The Juniper Tree

by Barbara Comyns

  I thought for a moment and decided that two engagement rings would be absurd, so suggested a brooch or bracelet, perhaps antiques which would be untaxed. ‘Try the Burlington Arcade or somewhere similar, but go together; you’ll enjoy it – except for the paying part, of course,’ I laughed.

  ‘I suppose I am rather a mean bastard,’ Stephen said thoughtfully, ‘but I don’t want to be mean with Brit. I love her far too much.’

  Brit left the following Wednesday and I closed the shop and went with Stephen to Heathrow to see her off. When we met her at the airport she was standing with a group of dancers, lovely girls but not so beautiful as Brit who was really outstanding. I made as if to leave her alone with Stephen, but they asked me to stay. They had already said their goodbyes and, as she lifted her slender hand to adjust her hair, I saw she was wearing a bracelet, a pretty thing decorated with garnets, and I smiled at Stephen approvingly.

  Eventually Brit rejoined her dancing friends and disappeared into the departure lounge and Stephen made a rush to the nearest bar and drank a neat whisky. He stood there with his eyes closed for a few minutes, then grabbed my arm and said, ‘Let’s go,’ and we hurried away into the real world. To me airports are a kind of limbo and the few times I’ve flown I’ve suffered from claustrophobia. I was glad to be back in my safe little shop with the sign on the door turned to ‘Open’. I sold two brass elephants, an iron door-stop and a Bristol glass rolling-pin in quick succession in spite of the fact that Stephen was mooning around the shop with a fearful deprived expression on his face, giving deep sighs every now and again. He drifted away late in the afternoon and, although I was sorry for him, I was glad to see him go. Poor Stephen, it was almost as if he were acting his sorrow.

  Tommy missed her weekends at the Forbeses. She’d ask, ‘When are we going home? I want Gertrude, I want my swing, my garden, the dog. When’s Bernard coming?’ He sometimes paid us a short visit in the evening and Tommy would curl up on his knee and ask, ‘Are we going home, Bernard?’

  I’d try to take her ‘home’, even for a short time, at least once a week and she’d walk round the formal garden examining her favourite places: the little hut made of reeds the gardener had built for her, a grassy hill she liked to roll down, and of course, the swing. Then the dog had to be taken for a walk in the park, just a short walk because Tommy’s legs were still rather small and the poor old dog was suffering from arthritic hips and soon tired. Sometimes Tommy would ask Gertrude to give her a bath but this she was unable to do. She appeared very tired to me.

  She said it was the tiredness of waiting and of having her kind but bossy sister in the house all the time. ‘She’ll be returning to the school next week. At least she’ll be teaching there all day and only be here in the evenings. But then there is this Australian nurse, Marie she’s called, and as soon as Charlotte goes, Mari comes. The doctor insists on it although the baby isn’t due for at least a fortnight. Oh dear, I wouldn’t admit it to anyone else but you, Bella, but I sometimes think I’ve been very inconsiderate having the baby born at home. Poor Bernard, with all these women about the place. And poor me, for that matter! I could have gone into hospital as you did and be home within a week. It seemed more romantic to have one’s first baby in one’s own house and there’s the blue and white plaque I’ve thought about so often. Sometimes I stand by that dear old stone lion looking up at the house and I can see it with ‘John Bernard Forbes born 1980’ painted there. Perhaps it’s just as well I can’t see the second date, some time in 2,000, I suppose.’

  She had convinced us all that the baby would be a boy because she wanted one so much. Usually he was John Bernard, but occasionally he was Francis Bernard and for a short period Otto, after her father. I didn’t care for Otto at all and thought of him as a weedy boy with ratty teeth, wearing wire-framed spectacles.

  Mother telephoned to ask me to have lunch with her. Except that her voice was rather gruff, as it always was on the telephone, she was quite pleasant at first, asking after our health and that kind of thing, but by the time she mentioned lunch there was a distinct air of strain: ‘You won’t come at the weekend, will you? Some time during the week would suit me, Wednesday for instance.’ I told her that would mean closing the shop and upsetting Tommy’s routine at the nursery. ‘Routine? There’s no need to upset her routine. Just take her to the nursery in the normal way and then come here by public transport. You’ve done it before.’

  I said, ‘You don’t want me to bring Tommy, then?’

  Mother’s voice grew even gruffer. ‘To tell you the truth, I don’t. My neighbours on the right, the Pickards, are fearfully nosy and a little black grandchild would spread down the road like wildfire. After all, I’ve been living here for twenty-seven years.’

  ‘And you can stay there for another twenty-seven for all I care, but I certainly won’t be coming for lunch,’ and I crashed the receiver down, hoping the sound would burst my mother’s eardrums. I was so angry, I could feel my scar throbbing and I imagined it had turned burning red. I looked at my reflection in a tarnished gilt mirror that never seemed to sell and saw that my scar was the same as usual, just silvery white and a little twisted.

  Someone was rattling at the door, so I turned my eyes away from the mirror and saw it was Mary, standing there with her arms around a spelter bust. I was so pleased to see her lively face peering through her mop of dark hair. We examined the bust which was rather an attractive one. It was a reproduction of some classical figure, but neither of us could remember which it was – perhaps Minerva. Mary took off her soiled white raincoat, which reminded me of a dirty candle, and we sat together in the back room drinking tea. I told her my troubles, cried a little, sold a couple of Victorian prints all decorated with tinsel. Then we settled down to the shop’s accounts in a leisurely way. In spite of the quietness of summer the shop had still made a reasonable profit.

  Chapter Thirteen

  It was the end of September and I had been running the shop for over eight months, the happiest months of my life. My work suited me down to the ground, I had my dear little daughter to love and care for and a few good friends, and there were the Forbeses. They were almost more than friends. They had become a major influence in my life and had taught me so much it was as if I’d been reborn and I had lost much of my bitterness and lack of confidence. They had helped me to live with my scar. In a way I’d almost become fond of it because it was something I’d mastered. But I hadn’t mastered my feelings towards my mother. Although at times things were a little easier between us, it didn’t last. Bernard had met her and could see how difficult she was: but Gertrude was so gentle and kind she couldn’t understand our antagonism towards each other, my mother’s spiteful rejection and my anger at being rejected. Fortunately this period of my life was so full I had little time to brood over our relationship.

  During September I did have one small worry – boys, particularly at weekends. They threw stones, large pieces of wood and even bricks at the horse-chestnut trees, trying to knock down the unripe conkers. One morning, quite a large stone came whizzing through one of the shop windows, shattering the glass. I didn’t catch the boys and for two days was more or less trapped in the house until I could get someone to mend the window. The Green began to look like a battlefield, all strewn with broken branches, twigs and leaves. Then, when the chestnuts fell from the trees so glossy and perfect, the boys completely ignored them; but I noticed that many adults found them irresistible and left the Green with shopping bags and pockets bulging. I was one of the adults.

  What with the broken window and the shop being rather busy I didn’t see Gertrude for over a week, and when I did I noticed quite a change. She had grown even more dreamy and far away and had lost her interest in the garden; but had taken up painting in water colour and was illustrating a book of romantic German poems. She told me that she used to paint in her youth and now she had an urge to take it up again. She rinsed her brushes and said: ‘Bernard is so pleased about it and has showered
me with paints. He thinks it’s so safe, me sitting here and painting away at these lovely illustrations. But he doesn’t know that I suck my brushes. I always have and believe it is quite deadly, at least, so they told me when I was a girl.’

  The illustrations really were rather lovely and painted with skill and I thought, if I could paint like that, I’d paint all the time and not just put it aside for years. Everything Gertrude did, she did with an effortless perfection. Even in late pregnancy her movements were graceful and her step as light as ever. Her look of tiredness had gone and been replaced by a kind of remote content.

  We were sitting in the dining-room, with the long table all scattered with painting materials, when the young nurse came in with a tray of coffee things. I’d forgotten about the nurse and wondered who she was until Gertrude introduced us. Marie, she was called. At first I was puzzled by her accent and a certain air of assurance that I’d known before. Then I remembered the Australian girls I’d been friendly with in my bedsitter days; some of them had been nurses too. Gertrude had been expecting a bossy creature and was delighted with Marie although Bernard considered her too young for such an important role. ‘He would prefer a sergeant-major of a nurse with a row of medals on her chest,’ Gertrude laughed as she sipped her coffee. Then she replaced her cup in its saucer and, removing a turquoise ring from her little finger, she handed it to me. ‘It’s for Marlinchen,’ she said almost apologetically. ‘My grandmother gave it to me when I was only a little older than she is and it is so silly for me to wear a child’s ring. I’ve been meaning to give it to her for some time, well, ever since I knew I was to be a mother.’ She handed me the small gold ring, such a pretty thing, a circle of turquoises clustering round a small diamond-Edwardian I should imagine. I hardly liked to take it, but Gertrude insisted and she didn’t like to be crossed, particularly now. So the ring was put in its dark velvet case and slipped into my handbag to be given to Marlinchen on her fifth birthday.

  Before I left Marie joined us for a few minutes. She made a very good impression on me, particularly as I gathered that she was doing most of the cooking besides looking after Gertrude. I’d heard that nurses often expected to be waited on, but Marie was willing to do anything to help, including the shopping and taking the dog for a walk. She was engaged for a month, then returning to Australia – perhaps to be married, but she hadn’t quite made up her mind about this because it was almost two years since she had seen her boyfriend and she wasn’t sure how she felt about him. They frequently wrote, ‘But letters are not the same as being together,’ she said thoughtfully. ‘I’ve changed a lot since I’ve lived in England, grown up, I suppose, and he might have stayed the same. I’m not a virgin any more, for one thing.’ Slightly embarrassed she hurried from the room, the cups and saucers rattling on the tray.

  I went home to collect Tommy from the nursery and found her dancing about impatiently because I was late and most of the children had already left. Now she was three she had rather outgrown the place. Although there were still children of her own age there, they were mostly placid types, quite happy to sit in small groups, sometimes hugging one of the nursery toys in their arms. They seldom snatched from each other but occasionally the boys had a mild fight. Quite often there were birthday parties.

  Since her third birthday in August Tommy had started to develop rapidly, almost in jerks. She could count a little, recognized letters and could do simple puzzles without help. Suddenly her vocabulary increased and we were having almost intelligent conversations, and sometimes in the evening, when I was sitting looking a little dejected, she’d stroke my face and say, ‘Tired, mummy?’ in a kind and grown-up way. She became more inventive too and persevered in making simple things work, turning keys in stiff locks and unscrewing jar lids, particularly honey-pot lids, climbing onto chairs so that she could reach things I didn’t want her to touch, opening the fridge and taking what she fancied. Once I found her grating away at poor Teddy’s fur with a cheese-grater and this really saddened me because it was the kind of thing my mother might have done as a child. I still remembered the horror of her turning my much-loved doll into a Frankenstein monster of a creature with a dark burnt arm and a terrible box-like body. Had she grated away at her teddy’s soft fur when she was a child?

  Chapter Fourteen

  Gertrude’s baby was overdue and there was talk of an inducement, but she refused to have one because she considered it unnatural and Bernard was inclined to agree with her. They reassured each other by saying: ‘It’s only five days, six days, seven days late.’ Then, in the early hours of the morning on October the ninth, Gertrude telephoned me to say that she was in labour and felt marvellous and, although it was the middle of the night, she was walking about and playing her favourite records, Mozart and Vivaldi, ‘His concerto in D major for two trumpets is very helpful. Can you hear it?’ she asked excitedly. She promised to phone me again when the baby was safely born. ‘About twelve o’clock in the morning after I’ve had a little sleep. Labour pains are not so bad as I expected, but very deep and primitive, not like any other pain. Perhaps some women become addicted to them and that’s why they have so many children. Goodbye, dear Bella. The doctor has just arrived, but I’ll be in touch very soon.’ Her voice sounded strong and full above the music and when I returned to bed it was as if I could still hear the beautiful confident voice ringing in my head above the sound of Vivaldi’s trumpets. That was the last time I heard Gertrude’s voice because she died early in the morning just as it was getting light. She and Bernard and their child had less than twenty minutes together as a family.

  Not knowing what had happened I waited all day for Gertrude to telephone and by the time it was evening I was convinced that the baby was born dead. Several times I held the receiver in my hand but was unable to bring myself to dial the Forbeses’ number. I couldn’t face any bad news that was waiting for me. Perhaps the longed-for baby was deformed or very sickly or the labour pains were false ones. It never crossed my mind that Gertrude might have died.

  The following morning when I went to open the shop Bernard was standing by his car. As he crossed the road he hardly noticed the on-coming traffic and horns were honking at him and the lollipop man was jumping up and down with frustration but he didn’t notice: his eyes were like black holes and his face dark and unshaven. He told me not to open the shop, but to return with him to Richmond, so I shut the door behind me and went with him just as I was. We sat silent in the car for a few heavy minutes, then he said: ‘I suppose you know that Gertrude is dead. She died suddenly yesterday morning of a haemorrhage amongst other things. She was proudly holding the child and the happiness on her face . . . It was as if she’d died of happiness.’ He said no more and we drove away. It was so fearful there was nothing to say, we were like two sleep-drivers.

  When we reached the house Bernard immediately took me upstairs and, as we stood outside the bedroom door, he said, ‘You would like to see her, wouldn’t you? There’s nothing to be afraid of, she looks beautiful, just as she always was.’ We went in and he put a hand on my shoulder, as if for support, and we gazed at Gertrude, lying like a statue and looking very much as she had the first time I saw her in the snowy courtyard. There was no baby in her arms, so perhaps it was still alive. ‘The baby,’ I asked. ‘What has happened to the baby?’

  ‘Oh, the baby,’ he said vaguely. ‘I suppose it’s with Marie.’

  As we spoke there came the bleating cry of a new-born child from the next room, the nursery that Gertrude had prepared months ago. Bernard still stood looking down at his wife, so I took his cold hand and walked towards the door, looking back once for a last glance at Gertrude’s pale profile. Then we went into the other room.

  The nurse, Marie, was feeding the child from a small bottle and I could see by her inflamed eyes that she had been crying. She told me that the baby was a boy and weighed nearly nine pounds and he certainly was a fine child, with an exceptionally white skin and rose-red cheeks, looking much older tha
n his two days. When he had finished his bottle she put him in my arms. I felt a strange revulsion to him. It was partly because he was the cause of Gertrude’s death, but it wasn’t only that, it was his colouring. The contrast of the snow-white skin and the rose-red cheeks was so unusual in a new-born baby. I tried to pass him on to Bernard, but he backed away saying, ‘No, no, not yet.’ He stroked the baby’s soft bright hair for a moment and then quickly left the room.

  He was waiting on the landing for me and jerked out, ‘His name is John, you know.’

  I corrected him: ‘John Bernard, isn’t it?’

  He agreed: ‘Yes, John Bernard, poor little fellow. At the moment I can’t really feel for him. He doesn’t seem real to me somehow and I expect him to vanish. I can’t bear to hear him cry. Charlotte will drive you home. It’s all arranged,’ and he stumbled away from me, his unshaven face all wet with tears. I’d never been close to death before and it was far worse than I’d imagined, particularly sudden death.

  Gertrude was cremated, as she would have wished to be, although Charlotte and Bernard would have preferred a grave where they could plant her favourite flowers. I went to the funeral but slipped away before it ended because I didn’t want to be there when she was burnt and reduced to tiny ashes and smoke came out of a narrow chimney, as I’d heard. I went home and opened the shop as if nothing had happened and because I didn’t care one way or another I sold a Victorian sofa that had been filling the shop for months. In the evening Mary came to see me and we went to the nearest pub together, leaving Tommy alone in the house, a thing I’d never done before. I’d have got drunk if it would have helped, but after two Guinnesses I felt worse than I did before. Being so black, Guinness is a suitable drink for funerals, but I couldn’t imagine Bernard serving it.