The Kissing Garden

by Charlotte Bingham

  Amelia stayed silent, aware that anything she might say would only sound absurd. She took one of his hands and held it. What George had endured was so far beyond her understanding there was nothing she could say or do.

  ‘I’m sorry.’ George looked down at her suddenly, as if sensing her helplessness. ‘But you did say, didn’t you—’

  ‘I did and I meant it,’ Amelia interrupted, hoping to ease his discomfort. ‘Just talk whenever you feel like it. And if I’m not around then come and find me. One thing I am quite good at – or so you’ve always told me – is listening.’

  ‘I’m just indulging myself.’ George gave an angry shake of his head. ‘Good God, there are thousands of men who have been through far worse than I have. I’m sure they’re not all sitting around crying on someone’s shoulder and feeling sorry for themselves.’

  ‘I bet they are. I would be if I was them. But what you mustn’t feel is guilty.’

  ‘Guilty? How so?’

  ‘Because you survived. It isn’t your fault others died. Men in your battalion. Friends. Even your enemies. You were only doing the duty which you were called upon to do, and while I’m sure it was perfectly dreadful – and that nothing anyone can say or do will remove those memories or heal those scars – you can’t feel guilty because you’re alive and the others aren’t.’

  George was staring at her in surprise, although Amelia doubted he was actually half as surprised as she was at what she had just said.

  ‘I know I’m only a woman and so don’t know anything about war,’ she continued. ‘But I do know that the one thing war is not about is fairness. It’s not like a cricket match with the best side winning and then going off to drink beer together. It’s about life and death, and sometimes – not always – about right and wrong. You fought on the side of right, there’s no doubt about that, George. And if you had not done so, if people like you hadn’t taken up arms against the enemy, wrong would have triumphed and then you would have had cause to feel guilty.’

  George suddenly smiled. He smiled at her just the way he had used to smile at her before he had gone to war, a smile from the innocence of his boyhood and one which now marked not only their enduring friendship but their undoubted love.

  ‘I survived because of you, Amelia,’ he said. ‘Or maybe I survived for you. It doesn’t matter which. We’ve always loved each other, haven’t we? Ever since we first met under that oak tree in the park. At the cricket match. Your father scored a century, and you applauded every single run, even though you were only – how old were you exactly?’

  ‘Eight.’

  ‘Even though you were only eight – and I said to my mother as we were walking home, “Mother? I’ve just met the girl I’m going to marry.”’

  For one moment more he looked at her the same way, the way they were, the way they had been – and then he leaned forward and kissed her again.

  But this time she was not smiling. She simply sat on the table with the other men around her and looked at him, her mouth open, as were her eyes. He did not want to kiss her – that was the very last thing he wanted – but somehow she was making him, and then he knew why. If he kissed her now he would save her life, because the man holding the gun to her head would not shoot her after all. And then he realized another thing, just at the moment all the others started to laugh and jeer and call to each other that he wasn’t going to kiss her, that he wasn’t brave enough, that the medals on his chest were toy medals made of tin: he realized that if he did kiss her he could snatch the gun, turn it on the man and shoot him in the face, just as he had seen Simon his school friend shot.

  This time when George screamed she went to him, ignoring the general’s direction that she was to stay in bed. She went straight away to him and found him still shouting and screaming, sitting up in his bed in the dark, soaked in the sweat of his nightmare.

  ‘What is it, George?’ she asked. ‘George? George, it’s me. Your mother.’

  ‘The girl. The girl.’

  ‘What girl, George? There is no girl. You’ve been dreaming.’

  ‘We have to save the girl.’

  ‘George . . .’ his mother repeated, switching on his bedside light. ‘George, there is no girl. You’ve been having a bad dream.’

  He looked at her. He was awake now, at least his body was.

  ‘You were dreaming, George. It’s all right now, you can go back to sleep. It’s all right.’

  ‘It isn’t all right. Not at all. It isn’t at all all right.’

  ‘It is, George. You’re home, you’re in your own bed, it’s me – your mother – and you’re all right now.’

  ‘Yes?’ He looked round at her, now back to full consciousness. ‘What happened? Was I dreaming?’

  ‘Apparently.’ His mother got up to fetch him some fresh pyjamas. ‘Something about a girl. I do hope it wasn’t poor Amelia.’

  ‘No. No, it wasn’t Amelia.’

  ‘Who was it then?’ his mother asked, handing him the fresh nightclothes. ‘Who was it if it wasn’t Amelia?’

  George shut his eyes and shook his head.

  ‘No-one. No-one.’

  Four

  The wedding was held in April, at St James’s Church, Piccadilly. The war was over and the two families were determined to throw their only children a jewel of a wedding. As befitted the only son of a distinguished general it was also a very grand one, attended by royalty as represented by the King’s brother the Duke of Connaught and his duchess, the armed services by Earl Haig and politics by a sprinkling of Asquiths, while the guests of Clarence and Constance Dennison included many Society painters and musicians, not to mention a scattering of famous West End actors who did not have a matinee that day. The radiant Amelia won the hearts of all the men present while the dashing, dark-haired war hero in the dress uniform of the Royal Artillery elicited private but none the less heartfelt sighs from every woman.

  ‘You look heavenly,’ Hermione told her as she prepared to help carry Amelia’s train down the aisle at the start of the ceremony. ‘The prettiest bride I have ever seen.’

  ‘Be sure to catch my bouquet later.’

  ‘Too late!’ Hermione sighed. ‘You’ve got the chap I want.’

  George never looked once at Amelia as she took her place beside him, staring straight ahead of him just the way he had done when they had walked the Downs that lovely summer evening. Amelia on the other hand had eyes only for George, trusting that he would not falter, thinking that he was as strong as he looked. It was only when at last his eyes met hers that she realized with shock that there were tears in them.

  Defying convention the young Dashwoods came down the aisle to the thrilling sound of Widor, past a sea of faces all of which seemed to be smiling on the slim, dark bride wearing her mother’s dress and carrying a bouquet of flowers from the families’ Sussex gardens.

  However, no sooner had the car taking them on to the reception carried them out of sight of the church than they both burst into fits of laughter, Amelia finally managing to say, ‘George darling, it is the bride that’s meant to cry at weddings!’

  The reception was held in the ballroom of Lord Harrington’s town house off Curzon Street. Amelia happily circulated amongst all her friends and relatives, showing off her wedding ring and telling everyone of their plans to honeymoon in Scotland.

  ‘Rather you than me,’ Hermione said dolefully, when she was helping Amelia change into her navy blue and white going-away outfit.

  ‘A few minutes ago you were saying quite the opposite,’ Amelia reminded her.

  ‘I wasn’t thinking of your gorgeous husband, Amelia darling,’ Hermione replied. ‘I was thinking of the flies. Scotland is always full of flies.’

  ‘I don’t care if it is full of snakes.’ Amelia adjusted her fetching hat to a more rakish angle. ‘We’re going on honeymoon – not a walking tour!’

  Amidst a throng of well-wishers whose already large numbers had been swelled by members of the general public waiting ou
tside the house, the newly married couple left to catch the overnight train to Edinburgh en route to the Dashwood family’s hunting lodge in Perthshire. For the first few minutes as they sat in their reserved compartment neither of them said a word. Amelia looked at George with a perfectly straight face while George looked at her with deliberately over-widened eyes. Amelia was the first to crack, dissolving into helpless laughter as the train with a great heave and a clank began to draw out of the station. George used the sudden movement to pretend that he had been thrown forward out of his seat, ending up with Amelia in his arms. He was just about to kiss her passionately when the corridor door opened and a very large and smartly dressed woman entered.

  ‘Is this a Ladies Only compartment?’ she enquired in a Scottish accent. ‘I have mislaid my spectacles and am looking for a Ladies Only compartment.’

  ‘This is a reserved compartment, madam,’ George said, resuming his seat while Amelia straightened her dress.

  ‘Splendid,’ the woman replied. ‘Don’t worry, if you are a married couple I have no objection to you both sharing it with me.’

  ‘No, I’m afraid you do not understand, madam--‘ George began again, only to be quickly interrupted.

  ‘Are you travelling all the way to Scotland?’ the woman asked, settling her large frame in a corner by the door. ‘I myself am, so I do hope you are. It’s a long journey without company.’

  ‘We are indeed journeying to Scotland, madam, but--’

  ‘Allow me to introduce myself. I am the Lady Donaldson, and when in Scotland I reside at Castle Cullen. Are you familiar with it? It is one of the most notable forts on the eastern seaboard.’

  ‘I have heard of it, Lady Donaldson,’ George said, beginning again. ‘But, with the greatest respect, I would like to point one thing out to you--’

  ‘Your name, sir, if you would be so good,’ Lady Donaldson replied. ‘You have omitted giving me your name.’

  ‘Of course.’ George took a deep breath, glanced at Amelia as if to reassure her, then returned to the lady opposite him. ‘Allow me to present myself. Captain George Dashwood, Royal Artillery, and . . .’ he hesitated before saying proudly, ‘and this is my wife Amelia.’

  ‘Dashwood indeed, General Sir Michael’s boy?’

  ‘The same.’

  ‘I am acquainted with your father, young man,’ Lady Donaldson returned with a satisfied nod. ‘Indeed we have stalked some fine deer together. Are you to Scotland for the sport?’

  ‘Not exactly, Lady Donaldson—’

  George was not allowed to go any further for from the expression on his face Amelia knew that he was about to announce exactly why they were going to Scotland.

  ‘We’re going to visit some relatives,’ she put in quickly, throwing George a quelling look.

  ‘Ah. Good,’ Lady Donaldson sighed, folding her hands in her lap. ‘You look so young and fresh, for one dreadful moment I imagined you might be off on your honeymoon. In which case I would naturally have found myself another compartment.’

  ‘It didn’t matter at all,’ Amelia laughed as later they made their way down the corridor towards their berth.

  ‘But to be so sure of her ground that she even joined us for dinner!’ George protested, rolling his eyes. ‘In fact I should not be in the least surprised if there’s a knock on the sleeper door at midnight and the mighty Lady Donaldson heaves into view asking if this wee berrrrrrth’s reserrrrrved.’

  As George finished speaking in his awful Scots accent he opened the door to let her into the cramped quarters where they were to spend their wedding night.

  ‘It’s all right,’ George said, reading the look on her face. ‘This is not going to be – it’s not to be our wedding night. This doesn’t count. We have to think of this—’ He indicated the tiny cabin. ‘This is en transit.’

  Amelia smiled, suddenly grateful that they had known each other so long, before George leaned down to lift her chin and kiss her once on the lips.

  ‘You get yourself into bed,’ he advised, ‘while I go and have a wee drammie. I’ll be back in about twenty minutes or so.’

  As it transpired George did not return for the best part of an hour, but since they were as he said only en transit, Amelia really saw no point in staying awake for him. Besides, for some reason train journeys always sent her quickly to sleep, particularly once she was abed in a berth. By the time George did return she was only vaguely aware of him. She remembered waking up and seeing him sitting on the edge of the berth below her, his shoes off and his braces round his waist, and she remembered a strong smell of whisky and the way he was just staring at the floor. After which she fell happily asleep again, only waking as the train pulled into Edinburgh station.

  * * *

  The Dashwood hunting lodge was a fine stone house built at the turn of the century by General Dashwood to accommodate him, his family and his friends when the urge to kill a salmon, bag some grouse or stalk some deer came upon him. It stood on high ground overlooking the Tay in over five hundred acres of mixed moor and woodland which made it an excellent small sporting estate.

  It seemed that the immaculately maintained house had always been serviced by the Muir family, an entourage of four taciturn Highlanders who lived in a small cottage by the main gates, while the estate was managed by an immensely tall Sutherlander called Eoin MacIndroe who, as far as Amelia could make out, seemed to speak only Gaelic. When she wondered to George how he understood his estate manager when he himself spoke no Gaelic George assured her that when Eoin spoke to him he did so in English. It simply sounded like Gaelic because his accent was so impenetrable to newcomers. Yet despite the fact that the Muirs were taciturn and Eoin awe-inspiring, Amelia fell in love with Killie Lodge the moment their carriage turned in the drive. Given its dramatic and wonderful setting in a woodland and by water it was without doubt the most beautiful place she had ever seen.

  There were welcoming fires burning in the hearths of every room, and while the outside of the large stone house seemed daunting Amelia was delighted to find the interior comfortable and informal, furnished as it was with well-worn but inviting leather armchairs and sofas. The bedrooms were similarly welcoming, with their old-fashioned beds covered with goose-feather eiderdowns, heavy tartan curtains hanging at the windows and matching rugs thrown over the chairs. Amelia expressed her delight to George at the comfort of what from the outside had appeared to be a somewhat austere Highland lodge, and learned that since the house was such a distance from Sussex his grandmother had left the furnishing of it to old Mrs Muir, who being a good Scotswoman had been both thrifty and sensible, buying all the furniture second-hand at auction. The result was a house which looked as if it had been regularly lived in for at least a hundred years, rather than a recently furnished hunting lodge which was only visited by the family twice a year at the most. Best of all, as far as Amelia was concerned, there were resident dogs, one huge hound of indeterminate breed called Rollo and a sanguine bearded collie bitch called Ellie. Amelia befriended them both immediately, as they did her, almost dragging her off for a walk before she had time to get her bearings.

  ‘They’re incorrigible,’ Mrs Muir told her as she took Amelia’s coat, shooing the dogs away to no great effect with a brown leather booted foot. ‘They think folk belong to them, they do, rather than the vicki verka. Down, Rollo, boy, get down now. Och, he’s a way with him that would whiten the skin of a tannery worker.’

  It was by now early evening, and by the time Amelia came back downstairs having washed and changed her dress after their long journey, George was nowhere to be found.

  ‘Well he’ll be away in the hills, that’s where,’ Mrs Muir told her as she threw some more logs on the fire. ‘Since he came here as a bairn, first thing he must do is walk the hills. Now let me get you some refreshment. Sit there be the fire and I’ll fetch ye some tea and scones just made.’

  Amelia felt more than a little peeved that she had not at least been invited to join George on his walk but her s
ense of aggravation passed as she ate her delicious tea in front of the fire, burying herself in her copy of Wilkie Collins’s The Moonstone which she had packed to read on the train journey. But even though she was enthralled by the book she found she could not settle to it, since half her mind was occupied in wondering when exactly her husband might return. Mrs Muir had told her that due to the hour of their arrival they would be eating later than usual at seven o’clock, but with no sign of the errant George by half past seven Mrs Muir came into the drawing room to announce that dinner would be served at a quarter to eight regardless.

  Ten minutes later, as Amelia prepared to go into the dining room whither she was now being summoned by a gong, she bumped into the returning George plus dogs in the hallway.

  ‘Sorry I’m a little late, everyone,’ George apologized as Mrs Muir hurried out to take her master’s coat and hat. ‘I lost Rollo the far side of the loch.’

  ‘He’d have made his own way back as usual,’ Mrs Muir replied. ‘We were just about to start without ye.’

  ‘Of course. Do go right ahead, won’t you, and settle Mrs Dashwood here at table, while I pop and wash my hands and fetch myself a small whisky and soda. Since only my wife and I are dining,’ George smiled, ‘I doubt if we have to stand on ceremony.’

  He pulled a face at Amelia behind Mrs Muir’s back before disappearing to the cloakroom, leaving the housekeeper with an armful of coat and hat.

  ‘Ach well,’ she sighed, folding George’s loden coat outside in. ‘Since ye are here on your honeymoon I dare say we’ll forgive your being two minutes late, but nae more, or there’ll be ruin on the plates, not dinner.’

  Everything was far from ruined, the delicious game pie in particular, and the rest of the excellent dinner which both George and Amelia ate with relish, hungry after their long journey and George after his over-extended walk.