The Last Garden in England

by Julia Kelly

  Tugging her by the hand, Stella led her up a flight of servants’ stairs and through a door hidden in the paneling, into a large entryway papered in chinoiserie. Plush emerald-green carpet dampened their footfalls as they rushed past a grandfather clock chiming eleven.

  “We’ll try the wards,” said Stella over her shoulder.

  “Which one?”

  Stella skidded to a stop in front of a nurse and demanded, “Mrs. Symonds, where is she?”

  “Ward B,” the nurse said, pointing over her shoulder before her eyes fell on Beth’s boots. “She can’t go in there.”

  “What if I take my boots off?” Beth asked.

  The nurse hesitated just long enough for Beth to clumsily toe the boots off and stumble behind Stella through a large door.

  “Miss!” the nurse shouted behind them.

  Ward B had clearly once been a drawing room, but it had been stripped of most of its features save a large chandelier. About a dozen men sat in their beds, some in arm slings like Captain Hastings, some with legs propped up in plaster casts. Sitting at a typewriter on a little table was a lady wearing a dark green dress with a black Peter Pan collar.

  “Mrs. Symonds,” Stella called.

  The woman looked up—and so did every soldier and nurse in the ward.

  “Miss Adderton, what are you doing in here?” Mrs. Symonds asked, her fingers still on the typewriter’s keys. The young man in the bed next to her, whose hand was wrapped in plaster, looked on with interest.

  “I’m sorry, Mrs. Symonds, but there is something urgent that Miss Pedley must tell you,” said Stella.

  Beth stepped forward, all too aware that she was standing in her thick socks.

  “Miss Pedley?” Mrs. Symonds prompted, her tone managing to be at once firm and tired.

  “I’m sorry to disturb you, Mrs. Symonds. It’s just, I’m a land girl,” she started.

  “Yes, I gathered as much,” said Mrs. Symonds.

  “This morning, we were told to make our way to Highbury House,” she said.

  Mrs. Symonds’s chin jerked. “Why?”

  “Mr. Jones said that your land has been requisitioned. There are tractors at the foot of the lawn right now,” she said.

  “That’s absurd. He can’t simply drive over here and start tearing up my gardens. I haven’t had a requisition order,” said Mrs. Symonds.

  “Beth says he has one,” said Stella.

  “Mr. Jones is going to start any moment, if he hasn’t already. He wants the land readied and planted within a week.”

  “Mrs. Symonds, I can see them,” called a man who’d shimmied up in bed to peer out of the window behind him.

  “Second Lieutenant Wilkes, sit down!” a nurse bellowed.

  “Only trying to help,” the man muttered.

  Mrs. Symonds pushed away from the typewriter. “Take me to Mr. Jones, please, Miss Pedley.”

  Relief washed over her. “Yes, Mrs. Symonds.”

  • DIANA •

  In the months after Murray’s death, Diana learned what a powerful motivator fury could be. Mixed with grief, it had propelled her through those darkest days when the government carted in white-enameled bed frames and mattresses, surgical equipment and bath chairs.

  As she flew out of the west drawing room, fury fueled Diana again. Behind her, she could hear Miss Adderton and the land girl rushing to keep pace.

  In the grand entryway in the center of the house, she spotted Mrs. Dibble speaking with Matron.

  “Mrs. Dibble,” she called. “I need yesterday’s post—both deliveries—and this morning’s as well!”

  “Yes, Mrs. Symonds. I’ll just fetch it,” said the housekeeper.

  “Now, Mrs. Dibble!” she shouted.

  From the scuffle behind her, Diana caught the words “garden” and “requisitioned.” Fists balled tight, she pushed out of the French doors to the veranda.

  The roaring of an engine from down by the lake quickened her pace, and she raced down the great lawn, past the reflecting pool, to where a crowd of olive-and-brown-clad land girls were clustered around a tractor. On top sat red-faced Mr. Jones glaring at a uniformed man with his arm in a sling who half lay in the mouth of the tractor’s huge metal scoop, looking for all the world as though he was stretched out on a sofa in the midmorning sun.

  “Mr. Jones!” she shouted up at the farmer as she approached.

  Mr. Jones shoved the brim of his flat cap on his forehead and squinted at her. “Brought the cavalry with you, have you, Mrs. Symonds?”

  She glanced over her shoulder to see Miss Adderton, Miss Pedley, Cynthia, and Matron behind her. A dozen yards back, Mrs. Dibble huffed and puffed, waving a white envelope in her hand.

  “I think, perhaps, my work here is done,” said the officer, who slid out of the scoop gracefully.

  “What is your name?” Diana asked.

  “Captain Graeme Hastings, at your service, madam,” he said, bowing as best he could.

  “Thank you, Captain Hastings,” she said. “Mr. Jones, I have received no requisition order for my land, so I would like very much to know what you are doing on my property.”

  The man reached into his jacket pocket, pulled out a folded piece of paper, and held it out.

  “Do you expect me to climb up there to fetch it?” she asked.

  Chagrined, the farmer came down from his tractor’s seat. “There you are, ma’am. You can read it there, clear as day.”

  He was right. Typed out in orderly lines was the agricultural requisition of all unused land at Highbury House.

  Her garden. One of the few things that was still her own—which she’d done her very best to maintain throughout this bloody war—and they were going to take it away from her.

  “I’m just following orders,” said Mr. Jones.

  Mrs. Dibble, out of breath and sweaty, handed Diana the envelope she’d waved across the lawn at her. Slowly Diana broke the flap and pulled out her copy of the order.

  “It was in yesterday morning’s post,” said the housekeeper.

  “I see.” But then, what difference would twenty-four hours have made? There was no fighting the war effort.

  Trying her best to calm her shaking hand, she folded up Mr. Jones’s copy of the letter and handed it back to him. “I understand that the great lawn must be sacrificed.”

  He tucked the order back into his jacket pocket. “Aye, and the garden must go.”

  “No,” she said firmly. “Not the garden rooms.”

  “Diana, be reasonable. An order is an order,” her sister-in-law admonished. “You can keep your kitchen garden, I’m sure.”

  “I’m being very reasonable. The gardens are useful and are used. They are not to be torn up,” she said.

  “What good are flowers in a war?” Mr. Jones asked.

  She pulled her shoulders back. “They’re for the men.”

  “For the men?” he repeated.

  “Yes,” she said. “They’re therapeutic.”

  “I, for one, could not agree more with Mrs. Symonds,” said Captain Hastings, stepping to her side. “I can attest to the healing effects of nature after the battlefield.”

  “Captain Hastings is right,” said Matron. Diana glanced over her shoulder, but the head nurse wore the same stern look she always did—only this time, it appeared they were on the same side. “We are dealing with men who have been through some of the worst things imaginable. They find peace in the garden. It is an escape, if only for a little time.”

  “Really,” Diana heard her sister-in-law mutter.

  “You would not want to deprive a healing man of his chance to be at peace, would you, Mr. Jones?” Diana asked.

  The farmer frowned and shook his head. “The requisition order—”

  “That land is used. The order is for unused land. If a second set comes in ordering me to rip out the gardens, so be it. For now, you may have the lawn,” she said.

  After glancing at all the expectant faces watching him, Mr. Jones grunted. “
I’ve got my own orders about how much I need to plant. It won’t be enough land with just the lawn. I’ll need that, too,” he said, pointing to the long border.

  Diana hesitated, but she knew that if Mr. Jones didn’t produce what was expected of him, he’d have to report why, which could bring the government to Highbury House to investigate.

  She gave a curt nod. “You may take the long border and the lawn. Nothing more.”

  After a moment, Mr. Jones shouted over his shoulder, “All right, then. Back to work, ladies!”

  As soon as Mr. Jones’s back was turned, Diana let out a long breath. The gardens were safe for now.

  “Thank you, Captain Hastings,” she said.

  “It was nothing,” he said, dipping his head. “It seemed a shame to lose such beauty, even if the cause is a good one.”

  “Matron, I appreciate your support as well,” said Diana.

  “I meant what I said. The gardens do help the men,” said Matron.

  “Then please, encourage them to use the gardens. And if any of them have a mind to take up a pair of secateurs, I would be happy to put them to work,” she said.

  Matron nodded. “I’m sure there are some who would be willing and able.”

  “Miss Pedley, I cannot thank you enough for what you’ve done today. The gardens mean a great deal to me.” Diana paused, fighting down the lump in her throat. “Please feel free to avail yourself of them whenever you choose.”

  “Oh, I couldn’t—”

  “Beth is an artist,” Miss Adderton cut in.

  Diana raised a brow. “Is that right?”

  “I just do little sketches here and there. Nothing more than that,” said Miss Pedley.

  “She did a drawing of me on the back of a piece of cardboard, quick as you like. I couldn’t believe it. It looked just like me,” said Miss Adderton.

  “I only dabble,” Miss Pedley insisted.

  “I hope you’re not going to be one of those women who refuse to believe in her own talents,” said Diana.

  Don’t do what I did.

  The younger woman’s lips opened a fraction, but she shook her head.

  “Good,” said Diana.

  You didn’t refuse to believe. You gave it all up.

  “Miss Adderton, I believe you have responsibilities in the kitchen,” she added.

  She didn’t stay to hear her cook’s reply. Instead, she made a straight line back up the beautiful green lawn that wouldn’t see out another summer to the house. She stuffed her hands in the pockets of her long cardigan. She couldn’t stop them shaking.

  She was nearly to the sanctuary of the little suite of rooms that were still her own when she spotted Father Devlin on a bath chair, his injured leg stretched out in front of him and his crutches resting nearby.

  “You might be able to give a general a lesson or two with that show of force, Mrs. Symonds,” he said by way of greeting.

  “How do you know what that was all about?” she asked, carefully drawing her hands out of her pockets.

  He gestured to the lawn. “It’s rather too easy to put two and two together, unfortunately. A vast stretch of lawn like this was bound to be gobbled up for agriculture at some point. The land girls and the tractors confirmed my suspicion.”

  “Yes, well, most of the gardens can stay. At least there’s that,” she said.

  “It matters a great deal to you,” he said.

  She could feel her shoulders bunch. “The men use them.”

  “It’s about more than that, isn’t it, Mrs. Symonds?” When she didn’t reply, he gestured to the empty bath chair next to him. “Please, do sit.”

  “You realize you’re inviting me to sit in my own home,” she pointed out.

  “Haven’t you ever wished that someone would give you permission to rest for a moment?” he asked.

  Her chest constricted. Why did a notion so simple cut so deeply? Why did the idea that someone might see straight to the angry, bitter center of her frighten her so much?

  “I can’t stop,” she said as she sat. “Highbury needs me.”

  “Highbury is a house,” he said.

  “Robin needs me,” she said.

  “Robin does need you, but he is far from a neglected little boy.”

  “He’s been sick before.”

  “And yet I saw him just the other day running with Bobby Reynolds. At this rate, you may one day find him captaining the rugby team at school.”

  “I’m not sending him away to school.”

  “No?” the chaplain asked. “Well, either way, I think we both know that Robin is not the reason that you raced down the lawn this morning.”

  She threw him a hard look. “Then what is it?”

  “What do you think it is?”

  Murray.

  She hadn’t been sure that she would love Highbury House, so far away from her few friends, her parents, her beloved harp teacher. But while she’d been hesitant to move, Murray had insisted it would be best to raise their future children in the countryside. He would commute to his surgery in London. She would stay in the countryside, making their home beautiful.

  “You won’t need to worry about a thing, darling,” he’d cooed in her ear, arms wrapped around her from behind, his chin tucked on her shoulder. “Think of all the space we’ll have. A nursery for our children. Rooms for guests. And you can have a music room for your harp, all your own. You’ll fall in love with it.”

  She’d twisted at her vanity chair, her hair half unpinned, and kissed him. Then she’d said yes.

  He’d been right. She had fallen in love with Highbury House. It had been impossible not to during those first beautiful summer days. They would take a blanket and a stack of cushions into the winter garden to escape the building works. They called it their garden, and she could almost believe that they were the only ones who knew about it. He would lazily comb her hair with his fingers, undoing all of the careful work her pin curls had done the night before, but she hardly cared.

  “What do you know of the garden?” she’d ask him once.

  “Only what I’ve found in the papers in the study.”

  She flipped over onto her stomach, looping her hand around his neck to bring his lips to hers. “Tell me,” she murmured against his lips.

  He kissed her. She could have lost herself in his kisses. Now she spent her days wishing she had.

  When he pulled back, he let his hand linger to the top of her stocking. “Once upon a time—”

  She laughed. “Is this a fairy tale?”

  “Who is telling this story?” he asked, playfully snapping the ribbon of her garter.

  “You are. I apologize.”

  “Once upon a time,” he started again, “there was a woman named Venetia who was a very talented gardener. She was hired by my grandfather…”

  The story went on, and Diana’s attention waned as her husband stroked her hair once again until she was asleep with her head in his lap.

  When Murray died, she put away the two keys to the winter garden—their garden—in a dish on the mantel in the library. She couldn’t bring herself to enter it. John Hillock, the gardener, or later one of the boys from the village, would ask Mrs. Dibble to retrieve one of the keys so they could tidy it. Then they would lock it up tightly and return the key, and she would once again turn her back.

  “Grief can be a powerful thing,” Father Devlin said, interrupting her memories.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “You are allowed to mourn your husband, Mrs. Symonds,” he said.

  She looked out over the lawn, to where the land girls’ tractors were gouging into the earth. “Do you know how many people told me ‘Blessed are those who mourn, for they shall be comforted?’ ”

  “Matthew 5:4,” he said.

  “So many of those well-meaning people walked up to me at the funeral and said that. The one who didn’t was Father Bilson.”

  “Which, I take it, is why the good vicar is still invited to dinner,” said Father Devl
in.

  She inclined her head.

  “What do you remember of your husband’s funeral?” asked Father Devlin.

  The feeling of being squeezed by her mother and father on one side and Cynthia on the other. Trapped in the pew with everyone watching her, she’d wanted to race out of the church because if she did, maybe she could run fast enough to escape it all.

  “We all rose at the end, and I had to walk out first. My father put his hand under my elbow to help me stand. I could barely feel my legs, but somehow I put one foot in front of the other. Then, halfway down the aisle, I couldn’t move.”

  “You were in shock,” Father Devlin said softly.

  She shook her head. “It happened to me at my wedding as well. I was walking on my father’s arm, and suddenly I froze. All of those people were looking at me.”

  “At your wedding, they were happy for a young bride. At your husband’s funeral, they were sad for the pain they thought you must be feeling,” he said.

  “Those people didn’t know anything of how I was feeling.” The words came out fierce and bitter. “They wanted to see me break. To see the widow sobbing in her parents’ arms, so helpless because her husband is dead.”

  “I’m sure that no one thought that,” said the chaplain.

  Her laugh stuck dry in her throat. “Then you have more faith in people than I do, Father. I didn’t want to give them the satisfaction of seeing me lose control, but I froze until I felt my mother’s fingers dig into my waist. She’d wrapped an arm around me so that it looked as though she was helping, but I could feel the pinch of her grip. ‘You’re a mother now,’ she whispered in my ear. I hated her for it, but she was right. I had Robin to look after. I couldn’t fall to bits, because I had my son.

  “I’ve done everything I can to give him a normal life. He attends school with the other boys. He hardly wants, even with rationing. Nothing in this house has changed if I could help it. This will be his home one day.”

  Even when she’d wanted him during those miserable dinners after the funeral with only Cynthia for company, she didn’t send to Nanny for him. She hadn’t wanted to place the burden of her grief on her son, so she’d stuck out her chin, blinking back her tears and trying to close the yawning sadness that threatened to split her open.