The Chain Garden

by Jane Jackson

  Bryce cleared his throat, his heart still racing from shock. ‘How did you – How did I give myself away?’

  Croft shook his head. ‘You didn’t. At least it was nothing they –’ he indicated the emptying room, ‘ –would register. Call it intuition.’ He leaned forward. ‘Recognition perhaps? So,’ he straightened. ‘How about that drink?’

  Bryce shook his head. ‘Thanks, but I’d better get home.’

  Croft shrugged. ‘Another time.’ He walked away.

  Bryce didn’t move as the blissful relief of knowing there were others like him was crushed by panic. Now the secret was no longer his alone. If it ever got out – Imagining the impact on his family tied his stomach in painful knots.

  Walking beneath the archway that led into the chain garden, Grace inhaled the sweet fragrance of jasmine and honeysuckle. She could see her mother at the far end, resting on her ebony cane as she watched Ben Hooper finish planting some purple pansies. In her high-necked day dress of lilac muslin she looked cool but fragile. A wide-brimmed hat shielded her face.

  Realizing they hadn’t yet noticed her Grace paused to admire the colours: red, pink, gold, purple, lemon and occasional touches of white all enclosed within a line of circles of dark green box. As an example of summer planting it was beautiful. Why then could she not simply accept it as such?

  Her gaze sought the bed intuition told her was hers. At the centre, cream and cerise aquilegia signifying modesty were encircled by pink petunias that means do not despair, godetia that said your secret is safe with me, marigolds for grief, and pansies for thoughts.

  Her innermost fears and hopes were laid bare to be read by anyone who understood the language of flowers. She had seen the book on a stall at the summer fair years ago. Intrigued by the idea that the Victorians had assigned meanings to flowers and gemstones and under pressure from Mrs Eddyvean, she had bought it. But with recognition had come regret. She would far rather have remained in ignorance.

  The planting could not be simple coincidence, chosen merely for colour. Not when it was so accurate, so significant. Yet how did her mother know her thoughts and feelings? She never confided in anyone. She had certainly never breathed a word about her attraction to Edwin Philpotts. Nor, she was certain, had her behaviour at the party or the summer fair betrayed anything other than her shyness, and discomfort at being the focus of attention.

  Her gaze slid to her father’s bed, to vibrant red gladioli tall and proud in the centre: gladioli that stood for strong character. Seeing them surrounded by pink and white godetia, Grace flinched. None of the other beds contained godetia; only hers and her father’s. Your secret is safe with me.

  What was her father’s secret? A flash of intuition told Grace it must be something he believed his wife unaware of. Otherwise her mother would not have made the floral statement.

  Her mother’s bed had lupins at the centre. Lupins signified dejection. Bryce and Richard’s both contained gladioli and sweet William: for strong character and gallantry. Flowers that were right for them, and yet… Her gaze lingered and her forehead tightened in a frown. They were twins but they were very different. Odd then that her mother should have made their beds almost identical, with no acknowledgement that despite Bryce’s stronger build and sporting prowess he was the more sensitive, the more vulnerable.

  She looked at the bed between her mother’s and her own, where lemon gladioli were ringed with pink and white pelargoniums signifying eagerness. Whose was this link in the chain? She had always assumed it was for her grandfather Chenoweth. But for the first time it occurred to her that perhaps it wasn’t. She’d had four grandparents so why would only one be included? Was it possible there had been another child before her? A child who had not survived? A loss too great to be spoken of?

  At that moment Louise looked up. ‘Hello, darling.’ She beckoned Grace forward. ‘Do come and see. Aren’t the colours beautiful? Doesn’t it all look splendid?’ Her gaze swept along the linked beds, her smile one of satisfaction.

  Grace did not know what to think.

  ‘Don’t want it.’ Becky Collins turned her head away from the proffered sandwich.

  Grace put the plate back on the table. Since her last visit a week ago Becky’s flesh seemed to have melted away leaving only transparent skin over bird-like bones.

  Crouching beside the chair Grace coaxed. ‘Please, Becky. You must eat something.’

  The shrivelled woman closed her eyes. ‘No.’

  ‘Shall I ask Doctor Ainsley to stop by?’ There was no response and swelling anxiety compressed Grace’s lungs. ‘If you’re in pain –’

  ‘Please,’ Becky whispered. ‘Just leave me be.’

  There must be something she could do. Panic fluttered like dark wings. She had emptied the bucket, made up the fire, fetched clean water and tidied the squalid kitchen as best she could. Becky had refused to be washed. But she needed food. Without it she would die. Yet short of forcing it into her mouth… Jumping to her feet Grace filled the kettle. She made a fresh cup of tea and set it within Becky’s reach.

  ‘I’ll call again as soon as I can.’ There was no response. Grace’s chest tightened. Becky was the same age as her mother. That wasn’t old. Don’t die. She clamped her lips together to stop the fear from spilling out. ‘Try and drink the tea, Becky.’ She picked up her basket.

  As she pulled the cottage door shut behind her Ernie came out. He must have been watching from his window. He shook his head. ‘She ‘aven’t got long.’

  ‘I’m going to ask the doctor to –’

  ‘Begging your pardon, Miss, but you’d be wasting your time, and his.’

  ‘You can’t say that.’ Tension made Grace’s voice shrill. ‘You don’t know–’

  ‘Yes, I do, my ’andsome. I seen it before, see? Mollie went exactly the same before she died. They do retreat inside theirselves. ‘Tis like they’re cutting the ties. No good trying to reach them or call them back. Truth is, ‘tis their time to go even if we aren’t ready to let them.’

  Grace’s eyes filled. She gripped her basket so tightly her knuckles ached.

  ‘C’mon, my bird,’ Ernie’s tone was gruff and kindly. ‘Don’t take on. Here, Will and Betty’s babby was born last night. A little boy. I went up and seen him this morning. Handsome he is. Got some great thatch of dark hair.’

  Choking down panic she didn’t understand Grace forced a smile. ‘Congratulations, Ernie. How does it feel to be a grandfather?’

  ‘Bleddy great, begging your pardon, Miss. Molly would be some proud, dear of her. I’m going up the cemetery later and tell her all about it. I s’pose I’d better let minister know, seeing how they’ll want he to do the christening when ‘tis time. Well, I’d best let you get on. Don’t you fret now, Miss. You done all you could for Becky, a bleddy sight more than that sister of hers.’

  Swallowing the lump in her throat Grace stepped down onto the cobbled street. ‘Have they chosen a name for the baby?’

  Ernie looked startled. ‘Dear life! I never thought to ask. That’s a man for you.’

  This time Grace smiled without effort. ‘Please pass on my congratulations and best wishes to Betty and Will. I’ve got a little gift at home for the baby. Can I leave it with you next time I’m down?’

  ‘How don’t you take it round yourself? Be glad to see you they would.’

  Grace shook her head. ‘This is a family time. I wouldn’t want to intrude.’ She couldn’t possibly tell him the truth: that she longed to see the new baby, to hold him and imagine what it would be like if he were hers. The longing was so powerful it was a physical ache. But to hold this tiny bundle of life born of the love Betty and Will felt for each other and face the possibility this was something she would never know… She couldn’t.

  Drawing level with the manse she remembered Ernie’s words. If Becky was –if the doctor could not help, then maybe the minister…It wasn’t her business. Then whose was it? Becky’s only family was a sister too busy with her own problems even
to visit. Ernie had done what he could, but he had a new grandson.

  Grace leaned her bicycle against the wall. Opening the gate she walked to the front door, her heart thumping furiously as she rehearsed what she would say.

  ‘Yes?’ Flora Bowden glared at her.

  Grace felt herself flush. ‘Good afternoon, Miss Bowden. Could I speak to the minister please?’

  The sharp eyes narrowed. ‘What do you want to see him about?’

  She had no right to ask such a question. But Grace did not want to increase the housekeeper’s antipathy by saying so. Her tongue snaked across dry lips. ‘It’s a private matter.’

  Flora sniffed. ‘Well, he isn’t home.’

  ‘Do you know when he might be back?’

  ‘Couldn’t say. Rushed off his feet he is. With three villages in his care he don’t have time to waste.’

  The implication brought a further rush of heat to Grace’s cheeks. ‘I see. Thank you.’ She turned away.

  ‘Want to leave a message?’

  Grace hesitated, wondering how to phrase her anxiety about Becky. Then realized it was too complicated and delicate to be condensed into a sentence or two. She shook her head. ‘No, thank you. I’ll –’ What to do? Write? Call again? A repetition of the last few moments did not appeal.

  ‘Not important then.’ The door was abruptly closed.

  Sweating with humiliation Grace walked down the path. As she closed the gate she looked back at the house and glimpsed movement at one of the upstairs windows. For an instant she thought it was the housekeeper. Then the figure drew closer. There was no mistaking the flash of white collar against the black vest.

  If he was at home why had Flora Bowden said he wasn’t? Had he seen her arrive? Had he told his housekeeper to say he wasn’t at home?

  Grace’s breath caught on a sob. Fumbling the catch on the gate she seized the handlebars and hurriedly pushed her bicycle up the street wanting to get away as quickly as possible. Though her reason for calling had been genuine she had welcomed the opportunity to talk to him again. She wouldn’t have delayed him long. She knew how hard he worked, the demands he faced. Her breath rasped as mortification scalded her skin.

  ‘Miss Damerel! Wait!’ Edwin Philpotts’ voice rang out.

  She was tempted to keep going. But he called her name again. This time he was much closer. Screwing up what remained of her pride she stopped and glanced over her shoulder.

  ‘I’m sorry if I disturbed you. Miss Bowden said –’

  Tight-lipped and frowning he made a visible effort to overcome anger. ‘Miss Bowden should not – you must have had a reason for calling at the manse?’

  ‘Yes. I’ve just been visiting Becky Collins.’ Haltingly Grace explained her concern. He listened, his eyes never leaving her face. She dropped her own gaze to stare at the dusty road. ‘It was just – I thought you might be able to offer her comfort. If she’s really – I can’t reach her any more. She has no one –’ her voice wobbled and she broke off.

  ‘Of course I’ll go and see her.’

  ‘Thank you.’ In the silence Grace heard gulls shrieking. The fishing boats must be coming in on the tide.

  ‘I’m sorry –’ he began.

  ‘Of course.’ She didn’t let him finish. ‘You must be busy.’ She hurried away, desperate to get home.

  Mrs Tallack knocked and put her head round the door. ‘‘Scuse me, Doctor. Mrs Moyle is here.’

  ‘Ellie.’ John rose to greet her. ‘Come in.’ His housekeeper closed the door quietly.

  Despite the summer sun, Ellie’s face was drawn and pale except for the dark smudges under her eyes. Her hair was scraped back into an untidy bun. Escaping wisps hung untidily over her face and down her neck. Once as bright as burnished copper it was dull and greasy and threaded with silver. Her sprigged blouse and blue calico skirt, both faded from countless washings, were grubby.

  Exhausted and careworn she looked a decade older than her real age. Not surprising considering what she had been through these past months.

  She had caught him in the village this morning and asked to see him, her voice low and her eyes evasive. He had offered to see her at home to spare her the walk, but she had refused, hurrying away as soon as the appointment had been agreed, as if anxious not to be seen talking to him.

  He indicated a chair. ‘Sit down, Ellie. I’m so very sorry about Paul.’

  Ellie simply nodded, chewing her lower lip, fretting at a fold in her skirt with fingernails bitten down to the quick.

  John sat down at his desk and swivelled his chair around so he faced her. ‘What can I do for you?’

  She took a deep breath. ‘Expecting again aren’t I?’

  Startled, John nodded slowly. This was something he had not anticipated. ‘How far along are you?’

  ‘Four months. Paul was careful like, but…’ She bit her lip, shrugging wearily.

  ‘You weren’t using birth control?’

  Ellie shook her head. ‘I know what you said. What with Mark just a few months old an’ all. I was willing. But Paul didn’t like it. He said it wasn’t natural.’

  Crushing his irritation, John nodded once more. ‘Well, it’s sooner than I would have wished but –’

  ‘No, you don’t understand. I can’t have it. Not now Paul’s gone. I don’t know how I’m going to feed the four I got. Doctor, you got to help me. I can’t – I just can’t –’ Tears spilled down her pallid cheeks as her face crumpled.

  Pulling a pristine handkerchief from his breast pocket, John leaned forward and pressed it into her trembling hands. He understood Ellie’s plight. He saw too many women worn down by continual breeding because their husbands didn’t like using contraception.

  ‘Ellie, I understand how you feel –’

  ‘No, you don’t. You got no idea. I can’t have it. I can’t.’

  If she’d ever had difficulty delivering, or if there was a risk to her health, there would strong medical reasons to justify terminating the pregnancy. But each time her labour had been relatively short and the births trouble-free.

  ‘Ellie, think what you’re saying.’

  ‘What do you think I been doing?’ she cried, raising swollen bloodshot eyes. ‘I haven’t done nothing but think about it. I can’t eat, can’t sleep.’

  ‘I’ll give you something that will help.’ He wanted to calm her before trying to explain why what she was asking was impossible.

  ‘I don’t want that.’ She leaned forward, her features tight with desperation. ‘Help me, doctor. I’m begging you. I’ll never tell. I swear on my babies’ lives.’

  ‘It’s Paul’s child, Ellie. Just like Polly, Meg, Daniel and little Mark. You’re asking me to destroy Paul’s child.’

  Screwing her eyes shut, Ellie shook her head violently. ‘It isn’t a proper baby. Not yet. I can’t have it. I won’t. My Paul’s lying in his grave and I miss him awful. I got no money. But how can I go out working when mother’s doing two jobs and there isn’t no one to mind the children? I can’t expect Polly – God love her, she’s only six. Don’t you tell me to go on the parish. I know women who done that and their kids was took away. What am I s’posed to do?’ Her voice had risen to a thin shriek.

  Rising, John opened the door and called to his housekeeper. ‘Fetch a blanket and sit with Mrs Moyle, while I make up a sedative.’

  When the draught had taken effect, Ellie agreed to an examination. John knew there was little doubt that the changes she described were symptomatic of anything other than pregnancy. He was trying to buy himself time, and that surprised him.

  He could not do what she wanted. He had sworn an oath to do no harm. To save and protect life. Despite her strain and grief, and some signs of under-nourishment, Ellie was basically strong. She had already produced four healthy children. There was no reason to suspect a fifth would present any problems.

  Completing the examination he drew up the blanket and went to wash his hands. As he soaped, rinsed and dried, he felt an ache begin at t
he base of his skull. He knew if he refused Ellie’s request there was a risk she might go to one of the old women known to help out in such situations. He would warn her of the danger to her life and long-term health and promise his support during her pregnancy. He’d ask Grace to make sure Ellie had what she needed for her lying in and for the new baby.

  His profession was governed by rules, a code of ethics. To break them would be a betrayal of everything he believed in. His heart ached for Ellie. He had lost a wife he loved. But he had no choice. His calling demanded he protect the unborn life she was carrying.

  Chapter Ten

  Becky Collins lingered for two more weeks. Hot dry weather during which the hay was cut, wheat and oats began changing from green to gold, and mud on the paths and tracks dried in hard ankle-wrenching ruts.

  Hedges were dressed with pale pink blackberry blossom and white convolvulus. Bracken unfurled green fronds. Valerian, crane’s bill and fragrant meadowsweet flowered along the ditches. Starlings began to flock and rooks strutted in the pastures.

  The breeze whipped up whirls of dust from the village streets, and the stench from gutters and privies caught the nose and throat.

  Grace sent for Becky’s sister Vera, who arrived complaining about the inconvenience.

  Grace believed that her own visits every other day bringing food and fresh milk were all that stopped Vera abandoning her sister. She persuaded her uncle to call at the cottage, waiting outside while he made his examination.

  ‘Grace,’ he was gentle. ‘Mrs Collins is beyond my help.’

  ‘Surely there must be something? If it’s a matter of cost –’

  ‘No.’ John Ainsley shook his head. ‘All the money in the world wouldn’t make a scrap of difference. My dear, you have to stop this. You’re assuming responsibilities you have no right to. I say this not out of criticism but from concern.’

  ‘But she’ll die.’ Grace’s throat was so stiff and tight her voice was strangled.

  ‘Yes,’ John agreed calmly. ‘And there’s nothing you or I or anyone else can do to prevent that.’ He took her hand. She recognised his compassion but it gave her no comfort. He didn’t understand. ‘Mrs Collins has suffered a great deal. Grace, she’s tired, too tired to want to struggle on any longer. The kindest thing you can do for her, and for yourself, is to accept it. You have to let go.’