by Rachel Hore
Shortly after that, they found the remains of another greenhouse against the south wall, the pinioned arms of long-dead fruit trees half-shrouded by the nettles that reached to Mel’s chin. Here and there, scalloped glass panes remained, held in by ancient putty.
‘It’s extraordinary that it’s survived a century of storms,’ said Patrick. ‘I got an SOS call from Val after one five or six years ago. He lost about twenty huge trees, several falling right across the drive. I managed to find a tree surgeon – Val was useless at dealing with problems like that at the best of times, and he was quite ill by then. We’re still burning the last of the wood, you know.’
Patrick scrunched his way to the far end of the ruined potting shed where there was a gap in the garden wall. ‘I’d no idea this was all here,’ he called back. ‘Here’s the Vegetable Garden. And another hut.’ And he disappeared through the gap. Mel followed.
The hut was better preserved than the potting shed, most of its roof was still remaining. It smelled of damp earth and wet ashes. Patrick had ducked through a crumbling brick doorway halfway along and she heard his excited cry.
‘Mel, come and see this.’
She peered through the half-darkness of the hut to see where he had gone. When she reached him he was wrestling with the doors of a wall cupboard, on the right of which was a small fireplace full of rubble. Amazingly, a rusted kettle still stood on the hob.
‘This must be the Head Gardener ’s hut,’ he said, yanking open the cupboard doors. They both stared at the contents – rows of glass jars of seeds and a large oilskin-wrapped package. Patrick slid the package out from the cupboard and placed it on a desk in the corner of the room. Gingerly he opened it and pulled out two large ledgers. The top one, when he opened it, immediately tore at the spine, so he closed it again.
‘Logbooks, I think. Let’s take them back to the house.’
As they made their way back across the garden, Mel realised that the rain had stopped. A gust of wind soughed across the leaves. ‘It’s as if the garden is sighing,’ she said. ‘It’s starting to tell us its secrets.’
Patrick rolled his eyes. ‘You’ll be telling me next it has a soul.’
She wrinkled her nose. ‘Don’t be silly.’
But as she followed him back through the arch, she turned to take one more look at the heartbreaking desolation and felt that it was calling her back.
unable to stop herself. ouQ
In the kitchen of Merryn Hall, Mel sat at the table and wiped the ledgers carefully with a duster as Patrick stuffed teabags into a cracked Brown Betty teapot with a saucer for a lid.
‘It starts in 1911,’ she said, turning the cover of the first book. ‘Look, it’s a sort of diary.’
Patrick peeled off his jacket and sat down beside her. As he poured the tea she was suddenly very aware of his closeness, the oily smell of raw wool. ‘Here’s your tea.’ His body twisted towards her as he passed over the mug, then he leaned closer to look at the ledger, one hand nursing his own drink. He had large, strong hands, Mel noticed, with neat, square-cut nails. A worker ’s hands, but smooth, not callused with cracked skin as his farming ancestors’ hands must have been. She turned her attention back to the logbooks.
The Head Gardener in 1911 was a man called John Boase, who had written his name and job title on the front page of the first ledger. He appeared to have supervised a core of four men, with the occasional help of others, though as the years went by the names changed. The diary was a careful record of which men had turned up each day and the jobs they had been given, together with anything of note that had happened in the gardens.
18 October 1911
John Martyn (planting potatoes, swedes, turnips), John Tonkin (preparing beds Flower Garden), Peter Hawke (help me to remove diseased oak by south-east wall), William Simpson (30 minutes late to his duties clearing leaves).
6 May 1912
John Tonkin (pruning laurels), Zachary Hawke (clearing pond by summerhouse), John Martyn (preparing flowerbeds), James Tresco (rockery). No frost for two weeks. Rhubarb ready.
8 July 1912
John Tonkin (spray roses for greenfly), Zachary Hawke sick, John Martyn (prune fruit bushes), James Tresco (mowing), Martin Tresco (general assistance). Peaches good this year. Mistress sends compliments for Hamburgs.
27 December 1912
Terrible storm yesterday afternoon. Worst any can remember. Many trees lost including Master Charles’s beloved handkerchief tree. Early crocus shredded, many shrubs destroyed. Statue in pond by summerhouse smashed. Mistress distraught. All day has been spent in general clearance. Thanks to God for our borders of fine trees for all might be worse.
‘What on earth is a handkerchief tree?’ asked Patrick.
‘A rare Chinese specimen discovered by a missionary called Father David,’ replied Mel, her brow wrinkling as she tried to decipher writing on a page infringed by damp. ‘Its blooms look like white handkerchiefs. Plant-hunters died searching for them and they’re difficult to grow here. Master Charles, whoever he was, must have been devastated.’
After the excitement of the storm, she turned the pages expectant of further drama, but all remained routine until the end of 1914. Then, suddenly, next to Zachary Hawke’s name in October of that year was written the word enlisted, underlined in the faded black ink. At the beginning of 1915 and the start of the second ledger, it was John Tonkin’s turn. Enlisted. Barely a week later, by James Tresco’s name was written, luggis c fMartin Tresco has enlisted. Aged seventeen last week.
After that, with only one regular man helping him, a note of strain began to enter the tone of John Boase’s normally factual comments.
Buryan Feast, May 1915
James Tresco (Vegetable Garden). Master says we are to turn the Flower Garden over to vegetables. The vines and the peaches must look after theirselves, there is too much else to do. Next winter we grow potatoes on the lawns unless we wish to eat grass. Last night as I walked in the fields I saw a white hare, which gave me troubled sleep. The news from the Front is bad, very bad. I fear for my young men. How terrible to see this time when men give thanks if they are old and have no sons.
1 June 1915
The blow has fallen. Jem Hawke sends word Zachary is killed in action. The Lord be with Jem and Susan for he is their only one.
5 September 1915
Martin Tresco reported Missing Presumed Killed. James did not work today so Jago helped me pick apples. He is very distressed about Martin and ashamed of his own weakness of the chest that meant he was passed over for service. I tell him not to be daft. We will need men like him to build a new land when this war is done.
Then, in July 1917, came unexpected news.
Master Charles reported Missing Believed Killed. All the glory of man shall fall as a flower of the field. Will there ever be an end to this business?
Mel flicked through the remaining entries. The ledger ended in August 1917.
In the second book, the entries were even terser, the range of tasks attempted more narrow. Boase had little help, it seemed. Few flowers were grown and no exotic fruit. He recorded the death of his employer, Mr Carey, in 1920.
‘It’s easy to get the picture, isn’t it?’ said Mel, closing the second book and leaning back in her chair. ‘The war ruined the garden as it destroyed all those young lives. Without a team of men, the Head Gardener must have struggled to perform the important tasks.’
‘And everything else was left to go hang,’ agreed Patrick, standing up and going to the window. He stood at the sink, looking out on the sleeping ruin of the garden before him. ‘It’s fascinating,’ he said. ‘To think of what might be out there, under all that wilderness.’
Mel went to join him, close but not touching, one arm folded, with the other twisting a strand of her hair.
‘We know there’s a summerhouse and a pond,’ she said dreamily.
‘Maybe still with a broken statue,’ added Patrick.
‘And laurels and a lawn. How can w
e find out what else?’
‘The Records Office,’ he said, almost to himself. ‘I really must go when I’ve got some time.’
‘You seem to be getting quite excited by it all.’
‘The garden, you mean?’ He turned to look at her, and she hadn’t seen his face this alive, intent. ‘Do you know, I think I am. I’d love to restore it all – I really would.’
‘That sounds a wonderful plan,">‘I can imagineu of ’ Mel said. ‘A lot of work, though.’
‘And money, no doubt. Not that I’m impoverished, but you could pour tens of thousands into this place to little avail if you weren’t careful.’
‘I don’t mind helping while I’m here,’ said Mel, ‘with the plans and whatnot. But I tell you what nd.
Chapter 8
Rounding the top of the stairs of the Gardener’s Cottage after her bath, wrapped in a towel, Mel was brought face to face with another woman. The door of the wardrobe in the spare room had swung open and for a second she froze in shock to see her reflection in the long mirror.
Since Jake had left, she had avoided looking at herself with much attention. If he hadn’t loved her enough to stay, had thrown her over so easily, perhaps there was something lacking in her. Perhaps she was grown faded, unremarkable.
Now she saw with fresh eyes that this wasn’t true at all. Her legs beneath the short towel were long and shapely, her shoulders rose white and flawless. Her pale oval face beneath the tails of wet hair glowed out of the half-light like a Renaissance madonna’s. For a moment, though, she was a female Narcissus, innocently entranced by her own image.
Mesmerised, she stepped inside the doorway. The towel slid to the floor.
If anyone had asked Mel which part of her body she liked most and which least, she would have said she was happy with her hair and her legs, but that he a packet of cigarettesheownr breasts were too small and the swell of her tummy put her off wearing close-fitting skirts and dresses. But this evening, in the weak light of the overhead bulb, in the dreamy solitude of this house, she could see that the woman in the mirror was beautiful. Her breasts were high and firm, the nipples slightly swollen from her bath, like tiny pink cherries. The pear-shaped curve of her body – so like her mother’s – was full and luscious; her bush of dark red hair an ornament against her creamy skin.
Her eyes met those of the girl in the looking-glass. Tonight, the blue irises were indigo, the strongly drawn nose a contrast to a soft red mouth, lips slightly parted, almost bee-stung from the steam. For a flash she imagined Patrick was looking at her. Perhaps I am desirable, she told herself in surprise.
In harsh daylight, she knew she would see slight crow’s feet at the corners of her eyes, etched lines arching up from between her eyes and from her nose to the edge of her mouth, lines that Time’s pencil would score more deeply as the years slipped past. But tonight she looked perfect. The insight was a gift.
As she stared at herself, it was as though something heavy was shifting itself in her chest, at the base of her throat. To her dismay, tears began to well in her eyes. She blinked them away.
Suddenly, she shivered in the cool air. She bent, picked up the towel and wrapped it round her, flinching at its dampness. She glanced again in the mirror and this time saw a flicker of movement. She turned round, puzzled. Nothing. A trick of the light. Or maybe the mirror had wobbled. But there was something else – that feeling of being watched again. By whom? She didn’t know, but a picture came into her mind of a tall woman with a halo of dark hair. Then it was gone.
Mel pushed the wardrobe door shut and hurried back into her own bedroom, her mind already taken again with the question of what she should wear tonight. It felt good to have someone to dress for again, she thought, pulling on a flattering pair of trousers and a pale blue cashmere jumper. A necklace of stones the same blue as her eyes completed the outfit.
She had only met Patrick two days ago but, she had to admit as she plugged in the hairdryer and started to finger-dry her long wet tresses, there was something intriguing about him. He was nice-looking rather than handsome, she decided. She liked the way his hair fell across his forehead. She wanted to reach out and push it back. And his remoteness, the things he concealed, lent him an air of mystery, fascination.
She dusted some blusher across her cheekbones and squinted in the little wall mirror to apply eye-shadow and mascara. Whether he was attracted to her, she didn’t know. But she did sense his growing interest in her as a person, and that was flattering after the months of loneliness. She wondered about the girlfriend Chrissie had mentioned. Patrick hadn’t said a word about her yet.
She went downstairs, pulled on her leather jacket and stepped outside, taking care to leave the hall light on to guide her way home. The evening was dry, with a warm breeze that carried the bittersweet scent of early may blossom. Up the track, a pair of eyes glinted in the gloaming. She froze. Was it the cat? The eyes blazed, then the animal swung away and leaped into the undergrowth in a shock of dark brown. A fox then, loping off into the secret world of the garden. She locked the door and made her way up towards the house.
A rustle of leaves – someone’s coming . . . No, it’s only some beast slipping away"; font-weight: bold; iler of through the ferns. It’s the first time we’ve agreed to meet after dark. Aunt Dolly thinks I’m upstairs turning the covers. I’ll only be a minute, that’s all I dare. I see the glow of his cigarette ahead in the shadows where the door of the studio stands ajar. ‘There you are,’ he rasps, and grabs me, pulling me inside.
‘I meant to ask, how did you get on with your writing this morning?’ said Patrick as he sloshed red wine into the rich dark gravy simmering in the roasting dish.
Mel, laying out knives and forks on the wooden table, looked up, amused at how at home he appeared at the elderly stove, where he was peering under saucepan lids, checking the browning potatoes, a tea towel slung over one shoulder, singing along tunelessly to some jazz tune pouring out of a sound system he had rigged up.
She sighed as she pulled out a chair and sat down. ‘The writing’s not flowing at the moment,’ she said. ‘I know roughly what I want to say but I need a fresh focus, some way into the subject-matter that can be a touchstone for the book.’
‘Surely there’s plenty to say about these painters,’ encouraged Patrick as he poured the gravy into the blue and white striped jug warming at the back of the stove.
‘Yes, but wouldn’t it be fantastic to discover something new instead of reinterpreting existing evidence.’
‘Some hot lesbian affair, do you mean?’
‘If only.’ Mel laughed. ‘No, it’s likely to be more boring than that. I mean finding a lost painting or discovering that a known artwork was misattributed, or uncovering an unusual source of inspiration . . .’
‘Mmm, the lesbian affair does sound more fun.’
As she helped Patrick decant the leeks, carrots and potatoes she had prepared into the faded serving dishes of Val’s elderly dinner service, Mel tried to bring to mind the picture of the young man in the garden. ‘That’s partly why I’m so interested in P.T.’s work,’ she told Patrick. ‘The picture upstairs, it’s from the right period, or slightly later, judging by the man’s clothes. But I can’t think of any local artist with those initials. Still, I am intrigued.’
Sitting at the table watching him carve the joint, an idea occurred to her. ‘Do you suppose the Carey descendants might have other works by P.T.? Or know who he or she was? I’m assuming the pictures belonged to them, rather than being something your uncle bought?’
‘Not Val’s cup of tea, I assure you, despite him knowing about Lamorna Birch. It’s possible they might know something,’ he said, and frowned slightly as he passed her the plate. ‘I’ve got an address for the family’s solicitors somewhere. I’ll dig it out and contact them if you like. There we are,’ he said, refilling her glass. He raised his own. ‘Here’s to the garden – and P.T. – the success of two projects.’ They smiled at one another and drank.
Later, Patrick reached into the fridge for a bottle of dessert wine to drink with the early strawberries and clotted cream.
‘Just half a glass, thanks,’ Mel murmured, feeling distinctly mellow after a huge first course and the heavy red wine.
One arm along the back of an empty chair, Patrick poured with the dexterity of a maître du vin. She watched him lazily, admiring his relaxed enjoy"; font-weight: bold; a. isment of the moment. Despite the air of aloofness, he was a peaceful man to be with, entirely present for her.
He looked up and his eyes crinkled in a smile. ‘Here you are,’ and for a moment, their fingers touched. There was no spark exactly, but they looked at one another appraisingly and there was vulnerability in his eyes. She felt a rush of warmth towards him and smiled back shyly, then lowered her eyes, glad to turn her attention to the strawberries. They were small and slightly tart, despite the coating of sugar.
‘I was thinking,’ she said after a silence. ‘Stop me if I’m getting too keen.’ His eyebrows rose and she felt her face grow hot.
‘Go on,’ he said.
‘When I’m at the Records Office next week, if there is anything useful for you about the Carey family and the gardens here – old maps or photographs – I could order copies and we could work up a sort of master-plan of the garden.’
‘That would be great, Mel. Would you really have time?’
‘It depends how much there is, doesn’t it? But I’ll try.’
‘You know,’ said Patrick, stretching back in his chair, that now familiar teasing expression on his face, ‘it seems to me that you’re getting as excited as I am about Merryn.’
‘An historian’s interest,’ she said, worried that he might think her intrusive, ‘fired by the Flower Garden and looking at the diaries this afternoon. The place weaves a strange spell on you, don’t you think? The sense of a lost world in an enchanted sleep. Waiting to be woken.’ She remembered something. ‘Do you know that Lana talks about the place being haunted?’
‘I know they felt uncomfortable about living in the cottage, but I thought that was because it was too isolated for them.’