‘What are you doing for Easter, Juliet?’
Juliet looked up vaguely from some papers. She twisted her hair into a bun before remembering for the hundredth time that day that it fell now just above her shoulders. ‘Oh, hi, Sam.’ She stared at him. ‘What am I – oh yes. Well it’s Good Friday tomorrow so strictly speaking we should be eating fish pie but we’re having a sort of birthday slash early Easter egg hunt for Isla, it’s her birthday. Secondly, I will be prising Sandy off my leg or off the floor, that’s his default position at the moment.’ She ticked each one off her fingers. ‘Um – then I’m sorting out AirBnB stuff. And for the big finish, hopefully I’m getting divorced! Yay!’ She frowned, and pushed the papers into her bag, rubbing the bridge of her nose. ‘Pretty run of the mill. How about you?’
‘I’m seeing friends.’
‘Where?’
‘They’re coming to my house.’
‘Oh.’ Juliet kept her eyes fixed on the paper in front of her, an export request, and signed it carefully. ‘That’ll be nice.’
‘What does that mean?’ Sam demanded, suspiciously.
‘That’ll be nice!’
‘Oh.’ His shoulders slumped. ‘I thought – well, after the Strategy Day some people said my house was – never mind.’
Juliet looked for another pen. ‘No idea what you’re talking about.’
Sam leaned against the door, and said: ‘So you’re one of them. I heard Priya and Briony in the kitchen last week, talking about someone who had armchairs that looked like they’d been found under a railway arch. I didn’t know what they meant. But they meant me, didn’t they?’
‘Surely not,’ she said, noncommittally.
A couple of weeks earlier Sam had had the whole team – twelve of them – over to his house in North Oxford to discuss strategy and the future direction of the museum. Juliet had been to days like this before: they usually took place in the windowless room of a London hotel, with expensive glass bottles of water and laminated folders. She was a little surprised it was at Sam’s house. Though she saw him three times a week and knew he owned several actually quite well-cut suits, she still sort of thought of him as a student in an Elastica T-shirt, Birkenstocks and a backpack. If she’d thought about where he lived she’d have assumed his home was some grotty student flat peopled with other disgruntled grunge fans.
It was not. It was a large detached Arts and Crafts pile in a silent tree-lined street peppered with large cars and other signifiers of Oxford affluence (Dragon School concert posters up in the windows, Berry Bros delivery vans). Inside, it was a shell of taupe, beige and cork tiles, the previous occupants having lived there for forty years, raised their children and then downsized. Dusty rectangles on the walls marked where paintings and photographs had hung for decades. On the kitchen doorframe, pencil and biro markings of height: ‘Luke, 1/4/1983. Emma, 17.5.1985.’
‘It’s got all its original features. I like the way they didn’t muck about with the place,’ said Sam, somewhat defensively as he showed them round.
‘No, nor have you,’ muttered someone – Kate the archivist, or Graham the Fundraising Director. Juliet had moved around the house, oddly touched by it, the ghosts of the previous family still so present.
‘Have you just moved in?’ she said.
He thought for a moment. ‘Yes – oh, no. It’s more than a year ago now.’
Poor Sam Ham. A packing-case was used as a side table in the sitting room and in the dining room was so much pine furniture they couldn’t all get into the room at the same time. ‘They had it going cheap at the charity shop. Table, six chairs, a nest of side tables, two chests of drawers. I had to get it,’ he said, with enthusiasm. ‘Only there’s more of it than I imagined . . .’
‘You’ve got no curtains,’ Graham said, staring out of the bedroom window. ‘Sam, mate, forget about buying nests. You need to get some curtains.’
Sam scratched his head. ‘I haven’t got round to it, yet. I ought to go to a store but work – you know. In the winter, I – look, there’s this blanket. I tape it up in the bedroom.’
‘Dear God,’ Juliet had muttered.
The plates and mugs were a totally random assortment of charity shop purchases and slogans acquired over the years: Wayne Stock, royal weddings, Cézanne at the Tate, and some optometrist in Ottawa.
‘But at least that’s his stuff,’ Kate, who was practical, had said.
‘Barely!’ Juliet held out a ‘Bertams Removals’ mug. ‘Oh Sam. You need to work a little less and spend a weekend in John Lewis.’
‘The dream,’ Kate said.
‘I love John Lewis,’ he’d said. ‘I just haven’t gotten round to it. What’s the point? I like coming to work.’
They’d all helped move the tangle of pine furniture out of the dining room and then they’d had a great morning, sitting around the dining table finalising strategies and throwing around ideas. It was a big, light room. There was an apple tree in the garden, a listing wooden swing.
At lunchtime, Sam had pulled a stew out of the oven and some baked potatoes and then an apple crumble with clotted cream, and they’d all had a glass of wine, and Graham had told a rather risqué story about the previous museum director and his mistress arriving out of the blue whilst they were holding a fundraising reception.
‘You’re a great cook,’ Juliet said later in the kitchen, as they were clearing the plates away. Sam nodded.
‘I’m OK. I love to cook but I don’t do it so often any more. This house needs people in it.’
‘It’s rather huge.’
‘I know. I shouldn’t have rented it. But when the divorce came through I was determined to really make a go of it here. I think I saw myself living in bohemian splendour in North Oxford not – not . . .’
‘Trapped in suburbia with too much pine furniture.’
‘Exactly. As you can probably tell, I didn’t get much stuff in the divorce.’
‘Who needs stuff? You escaped with your sanity,’ Juliet said. ‘That’s something.’
‘Believe me,’ he said, seriously. ‘It’s everything. I got out, and I don’t hate her, and she doesn’t hate me. That’s why I don’t care about the house so much.’ He rinsed a plate under the tap, then plunged it into the hot water. ‘You know what I mean. I don’t need smart curtains or the right TV. I need to be on my own, with a good book and a glass of wine, for a while. This was obviously a happy home before me. I like sitting here and feeling that. I – I’m still getting myself together.’
She stared at him, not knowing what to say. He handed her a cloth. ‘Any of that make sense?’
‘All of it, Sam,’ she said, and she took the plate out of the sink, shaking it off.
Now, Juliet said: ‘These lucky guests coming for Easter, what will they be eating?’
‘Twenty-four-hour marinated lamb. I found it in a Pashtu recipe book, believe it or not.’
‘I do believe it. That sounds incredible.’
He gave a lopsided smile. ‘I hope so. It’ll be nice to have people over. Warm the place up.’
‘How many?’
‘Eight.’
‘You’ll need more dining chairs,’ Juliet said seriously, biting her lip.
‘I foresee a trip to the junk shop on the Cowley Road this afternoon.’
‘I love that place. I bought a coat hook there of a carved wooden bird many years ago.’
‘They do house clearances. People who’ve died, or are divorcing. You can pick up some amazing stuff.’
‘I should come with you some time. I’m addicted to poking around places like that.’
‘Well, that would be remarkable, were you to come. I – I’d love to take you. Not this weekend but—’
‘Of course. I can’t anyway – Easter . . .’
‘Of course . . .’ There was a pause. Juliet clicked on her email, and wrote a note to herself about calling a gallery in France. Sam coughed, and said, ‘I actually came in to ask you a question.’
‘Yes,’ she said, gratefully. ‘Is it about the Dalbeattie archive?’
‘Oh! No, actually. Though while I think of it, Kate Nadin has started going through all the papers. She’s found Dalbeattie’s letters to Ned, about Nightingale House. I must show them to you. Some really interesting information about the materials they used. The willow was Scottish, that’s a nice fact for you. There’s a terrible letter of condolence he writes when Ned’s daughter dies. It’s strange, really. He apologises. He says, “I’m so sorry.”’
‘How do we have them?’
‘I’m sorry? We bought them. Kate is . . .’
‘No! Sorry, I mean, if Dalbeattie wrote them to Ned, wouldn’t they have remained at the house? Why did Dalbeattie get them back?’
Sam said, slowly, ‘Well, Horner returned them to him. All their letters. With a note that says “You may consider any correspondence between us at an end.”’
Juliet drew her breath in with a hiss. ‘Oh no.’
‘The last one is dated 1914. He begs for information about someone called Mary. Do you have any idea . . .?’
‘Mary was my great-grandmother’s sister. That’s strange.’ She sat up. ‘You know, all my grandmother ever said about it was that her mother used to talk about Dalbeattie, but not Mary. She’d cry when she thought of her. I think the assumption was they were lovers.’
‘Wow, really?’
Juliet nodded. ‘But something happened, as you can see. Perhaps over the death of Eliza, because that’s when the breach occurred. I don’t know that Liddy and Mary ever really were close again, and obviously Dalbeattie and Ned weren’t. Oh, how awful.’
‘What happened to Mary, after Eliza died?’
‘I don’t know,’ said Juliet. ‘But she and Liddy were everything to each other. Once.’ She looked at her watch. ‘I’m so sorry . . .’
‘Another time. Just before you go, did you get a chance to look at the programme for the conference?’
‘I’ve emailed you some notes.’ Juliet leaned over to turn off her computer, then picked her handbag off the floor. ‘I think the running order is great, but I personally would like to see more on Leighton.’
‘Yes.’ He leaned his tall frame against the desk, one hand on the back of his head, watching her intently. ‘Sure. Why?’
‘It’s a conference on how we became Edwardians. He’s vital. How he changed the RA, some of the beliefs cemented during his tenure as President. And I was thinking perhaps we should ask Albertine McIntyre to do a paper on him. She’s the Leighton expert.’
‘Ahh.’ Sam hesitated. ‘Thank you, Juliet.’
Outside, the watery sun shone boldly through into her tiny pale-blue office. There was a magnolia tree just by her window, where a robin sat and watched them both. ‘Have you heard of her?’ she said, hesitating. ‘Maybe it’s a terrible suggestion?’
‘No, it’s great. It’s just funny because she’s coming to my house for Easter in fact.’ Their eyes met as they laughed. ‘She’s divorced too.’ Sam considered for a minute. ‘I mean, everyone who’s coming on Sunday is. It’s been a long week. I’ll suggest it to her this weekend.’
Just then Juliet’s phone buzzed and she looked down, worried Matt was on at her again about the divorce paperwork.
Buy more butter. M Beadle
She smiled and picked up her cloth bag, inadvertently upside down so the papers slid out and over the desk onto the floor, a waterfall of text.
‘Oh lord.’ She bent down, but Sam had already gathered most of them up.
‘Divorce papers. Sorry, I couldn’t help . . .’ He pushed them towards her. His grey, usually twinkling eyes were solemn. ‘Sympathies.’
‘Yep . . . yep. My husband wants to accelerate things. His girlfriend is having a baby.’
‘Very modern,’ Sam said mildly, and she laughed, shuffling the papers, receipts, forms, letters together again. ‘Are they having a shotgun wedding for which they need you out of the way?’
‘He has it in his head he can’t be married to someone else when the baby’s born. It’s no contest.’
‘That makes it simpler, doesn’t it?’
‘Thank goodness. Stuff about the kids . . . all that has been quite easy. He’s just – on at me a lot.’ She chewed her lip, determined not to complain. To say all the things she wanted. How he texted all the time. How Tess had started to make ‘demands’. Isla mustn’t say this to Elise. Sandy mustn’t have muddy wellies next time.
Sam handed her another sheet from the floor. ‘When I got divorced from Anna, I kept dreaming about our wedding. I had a cold. I couldn’t remember any of it properly, because I felt so terrible. My mom and dad were there over from Canada and they didn’t know anyone. It was a strange day, but who’s into clichés, right? So I ignored why it felt strange and then afterwards it occurred to me that’s because it was wrong.’
‘Oh,’ she said. ‘Yes, that’s it, exactly.’
Her cold, cold feet – why hadn’t she worn tights? – in flimsy silk heels clattering on the marble of the church floor, her dress that was too tight, Matt’s hand in hers, squeezing her bones, also too tight – she had just wanted it all to be over, all of it. The flowers were fake, and her parents’ smiles stretched wide. Afterwards, as they stood awkwardly outside the gloomy Victorian church, Matt had scratched his head and said, ‘Shall we go to the pub?’ And so they had, but she had been more relieved than anything when her parents left early, and Matt’s mother, Luisa, had pleaded a headache and gone to her hotel. The one person who said anything was Honor, Honor with her husky voice who had grasped Juliet’s chin in one hand, the other hand holding Bryan’s, and said, ‘Oh, be happy, darling’, and then Bryan had kissed her on the cheek and, in a low voice, said, ‘Your grandmother wishes she could be here, love. You know she does.’
A shotgun wedding, for all the wrong reasons.
‘Well, I think you’re incredible, Juliet,’ Sam said quietly. ‘You never complain.’
‘Ha! Oh, I do.’
‘Not to me. It must be hard.’
‘It’s not that. It’s that you know you’ve failed.’
‘What?’
Juliet was staring at the floor. ‘You should have been able to make it work. That’s what you think to yourself, all the time.’
‘I know.’
‘Other people do, why couldn’t you two just put your differences aside? Forgive and forget?’ She looked up now. ‘But I knew I couldn’t. And it’s with me, all the time, the failure of it. What it’s done to the children, how it’s marked them for life . . .’
‘Oh, Juliet.’ He shook his head. ‘From what you say you didn’t fail. You tried. He’s the one who failed you, all of you.’
She shrugged. ‘Well. But you blame yourself, don’t you?’
‘No. Stop it.’
‘It’s fine,’ she said, wishing she’d never said anything.
‘Hey, go easy on yourself. Look here – what you’ve done here, in only two, three months or so is quite remarkable. We’re very lucky.’
‘I am the lucky one,’ she said, touched by his words and the kind way he said them. ‘I really must go. Have a wonderful Easter. I’m sure the lamb will be amazing. Thanks, Sam Ham.’ She smiled at him, hugging the cloth bag to her chest in the doorway.
And Sam put his hand on her wrist. She felt a jolt, at the unexpected physical contact, and looked down at his tanned hand, the strong fingers on hers. ‘Listen – it’ll be over soon and then it’s done. You can move on. It’s a cliché, but it’s true. That’s the thing to remember. Enjoy the weekend with your kids.’
‘I will.’ She wanted to hug him. To acknowledge the gratitude she felt for him, because he had sat her behind a desk and made her think about paintings again, and she loved it. She sometimes had to remind herself this was Sam Hamilton, her college nemesis, that the dark, scowling, know-it-all geek had grown into a dark, intense, know-it-all geek whose company she actually enjoyed. The past is burnt and gone, she thought to herself, as she
left, with a wry smile.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
The Respondent is financially irresponsible, and has failed to maintain the Petitioner and their children. The Respondent has deserted the family home removing the Petitioner’s children without informing him beforehand. The Petitioner is not to be liable for repairs to the Respondent’s new house nor financially responsible for anything contained within the house and waives all rights to any future profit to be made from said house namely Nightingale House. The Petitioner will make some contribution of child support payment but wishes these above considerations to be considered by the court before finalising a monthly sum to be paid to the Respondent.
These little jabs, accusations of her ineptitude, as though he’d been supporting the family single-handedly for years, instead of it being a joint enterprise – if you defined ‘joint’ as Juliet working virtually full time and contributing more financially whilst also doing most of the childcare and all of the housework. Driving through the lanes, words and phrases from the divorce papers kept floating in front of her eyes and she felt dizzy with the lightheadedness that kept assailing her of late.
He’d proposed to her near here. That last time at the house, Grandi standing in the doorway, arm outstretched, finger pointing. ‘Out!’
They’d driven away at full pelt, stopping so she could be sick in a hedgerow, Matt holding her hand, rubbing her back, comforting her. ‘It doesn’t matter, none of it. You loved her, but it’s not your fault she’s changed like this. Sad, and bitter.’ He hadn’t been all bad, she had to remember that. He’d been great sometimes. ‘There, you see? A smile. That’s good.’ He’d rubbed her back. ‘I don’t care what she says. I love you now. I love the baby already. Let’s get married.’ So they were engaged in a hedge while she was being sick: the irony was it was the most romantic thing he ever did for her.
Juliet pulled into the driveway. I must help him now, a voice in her head said quite clearly. I must let him go as smoothly and quickly as possible. She sat on the stone bench outside the house and pulled out the divorce papers, and a pen. She could hear cries of excitement from inside. Birds were singing their evening chorus in the trees behind her, and she could feel the countryside around her humming, coming alive after winter. It was April. Next month it would be a year since she had lost her job and come back early to Dulcie Street. Four seasons had passed and she had marked every month within them. It was time to draw a line here. The final sticking point had been maintenance for Sandy to end if she married again – she let it go, and signed the papers. If she married anyone again she’d be so surprised she wouldn’t notice the lack of maintenance: anyway, Matt’s contribution was so paltry it made very little difference.
The Garden of Lost and Found Page 33