The Chain Garden

by Jane Jackson

  Unfastening the string, Grace separated one of the newspapers from the bundle she always brought to villagers she visited. The papers were rarely read. Each page was neatly folded several times then cut or torn into squares, threaded onto a length of string and hung in the privy.

  Quickly crumpling and twisting several sheets she poked them down among the embers. Dropping the sticks in on top she replaced the cover and, crouching, rammed the long poker in between the bars to let air in as she pulled the knob to riddle ash into the box below. A tongue of flame licked around the paper. A few moments later the sticks began to crackle. Once they were well alight she hooked the cover off again and with a small black shovel dropped coal on top of the burning wood.

  ‘I think you need a nice cup of tea.’ She reached for the pitcher to fill the kettle. Both were empty. ‘Becky, when did you last have a hot drink?’

  ‘I don’t know. I can’t remember. What do it matter anyhow?’

  ‘I’m just going to fetch some water. I won’t be long.’

  Becky closed her eyes trying not to cough.

  As Grace went out, the door in the adjoining yard opened to reveal a short barrel-shaped man wearing a waistcoat over a collarless shirt soft and faded from innumerable washings. A broad leather belt curved under his belly holding up shapeless trousers. Between the old flat cap that shaded his eyes and the bushy grey moustache masking his upper lip his ruddy cheeks shone. He nodded towards the pitcher in Grace’s hand.

  ‘Daft old besom. I’d have got it for her. But she wouldn’t even open the bleddy door. Here, you have mine while I go and fill that.’

  ‘It’s very good of you, Ernie.’

  ‘No such thing. ‘Tis never right her being on her own, not while she’s so bad. Where’s that sister of hers I’d like to know.’ Grace had been wondering the same thing. ‘I’ll give her the edge of my tongue next time she show her face, just see if I don’t.’ He clicked his tongue. ‘Hark at me going on and you there waiting for that water.’ He turned away, emerging a few seconds later with a full pitcher. ‘Manage all right, can you?’

  ‘Yes. You’re very kind.’

  ‘You wouldn’t think so,’ he muttered gloomily. ‘Not to hear she talk. I dunno. Bleddy women. More trouble than they’re worth sometimes.’ He trudged away down the lane.

  Grace went back inside, the full pitcher heavy and awkward.

  ‘You was quick,’ Becky’s face puckered in a frown. Grace hid a sigh.

  ‘Ernie let me have his pitcher while he fills yours.’

  ‘I don’t want him doing nothing for me.’

  ‘I can’t imagine why,’ Grace replied calmly. ‘But actually he’s doing it for me. He was kind enough to offer and it would have been rude to refuse.’

  The fire was burning nicely now, filling the cheerless room with warmth. Hooking the cover off the stove again, Grace held her breath as she shovelled up the disgusting mess of rags and dropped them onto the flames. She filled the kettle and pulled it over the opening.

  Rolling up her sleeves she took an apron from the hook on the back of the door and tied it over her skirt then carried the enamel basin out into the yard. Stacking the dishes carefully on the wall she emptied the basin into the gutter. She had just rinsed and wiped it clean when Ernie returned with the water.

  Setting the pitcher down, he went into his own yard and reached for the dirty dishes on the wall. ‘Don’t you say nothing,’ he warned. ‘If she don’t know she can’t fuss. I’ll put them back here when they’re done. You’d best get on in, else she’ll be wondering what you’re at.’

  ‘Thanks, Ernie.’ Closing the door grace put the basin on the table and poured in clean water. From her basket she took a small package of tea and one of sugar, an enamel can of milk with a lid on, a jar filled with pale gold jelly and a fresh loaf. Pulling the beaded cloth from the jug she recoiled. The milk was solid.

  ‘Come on,’ she coaxed a few minutes later, holding the steaming cup until she was sure Becky could manage without help. ‘You’ll feel better for a cup of tea and a bite to eat.’

  ‘I don’t want food,’ Becky moved her head weakly. ‘Couldn’t stomach it.’

  Grace felt queasy herself. But, before she could open the window and let in some fresh air, the room had to be warm. ‘That’s a pity. I’ve brought a jar of my quince jelly for you to try. Remember you gave me the recipe after Harvest Festival last year? Just try a taste. I’m going to change your bed then I’ll help you wash.’

  ‘You can’t do that, Miss.’ Becky’s eyes widened. ‘Whatever would people say?’

  ‘Well, I wasn’t planning to shout it down the street. So who is to know?’

  ‘I aren’t saying it’s not kind of you, Miss. But ‘tis never proper for you to be doing such things. Sister will give me a hand when she come over.’

  Grace didn’t argue. She finished making the sandwich, slid it onto a clean plate and cut it into quarters. ‘Ernie was just saying he hasn’t seen Vera lately.’

  ‘Yes, well, Vera got troubles of her own.’ Becky sipped the hot sweet tea and allowed Grace to tuck the blanket around her. ‘That girl of hers,’ she shook her head. ‘Be the death of Vera she will. I tell you, Miss Grace, and I wouldn’t say this to another living soul, but that Ruby do spend more time on her back than she do on her feet.’

  The flash of anger triggered another coughing spell. More sips of hot tea soothed her and Grace appeared not to notice when Becky reached for the triangle of soft bread.

  ‘You didn’t ought to be doing this,’ she repeated. But it lacked the conviction of her earlier protests.

  Opening the window Grace inhaled deeply, steeling herself to deal with the slop bucket in the corner. Judging from the smell Becky had not been able to get up the garden to the privy for several days. Grateful it had a lid she picked up the stinking pail.

  By the time Grace reached the privy her arm felt as if it was being torn from its socket and her chest hurt. Lifting the rusty-hinged wooden seat she turned her face away, almost gagging at the stench. She hoisted the pail up onto the brick edge. The muscles in her lower back strained as she tried to avoid any spills on her skirt or shoes, and tipped the contents into the cesspit.

  After shovelling ashes down the hole from a battered bucket kept in the corner she replaced the wooden seat. Outside in the sweet spring air she breathed deeply, ladled rainwater from the old butt beneath the sagging gutter, and rinsed the pail several times.

  Back in the cottage she took a bar of scented soap from her basket, washed her hands thoroughly then refilled the basin with hot water.

  An hour later bathed and wearing a clean nightgown, her hair brushed and braided, Becky was back in the rocking chair with a blanket shielding her from draughts.

  After building up the fire and making a fresh pot of tea Grace picked up the empty pitcher.

  ‘Where you going with that?’ Becky demanded.

  ‘You’ll need more water.’

  Becky’s expression was scandalised. ‘You can’t go up the pump.’

  Grace peered through the window. ‘Of course I can, and I will if I have to.’ She dropped her voice to a whisper. ‘But as Ernie is across in his garden I daresay he’ll offer, and I shall accept with gratitude.’ She glanced over her shoulder. ‘I think he’s lonely, Becky. It’s – what – five years since his wife died? His son is married. Ernie’s all by himself with all that kindness to give and no one to give it to.’ She shook her head. ‘It seems such a waste.’

  ‘I suppose you think I should just forget what happened and be friends with him’

  ‘You always used to be friends. I remember when your Tom and his wife Molly were alive–’

  ‘Yes, well, they aren’t no more.’

  ‘I know.’ She paused before adding softly, ‘It must be hard for you seeing Betty with Will.’

  Becky’s eyes filled. ‘It isn’t that so much, though I still say it wasn’t decent how quick she took up with him. Now she’s in the family way.
’ She shook her head.

  ‘Then what it is, Becky?’

  ‘Can’t you see?’ Becky’s face reflected her despair. ‘My man have gone. I only had the one boy and I’ve lost he. I won’t never have grandchildren. So what’s the point?’

  Chapter Four

  As the train puffed its way slowly over the Tamar Bridge Bryce caught his brother’s eye. Richard grinned. There was no need for words. Even though it was still sixty miles to Truro they were back in Cornwall. They were home.

  Staring out of the train window at rolling hills, small fields edged with wild parsley and speedwells, pastures dotted with daisies and buttercups, grazing cattle, bluebells spilling down wooded banks and pastures bobbled with sheep, Bryce felt the weight of black misery begin to lift. I will conquer this. I will.

  Bryce hefted his bag onto the coverlet. Crossing to the window he looked over the park and wooded valley that hid the road to distant hills now hazy in the sinking sun. The river was a ribbon of gold twisting between grassy banks strewn with cushions of pink thrift. Everything was so clean and quiet but for the distant thud of the stamps.

  The humid heat, brilliant colours and seething crush of Calcutta had stunned after the soaring silent mountains of Tibet. Despite their permits and passes it had taken two weeks of hard bargaining in the raucous squalor of Kidderpore Docks to obtain passage on a steamship carrying tea to London.

  Turning from the window he looked from the empty grate with its green and white tile surround to the vase of cream and yellow tulips on the chest of drawers. The large wardrobe in the alcove, his bookshelves and bureau were instantly familiar. Yet they belonged to another person, another life.

  The floorboards gleamed and the air was scented with lavender and beeswax. The house in Zayul had smelled of pine resin and smoke, of oil paint and turpentine, of sweat and wet leather and Pinzo’s mutton stew.

  He could hear his twin across the passage laughing with Patrick who had helped Thomas Coachman carry up the luggage. Opening his battered leather bag Bryce pulled out a toilet bag, a grubby towel, his writing case and finally, wrapped in a length of hand-woven white cloth, two thick leather-bound albums. Closing his eyes he held them to his face, inhaling the faint fragrance of spices. Anguish stopped his breath.

  Moving the oil lamp with its fat pearl-glass bowl to one side he laid the albums on his bedside table, unlocked his trunk and threw back the lid. But as he lifted out clothes and boots a waft of wood smoke and curry triggered a torrent of memories. Limpid agate eyes, curling blue-black hair, warm skin the golden bronze of liquid honey, and a smile that had made the delays, frustrations, hardships and disasters bearable.

  He closed his eyes visualising the supple body and slender unexpectedly strong fingers that had worked magic whether massaging the ache from strained muscles or giving pleasure so exquisite that he had wept, his teeth clenched so as not to cry out.

  Pierced by overwhelming loss he gripped the edge of the trunk as he fought for control. Nothing here had changed. But he had. He was not the man the family thought him. Not the man he had tried so hard to be. Even if he wanted to – and God knew his life would be easier – he could not undo what he had done, could not unlearn or forget what he now knew. As he took out the wooden box containing the rest of the photographs his chest felt as if it might burst with grief he could not share and must never betray.

  Hearing Patrick’s measured tread outside in the passage he blinked quickly to dispel shaming tears and drew a ragged breath. Then down the hall Grace’s voice, breathless, asked if they had arrived. Bryce listened as his brother strode across the landing and called down to her.

  ‘We certainly have. Where were you? Too busy to welcome us?’

  Dropping the box on the bed he went out to join his brother as Grace raced up the stairs towards them.

  ‘I’m so sorry. I thought I’d be back long before you got home. I know I look a mess. Don’t ask what I’ve been doing, you wouldn’t want to hear. Oh, it’s wonderful to see you both again.’ She flung her arms around Richard who lifted her off her feet and kissed her soundly. Freeing herself she turned to Bryce. ‘I’ve missed you so much.’

  As they hugged each other Bryce was startled to feel the sharpness of her shoulder blades and the knobs of bone down her spine. Releasing him she linked an arm through each of theirs.

  ‘Richard, I’m dying to see your sketches and paintings.’ She turned to Bryce. ‘And your photographs.’ She squeezed his arm. ‘You must have seen some amazing places.’

  ‘We certainly did,’ Bryce smiled, noting the shadows under her eyes.

  ‘We’ll tell you all about it later.’ Richard extricated himself. ‘Better finish unpacking first.’

  Peering at the chaos of crumpled clothing, boxes, packing cases and half-emptied trunk, Grace wrinkled her nose. ‘I’ll send Kate up with a laundry hamper. Though she might need help to carry it down.’

  ‘Well, what do you expect after three years away?’ Richard demanded.

  She gaped. ‘You can’t mean –’

  ‘He’s teasing you,’ Bryce said.

  Richard grinned. ‘She was ready to believe it though.’

  ‘Oh, you,’ Grace laughed. As Richard vanished into his room she followed Bryce. ‘Not quite as bad.’

  ‘I’ve only just started.’ As her smile faded he saw how tired she looked. ‘You all right, Gracie?’

  ‘I’m fine. It’s just –’ She clasped her hands together. ‘Mama’s health isn’t good. It seems the slightest thing is enough to trigger one of her attacks.’

  ‘And Granny?’

  ‘Oh, she’s fine. Since you went I don’t think she’s had so much as a cold.’ Grace pulled a wry face. ‘She says she can’t afford to with Mama ill so often. ‘There’s only room in a house for one invalid,’ she mimicked wearily but without malice.

  ‘I don’t suppose she’ll be overjoyed to see us back.’

  ‘Oh, Bryce, of course she–’ Catching his ironic expression she stopped. ‘Well, you know how it is. She’s grown used to having Mama all to herself.’ As his brows climbed she brushed her hands down her skirt. ‘We see little of Papa. There are problems at the mine. He spends most of his time there. Goodness, listen to me. I didn’t mean to – I’d far rather hear your news.’ She studied him. ‘Is anything wrong? You look –’

  ‘Terrible. I know.’ He forced a grin. ‘But we’ve been travelling for weeks. You didn’t let mother plan anything for this evening, did you?’

  ‘Your letter only arrived this morning. Which was all for the best as she didn’t have time to get into a state. I told her you would need a few days to recover. You’ve been living such a different life.’

  Bryce hugged her to hide his face. ‘Thanks.’

  ‘There’ll be no guests until next week. I’m so glad you’re home for my birthday dinner.’

  ‘You’re a treasure, Grace. I can’t imagine why you’re still here.’

  She leaned back, bewildered. ‘Where else would I be?’

  ‘In a home of your own cared for by a decent man who had the luck and good sense to marry you.’

  He felt her tense. She looked away and he saw colour flood her face.

  ‘Grace? Is there … There is! Well, it’s about time.’ He was pleased for her. Only five years older than him, Grace had been far more than just a sister when they were growing up. Their mother’s frequent ill health meant it was to Grace he and Richard had run when grazed knees required a bandage or splinters needed removing. Grace had helped them build a tree house. She had given him a whole pound towards dry plates for his camera. He longed to tell her. Yet how could he expect her to understand?

  ‘I hope he has more about him than those idiots who used to moon after Zoe. But if he loves you he’s bound to be a good sort. So, when’s the wedding?’ He winced inwardly. He was trying too hard.

  ‘Don’t.’ She pulled free.

  He was instantly contrite. ‘I’m sorry. What is it, Gracie? The parents don’t l
ike him?’

  ‘No, that’s not – Goodness, look at the time. I must go and change.’ Forcing a smile that made him ache in sympathy, she went to the door. ‘I hope you’re both hungry. Rose has been cooking all day.’ He heard her run down the passage then the distant slam of her bedroom door.

  * * *

  John Ainsley was seated at his desk writing when his housekeeper knocked lightly on the door of his book-lined consulting room.

  ‘Come in,’ he called. Mrs Tallack entered, neat in a brown skirt and striped blouse, a cameo at her throat.

  ‘Tis Mrs Renowden, Doctor. She wondered if you got a minute. She’ll come back another time if you’re busy.’

  John raised his head. ‘No, I’ll see her. Show her in, will you?’ Setting down his pen he closed the folder containing his partly written report. At last parliament had called for an investigation into the sudden increase in deaths from lung disease among men working in Cornish tin mines. Rubbing tired eyes he adjusted his spectacles, swivelled his chair and rose to his feet as the door opened once more.

  ‘Mrs Renowden, doctor.’ Mrs Tallack withdrew and the door clicked shut behind her.

  ‘This is very good of you, John.’ Dorcas came forward. She looked cool in blue and white cotton voile, a deep pointed frill of white lace over her full bosom. Her thick hair was piled up under a soft straw hat trimmed with matching ribbon. ‘I hope I’m not interrupting?’

  ‘Not at all.’ He clasped her extended hand. ‘It’s always a pleasure to see you. The occasions are all too rare.’

  He saw her mouth quirk. ‘You know you are welcome to call whenever you pass the cottage. If you wait for me to be ill, heaven knows when our paths will cross again.’

  He laughed. ‘How I wish I could bottle your constitution and prescribe it to some of my more loyal female patients. Come and sit down.’ He indicated a chair and waited while she settled herself, dipping her head so the brim of her hat hid her face. Years of experience had made him expert at deciphering silences. This one rang a faint alarm bell.

  He had always admired her directness. She had no time for false modesty, or the arch simpering affected by so many of her sex when consulting him about intimate female problems. Perhaps being an artist afforded her a different perspective and greater detachment. What quality in Henry Damerel had attracted and held this remarkable woman? He tried to make it easier for her.