The Garden of Lost and Found

by Harriet Evans

  In addition Sandy’s tibia was broken quite badly, and would require another operation on his leg when he was older. The scar on his skull was healing and in all other respects he was doing well, only it annoyed him so much to stay in bed all the time. That was the next challenge, stopping him from going crazy with frustration when he came home. Matt already had plans. ‘We’ll make him a mini-gym. I’ll get Gav to knock something up in his workshop. It doesn’t need to cost much, Juliet. Promise. It’ll have levels, we can get that elastic stretchy stuff from Amazon, maybe some weights. I’ve drawn Gav a sketch.’

  Juliet ate meals at weird times, wore odd clothes pulled from the wardrobe, slept when she could, but never at night-time, when she would lie clutching an old cushion staring up at the ceiling, waiting until she could go into the garden and weed, hoe, edge, trim, stake, feed, water. To take care, to have control, and every day, in small ways – a scented jasmine bush springing into life, or a sudden profusion of tomato and pea seedlings in the greenhouse – the garden seemed to thank her.

  Sam Ham had taken The Garden of Lost and Found away – she had called him immediately, and he had come to the house the next day with a special glass frame to transport the canvas back to the Fentiman, where in great secrecy he had called in three independent experts individually to verify it, which they did. In the still watches of the night and when she was not worrying about Sandy, Juliet would worry someone might have tapped the phones and found out about the painting, could come here while Bea and Isla were in bed, to try and steal it. Proper criminals, the ones who broke into safes, stole watches and art from Mayfair galleries, who knew how to use glass cutters, lasers, gun silencers.

  One afternoon about three weeks after the accident, Juliet arrived at the hospital to find Sandy fast asleep, puffed violet shadows under his eyes, limbs flung out, halo of golden hair spread on the pillow and she didn’t have the heart to wake him. Isla had been in to visit the previous day, and they had sat up in his bed together (strictly forbidden by the hospital for fear of infection but Juliet had pretended to forget this) and watched the Tigger Movie, Isla with her small arm round her little brother’s, patting the hospital blanket and sheets over him, making sure he had Bim. Juliet had taken photos, emailed them to Matt. Then afterwards, Isla had pretended to be Tigger, bouncing around Sandy’s bed so loudly he got overwrought and kept screeching and hiccuping with laughter – repressed release of so many things, she suspected. One of the nurses, Ali, had poked her head round the door.

  ‘You’re a very good big sister, Isla, you should be a doctor one day. I haven’t seen him this happy since he came here.’

  Isla had stuck her chin out. ‘I might be a doctor actually, but of guinea pigs and chinchillas. Mummy says we’re getting chinchillas in the autumn, one each.’

  ‘Chinchillas? They’ll eat you out of house and home.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Really, young lady. I hope you’re mum’s got a fortune stashed away somewhere to pay for all that feed,’ said Ali, and Juliet laughed, way too loudly.

  Staring down at Sandy’s utterly still sleeping face, the scar from his operation puckering the skull underneath all that hair like an angry pink-and-black caterpillar, Juliet gently stroked his smooth cheek, and breathed in to smell him. She felt a sense of calm for the first time in weeks.

  She left him to sleep. Back in the car she drove on, to Oxford. Spring was fully here now, fading from April freshness to the full blaze of May glory. The hedges were riotously green, bursting with cow parsley and blossom of all kinds – hawthorn, elderflower, bullace, blackthorn – the sky a clean, deep blue. Orange-tip butterflies darted alongside the car in and out of the lanes, keeping her company. She had not noticed any of it until now, she realised, the countryside coming alive again after winter. She had been sleepwalking for so long.

  ‘I didn’t plan to come today. I just wanted to look at it. Is that OK?’ she said to Sam, after he had ushered her into his office.

  ‘Of course,’ he said. ‘Follow me. Oh. Can I get you a cup of tea first?’

  She had stood up, but at this she sat down again, laughing. ‘Do I look that awful?’

  ‘Never.’ He pulled something out of his desk, and turned away from her, picking a book off the shelf behind him. ‘Never, Juliet. But you do look like someone who might like a cup of sweet tea. See how British I’m becoming? Have a look at this while I’m gone.’ He slid a book over towards her. ‘Kate and I unearthed it yesterday.’

  ‘Do I need gloves?’

  ‘No, not this once.’ It was a large book with a slim spine bound in midnight-blue cloth. And he disappeared, leaving her alone in the eighteenth-century office with the powder-blue paint and the white cornicing. It was very calm and quiet in there, the smell of wood polish and something spicy: bay, or fig. Outside, the magnolia had lost most of its blossom, but the glossy leaves shone in the morning sunshine. She opened the book.

  DEEDS, PLANS, DRAWINGS & IDEAS FOR THE IDEAL FAMILY HOME, BASED ON NIGHTINGALE HOUSE IN THE COUNTY OF —SHIRE

  LUCIUS G DALBEATTIE OM, PRA, FRIBA

  When Sam returned, he was bearing a just-hot-enough cup of tea, served in a blue-and-white china cup and saucer with a Jaffa Cake on the side. She looked up at him, eyes wide with amazement.

  ‘I’ve never seen this before. This is incredible.’

  ‘He had it privately printed, when he settled in Ottawa. It was to be his dream house, only he never built it. And it would have been very like Nightingale House.’ He crouched down beside her, his long frame folding up and his slim fingers flicking through the pages. ‘This idea, for the children’s bedrooms, the built-in cupboards under the eaves and the use of the turret in the corner, closed off to be used as a miniature castle or fort. The cupboards in the kitchen, and next to the sink – really, it’s the first fitted kitchen. No one was doing that at the time. The sustainable wood, the same coat hooks in the hall as at your hall. Really extraordinary.’

  ‘“I have spent my life trying to build the perfect house . . . circumstance, and cruel fate, has rendered my efforts worthless, but I leave this plan in case another should take it up. October 1919.”’ Something about the words was heart-rending. She ran her fingertips over the depressions of the words on the page. ‘I always liked the sound of him, so much. So he never built the house.’

  ‘He died coming back to England, the month afterwards. His boat sank, in a storm.’

  ‘Is that it?’ Juliet’s hands fell into her lap and a tear dropped on to them as she bowed her head and began to cry. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said, pushing her fingers into her eyes, pushing her hair out of the way. ‘I cry at everything at the moment.’

  He lifted her hair away, tucking it behind one ear, so he could see her. ‘Don’t be. I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have shown it to you.’ His strong, warm hand took hers, held it tightly. ‘I’m sorry, Juliet.’

  ‘No, honestly, Sam. It’s wonderful.’ She wiped her eyes. ‘It makes me think of our house, and . . . all of it. Grandi, how sad she was . . . who left the painting there. I wish I knew. I know some of it and still . . .’

  ‘Well.’ He released her hands, and went back to his desk. ‘Kate Nadin’s working her way through the archive very methodically, but it’s in a terrible state, all out of order. She just found a letter I thought I should show you, too. From Liddy’s sister, Mary, wasn’t it?’

  ‘Yes, what’s it about?’

  ‘I can read it to you.’ He held up a thin sheet of writing paper. ‘“My dearest. I have been up all night thinking of darling John and trying to write to Liddy. Do you remember his dark blue eyes under the flopping blonde hair, the strength of his long face, even at that age? What a darling boy he was. . . oh dear God, Dalbeattie, where will it end?” It’s with a bill for a new dressing gown in February 1918 and I think we can date it – oh, are you all right?’

  ‘I’m fine,’ she said. ‘John was, as I’m sure you know, their second child. He went missing at Cambrai, December
1917. They never found his body. Poor Liddy. Poor Ned. Go on.’

  Sam’s gentle voice, rising and swooping, seemed to hum in the large, echoing room as he read. She listened, transfixed.

  ‘“Darling one, I am writing to wish you the greatest luck with your Canadians. I am in no doubt that you will find them as enamoured of you as so many others have been. Be in no doubt yourself. Be YOU, brave, brilliant, kind. You make me proud to know you and to love you. I will join you as soon as I may. We will build the house. We will fill it with children. Keep the plans safe, Dalbeattie. It is wretched to wish another woman to die before a situation like ours can be regularised. It is a wretched world, and the idea of peace is perhaps as terrifying as war for one will have to accept that everything now must be changed, and the long years stretch out ahead of us all.

  You have been my life these last three years. You have made me absolutely happy, Dalbeattie. Know that, my darling. I will see you one day soon. We will be together then. My love, Mary.”’

  He put the letter down.

  ‘My goodness.’ Juliet chewed her thumb, thinking, the clothbound book still on her lap. ‘And she didn’t go to Canada? Or did she?’

  ‘We don’t know. Yet.’

  ‘Was there a child, then?’ She stared at him and smiled. ‘You’re not their descendant, are you?’

  ‘Dear God, no.’ He looked horrified.

  ‘It’s not that awful an idea, is it?’

  ‘Well, then we’d be cousins, and Juliet, that would be – quite wrong.’

  ‘Only quite?’

  ‘Quite as in very wrong. Not fairly wrong. The British use “quite” incorrectly . . . What’s so hilarious about that?’ he said, leaning on the desk, arms folded.

  Juliet hugged herself. ‘Ancient history. You dumped Ginny because she was quite intelligent. We used to joke about it.’

  ‘Ginny – oh, your best friend Ginny whom you haven’t seen for over two decades! She was a brainiac, for sure.’

  ‘We thought it was because you meant she was quite intelligent as in “a bit, not very much”.’

  ‘She got a First in PPE.’

  ‘Well, exactly. This is why we thought you were an arrogant . . .’ She trailed off.

  Sam leaned towards her, a lock of hair falling across his forehead. ‘So let me get this straight. You’ve been harbouring this ill-will toward me for twenty years because you don’t know the correct meaning of “quite”.’ He laughed, gently, then Juliet laughed too. Then the more she thought about it, the more ridiculous it seemed, and the more both of them laughed, so much so that Graham, head of fundraising, and Briony, the admin support, both pushed their chairs back in the outside office to see what was going on, then nodded significantly at each other, before going back to work.

  ‘God, I’m really sorry,’ said Juliet eventually. ‘Perhaps this is the spur I need to get in touch with Ginny again. Set the record straight.’

  ‘I thought we’d covered that. She wasn’t very nice. You were nice.’

  ‘I wasn’t.’

  ‘You were. You were young. We all were,’ he said, gently, and smiled at her. ‘Look, can we just finish the business with Dalbeattie, because I really don’t want there to be any doubt about this. I’m not your second cousin or whatever it is. As with most North Americans my parents each have a much-thumbed white ringbinder detailing every last mad aunt and supposedly interesting historical nuggets, like the time my grandmother Simone shook Jean Chrétien’s hand. He was Prime Minister,’ he added, as Juliet looked blank. ‘Very important in Canada – nothing? OK. Well, I know my father’s Hamilton relatives, because we hear a lot about them and I own the kilt.’

  ‘You own a kilt?’ said Juliet, musing.

  ‘I do, it’s quite natty. Yes, I said it. And my mother’s family emigrated from France after the war. Believe me, I’d know if I was descended from Lucius Dalbeattie.’

  ‘Are the government buildings still used?’

  ‘Well, two of them were destroyed by fire in the thirties. But there’s a Great Hall left over, near the Parliament. It’s a wonderful thing. They have ceremonies – I went to one, for the Rhodes scholarship. The language is classical, but it’s very Arts and Crafts, you feel at home there. There are seats around the edge and the carvings have extendable wooden hooks, so you can hang up a coat while you’re chatting.’ He smiled at her. ‘Now, you see, I mentioned the Rhodes scholarship and you weren’t rude. I think that’s a real breakthrough.’

  Juliet was still staring at the letter, but she looked up and smiled. ‘It’s a breakthrough all right. Perhaps you’re not so bad after all.’

  ‘I made up my mind about you years ago, Juliet.’ Before she could answer, he stood up. ‘I think Kate will ask that you leave the letter here, but do borrow the book, if you like. Now. Shall we go and see the The Garden of Lost and Found?’

  She felt dizzy, more tired than ever, and he seemed to understand, steering her through the maze of offices at the back of the museum, both heads down, not making eye contact with colleagues, until they came to the room where the most delicate restoration and reframing projects were done. There was a huge turning lock with combination safe on the door, and a man, standing next to it, in black. Julia looked at him suspiciously. Was this the high-level thief she dreamed of, waiting to spring them?

  ‘That’s Olly,’ said Sam, as he opened the door. ‘Security.’

  ‘You hired a security guard?’

  He shut the door leaving the two of them inside. Olly moved back into position, in front of the door.

  Sam’s friendly drawl echoed behind her. ‘Juliet, do you know how much this painting will fetch, if it goes for auction?’

  Juliet shook her head, impatiently. ‘Of course. Of course I do. But I can’t think about it right now.’

  ‘Forgive me,’ he said. ‘But I think you should.’

  They were standing in front of the painting. No frame, nothing, just the two sheets of glass in which Sam had removed it, two days after Sandy’s accident. A soft light above shone on it, illuminating it but not covering it with glare. She stared at the two children. It wasn’t the beauty that seduced her every time with Ned’s paintings. It was the expertise, the absolute confidence of the capturing of one specific moment in time. The paint was alive, the figures, the setting. You believed it, you believed they were serenely, joyously happy.

  ‘Yes,’ she said, breathing out, and she realised she was leaning against him, very slightly, and she moved away. ‘Oh, I just want to keep it. To have it at the end of my bed, Ned’s room. To wake up and look at it every morning.’

  ‘You can do that.’

  ‘I could. But I can’t.’

  ‘Please know I will help you, whatever you decide. Only don’t make like your great-grandfather or whoever he was and to burn it.’

  ‘Whoever he was.’ Juliet said, smiling. And then she stopped. ‘He was.’

  ‘He was what?’

  She said, ‘What was the date of the letter?’

  ‘Mary’s letter to Dalbeattie? Oh. February 1918. Probably.’

  Juliet nodded. ‘OK. OK.’

  ‘What’s up?’

  ‘Just some things that are rolling around in my mind. Probably nothing.’ She was staring in at the painting as Olly locked the door behind them and they walked to the exit. ‘There was an old ha’penny piece in the chimney when it broke,’ she said, for no reason. ‘It rolled out on to the floor. I remember. Someone dropped it in there.’

  ‘I’d love to see the doll’s house.’

  ‘It’s still being mended, but it should be back soon. Look, they’ve started to talk about Sandy coming home in a few weeks. So you should come before then; it’ll be mayhem afterwards.’

  Sam paused on the steps of the museum, as Juliet fiddled in her bag for her keys. ‘I’ll wait for you to invite me.’

  Juliet looked up at the low, long white stone building, shining in the spring sun. ‘You can just drop by.’

  ‘Juliet,
I’m British now. I live here. I’d no more drop by than I would say, “Excuse me” without really meaning “Move out of my way now or I’ll kill you.” Even leaving those dishes on the doorstep was nervewracking.’

  She laughed and turned to go, unlocking her car. ‘He learns so fast. In fact . . .’ She chewed a nail. ‘My parents are staying. I really wouldn’t visit while they’re there, either.’

  ‘I thought your parents were never here.’

  ‘Well, they’ve come to help. They keep standing over me and starting to say things then trailing off. And they manage to cook only food my children won’t eat. It’s extremely relaxing.’

  ‘Sympathies. My mom came to stay last year when I moved over. After three days I was taking daily trips to the dump, just for something to do. I almost started buying things in Oxfam just to have new stuff to recycle.’

  ‘Which explains the excess furniture in your house. The dump. That’s a good tip,’ said Juliet. ‘Look, see you soon – and thanks.’

  ‘Thank you,’ he said, nodding at her seriously. ‘That was quite nice.’

  As she drove away, into the tangle of traffic, she was smiling.

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  When Juliet got back from the hospital that evening, her father was standing in the vegetable patch, scratching his head.

  ‘Look,’ he said, nudging some uncovered earth with his brogue. ‘I know onions should be big at this time of year, but these are amazing. I’ve nothing like that in Dinard. It’s the soil here. Lovely, rich clay.’ He leaned on his hoe, and smiled at her. ‘How’s Sandy today?’

  ‘Better, they had him sitting up.’ He had been crochety after his long sleep, and wouldn’t do his exercises the nice physical therapist had given him to keep the muscles in his unharmed leg and arm strong, but Juliet found her parents weren’t able to process any setback, it threw them completely.

  ‘He has to keep moving around,’ the therapist had told Juliet. ‘I know it’s hard for him, poor little mite. Sandy? How’s about you and me go and look for Bim, huh? He’s gone off somewhere, and I know he wants you to find him. Shall Mama come with us?’