The Garden of Lost and Found

by Harriet Evans

  So one Sunday in October 1916, two years after the Great War began without really understanding why she did so, Mary walked to the Tube station and, travelling across town all the way to Highgate, found herself standing outside the old family home again, peering through the gate.

  It had been twenty-five years since she’d last been there, and she had no real idea about what she should do next, or what she’d say, or even what she’d find. She had heard nothing from anyone in her family for over a decade – they did not know where she was; she was content with it that way.

  She pulled her frayed and faded Paisley shawl more tightly around her, and slipped her hands into the pockets of the midnight-blue jacket she had made for herself. In the front window, which had been her father’s study, a gas lamp burned steadily. Mary pushed open the gate.

  The first sign something was different was the black paint which came away in her gloved hand, revealing a layer of scaly ochre-coloured rust. The gate creaked, a high-pitched, jagged wail. It had not been oiled for some time. Dead ivy clung to the crumbling bricks of the walls protecting the house.

  Mary walked unsteadily up the uneven garden path. It was a cold, cloudy autumn morning. She looked around for the final roses but everything was gone. The box hedging, she also saw now, was dead: leaves yellowed, black roots. She knocked on the door smartly, though her hand trembled.

  There was no answer. After a minute or two, Mary knocked again. The hall lamp behind the swirled glass of the door was suddenly extinguished. Intrigued now, and realising she was not scared, Mary knocked again, louder.

  ‘Hello? Father?’ she called, through the door. ‘Is anyone at home?’

  She blinked, when she thought she heard the rustle of skirts – it had always been Hannah, smoothly moving around the house, answering the door if Gumball was not there. Gumball was long gone. And Hannah was dead, buried in the same churchyard as little Eliza.

  Mary paused, leaning against the door, and feeling a little faint. She was hungrier than usual that morning, for Mrs MacReady had refused to give her breakfast until she paid her rent, and she had not eaten since lunchtime the previous day.

  ‘Father!’ she called, loudly, ear pressed to the door, and she distinctly heard the sound of someone, moving through the house, a creaking floorboard or hinge, but still no one came, and Mary, tired and hungry, found she was angry.

  ‘Nurse Bryant!’ She did not care that she was shouting, now. ‘Bryant, do you hear me? Is my father there?’ She moved to the side window and peered into her father’s study. She kept waiting to feel fear, but it didn’t come.

  There was nothing in the room at all, compared to before. Gone were the great mahogany desk, the vast bureau against the wall, the glass-fronted cabinets filled with papers and ephemera and cases of curiosities, evidence of her father’s profligacy. There was, in point of fact, a small school desk, upon which rested a gleaming gas lamp, and a chair. Everything was scrubbed clean, the stench of carbolic and Pears overwhelming even through the rotting window. A small pile of papers rested on the desk; nothing else. As Mary stared hungrily in at her childhood home, her eye was distracted by a movement through the open door of the study into the hallway. She saw the edge of a figure, standing against the main staircase.

  Nurse Bryant. She had not realised Mary had moved to the side and was standing stock still in the hallway, staring ahead of her in terror, at the door. Her greasy hair was completely white, pinned up ineffectively in oily loops around her head and over her ears. Everything else was spotless, gleaming, terrifying in its barren cleanliness, but she? She was filthy – her black dress marked and torn, her boots battered, one missing a heel. Her teeth had gone: she munched and mumbled on her gums, fingers periodically plucking at her lip. The same fingers that had pulled Liddy’s hair into agonising tight plaits, which had slapped and scratched and dug and clawed, tied the children to chairs, pinched their skin, drawn blood. Now they were claws themselves, working away at the lip then moving to the dirty black stuff dress to pluck at that, too. Mary could see the material was rough and torn where Nurse Bryant scratched at it, mechanically, like a bird pecking at the ground. And she could hear her, muttering.

  ‘Let me out. Let me out. Let me out. Let me out. Let me out. Please. Let me out.’

  Mary moved to the other side of the front door, to look into the parlour, where in happier days she had spent Christmas mornings, Sunday afternoons, teatimes, where the chaise longue beside the fire was the place to be when one had earache, where shelves of gold-tooled books ran from top to bottom . . .

  But it was all gone. Not a wrack left behind.

  Everything in the house had gone. First her mother, then she and her siblings, the servants, then her father, then the contents, bit by bit, scrubbed clean. And still, in the hallway, almost hidden from view by the staircase, stood Miss Bryant.

  Mary could see the look on her face now: entirely absent, staring at something not there. The rheumy old eyes were terrifying, the fear in them palpable. And she saw it then, that Bryant did not even know she was there. She’s mad.

  She did not know anyone or anything, only that she was trapped in a prison again. The Fleet: Mary remembered it, wisps of memory wrapping around her like mist. She’d had to cut off her hair to pay for food, she had told Mary once, whilst she was combing her hair and Mary was crying. She couldn’t remember why – was she sad, or in pain?

  And still the small, whispering voice.

  ‘Let me out. Let me out. Please, let me out.’

  Mary realised there was no point in staying. Mother’s rug would not be there. She didn’t need it. Backing away, staring at the huge house, she wondered where everything had gone. What on earth had Bryant done with it all, with all the money she must have raised from selling everything? Given it to her strange church. Or spent it, on what they’d never know. They would never know.

  She took one last look at the tiny black figure frozen in the hallway. The architect of our family’s ruin, she thought, is this broken, pathetic creature. And, staring at her and out into the dining room beyond she could still make out the trees of Highgate Cemetery behind the house. Mother was there, and Pertwee, and now, presumably, Father too. Mary pressed her small, nailbitten fingers to her mouth, tears falling freely from her eyes on to her soft dark jacket. They glistened, small crystal globes in the midday sun. Only she and Liddy were left now.

  Mary forced herself to walk away. Oh, the gift she realised she had now, which was freedom. She was free, truly free. It was all gone – all in the past – she opened the gate, stepping out on to the street once again.

  ‘It cannot be – Mary?’

  A hoarse, quiet voice from a figure on the pavement, a hand on her shoulder: Mary jumped, half out of her skin. ‘I am so sorry, my dear –’

  Mary turned, as though in a dream, and found herself face to face with him.

  Her hand flew to her cheek, head swimming. ‘You.’ He was older – of course – more lines, his hairline further back on his head, but the dancing eyes were the same, the eager face. He was as slim as ever, not run to fat like so many of the middle-aged men whose wives paid her to let out their waistcoats. He stooped still and removed his hat, his gaze never once leaving her.

  ‘Why are you here?’ she whispered, looking around wildly, as if it were a trap.

  ‘I walk on the Heath on Sundays. I begin in Hampstead, and end here.’

  ‘You come here? Every Sunday?’

  He said simply: ‘It is my last connection to you, and Liddy, and Ned, other than Nightingale House.’

  Mary found she could not speak, but stared at him. His fine cheekbones, hooded eyes, the pleasing scroll of his ear. His broad shoulders, the large hands, nothing dainty about him, she who worked in tiny stitches, making the visible invisible. She remembered him in his embroidered dressing gown, majestic like an ancient king, and how vulnerable he was, naked, inside her; how frightened he had sometimes seemed, how sad . . .

  He reached ou
t then, took her hand and folded it in his. ‘My dearest.’ The faint hint of a Scots burr at the edge of the warm, low voice. ‘You are as young and serious and sweet as ever. I cannot—’ He touched a ribbon on her jacket. ‘What is this?’

  Mary looked down, and found her voice. ‘Violet, green and white – universal suffrage,’ she said. She held up the ribbon, proudly. ‘I’ve been arrested, you know.’

  ‘My Mary,’ he said. ‘I’m sure you have. You are a constant. The world changes to keep up with you.’

  There, in front of the house, he bent down, and kissed the ribbon. His mouth was warm on her shirt; she could feel the press of his cheek on her breast. There was a rushing, whooshing sensation in front of her eyes. Dalbeattie stood up again and then caught sight of her face. ‘I say – are you all right?’

  ‘I haven’t had any breakfast,’ Mary said, and she felt herself floating, speaking to him as though from a long way away, and the earth started revolving, slowly, then falling towards her. ‘I think I’m going to—’

  When she came to she was in a carriage, travelling down the hill into town, Dalbeattie beside her, but she was too weary and weak to say much, and the motion of the cab made her feel sick, so she found that, if she closed her eyes again, she could sink back into an unconsciousness, which she did. When she came to again, she was being lifted by him into bed.

  She woke later that afternoon in a strange room. A merry fire was burning in a grate. Outside it was raining, she could hear the patter of water on a strange roof. The heavy curtains were richly embroidered. Mary lay in bed, surrounded by plump, soft cushions, feeling very sleepy, but content. There was a faint smell of cigar smoke – she knew Dalbeattie’s particular brand of old, a comforting, spiced scent and she breathed it in, happily, wiggling her toes.

  The door opened, and he came in, carrying a plate on a tray. Bread and butter, thick slices of golden cheese, thin curling slices of ham and an apple, delicately cut so it fanned across the plate. And there was tea, which he poured for her, spiced with orange and bergamot. He fed her until she took the food from him, and ate it all. He held the cup up to her mouth, saying nothing, watching her, as she drank.

  Then he left her again, and she slept again.

  Later, when it was growing dark outside, and still raining, he came in to put more logs upon the fire.

  She observed him from under the blankets, and said, ‘Where are we?’

  ‘In Bloomsbury. In fact, you will be glad to know Mrs Pankhurst is around the corner. They put up quite a fight, those ladies. When she’s released from hunger strike and taken home again you can hear ’em screaming as the police knock them down and cart them off.’

  ‘I have been here,’ she said, wondering. ‘I was one of them.’ All these years, and she had never known. ‘It is yours, this house?’

  ‘I bought it ten years ago. When I was the great hope of those looking for a new Webb, or Pugin, before Lutyens came along. Now I shall probably have to sell it, if my fortunes do not improve.’ He laughed ruefully.

  ‘Even I hear your name spoken in tones of great reverence, Lucius. I do not believe that.’

  ‘War has put a stop to it all. People don’t want large family houses, or churches, or concert halls. Or they do, but they say they’ll wait, and I have so many ideas, and I can’t wait.’ He poked at the fire expertly, flipping one log over and Mary felt soft heat reach her. She pulled the sheets and eiderdown around her, gratefully warm. ‘I am entering a competition to design the Canadian parliament buildings. Four in all. If I were to get it, it would set me up again, most successfully. If not, I’ll have to make some alterations in my living arrangements.’ He saw her face. ‘I am comfortable. But I must find more work. And this house . . .’ he trailed off. ‘It is too big for one person.’

  ‘Did your wife never live here?’ He paused, rubbing his face and looking at her with a grave expression. ‘Dalbeattie . . .? Will you not speak to me of her?’

  ‘Forgive me. My wife has not been back to London since I bought the place. I had hoped at first it would be a family home. But it was not to be, as you may remember.’ He spread out his long, strong hands.

  ‘The fork . . . I do.’ Their eyes met. Old friends, who knew the other’s stories. When was I last so at ease with another person, she thought. Not for years. Not since – and she glanced around at the dark, warm room. ‘Have you remodelled this place, like Nightingale House?’

  Silence fell between them, and then he said sharply, ‘I will never do that again. I will build myself or live in another’s home. It’s bad luck, to combine the two.’

  She thought of the children’s cupboards on the top floor, of the wooden window seats in the sitting room for small people to put their toys in. Eliza’s head, bent over one, throwing wooden blocks and books and toys out behind her with glee. She thought of her room in the long afternoons, the sense of him upon her, pressing down on her, the two of them, melding into one . . . She nodded.

  ‘Do you have any servants?’

  ‘They’re not here.’

  ‘Come here,’ she said, and he sat down on the bed, spreading his long hands over the oyster-coloured silk of the eiderdown. He lifted the empty plate gently on to the side table.

  ‘When was the last time you ate?’ he said.

  ‘Yesterday lunchtime.’

  ‘Before that?’

  ‘Oh, the day before. I had tea at a friend’s house. She gave me food. She knows my situation.’

  He was silent, and then said, quickly, ‘Tell me, Mary dear. Has he gone? John? Horner’s boy, has he gone to war?’

  She shook her head, miserably. ‘I don’t know, Lucius. I don’t know anything of them. I write, but . . . I understand.’

  She could feel his leg against her knee through the sheets as he sat facing her. ‘Do you see anyone from the old life now?’

  ‘I am often with my new sisters now. Organising meetings, planning demonstrations . . . we support one another. None of us have much. We are mostly spinsters.’

  ‘Is that so?’

  ‘It’s hard to believe, isn’t it? An old man spat on me last month. Told me I was a dried-up old busybody and that I was lost to sin. I told him it was quite something to be both.’

  He smiled, the warm, anxious, quizzical smile and she felt that liquid feeling of certainty, of pleasure. ‘And are you?’

  She could feel his leg, pressing more firmly against hers, and he leaned towards her. It was quiet again, no carriages or motor cars, only the distant sound of a dog, howling somewhere, and the rain.

  ‘Am I what?’

  ‘Lost to sin?’

  Her eyes raked him over; a pulse throbbed at the base of her throat. Her face was warm with anticipation. ‘Yes. I think I always was, Lucius.’

  He took her in his arms and kissed her, and Mary, after a decade or more of no physical contact more than either the rough hands of a policeman or a friend’s warm handshake, moved against him. His mouth on hers, her skin on his . . . He was saying something to her, something in her ear:

  ‘I did not bring you here . . .’

  She stopped him. ‘I know. Goodness, Lucius. Of course.’

  ‘My dear – are you sure?’

  She made him leave the room. He had taken off only her jacket when he laid her in the bed. Carefully, she now removed her much-mended long tweed skirt, her blouse of fine cambric French lawn, near to where the fighting was right now, she knew. Then her petticoats, her stockings, so she was only in her camisole. She let down her dark hair, so that it brushed her shoulders. She was alert, erect, her body almost twitching with desire. Unbidden, came the thought of his wife – of her own sister – of all the many dreadful wrongs caused by their previous affair.

  I am already so far lost that it makes no difference if he takes me now, she told herself. And, dear God, I want him.

  ‘You may come in,’ she called, and he opened the door, and his eyes glazed as he saw her again, and she saw his nostrils as he inhaled.
r />   ‘My dear Mary,’ was all he said. ‘I have been half alive without you, all these years.’

  She met his gaze. ‘And I you, my love.’

  She was his mistress from that night, and as they came together in the high-ceilinged room with the rain cascading down against the shutters, thundering on the front steps, pounding on the pavements below and gushing down the drains, all Mary could think of was of becoming clean again. As she moved against him, half frantic, half caressing, sure of herself, she realised that with age came a comforting kind of certainty. She fell asleep against him. The crisp clean sheets smelled of starch. She had not smelled starch for many years.

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  November 1917

  Dearest Liddy

  I think of you so often. I know that John is in France but I do not know how he fares. Was he at the Somme? Have you seen him this past year? May God keep him safe. Dalbeattie saw La Touche at dinner who told him John had gone to war and that is how I know.

  Darling Liddy, I am Dalbeattie’s mistress. We are in love and live for each other. His wife is in Scotland and does not travel to London. Divorce is out of the question for not only would she not consider it, his reputation must not suffer; fortunately, my reputation concerns no one. I have picked up my pen to write to you so many times and cannot find a way to set down the words but now I must do so.

  I have never quite fitted anywhere else. I do believe that this is what I was made for: to love him. I miss you, Liddy, I love you, I miss dear Ned, and John. I know I can never atone for what I did; I have learned that now, and that like you I won’t ever really know happiness, nor even that I should seek it. I wrestle with that every day. I have found him again; we love one another; we are as content as we might be; but I do not think I deserve to have these rewards. So perhaps one day to pay for it I will simply have to set him free.

  The Times yesterday had news of your stay in London and that you were residing at the Galvestons’. Has Ned another painting like The Lilac Hours? He is a grand old patriot now, isn’t he, Liddy? Times change us all.