The Garden of Lost and Found

by Harriet Evans

  It was not enough – it turned out the job was not enough, either, to keep her afloat. She had only seen as far as the job and not the economics of working three days a week for a publicly funded institution whilst paying childcare on top. Last month alone the heating bill for Nightingale House had been almost four hundred pounds. She was supplementing her salary with the premium bonds left her by her other grandparents, Mum’s mum and dad, shadowy figures who had died when she was young and who had lived in Hampstead Garden Suburb, in a house about which all she remembered was that there were knitted covers for the spare toilet rolls shaped like top hats with ribbons. Juliet, aged five, had thought this was utterly extraordinary. She could barely recall Gran and Granddad Wilson, but she thanked them daily now.

  She stuck down the envelope, resolving to make this the weekend she tidied the house to take photos for the AirBnB listing. And, with renewed zeal, Juliet leaped up and back into the car, hoping to catch the post. She drove into Godstow again and dropped the papers into the letterbox. She bumped into Jo and said hi, then quickly dropped into Pascale and Co for a hug from Frederic, who called George down, the two of them clutching her tightly, Frederic’s warm, large hand comfortingly on her back.

  A hug makes everything better. She bought the butter and some firelighters, asked in hope rather than expectation for sumac for Bea’s next Friday night recipe . . . all these things seemed like mundane activities after posting off your signed divorce papers, but deeply comforting ones. She felt giddy with some sort of release, though her head still ached, the way it would before a thunderstorm. So much so that, arriving home again and locking the car, she glanced up at the sky, expecting storm clouds.

  ‘No, Sandy, no more crisps. Eat your omelette.’

  ‘No!’ Sandy cried, and pushed his plastic plate off the table, then held his small arms, rigidly outstretched, towards her. He was very clingy at the moment, whether because she’d started the job and Mrs Beadle, or Annie, was picking him up three times a week, or because he knew more than she assumed? Or simply because he was three years old – whatever the answer, every little thing was exhausting with him at the moment, mealtimes, bathtimes, bedtimes – it was a battle, and she felt sorry for him. He was furious all the time about everything.

  ‘No, Sandy! You mustn’t throw it on the floor,’ said Juliet, for the tenth time. ‘That’s naughty. I’m cross with you.’

  Sandy’s huge grey eyes, swimming with misery, stared up at her, his flushed fat cheeks blobbed with tears.

  ‘My? Naughty?’ he repeated. Beside him, Isla munched away at her omelette, turning the pages of her book on Greek myths and humming quietly to herself. Bea was nowhere to be seen. Sandy picked up another piece of omelette and threw it on the floor. ‘No omelette.’

  Juliet felt bone-tired, and snappy. She gritted her teeth, thinking resentfully of Sam, alone in his huge, empty house with the lit windows blazing out on to the street, drinking a glass of wine, possibly listening to Pulp, and doing something like reading a thriller or making tarte tatin. What a life. She wiped a piece of banana off the table. ‘No treats for Sandy when he throws food.’

  Sandy responded by hurling himself on to the floor then tightly clutching her leg and wailing. ‘Mamma! Maaaammmmmaaaaaaa . . .’ As he gasped for breath, howling inconsolably, he rested his bouncing curls on her knee, patting her leg, forgiving her for this terrible wrong. ‘Noooo, Mammmaaaaaaaaa,’ he bellowed into her knee.

  ‘God,’ said Bea from the doorway. ‘Shut up, Sandy, stop being a drama queen.’

  ‘You have no idea,’ said Juliet, her heart leaping with joy at the sight of her. ‘How are you, darling?’

  ‘Good. I’m good, Mum. Listen. I know it’s short notice, but is it OK if Eva comes to stay for Easter weekend?’

  ‘Oh.’ Juliet stepped back, before realising Sandy was still attached to her. Isla muttered something under her breath, and turned the page. ‘Eva? Who’s Eva?’

  ‘A girlfriend of mine from school.’

  ‘I thought Fin was your girlfriend.’

  ‘Mum – it’s not really any of your business?’

  ‘It’s my business if someone else is coming to stay.’

  Bea sighed, as though Juliet were particularly slow. ‘She’s not my actual girlfriend. Her parents are away? And she has to be around to go to a party. I’m going with her?’

  ‘Right,’ said Juliet. She genuinely didn’t know what to do. If she wasn’t gay she’d let a girl stay in Bea’s room with her, wouldn’t she? But if it was a boyfriend or a girlfriend and they might have sex she wouldn’t, not just yet, would she? But what if this girl was just a friend? She rubbed her eyes. ‘Um . . . where will she stay?’

  ‘In my room.’ Bea folded her arms. ‘Where else?’

  ‘No, she won’t, thanks.’

  ‘Oh my God, Mum. It’s not like that. You do have a problem with me being gay. I fucking knew it. Tess said—’

  ‘Don’t talk to me like that,’ said Juliet, wearily. ‘You’re fifteen, I’ve never met Eva, I thought you were with someone else. And don’t walk away – Bea!’

  ‘You sad, pathetic lonely loser.’ Bea had stalked off, opening the front door and stomping over to the Dovecote, flinging the door open. ‘Just because you’re unhappy and all on your own, don’t take it out on me! I am so sick of you!’ she yelled.

  I’m sick of you too, Juliet wanted to shout. I’m sick of you always blaming me, and your father being an idiot, and your brother driving me up the wall, and your sister bursting into tears for no reason, which breaks my heart every time. I’m sick of the mildew and the mice and getting three children ready every morning and constantly forgetting to buy more cereal and socks and I’m sick of always being the one who shouts and chivvies and . . . I signed the divorce papers today and I’m sick of it all.

  Isla, thankfully, was still completely absorbed in her book about the Greeks. Juliet followed after Bea, prising Sandy off her leg and then, when he slumped to the ground, picking him up and carrying him, though he made himself stiff and heavy, sliding down from her tightest grasp on to the ground. Juliet left him, and carried on. She threw the door of the Dovecote open with such force it banged back and she had to shove her foot in to stop it hitting her in the face. Behind her, Sandy toddled, crying louder than before. He reached her and she scooped him up again, but he would not be consoled.

  ‘Make him be quiet,’ said Bea, her face pinched, and she bit her lip.

  ‘Yes,’ said Juliet coolly, and she crouched down on the cool ground next to Sandy, and stroked his hair. She spoke in a soft voice. ‘I will, but don’t ever talk to me like that again. You are fifteen, I’m not having someone stay in your room with you till you’re sixteen. It’s not about whether you’re gay or not and you know that. I know things are hard . . .’ She took a deep breath. ‘But there’s a line between what is unfair and when you’re trying your luck. Listen to me. Don’t talk to me like that. And don’t push your luck.’

  She stroked Sandy’s hair, hoping he’d stay quiet for a bit. He was babbling to himself, very quietly. One soft white hand patted the painting table, his fingers smearing the glass top.

  ‘House!’ he said suddenly, pointing up to the mezzanine-level shelving that ran around and above their heads. Juliet looked up. She had forgotten the doll’s house had been moved here, as part of her January clear-out. Bea had wanted it in the Dovecote. She liked looking at it, almost like a talisman. Isla had never been into dolls and Sandy was too little to be trusted with the delicate fretwork of the banisters, the tiny table legs and scraps of material fastened on as curtains . . . But there was something rather sad about it there. She frowned. How tiny it looked, perched up on high. It was dusty.

  ‘Yes, house,’ she said. ‘Look, darling.’

  Bea shrugged her shoulders, calmer already. ‘You don’t ask me about it, not ever, you don’t. Dad says you’re in denial.’

  ‘About what?’

  ‘Me being gay. You said you accepte
d it, but we never talk about it.’ Bea gave a great sniff, and pressed her face to her hands.

  Juliet stood up. ‘Bea! Come on. I’ve tried to talk to you about it umpteen times and you never want to. That’s fine if you don’t want to. But I can’t keep asking the same things over and over again, because you get irritated and shout at me. That’s fair enough, but you can’t have a go at me for it. Perhaps I haven’t supported you enough in ways I haven’t realised, and if that’s the case then I’m really sorry.’

  ‘No, you have,’ said Bea. ‘I’m – you’ve been great.’

  ‘What?’ Juliet blinked, astonished at the vacillation of teenagers. Sandy was on the wooden steps that led to the mezzanine shelf. She lifted him gently off again.

  ‘I don’t know – Mum, it’s so confusing. I like Eva. A lot. But Fin has been with me since school and we get each other and . . .’ Bea shuddered a little. ‘Mum, everything is so hard.’

  Juliet almost laughed manically. She bit it back. ‘Oh darling. That’s being a teenager – don’t shout at me, but it’s like that.’

  ‘House! See house!’

  ‘Mum, can I ask you something?’ Bea took a deep, ragged breath. ‘If you could choose over again, would you move back here? Or would you take the money and run?’

  Her eyes were fixed on her mother’s. Juliet inhaled sharply. She paused, letting the idea wash over her for a moment. Money. None of this stress. ‘I don’t know,’ she said, in a small voice. She looked up, around her. ‘You know, I think I’d probably – Jesus. Sandy!’

  Sandy’s wild, golden curls shone high up in the darkness of the mezzanine, where the fig tree had already come into leaf, blocking the light. He stood triumphantly next to the doll’s house, perched a little further on the narrow shelf, and pointed at it. ‘House!’ he said, simply. ‘My house.’

  ‘Sandy – Sandy,’ said Juliet. ‘Come down, darling.’ She made for the steps, but Bea was already climbing up them.

  ‘No. My house.’

  ‘Sandy.’ Juliet felt her knees turn to water. ‘Sandy.’ She locked her gaze on him, hoping to distract him from every other thought. ‘Look at me, darling. Look at Mummy. Stay still.’

  ‘My house,’ said Sandy, and he took a step towards the doll’s house – a step into air – his foot missing the edge of the shelf. For one second, a second that stretched into time, the other foot hovered over the edge, his balance falling between one side and the other, his little arms wavering, turning like windmills, and then he arched back with a surprised sob, trying to catch hold of the doll’s house, but he could not reach it and fell, his head smacking against the edge of the stone shelf with a sickening thud. He plummeted on to the hard stone floor with a weak cry, and Juliet missed catching him by a split second.

  One second later, the doll’s house toppled over after him, landing on his small body with a thud and then on to the floor, with a loud, shattering crack. Pieces, people, fairies, furniture all tumbled out; the central chimney was smashed in two, the insides rolling on to the floor.

  Next to it Sandy lay, utterly still, eyes closed. There was no blood. No sound except the whirr of an old coin, rolling in a semi-circle on the hard stone, back and forth.

  Chapter Thirty

  August 1914

  Dear Ned and Liddy

  Now that war is here permit me to write to ask you: is Mary well? I can find no trace of her though I have searched high and low. I think of her, and you, my dear friends, often.

  Perhaps I still do not have the right, but I must ask about her. I’m sorry. I understand that I cannot ever hope to visit you. Know you are all, as always, at the centre of my thoughts. I follow your progress. Allow an old friend to say I think you can do better, forgive me for it. My dear man, you are a greater painter than these pictures.

  Your friend Dalbeattie

  P.S. dearest Liddy I am sure that I saw that rotten old nurse of yours. Bryanston? Brierley? Quite mad she looked, staring eyes the colour of steel. A most unpleasant female. I saw her coming out of the church, carrying lilies; she stared at me. Most weeks I walk on the Heath and always make sure to take a turn past your family home. It helps me to remember. We are old now, aren’t we? So your father is dead, I’m sorry to hear it, and quite should have begun the letter with my condolences

  – L.D.

  ‘The impertinence of the letter!’ Liddy put a finger to her temple, frowning. ‘But how would I know he’d died, Ned dearest? I have not had a thing to do with him for ten years or more. He’s not been in touch. Not since . . .’

  She let the silence hang, but Ned was impervious to its meaning. ‘Surely they’d have written to you, if he were dead?’ He passed a hand over his forehead, leaving a streak of carmine red in a line, like a savage. ‘You’d have heard, he was a legal man, there must be a will, executors.’ He blinked, then turned back to the canvas. ‘Damn Dalbeattie. How dare he say . . . This damned light—’

  Liddy said patiently, ‘The fig tree needs cutting, dearest. You will have no light until you cut it back, so that it doesn’t climb over the glass roof. And the birds, too, their leavings all over it, Ned, it’s easy to fix, I’ll make sure Darling attends to it.’

  ‘I’ll clean my own studio, thank you. “Allow an old friend” – How dare he!’

  Liddy shifted on her seat, flexing her cramped fingers. The heavy silk of her tea-rose pink dress clung to her in the stultifying atmosphere of the Dovecote. She had been sitting for Ned for a week now, every day from almost first light – he wanted to begin at 5 a.m. but she had refused, forcing him to settle for seven o’clock in the morning, when John was still fast asleep and only Nora, their new housemaid, up and about. It felt like old times, the two of them stealing away to the Dovecote together, hand in hand across the dew-sprinkled garden, the late, late-summer flowers a riot of collapsed decadence: listing hollyhocks, nodding sunflowers, fading, dying roses and blowsy bright dahlias, burnished by the sun. She had not been painted by him for so long now, not since The Garden of Lost and Found. She had forgotten what it was like: the tedium of it, mixed with the joy of watching him, the agonies he went through.

  He was older now, almost forty-two, and his windswept hair was threaded with grey. He was fêted by younger artists, mocked by them too in equal measure. ‘Old Horner, he knew his stuff before he took to painting children!’ He had been knighted, and so she was Lady Horner; it meant nothing to Liddy, but he was thrilled by it, and by the encounter with the King, so much older and larger than Liddy had expected but also so very, very charming. Ned wore brocade silk waistcoats, and had a cane – Liddy teased him that he used it to seem older than he was, and he was very cross then, shouting and waving the cane about: ‘Dammit! I do no such thing!’

  The Garden of Lost and Found obsessed him. She knew it. It hung in the window of Galveston’s gallery now, returned from its travels all over the world, in the fog after Eliza died. Afterwards Liddy could see that three or more years had passed since the loss of Eliza and she remembered nothing of that time. Nothing at all. As if she, too, were in the ground, next to her daughter. She was still never quite sure what places it had visited, how many millions had gazed upon it, only that it made money, for Galveston kept telling them. When they went to London, they always found a way to walk past it, but never stopped. Liddy knew however that Ned would go back to look at it. Galveston’s wife had told her. ‘He stands for hours, just staring.’

  The work he was making now was to be called The Lilac Hours: Reflections of England, 1914. It showed Liddy pressing her face delicately to a bough of lilac. The lilac had long since died back and Liddy did not see how her smelling some withering purple flowers reflected the state of the nation, but she had never interfered with Ned’s vision. Privately, she hoped he would stop returning to the theme of England and the Empire in his work. Lately it had become something of an obsession, though she seemed to be the only one who thought so. We Built Nineveh, his last painting, had been a fairly poorly disguised metaphor for the
strength of Empire, a lot of muscular young men and women posing on the steps by the Albert Memorial. To Liddy it was almost an inversion of A Meeting, the painting that made his name. There, the young were individuals, idealistic. Even in The Spirit of the Age, the panorama of workers on the Strand, which was Ned’s representation of British industry, had worn its symbolism with a jolly, celebratory grace. In We Built Nineveh they were ciphers. ‘INDUSTRY. ART. UNDERSTANDING BETWEEN NATIONS.’ The girl representing ‘Love of Outdoors’ seemed to have a sort of oak tree growing out of her back. ‘One wonders if she’s wearing it as a sort of umbrella or carrying it, perhaps it’s a present for a friend,’ John had whispered wickedly to his mother at the Summer Exhibition, and been swiftly hushed by her.

  Liddy bolstered her coil of hair, sliding the comb at the base of the neck in more firmly. ‘Dearest, can I put the paintbrush down, just for a moment?’ she asked. The letter from Dalbeattie had been waiting at the house when she went up for lunch. ‘I must write to our old home. Or write to Mary – perhaps she has heard. Or I should go up to London, to see—’

  ‘He’s using you to flush Mary out,’ Ned said, roughly. ‘Your father’s not dead, Liddy, don’t you understand?’

  She gazed at him and said with a helpless laugh: ‘Oh my love, I fear he must be, for—’