from her bedroom window, Emma immediately changed into a silk afternoon dress and hurried down the corridor to the girls’ rooms. She insisted they wear their best cotton frocks in honour of the auspicious occasion, and they had all trooped out just after four o’clock dressed in their finery, curiosity and expectancy written on their pretty young faces.
As Emma listened to The Herons give their renditions of current popular songs and a couple of old ballads, she found herself enjoying the concert, and was rather surprised to discover that they really weren’t such bad musicians after all. At the end of their recital she praised the boys, laughing with merriment as she showed her delight in them. The boys laughed too, and taking her lavish accolades to heart they had gone on playing relentlessly all that summer, much to the horror of the girls. Whenever they heard them rehearsing they made snide remarks, sniggered loudly and declared that The Herons stank to high heaven.
Shane, like Winston, was exceptionally vain about his musical accomplishments, and most especially his voice. He soon made certain that the critical young females were suitably intimidated. One night all of them found a foul-smelling object in their beds, ranging from frogs and dead fish with glassy eyes, to raw onions and bags of sulphur. Shane’s retaliatory measure worked. After that dreadful night of changing sheets, opening the windows wide and shaking Emma’s good perfumes all over their rooms, none of the girls dared to use the word stinking for the rest of the holidays. At least certainly not in reference to The Herons.
And slowly but very deliberately over these years, Emma had strived to instil in every child the importance of the team spirit, playing the game, being a good sport and abiding by the rules. Duty and responsibility were words forever on her lips, for she was resolute in her determination to arm each and every one of them with sound principles, and the proper precepts for the future when they became adults. She taught them the meaning of honour, integrity, honesty and truthfulness, amongst so many other things. But her frequently strong and tough pronouncements were always spoken with an underlying kindness, and she gave them a great deal of love and understanding, not to mention genuine friendship. And it was a friendship most of them were never to forget for the rest of their lives. Deep in her heart, Emma regretted that she had neglected her own children at certain times in her life, when they were in their formative years and growing up. She wanted her grandchildren to benefit from the mistakes she had made in the past, and if some of this washed off on her greatnephews and nieces, and the grandchildren of her closest friends, then so much the better.
But of all the years they had spent in the tall old villa on the cliffs, that very first spring of 1952 had been the most special and memorable to Paula, and it would live in her heart and her mind always. That particular year she became aware of her affinity with nature and her overwhelming desire – the need in her really – to make things grow.
One blustery Saturday in April she wandered out into the garden with little Emily whom Emma had put in her charge that day. Paula glanced around, her eager young eyes keenly observing, newly perceptive. The undergrowth had been cut away, the hedges neatly trimmed, and the lawns mowed to such perfection by the boys they resembled bolts of smooth emerald velvet rolled out to touch the perimeters of the high stone walls. The piece of land behind the house was now uncommonly immaculate – and totally lacking in character.
She was amazed at herself when she unexpectedly realized how the garden could look if it was correctly planted. The eight-year-old girl had a vision, saw reflected in her child’s imagination an array of textures and shapes and great bursts of colour…luscious pinks and mauves, blazing reds and blues, brilliant yellows, warm ambers, oranges and golds, and cool clear whites. She instantly envisioned dazzling mixtures of flowers and shrubs…plump bushes of rhododendrons with their delicatelyformed petals and dark polished leaves…pale peonies, wax-like in their perfection…splayed branches of azaleas laden down with heavy bright blossoms…masses of stately foxgloves brushing up against merry tulips and daffodils…and hugging cosily to the ground, dainty beds of pansies, primroses and violets, and the icy little snowdrop scattered randomly under the trees.
And as she saw all this in her mind’s eye, she knew what she must do. She must create the most beautiful garden – a garden for her Grandy. And it would be filled with every flower imaginable, except roses, of course. For some unknown reason her grandmother hated roses, detested the smell of them, said they made her feel nauseous, and she could not stand to have them in her houses or her gardens. She rushed into the house, bursting with excitement, her young face flushed, her eyes sparkling.
Paula raided her money box, hurriedly breaking it open with her embroidery scissors.
As the pennies and threepenny bits and half crowns and shillings came tumbling out, Emily cried fretfully, ‘You’ll get into trouble when Grandma finds out you’ve smashed your new money box and stolen the money.’
Paula shook her head. ‘No I won’t. And I’m not stealing it. All this is mine. I saved it from my weekly pocket money.’ Armed with her precious hoard, and with Emily trotting faithfully after her, she walked purposefully into the town.
As it turned out, Emily became something of a nuisance in Scarborough and Paula soon began to regret bringing her along. Emily wanted to stop for mussels and winkles at the shellfish stand, then for lemonade at a nearby café, claiming she was hungry and thirsty, and in a burst of wilfulness she stamped her foot.
Paula gave her a stern look. ‘How can you be hungry? We’ve just had lunch. And you ate more than anybody. You’re growing more like a fat little porky pig every day.’ She hurried on, leaving Emily trailing behind, pouting.
‘You’re mean!’ Emily yelled and she increased her pace, endeavouring to keep up with her cousin’s longer strides.
Paula glanced back over her shoulder, and said, ‘I think you must have a tape worm.’
This was announced so suddenly and so fiercely Emily stopped dead in her tracks. After a moment’s shocked silence, she began to run after Paula as fast as her little legs would carry her. ‘What a horrid thing to say!’ Emily shouted at the top of her lungs. She was terrified by Paula’s words, and the mere thought of some huge worm growing inside her propelled her forward, and with urgency. ‘I don’t have a worm! I don’t!’ She caught her breath, and gasped, ‘Do I, Paula? Oh please, please tell me I don’t. Can Grandma fish It out of me?’
‘Oh don’t be so silly!’ Paula snapped with growing irritation, intent on her purpose, anxious to find a flower shop selling bulbs and plants.
‘I don’t feel well, Paula. I’m going to be sick!’
‘It’s all that bread-and-butter pudding.’
‘No, it isn’t,’ Emily wailed. ‘It’s thinking about my worm. I feel awful. I’m going to throw up,’ the child threatened. Emily turned ashen, and her huge eyes swam with tears.
Paula was instantly filled with chagrin. She did love little Emily and she was rarely unkind to her. She put her arm around the five-year-old’s heaving shoulders and stroked her soft blonde hair. ‘There, there, don’t cry, Emily. I’m sure you don’t have a tape worm, really I am. Cross my heart and hope to die.’
Eventually Emily stopped crying and searched the pocket of her cardigan for a handkerchief. She blew her nose loudly, then put her hand trustingly in Paula’s and trotted along next to her quietly, tamed and subdued as they walked along the sea front past the many quaint old shops. At last she plucked up her courage and ventured timidly, in a whisper, ‘But just suppose I do have It? What will I do about my –’
‘I forbid you to discuss your nasty worm, you horrid little girl!’ Paula exclaimed, her impatience returning. ‘You know what, Emily Barkstone, you’re a pest. A terrible pest. I may send you to Coventry, if you don’t shut up.’
Emily was crushed. ‘But you always say I’m your favourite. Do you mean I’m your favourite pest?’ Emily asked, hurrying to stay in step, g
azing longingly at her older cousin, whom she worshipped.
Paula started to laugh. She pulled Emily into her arms and hugged the small round child. ‘Yes, you’re my favourite pest, Apple Dumpling. And because I know you’re going to be a good girl and stop behaving like a spoiled baby, I’m going to tell you a very, very special secret.’
Emily was so flattered her tears ceased, and her green eyes widened. ‘What kind of secret?’
‘I’m going to make a garden for Grandy, a most beautiful garden. That’s why we came to Scarborough, to buy the seeds and the things I need. But you mustn’t say anything to her. It’s a big, big secret.’
‘I promise, I promise!’ Emily was excited.
For the next half-hour, as the two little girls roamed from florist to florist, Paula kept Emily completely enthralled. She was articulate as she spoke about the wonderful things she was going to plant in her garden. She described the colours and the petals and the leaves and the scents of the flowers in detail, and Emily was so utterly enchanted and delighted to be part of such a grown-up enterprise she soon forgot about the tape worm. Slowly, and with painstaking care, Paula finally settled on her grandmother’s favourite flowers and made her purchases. They left the last flower shop with a bag brimming with bulbs and packets of seeds and gardening catalogues.
When they reached the top of the street, Emily looked up at Paula and smiled with great sweetness, her round little face dimpling. ‘Can we go to the winkle stand now then?’
‘Emily! You’re being a pest again! You’d better behave yourself.’
Emily paid no attention to this remonstration. ‘I’ve got a better idea. Let’s go to the Grand for tea. I’d like that. We can have cream puffs and cucumber sandwiches and scones with strawberry jam and clotted cream and –’
‘I don’t have any money left,’ Paula announced with firmness, hoping to demolish this idea immediately.
‘Scribble on the bill like Grandma does,’ Emily suggested.
‘We’re not going to the Grand, and that’s final. So shut up. And look, Emily, stop dawdling…it’s getting late. We’d better hurry now.’
By the time the two little girls arrived at Heron’s Nest they had become firm friends again. Emily immediately volunteered to help, wishing to ingratiate herself with her cousin, as always seeking Paula’s approbation and her love. She crouched on the ground, offering unsolicited advice in her piping child’s voice. After watching Paula for a while, Emily said, ‘I bet you’ve got green fingers, if anybody does, Paula.’
‘It’s a green thumb,’ Paula corrected, without looking up, intent on her work. And she continued digging into the rich soil, planting her first flowers with supreme self-confidence, never doubting for a moment that they would flourish and grow. She was gathering up the garden tools when Emily startled her as she leaped up and let out a wild scream of terror.
‘Oh! Oh!’ Emily screeched, jumping up and down and brushing her skirt in a frantic fashion. ‘Oh! Oh!’
‘What’s wrong with you, you silly thing? You’ll have Grandy out here in a minute and then the garden won’t be a surprise.’
‘It was a worm! Look, there near your foot! It was crawling on my skirt. Ugh! All slimy and wriggly.’ Emily had gone as white as chalk and she was trembling.
Paula was struck by her second inspired idea that day, and she cleverly seized the opportunity. She grabbed the trowel and jabbed at the worm, cutting it in half. She piled soil over it and gave Emily a cheerful and triumphant grin. ‘It must have been your tape worm. I expect It left you of its own accord. And I’ve killed It, so now everything’s all right.’
Paula picked up the small box of tools and beckoning Emily to follow, she hurried up the garden path to the potting shed. She stopped suddenly, and after a minute’s rapid thought, she said, ‘But you’d better not mention anything about It to Grandy, or she might make you take some medicine just to be sure you don’t get another.’
Emily shuddered at the very idea.
Later that same summer, when Paula and Emily came back to the villa by the sea, they could hardly contain themselves when they saw the garden in full bloom. A profusion of flowers had sprouted up during their absence, and the many different species Paula had selected splashed the dark earth with their brilliant paintbox hues.
Emma was touched when, on their first day at Heron’s Nest, the two girls led her through the garden, showing her everything that Paula had planted, looking up at her expectantly, watching her face for her reactions. Emily told her all about their trip into Scarborough although she was careful to omit any mention of worms. Emma had been aware of the little expedition on that Saturday in the spring, but she pretended to be surprised. She praised them both for being so clever, and, recognizing Paula’s potential as a budding horticulturist, she had encouraged her to pursue her hobby.
And so Paula’s long and passionate love affair with gardening began that year. She had not stopped planting, weeding, pruning and hoeing since then.
With Emma’s approval she had cultivated vegetable and herb gardens on her grandmother’s Yorkshire estate, and eventually she had created the now famous Rhododendron Walk. The Walk took her years to plan, plant and grow, and it was another example of her determination to excel at whatever she did, and in this instance it was a rather spectacular example at that.
But of all the gardens Paula had created, the one at Heron’s Nest remained the dearest.
She was reminded of it this afternoon, seventeen years after she had started it, as she stood up and stretched. She pulled off her gardening gloves, placed them on the wheelbarrow, stepped back to regard the rockery.
Finally it’s beginning to take shape, she thought. Making Edwin Fairley’s garden beautiful was giving her as much pleasure as her first garden had done.
After Edwin Fairley’s death, Jim had inherited his house in Harrogate called Long Meadow. It was here that Paula had come to live as a bride almost a year ago. Although the house was sound and in good repair, it was badly in need of remodelling as well as redecorating. Conversely, Edwin Fairley had seen to it that his gardener had tended the grounds religiously. Nevertheless, they were bereft of colour since little replenishing had been done as flowers and flowering shrubs had died. Paula had seen these deficiencies the moment it became hers, and had itched to start working on it. However, the house took precedence; yet somehow she managed to cope with both at the same time, bringing wholly new aspects and fresh dimensions to both.
Glancing at the herbaceous borders she decided that her dogged toil over the last eleven months had been worthwhile. The garden was her private world, and here she found escape and emotional enrichment as her business and personal problems fled.
Well, for a short while. For the last hour or so she had not given one thought to their quarrel of the night before. Now the memory of their heated words edged back. The problem was that Jim could be so stubborn. But then, so could she, and very often to her own annoyance. We both have to be more flexible, she thought, otherwise we’re always going to be at loggerheads about certain matters. The funny thing was they hadn’t really had any disagreements before their marriage, and no serious quarrels until the problem of Edwina had arisen. They had certainly locked horns about her. She loathed her aunt; Jim was much taken with her. Therein lay the problem.
Quite unexpectedly, Paula remembered something her grandmother had said to her last year, words spoken with love immediately prior to her wedding. They echoed with great clarity in her mind.
‘Love is a handful of seeds, marriage the garden,’ Emma had said softly. ‘And like your gardens, Paula, marriage requires total commitment, hard work, and a great deal of love and care. Be ruthless with the weeds. Pull them out before they take hold. Bring the same dedication to your marriage that you do to your gardens and everything will be all right. Remember that a marriage has to be constantly replenished too, if you want it to flourish…’
Such wise words, Paula thought, turning them over in her m
ind. She leaned back in the chair and closed her eyes. Their quarrel was a weed, wasn’t it? So she must uproot it. At once. Yes, she must toss it aside before it took hold. The only way to do that was to dismiss their differences about Edwina.
Paula opened her eyes and smiled to herself. She felt better all of a sudden. She pulled off her muddy Wellington boots, and put on her shoes, and went into the house. She loved Jim. He loved her. Surely that was all that really mattered. Her heart felt lighter as she flew up the stairs to the nursery and their children.
CHAPTER 16
Nora, the nursemaid who looked after the Fairley twins, sat sewing in a rocking chair in the nursery. As Paula’s smiling face appeared around the door, she brought her finger to her lips and made a soft shushing sound.
Paula immediately nodded her understanding, mouthed silently, ‘I’ll be back in a while. I’m going to take a bath.’
After luxuriating in a hot tub for fifteen minutes, Paula felt rejuvenated. But as she dried herself vigorously she had to admit that although the warm water had eased her tired body, this lovely sense of well being sprang from the decision she had just made in the garden to be more understanding about Jim’s feelings for Edwina. Yes, it was the only attitude she could take, she saw that clearer than ever. To adopt any other stance would be utterly selfdefeating. She would simply rise above it all, as Grandy would do in similar circumstances. Her grandmother was too big a woman to succumb to pettiness, and she would try her level best to act exactly in the same way.
Paula put on a towelling robe and went back into the bedroom. This was spacious, with a high ceiling and a bay window overlooking the gardens, and it bore no resemblance to the way it had looked when Edwin Fairley had been alive. The first day Paula had seen the room her heart sank as she had stood staring in horror at the dark blue flocked wallpaper and the heavy, ponderous mahogany furniture crammed into the space. The bedroom had reflected the rest of the Victorian house, which was a dubious monument to a bygone age. All of the rooms had been old-fashioned, dark, lifeless and depressing. The house had oppressed her with its gloomy, shadow-filled rooms and antiquated furniture and ornate festooned draperies and ugly lamps. She had wondered dismally how she could ever live at Long Meadow with any degree of comfort or happiness, or bring up children in such a bleak and dreary ambience.
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