The Garden of Lost and Found

by Harriet Evans

  The road south of Smithfield market was clogged with livestock of all kinds – when she had first started doing this journey, she’d seen lambs just like the ones she’d wanted when she was a little girl, whites of their eyes rolling in their silly heads, bleating pitifully as they were shoved roughly into pens. Now, several months later, they were young sheep, fluffy grey-cream clouds being being herded inside the great iron halls, along with the mass of cattle and goats. Liddy had learned to cover her ears now as they approached, to block the screams of animals being slaughtered, and she stayed like that for a minute or two, eyes tightly shut, as the cab driver bellowed at various animals and humans to clear out of his way. Down towards Ludgate Circus, where, as they waited for a way to clear through the cabs, carts, omnibuses and wagons, several lads outside the Dog and Bowl peered inside the carriage and made several off-colour remarks, which she ignored. A street-sweeper, a curly-haired boy younger than her, leaped hastily out into the traffic, frantically sweeping up the stray straw and detritus on the road before retreating swiftly to avoid being knocked down by an omnibus. Then further on to Blackfriars Bridge. The first couple of times the ragged, filthy women scrabbling desperately at the small mounded shores of the foul Thames had aroused her curiosity, until she had had it explained to her by the driver that they went through every last piece of rubbish to collect items that might be valuable, and could be recycled – leather, glass, wood.

  Sometimes there were children with the women, ragged and painfully thin, sitting blankly on the cold, slimy riverbanks, faces black with dirt, expressions blank. Once, hurrying across in the safety of her luxurious cab, she had seen a fight over some small scrap, two women tearing each other to pieces, blood dripping from the ear of one, an older woman, while the others around them simply carried on with their search.

  As they crossed Blackfriars Bridge Liddy held her nose, and tried not to think about them, about the baby she had seen as the carriage thundered past on her previous visit, a tiny thing, in the arms of its mother, who was leaning against a low wall before the bridge, insensate, maybe asleep, maybe dead, the baby coughing, making a piteous mewling sound and she had not really taken in the meaning of the scene until they were past and the driver would not stop. She had left them behind too. She was so innocent. She knew nothing of life, nothing at all.

  She stared at St Paul’s Cathedral, and thought of what Father had told her, that the tip of the spire was exactly the same level as the front door of their own church, St Michael’s in Highgate. How lucky she had been to grow up high above the stinking city, with a father who had money to care for them all. She had known nothing of real life before. How lucky she was to have soft feather pillows and warm soup to eat, and people to help her get undressed! She was, as Miss Bryant would say, extremely fortunate, unlike so many of her fellow humans. These last few months had utterly opened her eyes to the truth of the world in which she lived. She couldn’t ever see things the way they had been, could not go back and put it all in the box, close it, again. ‘We shall all be changed in an instant, in the twinkling of an eye, at the last trumpet,’ St Paul said. He had changed it all.

  Over the bridge the carriage veered sharply to the right, clattering down a narrow, dark lane that led down to the river. The driver halted. ‘Here we are, miss.’

  ‘Oh, thank you,’ said Liddy, clambering down by herself before he had the chance to offer to help her, for she did not think he would. ‘And you will return at four o’clock? No later than four, for I must not be missed.’

  ‘I’m not sure this time, miss,’ he said, his jowls working as he chewed on some licorice root. ‘I – I ain’t comfortable with it, this sneaking around. Might be as though your father’d want to know something like this.’

  He stared at her, and she saw his black, beady eyes, the jawline grinding, the pockmarked, heavy face.

  ‘You were comfortable enough bringing me here,’ she said, frankly.

  ‘Aye, but it’s different, when you’re wanting to come back too, and I don’t know as this gentlemen is right and proper—’

  Liddy stamped her foot, chewing the inside of her mouth in irritation. ‘Sir, here is your money. If you wait for me I will pay you the same again for the return.’

  He pulled his cap down over his forehead and said flatly, ‘Three guineas.’

  ‘You know full well that is not something I can give you.’ She gave him one of her most charming smiles, for she knew old cross men like this could be easily appeased by sweet, charming young ladies. ‘Please, sir, your kindness to me overdoes everything. I have no more money, but you have my undying gratitude.’ She looked up at him through her lashes. ‘Is that enough?’

  He folded his arms. ‘Mebbe.’

  Liddy hurried down the uneven cobbled lane and, despite it all, she began to smile, her heart quickening as she drew close. For she was almost with him.

  She climbed the wooden steps of the old tenement cottage grafted on to the side of one of the great wharves that overhung the Thames, clinging to it like a limpet to a rock. At the top of the stairs she clung to the slippery railing, and looked out over the churning, muddy river to the city spread out in front of her. Her heart thumped painfully in her chest. The door was suddenly flung open.

  Ned Horner stood before her, rubbing a paintbrush with a cloth, his hair wild, his shirtsleeves filthy. His eyes drank her in, all of her, and yet all he said was:

  ‘You came.’

  And because of the boys outside the pub or the scrabbling women, or her sister’s face as she read the poems, or the sad broken horses who had been whipped to bring her here, Liddy pressed her palms to her eyelids and began to softly cry, and he put his arms around her, for the very first time.

  His scent was of dirty coal and sweat and the clean metallic oily smell of paint. She buried her hands and eyes into his chest, not quite able yet to look up at him yet but merely content to be in his arms. They were both of medium height but he was a little taller than her and her head was comfortable against his chest. And oh, he was so steady, so strong! How, when he was such a slight thing, painfully thin, for any money went on ale or porter and paints, not on good food. As he held her he whispered into her ear:

  ‘I love you, Lydia. You will, won’t you? You will . . .’

  He left the words unsaid and she broke away, looking up at him now.

  ‘Yes.’

  Their grey eyes met, her mouth slightly parted and he kissed her.

  Since the afternoon she had seen him again in the garden she had thought of little else. Often she thought she must be going slowly mad with love for him. Nothing so far in life, other than the huddled, private affection she and her two siblings had for each other had led her to understand what love could be like. His lips on hers were soft, and firm. He pressed against her, his buttons digging into her dress momentarily before the sensation ceased, as if they were fusing, top to bottom, melting into one another. She clutched his head in her hands, feeling his shiny hair, the scroll of his ears. She pulled away, looking into his liquid grey eyes, gently pushing his hair out of his face, and then she leaned towards him and kissed him again. Her heart pounded, somewhere in the back of her throat; her breathing came quickly, rising and falling. He put his left hand gently on her chest; she felt the pressure of his fingers on the curve of her breast, the thudding beneath it.

  ‘Your heart,’ he said, simply, staring into her eyes. His other hand was on his own chest and there was nothing except the two of them.

  ‘It is like this, isn’t it?’ she said, moving towards him again, so his hand pressed against her breast again. He moved away from her after a moment, turning his head.

  ‘I cannot – no more. Liddy, we must not forget ourselves.’

  She met his gaze. ‘But I don’t care about anything else. Don’t you understand?’

  What might have happened next no one knows: but a seagull cawed outside, too close, and Liddy jumped, just as the casement window of the dark room sprang open,
flooding the place with stinking river air, and the spell was broken.

  Liddy said, ‘I hate this place. I wish you were not here.’

  ‘Where else can I go?’ Ned said. ‘There is nowhere else.’

  She tried to sound light-hearted. ‘Dearest . . .’ But she was so young, and had no experience of handling grown-up matters, much less men. ‘But this place – your boots leak – the chimney smokes – don’t you tire of aping Mr Rossetti, and living like this?’

  He did not smile back, but slid his hands from her grasp. ‘I do not ape Rossetti. I am not Dalbeattie, or your brother, given a generous living by their families.’

  ‘Can’t you sell a painting for a great deal of money, so we might set ourselves up together?’ She moved towards him but he had folded his arms, his untidy hair falling forward into his face. ‘You sold A Meeting for fifty guineas.’

  ‘Yes, and I owed my landlord rent and Dalbeattie even more, and there are others I had to help, and paint, and canvases . . . I thought you understood.’

  She stared at him, bewildered. She had believed that a river had been forded, that they were on the other side and all would be simple now. ‘Yes. I understand that you choose to live like this when Mr Galveston and Mr Booth both say they will buy anything you paint if you paint more like A Meeting. Galveston said you could take on commissions—’

  ‘I won’t!’ he said, loudly. ‘You don’t understand me, Liddy, if you think I’ll hand over my work, which comes from my very deepest soul, the vision I have of – of everything, how the world should be, how you and I – you and I . . .’ He trailed off. ‘Booth’s retiring soon, and I won’t sell anything to that showman Galveston. He convinced poor Evelyn Peck to sell the copyright of Larks at Play to that train company, and Peck did it for he was near destitute and has three younger brothers and sisters to clothe and feed. And now the man’s a laughing stock. It’s on every other page in the newspaper. Evelyn’s greatest painting and they’re wrapping fish with it.’

  ‘But what’s wrong with that?’ she cried, wringing her hands. ‘He had very little, now he has much! His little sister has money for the doctor for her hands, and the children have shoes—’

  ‘You said I was a boy once,’ he said, his eyes glittering with unshed tears of anger. ‘You said I behaved like a child. Well, I’ve been trying to show that I am not. That I’m a serious artist. Liddy, you must understand – I’m good, awfully good.’ Now he caught hold of her hands. ‘But I have to be the best there is. And that means there’s no money yet, not for marrying, not for – other things like that.’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘Family. Children.’ A faint blush bloomed on his cheeks. ‘Not until I establish myself, and not until you have distentangled yourself from that awful old man who wants to pluck you and take you to his Scottish prison.’ He was never able to say Highworth Rawnsley’s name. ‘Dash it, Liddy – you must tell your father you will not marry him!’

  ‘He has retreated, and I do not believe he still wants me. I do not understand why Father encouraged him.’

  ‘Well there, you see! All will be right if you are honest, and your father lets me court you properly – don’t you see? There is only one other alternative, and I will take it now.’ His hands tightened on hers; she felt lightheaded, the hurried journey across town, no food all day; everything swam before her eyes, and she held on to him tightly. ‘It is that you marry me now, Liddy, out of hand. Run away with me today. Yes, Liddy, honest artisans, we can live like that – we can!’

  If she had said yes then!

  ‘Oh, Ned. My love . . .’ Liddy shook her head. ‘My dearest friend from school, Imogen Cozens, she married a curate for love. I visited her last year, in Wales. She has lice and fleas, Ned. Rats chew all the food, she has the same grey stuff dress to wear come summer or winter. I won’t.’ She shook her head. ‘We ate turnips. Three times. And her husband had the effrontery to tell me it was a pleasure for me to live like an honest peasant. I told him I expected peasants honest or otherwise would give anything for some ham to go with the turnips and he said something about Babylon and Mammon I thought it was best to ignore. Mary and I left after two days. Even Mary said it was really most unfortunate.’

  He turned away from her and she bit her lip, watching him, then realised his curved back was shaking.

  ‘Darling—’ she began, then heard a sound coming from him and realised he was laughing. ‘I don’t understand quite what’s so amusing,’ she said, uncertainly.

  ‘No, don’t you?’ he said, upright again, and he wiped his eyes. ‘It’s that your pragmatism is extremely refreshing, my darling – in fact, it’s one of the things I love about you.’

  She watched him cautiously; she simply wasn’t used to being laughed at, and suddenly he said ‘turnips’ again and she found herself smiling. He put his arm around her, as though they were friends, as well as lovers, laughing together. He was like sunshine, golden warmth after the years at home. Liddy smiled at him and, curling her finger, beckoned him towards her.

  ‘I must go,’ she said. ‘I cannot stay, I cannot be here—’

  ‘One more kiss,’ he said, and pulled her towards him, and they kissed, she thrilling to the touch of his hands, his lips, the promise of greater pleasure to come. He whispered in her ear:

  ‘At night I close my eyes and I see us in our own world. You are in charge of this world. I paint. We have children – three children. We are very happy, Liddy.’

  ‘Yes.’ And she wondered if she wasn’t making a terrible mistake. If she ought to stay with him now, as she so desperately wanted to do. Yes. She saw it now, the shining house on a hill, hidden away. Safe, warm, certain. And she at the centre of it all, in control.

  She shivered as his lips lightly brushed her ear. He stroked the side of her head and moved away. ‘Even your ear is beautiful. I want to paint it. My nightingale, in a cage.’ He looked serious. ‘I worry for you, my love. Trust me, and I will come good. Soon. And in the meantime, you must be brave, and break with Rawnsley.’

  She said, dully, ‘It is easy to say it. But if I break with him Father will be angry, and that gives Bryant greater licence than ever. She is monstrous now, but must contain herself for fear I marry and my husband speaks out against her.’

  Ned shook his head. ‘How can someone be made this way?’

  ‘I do not comprehend it.’

  ‘Pertwee says he hears her muttering to herself at night, her room is next to his.’

  ‘She told Crabtree she’d grown up in a debtors’ prison. The Fleet. She said she used to have to beg for food, any sort of food, for the family, from passers-by through a grille in the wall on to the street. Crabtree said she was four. And she told him when it was demolished she walked through the night to stand outside while they pulled it down.’ She shivered. ‘I can believe it. I almost feel sometimes she is trying to do the best for me. But at other times I do think she is mad, Ned, that something’s rotten in her soul. She holds up Mother’s dresses against herself in front of the mirror. This look in her eyes – like a mechanical doll. A machine. You know what I mean?’ And she shivered.

  ‘I know exactly what you mean.’ He nodded. ‘As if there were something good in her once . . .’ He went over to his notebook, perched on the windowsill and scribbled something down. A small brown bird, nestling against the leaded window, was startled, and flew away.

  ‘What’s that?’ she said.

  ‘Don’t anger her, please. I want you. I want us. Remember the dream I had, and keep it safe.’ His grey eyes were stormy in his kind, boyish face. ‘Kiss me, Liddy.’

  So she kissed him, allowing that extraordinary warmth and desire to flood her once again and as she stepped back, pulling on her gloves, she looked up. ‘Ned, the door was open all this time.’

  He glanced at it. ‘I’m sure it wasn’t. How vexing. The catch must have gone. It’s not a good door, the grain is wrong, the quality poor.’ She had collected up her gloves and reticule and stood wa
tching him as he turned the handle, confused. ‘Oh well. You’ll come back next week? You will, won’t you, my dearest?’

  She drank in the sight of him: for he was here, in front of her, his lovely, liquid eyes, the scent of him, the fine bridge of his upper lip, the wild hair, so romantic. How could she not come again, despite the risk? How could she live without him? She patted his anxious face and realised something had changed, that she had grown up, somehow, at some point.

  ‘Of course I will.’

  And she walked downstairs alone, having dismissed his requests to see her into the carriage. The door banged on the hinge as she emerged downstairs on to the streets, and one of the horses neighed; Liddy looked up, half in a daze. Surely there had been only one horse before? But there were four now. She rubbed her eyes, knowing she was tired, and then a voice said:

  ‘Get in.’

  A hand with a grip like steel closed around her upper arm; the coach driver with the lantern jaw was escorting her to the carriage. She cried out –

  ‘Ned! Help! Ned!’

  But she was bustled into the carriage, and as she tumbled forward, gathering her skirts around her, she found herself gazing at the pale, glistening face of her father. As Ned Horner appeared in the dirty yard, calling out her name, her father leaned out of the carriage window, and said:

  ‘You may proceed, driver.’ He tapped the roof with his silver-topped cane and they were off, Ned shouting after her.

  ‘Liddy! Liddy, where are they taking you?’

  Mr Dysart said, in a sad, strange, faraway voice:

  ‘Oh Lydia. They warned me about you, when you were born they said that hair of yours was a sign of sin, hair that silvery-yellow.’ He plucked out a strand from her bun, pulling it lazily with two thin, long fingers. ‘But I didn’t believe them. And now I’m afraid I must punish you.’