The Last Garden in England

by Julia Kelly

  “Miss Pedley!” the housekeeper exclaimed. “You’re not in your uniform.”

  “Good morning, Mrs. Dibble. No, I’m not. I hope you don’t mind me using the front door, but Mrs. Symonds told me to come around if ever I wanted to—”

  “Oh, the garden. Yes, you’d better come in,” said the housekeeper, stepping back. “There’s been a mix-up somewhere down the line, and four men arrived today from one of the hospitals in Birmingham. Only there are no more beds for them. The whole household is in a dither. Even us, and we’re not supposed to have a thing to do with the hospital. Although, how I’m meant to stay out of it, I’d like to know.”

  “I can come back another time,” she said, edging back.

  “No, no, you stay there,” Mrs. Dibble called before disappearing down a corridor to the left of the grand stairs.

  Beth shifted from foot to foot as a nurse rolling a patient in a wheelchair cast her a curious look. A part of her wished that Captain Hastings would materialize, but she suspected that at this time of day he would be out for one of his long, rambling walks.

  He seemed to have an instinct for knowing when Mr. Penworthy would be out in the fields, for he stumbled across them a couple of times a week. The farmer would often laugh and tell Beth to amuse the captain so that he could finish his work.

  It didn’t take much to amuse Captain Hastings, she was learning. She’d never thought of herself as the sort of girl who had much to say or many opinions, but maybe it was just that no one had cared to ask her before. Captain Hastings wanted to know how she was finding her work, of course, but also what she thought of the progress of the war. What she would have done if she hadn’t been a land girl. How she felt about being orphaned. What life in her aunt’s house had been like. What her favorite films were and the last books she’d read.

  For a girl who had grown up mostly in silence, this onslaught was electrifying, uncomfortable, shocking. But the more questions she answered, the more she wanted to share. It was like Mrs. Penworthy’s suppers or Ruth’s whining, Mr. Penworthy’s grunts of approval when she did something correctly, the way that a cluster of land girls would shout her name when she walked into a dance or the cinema.

  She hadn’t realized how lonely she’d been until she’d found all of these people.

  When Mrs. Dibble reappeared, she looked no less harried than before.

  “Come on, then.” The housekeeper gestured to Beth. “Mrs. Symonds will see you in the library.”

  Beth jogged to keep up, even as she passed the open doors of converted wards. In the middle of Ward C, under a chandelier that dripped with crystals, two women argued in whispers.

  “That’s Matron McPherson and Mrs. Rhys, the quartermaster who’s in charge of operations. They’ve been like that all morning,” said Mrs. Dibble.

  “What will they do about the extra patients?”

  “I don’t know. I want to support our men just as much as anyone else, but it isn’t my job to take care of a house and a hospital.” Mrs. Dibble stopped in front of an oiled oak door. “Stay here. I’ll announce you.”

  Left in the corridor, Beth felt like a schoolgirl waiting on the headmaster. She could hear the housekeeper murmur her name, and then the door opened wider so Mrs. Dibble could beckon her in.

  “Hello, Miss Pedley,” said Mrs. Symonds from across the room. The woman had pinned her thick, dark hair up, presumably to protect it from dust as she worked on what looked like a large project to rearrange the books in the library.

  “Good morning, Mrs. Symonds. I hope I’m not bothering you,” she started.

  “Not at all. I’m glad you’ve decided to make use of the gardens. They start to come into their own this time of year.”

  “Thank you,” she said.

  “You plan to draw?” Mrs. Symonds asked.

  She looked down at her art supplies that she held up to her chest and immediately dropped her hands. “Yes.”

  “I never had much talent for it myself, much to my mother’s disappointment. She was rather Victorian in her belief that a lady should be proficient in drawing, painting, dancing, singing, and at least one instrument. As an all-around student, I was a bit of a disappointment.”

  “I can’t imagine that, ma’am,” said Beth.

  “Oh, I had talent. It was just taken over completely by the harp. I had a foolish notion once that I might play professionally, but of course that was impossible.”

  “The harp is such a beautiful instrument. Do you still play?”

  Mrs. Symonds’s lips tightened. “I gave it up after I married. Would you care for a tour?”

  The sudden snap from one subject to the next knocked Beth back a bit, but she managed to say, “Yes, I’d like that very much.”

  Mrs. Symonds plucked a large iron key out of a bowl on the mantel. “Come along.”

  Beth followed the lady through the corridors, awed at the way she seemed to glide rather than walk. She supposed it made sense: Mrs. Symonds was from a class in which being a gentleman’s daughter still mattered. Elegance would have been trained into her from an early age.

  “Little has changed in this garden since it was first planted,” said Mrs. Symonds as they strolled through a garden room planted in sweet, pale colors that Beth had only stolen a glimpse of once. “My husband could have told you about its creation in more detail. I’m afraid he was the family scholar. I do know that this is the tea garden. It has a sweet little gazebo, although it’s looking rather in need of a coat of paint. I shall have to speak to Mr. Gilligan about that.”

  “It’s beautiful,” said Beth as they passed into a space filled with rich red tulips that stood tall among the spring foliage.

  Mrs. Symonds seemed to relax as she looked around. “It is, isn’t it? It smells divine when the jasmine is in full bloom. I’ll take you to my favorite part.”

  They wound their way through the different rooms until they reached the crushed gravel walk leading to the iron gate that Beth had seen on her first visit.

  “This is the winter garden,” said Mrs. Symonds.

  Beth stole a glance around as the other woman unlocked the winter garden, but the toy she’d spotted the first time she’d visited was nowhere to be seen.

  Inside the winter garden’s walls, things seemed quieter, as though the dial of the volume of the entire world had been turned down. A copse of bloodred trees that lined the north wall of the circular garden were covered in pale green new leaves. Everything was still, including the pool of water in the center.

  “I like the peace of this place,” said Mrs. Symonds, looking around.

  “Why do you lock it?” she asked.

  “When I began to work in the gardens after Murray went away to war, I learned that there are a few nastier plants that look beautiful but that you wouldn’t want a toddler putting in his mouth. I worried about Robin getting in.” Mrs. Symonds hesitated. “But I suppose I really started locking it after Murray died. We spent many days in here when we first moved to Highbury.”

  “It’s special to you,” she said.

  Mrs. Symonds looked down at the key in her hand, her forehead creased. “Yes. It is.”

  A silence stretched between them, weighted down, no doubt, with Mrs. Symonds’s memories. When the older woman looked up, Beth saw that she’d schooled her features into the expression of aloof perfection she usually wore.

  “I will leave you to your drawing, Miss Pedley. If you wish to use the winter garden, ask Mrs. Dibble for the key. There are two, so she should be able to retrieve it even if I have one. You can return it to her when you’re through. And if the boys venture in, do watch them, please,” said Mrs. Symonds.

  “Are you certain?” she asked.

  Mrs. Symonds handed her the key with a crisp nod. “Somehow, Miss Pedley, I feel that if anyone will appreciate the winter garden’s beauty, you will.”

  * * *

  Beth had drawn and rubbed out a sketch of what she thought was monkshood—although she couldn’t be sure
without seeing its purple flowers in bloom—twice, when she heard children’s voices. She lifted her head in time to see a flash of blue and black race by the winter garden’s gate accompanied by a shrill “It’s open! It’s open!”

  Seconds later, two little boys came crashing into the still of the garden. Immediately Beth recognized Bobby, Stella’s nephew, from a rare Saturday delivery when Bobby hadn’t been in school. The second boy, also dark-haired, although a little taller, must be Robin Symonds.

  “Hello,” she called, folding her hands over her sketchbook.

  The two boys froze like they’d been caught doing something naughty.

  “Who are you?” asked Robin.

  “I’m…” She cast around for the words, settling on, “An acquaintance of your mother’s. Who are you?”

  “I’m Robin, and this is Bobby. We’re best friends,” the boy announced.

  Bobby grinned, and Beth’s heart ached. She remembered wanting a friend so badly during those lonely years after her parents died. Colin had been such a lifeline, his letters and the occasional meeting in town precious to her. However, now when she got his letters, she couldn’t shake the slight nagging feeling of dread that she’d have to answer them and try her best to match the things he said.

  Shaking her guilt off, she stuck out her hand for each of the boys to shake. “I’m Beth Pedley.”

  “What are you doing?” Bobby asked after solemnly shaking her hand like a grown-up.

  “I’m drawing. What are you doing?”

  “Playing pirates. There’s buried treasure here,” said Robin.

  “What’s this I hear?” a voice boomed from the other side of the wall. “Talking to pretty ladies already? You’re far too young for that.”

  “Oh!” She scrambled up from her spot on the grass, spilling her sketchbook and box of pencils just as Captain Hastings came through the gate.

  “We’ll help!” Robin called, surging forward. The boys fell to her feet, fighting to scoop up the pencils.

  “Hello, Miss Pedley,” said Captain Hastings. “It seems as though you have acquired a couple of Prince Charmings, whether you want them or not.”

  “They are true knights in shining armor,” she agreed with a laugh.

  “What are you drawing?” Robin asked.

  She tilted her sketchbook down to show the boys. “I’m doing a very poor job of sketching that monkshood.”

  “I want to draw!” Robin exclaimed.

  “Yeah!” Bobby echoed.

  “Boys,” Captain Hastings warned. “Miss Pedley might not have any paper to share.”

  Their faces fell.

  “Oh, it’s fine,” Beth hurried to say. “Really it is. I can share.”

  She flipped open the back of her sketchbook, where she kept Colin’s envelopes and bits of paper that had only been printed on one side. It would be a shame to waste good paper on bad ideas, so she often tried a quick drawing on scrap before she committed to her sketchbook. Only the occasion of drawing in a grand house’s garden had made her upend her routine.

  “Here you are,” she said, handing each boy a piece of paper and a pencil. “You’ll have to find a flat surface to draw on, I’m afraid, as I don’t have any board with me.”

  Both raced to the stone path that circled the garden and crouched down with their borrowed pencils.

  “They were excited about the gate being unlocked. If I had realized that you were sketching, I would have told them not to disturb you,” Captain Hastings said.

  “They’re not disturbing me at all. I like children, and I’d been hoping that I would have the chance to meet Robin for some time.”

  “Then you knew Bobby already?” he asked.

  She settled again onto the shawl she’d spread over the grass, and after a moment’s hesitation, he followed her. “His aunt is Miss Adderton, the cook for Highbury House. I met her when I started making the weekly delivery.”

  “When you were giving paper to the boys, I couldn’t help but notice that you have several envelopes with a service number on them. Do you have someone special?”

  Heat rose in her cheeks, but she held his gaze. “A friend who looks forward to a kind word from back home.”

  The corners of Captain Hastings’s mouth pulled up.

  “Should I expect to see the boys with you when you go walking in Mr. Penworthy’s fields now?” she quickly asked.

  He laughed and shook his head. “Will you think less of me if I say I hope not? They’re good boys, but the two of them have enough energy to power all of Birmingham.”

  They sat a moment watching the boys jab at their paper, their hunt for buried treasure temporarily forgotten.

  “How is your shoulder healing?” she asked. He still wore the sling, but he seemed to be far less ginger with it than when they’d first met.

  He looked down at his arm, resting half out of the flap of his jacket. “It’s funny you should ask. Just yesterday the doctor was trying to decide if I need another surgery.”

  “I’m sorry,” she said, even though she was selfishly relieved. He was the person she looked forward to seeing most mornings. She liked the way he listened to her and how he once reached out to lift off her face a stray bit of hair that had escaped her pins. When he healed, he would leave, and she wasn’t ready for that.

  “I was never in danger of losing my arm like some poor devils, but the surgeon is worried that I might lose some mobility. I told him that I don’t need to throw hay bales or climb mountains. I just need to be able to rejoin my men.”

  “Rejoin them?”

  He tilted his head to study her. “They patch us up at Highbury to send us back.”

  “But you’ve been hurt.”

  He shrugged his good shoulder. “I’d ask to go back regardless. I’ve been a solider for eight years. I’ve never known another profession. Men who served under me are still risking their lives out there. I can’t abandon them.”

  “But surely there are other people who need you as well,” she pushed.

  “I don’t have a wife. My parents worry, but I suspect they’d worry regardless of what I was doing in the war. Are you all right? You’ve gone pale.”

  She pressed a hand to her temple. “I just hate to think that you might be hurt again.”

  He took her hand, time slowing like golden syrup poured from its tin. “Miss Pedley, before I picked up those ruffians, I had hoped that I would find you today, even though it’s your day off.”

  “Why were you looking for me?” she asked.

  “I enjoy the days when I see you much more than those when I don’t.” He brushed his thumb over her knuckles. When she didn’t move, he let his large hand cover hers.

  “Miss Pedley—Beth—I wondered if you would do me the very great honor of allowing me to accompany you to the charity dance in two weeks’ time.”

  “You want to take me to the dance?” she asked.

  “If you intend to go,” he said, almost shy. It was the first time she’d seen him unsure of himself. As though he didn’t think she’d say yes.

  “I would love to go with you,” she said.

  His hand tightened around hers. “Splendid.”

  They sat like that until the boys began to lose interest in their drawings and found a pair of sticks to swashbuckle with.

  “I should step in before Captain Hook puts Blackbeard’s eye out.” He let go of her hand and used his good side to push himself up. “We’ll leave you in peace.”

  She murmured a goodbye as Captain Hastings rounded up the boys. Robin and Bobby returned her pencils and thanked her before Captain Hastings shooed them out of the garden. She thought he would leave, too, but he stopped on the threshold of the gate and whipped around quickly, returning to her in a few long strides. Her lips parted when he leaned down to kiss her on the cheek. His lips felt soft against her skin, and her eyes fluttered closed for a moment. But just as quickly, he was pulling away.

  “Right,” he murmured. He pulsed toward her, but at the
last moment he seemed to pull himself back. “Right.”

  Then, he was gone.

  Beth sat there a moment, stunned. She’d never been kissed before. A little laugh of disbelief escaped her lips, and she shook her head before taking up her sketchbook once again and beginning to draw two boys, their heads bent diligently over scraps of paper.

  • EMMA •

  MAY 2021

  Emma let her head fall against the woven back of the patio chair she’d dragged from the shed in Bow Cottage’s garden.

  “You’re going to fall asleep if you sit like that for too long,” said Charlie.

  She opened one of her eyes and squinted at him through the late-day sunshine. The days were stretching toward summer now and becoming longer, and when she and Charlie wrapped up an inventory of the plants, she’d invited him over for a drink.

  “It’s tempting,” she said.

  He laughed. “Now you know why I bought those deck chairs last year.”

  “I still don’t understand how you can live on a narrow boat. It’s so…”

  “Narrow?” he asked with a grin. “I like it. I don’t have to worry about getting stuck next to neighbors I hate.”

  “Free to roam the open waterways?” she asked.

  “So long as I can find a mooring space. You should come out again. We’ll take the boat up the Avon through some of the locks,” he said.

  “At least you’re mentioning the locks up front. The last time you conned me onto your boat with promises of sun-drenched picnics on the roof and a slow jaunt down the river, you had me working the locks every twenty minutes. And it poured.”

  “The risk of an English summer,” he said, tilting his beer bottle toward her before taking a sip. Then he paused. “What are we listening to?”

  She picked up her phone and glanced at the home screen. “ ‘Ain’t That Terrible’ by Roy Redmond.”

  “Not your usual thing,” he said.

  “Soul’s kind of growing on me. It’s happy music,” she said.

  “I’ve known you for almost ten years and worked for you for five, and in all that time I’ve heard you listen to three things.” He held up his fingers. “Indie rock like the Killers and Razorlight, oldies, and terrible pop music.”