The Victory Garden: A Novel

by Rhys Bowen

  “It’s not like the old days, is it?” Emily heard someone repeat Mrs Trelawney’s words. “We always used to have a pig roasting on a spit.”

  “The war will be over soon, so they say. Those Huns are running for their lives, and we’ve killed so many of them they’ll have to come to terms,” was the reply. “I’d say we’ve taught them a lesson.”

  “But at what cost, Mrs Upton? At what cost, eh?”

  There might not have been a pig roast, but there were egg and bacon pies, sausage pies, all manner of sandwiches and pickles and then jellies, blancmanges, rock cakes and fruit pies. Emily joined Alice and Daisy at a table beside Nell Lacey. Mrs Soper from the forge came to sit beside them.

  “It’s all very well for them to be saying the war will be over soon and everything will go back to normal,” Mrs Soper said angrily. “It won’t go back to normal for me, will it? How am I supposed to cope with the blacksmithy, I’d like to know? We’re doing our best, but my husband’s father is now ninety. He knows the trade all right, but the strength is not there. And frankly, I’m not up to it either. I don’t see how we’ll get the place up and running again after the war ends. Not unless some willing young men come home, which I can’t see happening.”

  A sudden thought struck Emily. She leaned across to Alice and whispered in her ear. Alice grinned and nodded. Emily turned to Mrs Soper. “We think we might know someone who can help you,” she said. “One of the land girls who worked with us was really big and strong. We think she could do the work of a man. She’s not the brightest, but if you showed her what to do, I think she might work out for you.”

  “Really?” Mrs Soper looked hopeful. “Do you think she’d want to come to an out-of-the-way place like this?”

  “I think she would. I don’t think there was anything for her at home, and she enjoyed our company. Should I write to her for you?”

  “I’d be most grateful if you would, my dear,” Mrs Soper said. “I could certainly use any kind of help. You ladies coming here was a godsend.”

  Emily noticed Mr Patterson, the schoolmaster, sitting alone at the end of one of the long tables. He was a slim, effete-looking man with a receding hairline, smartly dressed in suit and cravat, and he was eating a pasty in a fastidious way, dabbing at the corners of his mouth with his napkin. Emily felt sorry for him, and at the same time had an idea. She got up and went over to him. “We haven’t met yet, but I’m Emily Kerr.” The lie was still hard to say out loud, and she felt herself blushing as she said it. “I’ve come to live in the estate cottage, as you have probably heard,” she said. “I wondered if I might ask a favour of you. The two women who have come with me have very poor reading skills. I wondered if I might borrow a beginning reading primer from the school so I could work with them in the evenings.”

  The man rose to his feet and held out his hand to her. “How do you do, Mrs Kerr? Yes, my pupils have informed me that we have visitors in the village. I am most pleased to make your acquaintance. Perhaps you will be good enough to share a glass of my parsnip wine one evening. I am rather proud of my home-made wines, and the parsnip is particularly fine, I believe.”

  Emily began to think that her evenings would never be her own, but the man had a guardedly eager look on his face. “I’ve never tried parsnip wine,” she said, “but I’d be delighted to sample it.”

  “Splendid,” he said. “Shall we say tomorrow then?”

  “If you like.”

  “I will be happy to show you what reading materials I use for the children, as well as some stories that are suitable for a beginning reader.”

  “Thank you. That will be perfect.”

  “I commend you for wanting to help your fellow travellers.”

  “Oh, I think it’s vital to be able to read,” Emily said. “I don’t know what I would do without books. I’ve been starved for them these past few months while I’ve been working with the Women’s Land Army. We’ve been so exhausted after dinner that we’ve fallen asleep straight away, and when we haven’t, there have been five other women in the room, all chattering.”

  “So now you’ll finally have some peace and quiet, I’d imagine. I also have a good library of my own. You’d be welcome to inspect it and borrow anything that takes your fancy.”

  Emily glanced up to see the vicar’s wife, Mrs Bingley, watching her critically. Perhaps she does not approve of my talking to an unmarried man, Emily thought, and tried not to smile. But she didn’t want the villagers to think of her as flighty. “I should go back to my friends,” she said. “Tomorrow evening then.”

  As she walked away, Mrs Bingley stepped out to intercept her. “A word with you, Mrs Kerr,” she said. There was a strange, triumphant look in her eyes that Emily couldn’t quite interpret.

  “Of course.” Emily gave her a friendly smile.

  The vicar’s wife drew her aside. “I happen to know that you are not what you seem,” she said.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “I’ve been watching you ingratiating yourself with all and sundry. I wonder how they would feel if they knew the truth. You are not a war widow, at all. You are an unmarried girl who has got herself into unfortunate circumstances and has fled to hide her shame.”

  Mrs Trelawney, Emily thought. She had been eavesdropping, and had been delighted to spread the news. She fought back rising anger. “For your information, Mrs Bingley, under normal circumstances, I would have been married by now. My fiancé was sent back to the front and died a hero.”

  “All the same, you are still a sinner in the eyes of the church.”

  “Are we not all sinners, Mrs Bingley? I believe my nanny taught me something about the one without sin who may cast the first stone.”

  “Jesus also had plenty to say about hypocrites,” Mrs Bingley snapped, “about those who claim to be what they are not.”

  “It was suggested to me that it would be simpler if I claimed to be a war widow,” Emily said. “But I really don’t mind if you spread the news around the village. I think you’ll find that everyone else appreciates my plight and the difficult situation in which I find myself. And if they don’t, then I have enough friends here and enough places where I am welcome.”

  “I trust you will not dare to show your face at the church, or anything that I am running.”

  “Doesn’t Jesus welcome the repentant sinner?” Emily asked. “Only actually, I’m not repentant. I’m very glad that my young man went back to the front, and ultimately to his death, knowing how much he was loved.” It was Emily’s turn to look triumphant.

  “And what about Lady Charlton? What if she knows?” Mrs Bingley asked.

  “She does know. I couldn’t accept her hospitality under false pretences,” Emily said. “And I can see now why she is not keen to attend any function at the church. Now please excuse me. I must return to my friends.” She gave a polite little bow and went back to Alice.

  “What was that all about? Was she asking you to join her altar guild or teach Sunday school?” Alice asked.

  “No, quite the opposite. She was telling me I wasn’t welcome at her church because she’s found out the truth about me.”

  “Spiteful old biddy,” Alice said. “Don’t mind her, love. You’ve already got enough friends here. I think you’ll do just fine.”

  Yes, Emily thought as she walked home. I think I will do just fine here.

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  In a way, Emily wished she had turned down Mr Patterson’s invitation to parsnip wine. She was now keen to decipher the herbal remedies and see if she could make any of them. From the little she had read of Susan Olgilvy’s diary, Emily had learned that she had thrown herself into the role with enthusiasm and had commented on the success or failure of each recipe. But it would have been unforgivably rude to cancel on Mr Patterson, especially when she had heard what a recluse he was.

  All the same, she hesitated as she went through the school playground to his front door. If Mrs Bingley had already told him the truth, then perhap
s he would no longer wish to be associated with her. His face, when he opened the door, showed that he was indeed pleased to see her. His tiny sitting room was meticulously neat. A white-lace-trimmed tray held a crystal decanter and two glasses. A fire blazed in the hearth, and two leather armchairs faced each other. The walls were lined with books.

  “Do take a seat, Mrs Kerr,” he said. “The evenings are already getting chilly, don’t you think?”

  Emily agreed that they were.

  “And I have found some reading material that might be suitable for your friends,” he said, handing her a pile of books. “Are they able to read at all?”

  “One has rudimentary reading skills but could benefit from practice,” Emily said. “But the other never learned to read at all. However, I think she is bright and willing.”

  Mr Patterson nodded. “If you feel that this task is not agreeable to you, then I would volunteer to teach the young lady myself in the evenings.”

  “That’s very kind of you, but I think she may feel intimidated by a strange man. She is embarrassed that she has never learned to read.”

  Conversation proceeded along conventional lines. The weather. The hopefully swift ending to hostilities. Emily admired his books, and they discussed favourite authors. The parsnip wine was surprisingly potent, and Emily gave a little gasp as she took a sip.

  “Yes, it does have a kick to it, doesn’t it?” Mr Patterson looked pleased. “My nettle wine was, alas, rather a failure this year. The elderberry wine was not bad at all, but the parsnip is my pièce de résistance, as they say.”

  He did not ask any personal questions, and Emily hesitated to do so, as if this might be crossing a line. But when she asked how long he had been in the village, he replied, “Twenty years.”

  “You have not grown tired of it?”

  He shook his head. “I came here as a young man after I managed to survive a bout of consumption. I was given up for lost many times, but I recovered. And it was suggested that I should live far from the smoke of the city because of my damaged lungs. I had inherited a small amount from my father, and at that time I had the deluded notion that I should write a great novel. So I came here. The teaching is not exacting. I enjoy the fresh innocence of my pupils, but alas the great novel has not materialized. I have had a couple of pieces of poetry published, but that is the extent of my literary success.”

  “Surely many writers do not meet with success until they are older than you,” Emily said tactfully.

  He smiled again, the frown lines disappearing from his face. “Kind of you, Mrs Kerr. But I have to admit that I lack talent. When I have tried a story, I can see it is but a rehash of a novel by a master.”

  “But you should not stop trying,” Emily said.

  “Indeed, I will not.”

  After what she considered was an appropriate amount of time, Emily got up to leave.

  “Just a minute.” Mr Patterson held up his hand. He darted into the kitchen, then returned holding a small jar. “Please accept some of my honey. I keep bees up on the hillside, and the heather makes such an agreeable flavour.”

  “How very kind. Now I have something to look forward to with my breakfast,” Emily said.

  “I do hope we can do this again,” he said as he accompanied her to the door. “I found our conversation most agreeable. That is what one lacks in a village. Stimulating conversation is, I am afraid, at a minimum.”

  “I look forward to it,” Emily said. “And if I can ever turn my little cottage into a civilized place, I shall return the favour.”

  “You don’t mind living there?” he asked, the frown returning. “One hears such awful rumours about the place . . . Why nobody has lived there in so long and what befell former residents. Old wives’ tales, I’m sure, but nonetheless . . .”

  “I feel quite at home there, Mr Patterson,” she replied. “What’s more, I am working to bring the herb garden back to life.”

  “That’s right.” He broke into a smile again. “There used to be a herb garden. I remember hearing about it. One can do so many wonderful things with herbs—teas and salves.”

  “I aim to try some of them. If I am successful, I will let you know.”

  “Then I wish you bonne chance,” he said.

  Emily felt the warm glow of the parsnip wine as she walked back along the lane. She had worried that she would be all alone in the world, but already she had found friends. Mr Patterson was, like herself, a fugitive from the outside world.

  After she had undressed, she brought Susan’s diary into the bedroom and pulled the covers up around her while she read by candlelight. Shadow appeared as silently and mysteriously as ever, and without waiting to be invited, he jumped up on to the bed beside her. She felt the warmth of his slim body against her and the vibration of his purring. The diary continued in matter-of-fact fashion: new remedies tried, small encounters with problem pupils. It seemed that the Lord Charlton of that time was a bachelor who chose to spend most of his time in London. Susan thought it a pity because she greatly admired the grounds of Bucksley House, which were kept in immaculate condition.

  Emily mused that Susan had shared nothing of her own loss and distress after those first pages. One would never know how lonely she was, whether she wished for her former privileged life, even how she managed to fend for herself in the cottage. She got on with it. Which is what I am doing, Emily decided.

  A breakthrough came when one of Susan’s pupils developed whooping cough and was suffering with wrenching bouts of coughing. Susan made a batch of Tabitha Ann Wise’s cough syrup, and the result was more successful than she had dreamed. The child’s spasms lessened, and he became more comfortable immediately. Thereafter, other members of the community started coming to her with various maladies.

  Then came another long entry:

  Interesting encounter today. A Mr T. appeared on my doorstep. He was concerned about his wife, and hoped I could do something for her. They had recently returned from India, and were leasing a house about three miles away. His wife had not been able to endure the Indian climate, and was in poor health. Would I at least come and see her, and perhaps be able to concoct a tonic for her to restore her to health?

  I pointed out to him that I was no physician. I could make teas and infusions that eased simple ailments: rheumatism, gout, colds and influenza. But if her problems were more serious, then she needed the help of a doctor.

  “What she needs, if you really want to know,” he said, “is a woman friend. Someone who is concerned about her health and is helping her to get better. I truly think the tonic could contain sugar water and she would improve, if she really believed in it.”

  With some reluctance, I agreed that I would come. He came for me in a trap with a sprightly little grey on the following Saturday. On the way there, he told me that he had been in the army, the Bengal Lancers, and had enjoyed the excitement of military life, but he had resigned his commission out of concern for his wife’s health. He wasn’t sure what he wanted to do next or where he wanted to settle. Maria favoured living somewhere like Bath, but he couldn’t stomach city life and the daily round of polite society. He was born to be a man of action, he said.

  The house was a good solid stone one, such as we had at home in the north, set amid extensive grounds, but quite remote from any village. Maria T. was lounging on a daybed, a coverlet tucked around her, even though the day was a pleasant one. She was pretty in a pale, Nordic sort of way, with almost white-blonde hair and skin as translucent as the china dolls I had played with as a child. She held out a languid hand to me. The hand was like ice, and I cradled it between my own.

  “I felt the heat so dreadfully in India,” she said. “And now I am afraid I feel the cold. I do nothing but shiver and require the servants to fill hot-water bottles for me.”

  We talked for a long while. She told me about India, which she had found a horrifying, brutal place. Beggars with sores all over them, small children deformed by their parents to earn money begg
ing. Flies everywhere. Snakes. She had once thought that one of her black stockings lay in a chair. She went to pick it up and it was a cobra.

  “It was fine for Henry,” she said. “He was off with the other officers playing polo or pig sticking when they weren’t keeping the natives in check.”

  “You presumably had other wives whose company you enjoyed?” I asked.

  “Too much of their company, which I did not particularly enjoy.” She sighed. “We lived in each other’s pockets. They gossiped and talked endlessly about their children. Flirting with other officers was a sport for them. And they didn’t seem to mind the heat and the filth. I felt drained and indisposed the whole time.”

  I promised to help her regain her health and said I would make a tonic for her. Her husband was pathetically grateful. I went home, studied the herb book and came up with a tonic that would raise her mood, as well as stimulate the blood flow in her body. I hope it will do her some good.

  The candle flickered and was burning low. Reluctantly, Emily closed the journal, blew out the candle and pulled the covers up around her. The cat curled up next to her, showing no indication of wanting to spend the night outside.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  A few days later, Maud arrived. Emily and Alice took her to meet Mrs Soper. She didn’t seem at all daunted when she was shown the forge and the tasks she’d have to perform.

  “I’ve never had to shoe a horse before,” she said, “and my experience with milking cows wasn’t too good, but I reckon I’ll get the hang of it.”

  “We’re quite a little community now,” Alice remarked as they walked back together along the village green. “If my Bill could see me pulling the pints, he wouldn’t half laugh. ‘You’ve got muscles on you, girl,’ he’d say.”

  “I was picturing Robbie doing the same,” Emily said, and realized she could mention his name without a violent stab of pain. Maybe there was hope that she was starting to heal. That evening, she went over the notes she had taken from the two journals and decided to try some of the recipes using the herbs she had harvested. She had identified and collected a good dozen plants. Some of the recipes called for the flowers, which were not obtainable at this time of year, others for the bark or the roots. A tea with balsam and lavender worked as it was supposed to, making her drowsy. Creating a tincture looked a little daunting, so she left that for later. Then she went back to Susan’s journal, anxious to know if the tonic was successful for her languid Mrs T.