As it happened, unless they were told about it no stranger would ever be aware of the Kissing Garden’s existence. Since it lay beyond the mound south of the formal lawns in an area behind a newly restored wall, all that could be seen from the house was what appeared to be nothing more than one straight line of hedge. Even from an upstairs window the actual rectangle could not be made out. And should a visitor happen upon it, there was little likelihood that they would linger long, for, in truth, there was nothing there to keep them, just a box of hedge with a lawn in the middle. Or so it seemed.
* * *
By the beginning of the following year George’s novel The Ridge had achieved best-selling status in England amid unabated controversy. Its admirers thought it to be the first original piece of writing to come out of what was now being referred to as the Great War. Naturally the book’s detractors thought it narrow and biased. But no-one questioned the writer’s actual talent, even the book’s most severe critics having to admit that George Dashwood had an important original voice and undoubted literary skill.
The most severe reaction to the book, however, came from outside the literary world, from people who considered themselves to be members of George Dashwood’s own class. They considered George to have betrayed his background, the most militant among them even suggesting he should be stripped of his medals.
At first George weathered the storm, allowing himself to be interviewed for various journals and newspapers and even arguing his case in public debate in various forums, but finally, when the criticism became really too subjective, he retired to The Priory, letting it be known that from then on the book would have to speak for itself.
Yet it was not to be as easy as that, for unfortunately George’s new notoriety pursued him everywhere, despite the fact that The Priory was well off the beaten track, hidden in the deepest countryside. Every week hundreds of letters arrived for him, forwarded to The Priory by his publisher, while the telephone hardly stopped ringing with invitations from pacifists wanting George to make an appearance in aid of their cause, or from women inviting him onto the suffrage bandwagon. He was once more a hero, but this time to a very different sort of person.
By June he was beginning to feel that he had endured enough. He telephoned his publisher Jack Cornwall and told him to forward no more letters, changed their telephone number and made up his mind to take time off from work, time for Amelia and himself to holiday. Since he was a member of Wimbledon, their first real holiday outing was to go to London to see Helen Wills contest the Ladies’ singles final.
‘I like your hat,’ George said when Amelia had finally come downstairs into the lobby of the hotel. ‘I don’t think I’ve seen that one before.’
‘Mr Finlay in the village had it made up in London to go with my coat, specially,’ Amelia said, glancing in the looking-glass behind George’s seat. ‘He is so clever. Always thinking up new ideas and moving heaven and earth to put them into practice. I say, George. You don’t think it’s too far down over my eyes, do you?’
‘Isn’t that the fashion? Like your – how can I best put it? Your bosom-less dress.’ George looked at her straight-faced.
‘George,’ Amelia sighed, the way women always do when their men take an opposite view. ‘Can you imagine women leading the sort of life they lead nowadays corseted the way we were before the war? I mean can you imagine it? Corsets mean you can’t breathe. I don’t know how Queen Mary can bear them.’
‘Before the war you were hardly old enough to wear a corset.’
‘Don’t you like this look?’
‘I’ll get used to it, I suppose. My trouble is I like women to look like women.’
‘Rather than?’
‘Boys. And I think the king agrees with me!’
Amelia eyed him and would have not only pursued him further, but set about him physically, had they been at home, and not just about to leave their London hotel for Wimbledon.
‘It’s all right, Amelia Dashwood, I was only teasing you,’ George whispered as he held open the door for her. ‘You look quite wonderful.’
She also looked highly fashionable, she was glad to see, once they arrived at the Centre Court and took their seats among the other members and their guests. Despite Mr Finlay’s minute attention to her coat and skirt, his exquisite tailoring and eye for detail, Amelia had been afraid that she might have got so out of touch with London Society that she would appear as a semi-rustic alongside her contemporaries, but thanks to both her tailor’s lively interest in the latest styles and her own desire not to look provincial they had managed to come up with an outfit which was very much à la mode. It had to be said that it pleased Amelia even more to note that she still took the eye of the opposite sex, especially of several quite dashing acquaintances of George’s who came up to exchange greetings with their old friend and cast roguish looks towards his beautiful young wife.
‘You seem to be looking for someone in particular, George.’
‘I was wondering if Grace might be here,’ George replied, scanning the crowd. ‘Ralph Grace. Remember? He’s a great tennis fan. But I can’t see him.’
‘You should ask him to stay,’ Amelia said, taking her seat in a wicker armchair. ‘Ask him down to The Priory, now that you’re on holiday.’
‘Yes, I should, shouldn’t I?’ George agreed vaguely, treading out his cigarette.
The spectators broke into warm applause as the two women finalists stepped out onto the Centre Court.
‘Helen Wills will walk it. No contest,’ George murmured, as an official who had known George since he was a boy made his way over to them.
‘Hallo, Captain Dashwood. I can’t tell you how good it is to see you after all this time. Really, first class.’ He looked admiringly into George’s eyes. ‘We were all so proud of you when we read of your decoration. Very proud indeed.’
‘Thank you, Mr Collier. And it’s very kind of you to come over.’
‘Anything you need at any time just say the word, Captain Dashwood.’
He nodded and smiled, and watching him walk off Amelia felt that peculiar glow that George’s achievements always gave her. She was more proud of him than she could ever say; most of all, she was proud of his modesty.
It was during the knock-up that another man, seated directly behind George, decided to make himself known to him, although in a rather less courteous fashion than Mr Collier’s. He tapped George on one shoulder with a rolled-up newspaper.
‘Excuse me. Heard the name and I thought as much. You’re that fellow, aren’t you? That Captain Dashwood?’
George turned to find himself being stared at by a florid-faced man with a black Kitchener moustache and small rheumy green eyes. He was wearing a heavy tweed suit in which he appeared to have already over-heated.
‘You’re that damn writer fellow, aren’t you?’
‘Not today he isn’t,’ Amelia interrupted. ‘Today my husband is just another tennis enthusiast come to see the finals.’
‘I wasn’t addressing you, you jessy,’ the man persisted. ‘I was talking to the captain here.’
‘What did you just call my wife?’ George turned right round to look the man full in the face.
‘I used the name her sort answer to, Captain Dashwood,’ the man replied. ‘Women who lie down with men like you, sir.’
‘Leave him be, George,’ Amelia begged. ‘The man is quite obviously mad.’
‘If I am mad, my dear, it’s only at this husband of yours. A man who could write such things about his country. About all the boys who gave up their lives so that he could write the sort of filth he does. Well, I won’t have it, Captain Dashwood, sir. Not for one damned moment I won’t.’
Amelia looked hastily round for Mr Collier, but he had vanished.
‘I think you had better apologize to my wife, and at once.’
‘And I think you’re the one who owes an apology to your king and your country, sir. You have desecrated the memory of the fallen.’
Some other spectators sitting nearby began to take more interest in George and his opponent than in the match. But in spite of Amelia’s tugging on his sleeve, George was still determinedly facing the man behind him.
‘If you don’t apologize to my wife at once, I will not be responsible for my actions.’
‘And if you don’t apologize to those whose memory you have traduced, sir, I most certainly will not be responsible for mine!’ The man was on his feet now and beginning to belabour George about the head and shoulders with his newspaper, keeping time with his words. ‘I repeat! And I do so for all here to hear! You are a disgrace to your king and country, sir! And the Victoria Cross! You should be tried for treason!’
‘Apologize to my wife, sir.’
‘I’ll be damned if I will!’
‘It’s all right, George!’ Amelia persisted. ‘He’s just a madman!’
‘I have better things to do than apologize to a whore!’
He had barely got the insult out when George, now on his feet, sent him flying backwards over his chair with one perfectly aimed uppercut.
‘Bravo!’ someone called from behind as the man crashed to the ground, legs in the air and one hand clapped to his jaw.
‘You asked for that, you fool,’ another spectator said, pulling George’s antagonist to his feet. ‘Now if I were you, I’d get going.’
‘I shouldn’t have done that,’ George muttered to Amelia as she wrapped his bruised knuckles in her handkerchief.
‘Of course you should,’ George’s immediate neighbour assured him, as several officials hurried towards them, followed closely by a police constable. ‘Bounder asked for it. You don’t come to the Centre Court to pick a fight. Let alone insult a winner of the Victoria Cross.’
‘You haven’t heard the last of this, Dashwood,’ the man croaked from behind a hand held to his bloodied mouth. ‘You’ll regret this day, I’m warning you.’
‘Everything all right, Captain Dashwood?’ Mr Collier had rejoined them. ‘Someone said there was a fracas.’
‘This fellow here,’ George’s neighbour said, pointing out the assailant to the policeman, ‘this lunatic insulted Captain Dashwood’s wife in no uncertain terms and the good captain quite rightly put the fellow to rights.’
‘That’s perfectly correct, constable,’ his wife agreed. ‘Captain and Mrs Dashwood were minding their own business when this wretched little man set about insulting Mrs Dashwood most dreadfully.’
‘Saw it all,’ another man agreed from the row below George and Amelia. ‘People like him shouldn’t be allowed in places like this. This is the Centre Court, not Hyde Park Corner.’
‘We’ll soon have him out of here, don’t you worry,’ the constable assured everyone, taking hold of the offender, who pointed wildly at George.
‘This man is a traitor, I tell you!’ he cried. ‘This blackguard is a traitor to his king and to his country!’
‘That’ll do, sir,’ the constable insisted wearily. ‘Unless you’d rather I called up some reinforcements and had you carried away bodily?’
‘You wait, Dashwood,’ the man shouted back as the policeman began to drag him away. ‘You’ll rue this day – just you wait!’
Inevitably the incident had badly disfigured the afternoon. George and Amelia were hardly able to enjoy the match, both agreeing to leave immediately it was over.
‘That was jolly, wasn’t it?’ Amelia sighed, as they sat in the taxi taking them back to their hotel. ‘Still, I suppose if you’re going to be a controversial author, we must get used to – controversy.’
‘Do you mind terribly, darling?’
‘Mind? I’m even prouder of you than ever.’
It was hardly surprising that for a long time after this unpleasant incident George hardly ventured further than the boundaries of The Priory, seeming to wish the world would go away and stay away. Simultaneously he came to believe that there really was little point in going away himself from the beautiful place where they lived. They had started to create Arcadia, and that was where he would stay.
‘I don’t need town any more. I don’t need that sort of life and I don’t like it any more. This is all that counts. Being here at The Priory with you and the children.’
‘Don’t mind me,’ Amelia said tartly.
‘Of course I mind you. But I thought you loved it here as much as I do. More, even.’
‘I love it here more than I can say, George darling. But I also quite like going to London occasionally. To see friends and go to the theatre. And look at all the clothes I can’t possibly afford.’
‘You can go to town whenever you want. All I meant was if I didn’t have to go there ever again, I wouldn’t mind. That’s all. And who can blame me? Living in a place as wonderful as this – with a woman as beautiful as you?’
‘Oh, George,’ Amelia sighed. ‘You always say so many of the right things it makes me feel quite sentimental.’
So George turned his attentions once more to his writing, this time a novel about the aftermath of the war, a story concerning the return of a soldier to a country he had defended with his life and for which hundreds of thousands of his colleagues had sacrificed theirs, only to find the country turned against itself. He jokingly remarked to Amelia that since he was thinking of ending the story with the returning soldiers overturning the government it was probably just as well for him to stay holed up in the country down miles of wooded lanes where only the very dedicated would ever find him.
‘Not only that,’ he confessed one evening, ‘but for some reason, ever since that incident at Wimbledon, I have had this feeling of doom. As if something awful is going to happen, or someone is going to do something dreadful. Some people are truly crazy. It’s strange, isn’t it, that someone else’s truth can drive them to such distraction.’
Amelia put her hand out to comfort him. ‘I know. It was all most upsetting. Don’t think about it.’
‘I try not to, I really do. But I can’t help it. I just have this feeling that our whole world is going to change.’
Amelia turned away from the thought, shrugging her shoulders.
In fact their world did change, suddenly and for ever, in the summer of the following year. George was in his study reading the newspaper before dinner one evening when Amelia came down from the nursery floor looking pale and worried.
‘It’s Gwennie,’ she said when he questioned her. ‘I am quite sure it’s nothing – but just to be on the safe side I’m going to call Edward.’
‘I thought she’d been unusually quiet recently. For her, that is,’ George agreed, nervously lighting a cigarette. ‘She’s usually such a bundle of energy, but she seems to have been sleeping rather a lot lately.’
‘And yet she still complains of feeling tired. And she looks tired all the time.’
Amelia picked up the telephone and dialled the doctor’s number.
‘Probably just growing pains,’ George said. ‘Children get all sorts of things wrong with them. When I was her age I remember being sickly for a year. The doctors said it was my glands.’
However, after he had examined the little girl and put her back to bed in Clara’s charge, Edward Lydford came to quite a different conclusion.
‘You should take this child to a good specialist at once,’ he said. ‘I don’t mean to alarm you good folk, but she is not well and it’s much better if she’s seen by someone who knows what they’re talking about and not some old country buffer like me. How old is she now?’
‘Nearly three and a half,’ Amelia replied. ‘What do you think it might be, Edward? Is it something serious?’
‘I’m not even going to attempt a guess at that, old girl,’ Edward replied, consulting his pocket book. ‘I don’t want to go sending you up some false trail or other. Now. There’s an absolutely splendid fellow in Harley Street by the name of McAllister. First class man. Looks at children and children only. Top man in his field. I suggest I make a date with him pronto. Now, in fact.’
Edwa
rd picked up the telephone and began to dial a number while Amelia and George exchanged anxious looks.
‘It’s probably nothing to worry about,’ George said, all the blood drained from his face. ‘Probably just some kids’ thing like the measles, or scarlet fever, or something.’
‘She’s also had diarrhoea recently, Edward,’ Amelia remembered. ‘I should have mentioned it. Clara said Gwennie hasn’t be right for nearly a week now.’
‘Fine, fine,’ Edward grunted. ‘Tell it all to the good Dr McAllister. Sounds as if he can see you tomorrow.’
* * *
Leaving Gwendolyn in a waiting room in the charge of one of his assistants, the specialist summoned both parents back into his consulting room.
‘First and foremost Edward was quite right to send you to me, Mrs Dashwood, Captain Dashwood,’ the tall, grey-haired consultant told them both. ‘He thinks of himself as a bumpkin but he’s actually a first-rate doctor. And he was quite right to send you here with Gwendolyn. Now, I have no wish to alarm you, but I must be frank. Naturally I need to await the results of the tests I ran this afternoon, and I shall no doubt have more tests to run in subsequent days, but my initial inclination is to suggest the child may be anaemic. You know of course what the term means?’
‘It’s a disorder of the blood, as far as I remember,’ Amelia replied for both of them, as her insides turned to ice.
Dr McAllister nodded.
‘Literally it means a lack of blood, but in fact it is a shortage of haemoglobin, the pigment which carries oxygen in our red blood cells. If we run short of haemoglobin we feel weary and inefficient, we are pale and weary, we have headaches, we may even run a fever.’
‘Gwendolyn did have a slight temperature this week, and last. Nanny said it was just over 99.4 for a couple of days, which was why we kept Gwennie in bed.’
‘Just so, Mrs Dashwood. But we know now that there are many reasons for anaemia, the most common being a deficient production of iron, or an inability to absorb iron from the diet. I doubt if this is the case with your daughter. Then we come to vitamin deficiency – vitamin B12, to be precise.’
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