The Garden of Lost and Found

by Harriet Evans

  A voice behind them said, ‘God’s sake, Liddy, you must do it.’

  She jumped; Ned started out of his skin and they turned to see Dalbeattie, standing behind the doctor. ‘Dalbeattie? What on earth are you—?’

  ‘I came to – to deliver the doll’s house. I have been staying, with Mary.’ He clasped Liddy’s hand. ‘My dearest Liddy—’

  ‘I – I am so glad you were here,’ said Ned. Liddy nodded, scratching at her cheek, what to do, what seconds they wasted! She turned to look back into the building again, at the little figure on the mattress.

  ‘I – they’ve been so happy, these last few days, before she started feeling ill,’ he said, without meeting her eye. ‘I’m so awfully sorry, m’dear. Ned.’ He put his hand on Ned’s shoulder, and turned. ‘You must let him do the operation, Ned. You must.’

  ‘Mm,’ said Ned. He caught Dalbeattie’s hand. ‘Liddy . . .’

  ‘Mrs Horner – come . . .’

  Liddy looked back into the studio, into the darkness. She could see the small figure on the mattress, rigid, her hands around her throat. How is this to be borne? she thought. I always thought I could stand anything. I can’t.

  ‘No,’ she said. ‘No operation.’

  ‘Liddy—’

  ‘Mrs Horner – I must—’

  ‘No. She hates knives, sharp things, violence. You can’t do that to her. If she’s to die—’

  ‘She might live with this operation, Liddy,’ said Ned.

  ‘She won’t let me cut her hair. She hates it. She is dying before our eyes and you want to hold her down and cut her throat open? She’s not yet eight, Ned. She won’t understand. I won’t – I can’t let you. I am sorry.’

  ‘Liddy,’ said Mary, desperately. ‘You must, you must let him do it.’

  ‘Mrs Horner,’ said Dr Carritt. ‘You must allow me to tell you I disagree.’

  ‘The risk is too great, and she’s – she’s little. She can’t – you can’t treat her like that. Like a medical – a body.’ Those bodies snatched from graveyards, the stuff of nightmares that Nurse Bryant used to warn them about. Waiting round corners they were, still warm the bodies were, they’d slice off your face, slice open your eyes . . .

  Her throat seemed to be closing up too. ‘Cut a hole in her throat while she’s conscious, dig through the muscle, scrape it away – you can’t. I’m sorry.’

  She turned, and went back into the stone building, and scooped Eliza up into her arms again. ‘Mama will take you inside now.’ Stepping over a bundle of rags, she caught a small framed picture with her heel, tearing it slightly. She shook it away, kicking it to the corner, then carried Eliza, out of the studio into the light, across the forecourt of the house, through the open door. Her slight frame shuddered under the weight once or twice but she kept on going, past the wooden hooks, the squirrel, the watchful owl, past the singing birds, and up the stairs to her and Ned’s bedroom overlooking the garden where the children had played. Not the nursery. She would not have John sleep in that room. She put her in the bed, gently, prising Eliza’s fingers off her shoulders. Eliza pulled at her mother’s form, tearing the lace on her blouse, frantically scrabbling at her hands, her arms. Her cheeks were flushed, her face otherwise utterly white.

  Liddy propped her up with cushions, and waved the rose water Eliza so often begged to wear around the room. She took out her jewellery box, laying the pieces on the bed. ‘Here’s the one you want, Eliza, here’s the star, here’s the brooch Daddy gave me when we moved here, it’s a nightingale, here’s some earrings, here’s a bracelet with your hair, darling – your hair—’

  Every time she put on any piece of jewellery, she was back there, that last afternoon in that room. How Eliza tried to look, to play a part even, to be distracted, and how very soon she could not. How Ned tried to help but could do nothing except look on. To watch your own child’s strangulation, slowly suffocating, as you watch, any semblance of power you had in the home you created, in the walls you built up around them, utterly gone. You have no power now. A greater force is at work.

  Hell is not dramatic. It is slow, cruel, repetitive, once again it is slow. Eliza’s agony, her gradual suffocation, took hours, she weaker and weaker trying to fight, then, not wanting to any more, until evening began to fall across the wold, stripes of orange and violet in the spring sky, darkening to blue-black, pricked all across with stars. Eliza saw the stars and her eyes finally closed, as though now night was here she could finally give up, and Liddy leaned forward and kissed her forehead.

  ‘Just a little longer now. We are nearly there,’ she whispered. Death was to be welcomed when he came creeping into the room. Death was the release, their friend. ‘Just a little longer, my darling.’

  Eliza’s small face was bloated, her limbs useless, her body a leaden, motionless sack on the bed. She died in Liddy’s arms a few minutes afterwards, eyes still closed and when it happened, Liddy could feel nothing except relief. She smoothed the fluffy gold hair out, watched the plump still-childish face slowly relax again, the little still-warm fingers with the nails, their tiny crescents moon-white.

  Liddy touched a small twig in Eliza’s hair, then a pale green leaf. Twigs, leaves, insects – the outside was always becoming caught in her hair. Outside, the moon was waning. The Milk Moon, she remembered suddenly. A strange, strange time. Who had said that? Hannah. Hannah was a country girl. But by now, of course, Hannah was most likely dead too.

  Tragedy causes tightly knotted secrets to unravel at remarkable speed. It was the following day that Liddy, wandering aimlessly through the house, not yet able to cry, not even yet able to understand, but finding all she could do was tidy, order things when there was no order, found the cord of a most elborate man’s dressing gown, aubergine velvet, embroidered with gold and silver, under Mary’s bed.

  Liddy ran the velvet through her fingers, knuckles catching on the embroidery. She stood gazing at the wooden frieze on the wall. She said nothing, then.

  In fact the silence of that time was what Liddy remembered most. There was simply no noise in the house. Eliza’s thundering feet, her cries of outrage, her laughter, had been silenced. John was confined to the nursery, forbidden to see his parents, given soup and comforted by Zipporah, whose steadfast support and kindness during those days Liddy was never to forget.

  Eliza’s funeral was held two days later, as soon as the lead lining for the coffin could be arranged, which it speedily was: the risk of infection was still great. Ned had insisted he make the small coffin of ash himself, staying up all night, ceaselessly working the lathe, planing the rails of the wood himself, inserting the heavy lead lining, lifting his daughter’s cold, still-stiff body in, his face riven with grief. And as she watched the pallbearers stagger under the weight of the lead, though the coffin itself was little, and slim, as she saw Mary sobbing over the coffin, black lace draped over her head, her thin hands red raw and scabbed with chewing them – the old habit – she felt the metal spike enter her heart, pierce it, twist it. Afterwards, as the sound of the men throwing the earth back over the coffin, the clink of their spades, floated down towards the house, Liddy summoned her sister to the study and told her to leave. Dalbeattie had been spoken to by Ned, that morning. He had gone back to Scotland, the letter he left for Liddy burned, unopened, on the fire.

  ‘I know you let them go wandering, to the farm.’

  ‘I let Hannah meet them halfway. They weren’t wandering. She had charge of them. I didn’t know she was –’

  ‘You blame someone else.’ Liddy was looking out over the garden, wondering what to do with it now. Perhaps someone should simply set it alight, raze it to the ground, start over.

  ‘It’s not blame. I’m telling you what happened. It’s my fault, of course—’ Her voice was flat. ‘Oh God, Liddy. What did I do? What have I done?’

  Galveston had written to Ned, his letter arriving before the news of Eliza’s death. Queues stretching around the courtyard the following day. Thousands t
he day after that. All there to see his painting. Liddy wondered if she could go up to town, slash the painting into pieces, so she’d never have to look at it again.

  And suddenly, she thought of Bryant. You will greatly suffer for it.

  ‘I only asked you not to let them wander too far from the house,’ she said, and she clutched on to the bureau, fearing she might lose her composure utterly. ‘I wanted to keep them safe. Make sure no one . . . No bad fairies could get them . . .’ She trailed off.

  ‘Safe from what, Liddy?’ Mary’s dark eyes were huge in her white face. ‘They were always safe, my dear –’ She shook her head, tears flying. ‘This is bad, bad luck, it is not – revenge. It’s not some . . .’

  Gritting her teeth, Liddy said, ‘Bryant knew Hannah was ill. She put her on the train. She paid for her train fare. Did you know that? Mr Tooker told me. She sent her here to kill my children.’

  ‘Liddy, you can’t believe that—’

  ‘It’s not a question of believing or not believing, Mary. It is the truth.’

  Liddy knew now, when she had taken her sweet, plump, happy little girl to see Bryant, to see the house, that she had angered her, and laid a trap for herself and her little birds.

  ‘Do not seek to explain it to me. You betrayed me. I don’t ask what you were doing. I don’t ask why Dalbeattie was here.’ Her bottom lip curled over her teeth, she leaned forward, curling over, head between her legs, keening like an animal. She did not care how Mary saw her.

  Mary kneeled down by the chair. Her lip was bleeding, where she’d bitten it. ‘Liddy – my darling. Don’t make me go. Let me stay. Let me help you.’

  Liddy drew the chair back and stood up, turning away from the garden. She could hear John, crying out for her upstairs, and she could not go to comfort him.

  ‘You are not my sister. I have no sister any more.’

  As months turned into years, Liddy tried not to think about either of them. The house became her world and the world shrank to only that, to John, her darling boy, and the grave of her little girl, buried still with the twigs and the leaves in her hair.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  December

  You should of course have saved the sunflower seed heads in September. Fasten them to bamboo canes and stick them in the beds just below the terrace, watch the greenfinches and wrens and robins methodically extract seed after seed. Now, though you are in the depths of winter, you may start to understand how the garden is working year-round.

  I find comfort in that you see.

  There is mistletoe in the hawthorn trees by the churchyard, next to the yew. I always cut some there. Do not bring yew into the house, it is bad luck. It means death.

  Here I am at the end of my little exercise book and the end of the year. I have enjoyed scribbling these hints and tips down over the past few days. Will you ever read it, Juliet? Will it come off? Will you ever live here? I trust Frederic, and yet . . . The idea of the house gone to someone else but you is painful to me I must say. I have a stack of acorns saved up. I always place a new acorn on my windowsill every New Year’s Eve. It means the house will not be struck by lightning. My room was my parents’ room. Mum told me once there were no acorns left on the windowsill the year her daughter died. ‘My daughter died.’ It is hurtful when she talks like that. I am her daughter, no matter what he said. I am here after all, and they are all gone. All of them.

  Years later Juliet liked to recall that first Christmas back at Nightingale House and shudder before telling herself no matter how bad things were, it wasn’t as bad as that Christmas. It was freezing cold, not deep and crisp and even but with a misty fog that felt as though it was swirling into your bones. Juliet could only see as far as the terrace on Christmas morning.

  Like orphans in some sad Victorian painting, the children huddled together on the wooden settle in the dining room, pleading for breakfast, as Juliet ran in and out of the house fetching wood, cutting the holly and ivy it had been too wet to collect on Christmas Eve, all the while letting in cold air and treading fox poo throughout the house.

  She’d meant to get them all matching pyjamas, as though they, too, were Boden people, but realised she couldn’t afford to splurge on some pyjamas Bea might refuse to wear after Boxing Day due to them having robins on them. The stockings – economy version – were a disaster.

  ‘I’ve read this book. The puppy dies in the end.’ Isla slid it grimly across the table towards her mother. ‘Perhaps give it to a charity shop.’

  ‘My no LIKE Chase!’ Sandy had screamed, throwing his miniature Paw Patrol toy across the room.

  ‘Mum? Sandy hates Chase. I hate Chase too. We like Marshall. Marshall’s cute . . . he has these little puppy paws and a funny smile. . . We hate Chase.’

  ‘Oh dear.’ Juliet rubbed her face, red with exertion, and took a sip of coffee. She had burned the cinnamon Christmas buns she’d prepared the day before, and the kitchen and dining room reeked of acrid sugar and scorched bread, the scent of the former catching in the nostrils and the back of the throat.

  ‘You’ve marked the floor, Mum,’ said Bea, hugging Sandy, who was softly crying, his mouth almost comically downturned. Juliet looked back at the long scratch on the wooden floor, a line leading from the front door to where the log basket rested at her feet. She stuck out her jaw, and pursed her lips. ‘It’s OK, Sandy. My stocking is way shitter than yours. Look at my bracelet. It’s broken, all the beads have come off.’

  ‘Don’t use language—’ Juliet began, and then stopped. ‘Darlings, come and help me. Put on your boots and warm up.’ She clapped her hands. ‘It’s Christmas! Let’s bring some more logs in, then we’ll light the fire and be all cosy. Frederic and George are—’

  ‘Dad!’ Isla screamed, and Juliet jumped, swivelling round in horror, but it was Matt, FaceTiming from London on Bea’s phone. Bea carefully propped the phone up on the dining room table and answered the call.

  ‘Dadda! Dadda!’ shouted Sandy, hurrying towards his sisters. ‘There my dadda!’

  ‘Hi guys!’ said Matt. He was in the old sitting room, surrounded by large glossy-looking presents and torn wrapping paper, other children running back and forth behind him, the mayhem of a busy family Christmas fully apparent. ‘I miss you guys. Happy Christmas! Elise! Jack! Come here, say – oh, they’ve gone off. Hey! Have you opened your presents?’

  ‘Mum said we couldn’t yet,’ said Bea. They turned around to look at Juliet, who was frantically trying to dress the set of the FaceTime view by sticking a sprig of holly into the dresser and sliding the meagre quantity of Christmas cards she had received into view. ‘She said we’d do it after we were dressed and after church. But she never goes to church so why’s she going today of all days, plus we’ve got hardly any presents to open.’ Bea leaned forward and said in a penetrating voice: ‘Dad, Mum said yours weren’t posted in time. Is that true?’

  ‘I’m sorry. It’s not Mum’s fault she wasn’t in and hasn’t been able to arrange redelivery . . . Don’t blame her, OK?’ said Matt sadly. ‘She did let me know.’

  Juliet hid her own face behind a card she was putting on the mantelpiece. It had arrived only the previous night, sent on by Honor, with her own Christmas card. She reread it once again.

  Hi Ju – Mum says you listened to me about the dahlias & all cool. Happy Xmas. See you 2015 I hope. Luv Ev PS Remember the Royal Wedding? Do you? Been thinking about it. It’s crazy. Can’t wait to see the old house again – great stuff!

  ‘My presents?’ said Sandy, as the noise at Matt’s end grew louder, and Tess could be heard calling something from the kitchen. Matt leaned in closer.

  ‘Hey, little guy! I miss you, mate. Listen to me, OK? You’ll get them when we go skiing day after tomorrow. And we’ll see Nonna! And Nonna has loads more for you, too. So it’ll be worth it . . . Promise. Hey! Hey!’ he said, catching hold of Elise, and giving her a kiss. Isla’s old classmate stared into the camera, unsmiling. Juliet saw Isla taking a step back, as though s
he had been slapped.

  ‘OK,’ said Bea, watching Matt, her eyes narrowed. ‘We have to go now.’

  ‘Yes, Daddy, bye,’ said Isla. Bea leaned swiftly forward, and ended the call.

  Then it was very quiet in the too-large, echoing house. Juliet gathered up some just-picked holly and ivy, and came towards the children, keeping her voice level. ‘Hey,’ she said. She pinched Sandy’s cheek, kissed Bea and Isla’s heads. ‘I’ve got crumpets in the freezer. And Nutella. How about that for a Christmas breakfast?’

  ‘Nutella!’ shouted Sandy, joyfully, slapping his hands against his face.

  ‘Oh, Mum! You’re not usually so kind,’ said Isla, sitting back down at the table with a sigh.

  ‘I’m not hungry,’ said Bea, picking up her slim stocking. ‘I’m going back to bed.’

  ‘Nutella!’ Juliet shouted, desperately. ‘Special treat!’

  ‘It’s got palm oil in it. Palm oil is the worst.’ Bea turned round in the doorway. ‘Thanks, Mum, but I’m going to just chill in my room and message Fin till Frederic and George arrive. Happy Christmas and all that.’

  ‘I hate palm oil too,’ said Isla, watching her sister leave. ‘I hate it. I hate oil. I won’t eat it.’

  ‘It’s chocolate spread,’ Juliet said. I’ve got nothing. If I’ve gone to Nutella at 8.30 a.m. on Christmas morning, I’ve got nowhere else to go. ‘It’s lovely.’

  ‘I still hate it. But I will have some.’ Isla swallowed, with a great gulp. ‘Mum, I want to go home. I want to see Dad.’

  ‘Oh, love.’

  Juliet pulled her middle child into her arms. She looked out over the white and grey fog, the bowed and black branches of the bare creeper like spider legs, clicking against the window. ‘It won’t always be like this, my darling. Promise.’