Child Garden

by Geoff Ryman

  As all the easy chatter came and went like the sound of wind in trees, Milena smiled. She smiled as she stitched a leather purse, pushing the needle and the heavy thread without really looking at it. Life might be possible after all. She had a friend. She had a friend.

  When the Medicine closed at four, she ran back to the Gardens. She ran up the stairs, and tore off her grey jumpsuit. She hobbled barefoot into the blessedly empty bathroom, and turned on the shower and lathered soap all over herself. She set the tartar bugs loose on her teeth and felt them feasting all along the borders of her gums. Quite a banquet, eh lads? She brushed her teeth to get rid of them — otherwise they died and began to smell — and she ran her tongue over her teeth. Her teeth felt new and polished like the smoothest, coldest resin. She brushed her hair, and peered into the mirror, and saw that some of her pores were enlarged with little plugs of dirt. She popped them out, and washed her face again. She threw herself onto her bed, and pulled on her best wooden clogs. They would clatter as she danced.

  Suze and Hanna were out. She could hear them talking below, in the Gardens, in their group. They would talk there until sunset and then go in and eat. Usually the sound of their talk would make Milena feel forlorn, deserted. Now, in the quiet room, she thought: I have a place to go. I am going to eat with a family and all of you are going to eat in a Child Garden. Some of the Tykes will probably have another horrible food fight, wormy old stir-fry thrown all over everyone. You'll have to wash, and then you'll sit in each other's bedrooms playing cards, or trying to make a few deals. You'll trade toys or reed mats or whatever scraps you can and it will make you feel adult.

  Me, tonight, I will eat with adults, and there is going to be music.

  Milena savoured the feeling for just one moment more. Then she turned and ran down the steps, her clogs making a sound like a winnowing machine.

  The Row was an old square of mostly eighteenth century houses. The old brick sagged and the whitewashed windows were not square, but the ancient buildings stood up proudly by themselves. In the middle of the square, encircled by wrought iron, was another garden. Livestock was kept between the huge old trees. Sheep and goats were tethered to stakes, each of them keeping a circle of grass trim. There was a great structure made entirely of bales of hay, resin sheeting covering the sloping roof.

  Milena found No. 40. On the door was a brass knocker in the shape of a dolphin. Its head knocked against brass waves. As soon as Milena knocked, the door was opened by Rose Ella. She must have been waiting, Milena thought, waiting just inside the doorway. She was kissed on both cheeks again, and told again how nice it was to see her. On each side of the hallway there was a row of small brass cannons. 'They were for firing salutes,' explained Rose Ella.

  The walls were lined with old, yellowing paintings. Rose Ella didn't know who they were. Milena stopped to stare at their faces. Areas of the paintings had been cleaned, as if the people in them had wiped a dusty windowpane to see out. There was an old chair, with a back made out of wood, carved to look like a harp. Some of the wooden strings were broken. There was a huge rug thrown over bare, worn wooden floors. The colours were faded, all the warp worn through. A large china dog sat waiting faithfully, the tip of its nose broken.

  'What a wonderful place!' said Milena. 'All these things.'

  'Secret,' said Rose Ella. 'We take our time repairing them, so they can stay with us.'

  'Really!' whispered Milena. It was a wicked world indeed.

  Rose Ella chuckled. 'Come on, I'll show you where we live!' She ran up a great booming uncarpeted staircase. Milena followed in her clogs. Someone higher up shouted down at them to be still.

  On the first landing, there were old TV sets, cables folded over their heads, and rows of frozen painted Chinese Buddhas. There was a bust of Benjamin Britten, and another old chair, one of its legs replaced by a prop of bamboo, its embroidered upholstery as worn as the rug downstairs. The chair had padded shoulders, as if it were a jacket.

  Rose Ella's family lived in a huge parlour room, with vast front windows made of wobbly glass. The glass made all the square outside look as if it was wavering with heat. There were wooden candlesticks, and decanters of clear water with glasses over the top to keep out the dust. There were portraits, photographs of dead monarchs, and French engravings of mountain or harbour scenes. 'Le Calme,' said one. Rose Ella's sister, Maureen, sat at a polished mahogany table. More kissing of cheeks. Milena saw that the table's legs were carvings of naked women. She started to blush. On the table were plastic tiger lilies. Maureen was injecting them with colour.

  'They never the, these flowers.' said Maureen. 'They're always bright.'

  Milena was enchanted with the idea. She thought the thick waxy petals, red and orange and black were beautiful. There was an hibachi in the corner. It made the room too hot but a kettle had been left on it, so that Rose Ella was able to make them both a cup of tea. A boy ran in and asked for Johnny. 'He's out in the square, somewhere,' said Rose Ella, and the boy ran off again. Rose Ella's father came in, carrying books. He was huge, the biggest man Milena could recall seeing, with a face that might have been cruel. It had a small mouth, a long nose that had been broken, a black beard, and a very receding hairline. Then he spoke and his voice was high and gentle. 'Is it your mother?' he asked.

  He was asking if it was his wife's turn to cook, meaning he hoped it was not his own. 'Yes, Ta, yes,' said his daughter, shaking her head.

  'Oh good, that's good,' he said looking at Milena. 'My daughter tells me you're a reader of books. Well, come, come, come and see mine!'

  He held out a paw, with hair on the back of it, and took Milena's and led her clumping down the stairs again in her clogs. 'You've got hooves to wake the dead!' he exclaimed. 'Here, now, careful!'

  They ducked down into a darkened corridor. The back of the house had no windows. He lit a candle, and held it up and there was a wall of books, on high shelves.

  'Look at these, look at all of these, my beauties. None of these are in the viruses. None of them.'

  It was a wall of unknown books. Milena, the one who remembered, saw them all again, in memory, clearer than a dream:

  Before Scotland Yard

  Castle Rackment — the Absentee

  Tom Burke of 'Ours' by Lever

  Wild Tales by George Burrow

  The Professor by Currer Bell

  Old books in leather, others in cloth, some with faded, painted paper covers.

  Nunwell Symphony by C. Aspinal Ogladender, Hogarth Press — with painted skies over great houses.

  In Tune with the Infinite by Trine — gold lettering on a blue cloth cover.

  'Why does the Consensus forget them all?' asked Milena, dismayed at the waste.

  The great burly man shrugged. 'They had their day,' he said. 'They were read and loved, and other books grew up in their places. Like people. Only some people are remembered. It's the same with books. Here, look at this one.' He pulled out one loose book. Its leather cover was torn; padding leaked out of it as from a sofa. He opened it up for her. There was a photograph, in black and white, obviously retouched by pencil in places. A woman in a white nightdress gazed in wonder at another woman. The other woman wore a garment of leaves. Elaborate scrolls were drawn around the photographs, and elaborate lettering said 'Scenes from Peter Pan, an enchantment for children.'

  He turned page after page. There were misty backdrops of country cottages with bowers of roses, and women in linen flounces that left their stockinged ankles bare. Light was in pools of shadow all around them.

  'It's theatre,' whispered Milena, in awe. Rose Ella's father must have been briefed as well.

  'And none of those productions are in the viruses either.'

  Love and yearning made Milena draw in her lower lip. Rose Ella's father ruffled her hair. 'Yes, you can borrow the book.'

  'Thank you,' said Milena, very quietly, as if the gift were made of china so fine it could shatter.

  They went into the dining hall. El
la had gone for a shower and returned, looking even fresher, prettier. Milena grinned to see her. 'Look!' she said, and held open her book.

  'Oh, Ta, Tatty!' she exclaimed, and kissed her father for doing her, Rose Ella, a favour.

  The three of them went into the dining room. It was large, with many tables. The boys sat together, looking rough as boys anywhere will, making Milena feel threatened and shy. She vaguely knew all the boys from the Medicine. She had hoped to find only adults here. Again she wondered: how is it that children grow up to be such nice adults? Parents came in, men and women bearing trays of food. Mala came in, smiling. She looked smiling up at Milena, and she left still smiling. Milena hugged her book and felt her cheeks going hot. She had nothing to say again. She turned and looked at a huge black piece of furniture behind her. The back rose up in carved black branches like the stone that holds stained glass windows. Along the pediment there were clumsy carvings of very fat children. Two played lutes and one played a drum. The drumsticks were broken. A fourth child played the pan pipes.

  Rose Ella's father knelt down beside her. He spoke to her softly, conspiratorially.

  'The backs were made in 1700, but the fronts, well, the fronts were made in 1400. The wood is Spanish sweet chestnut. That's why it's so dark. Not horsechestnut. Spanish sweet. Look, there's its brother over there.'

  Milena turned and saw that, across the room, was another, nearly identical dresser. But the fat angels had become medieval adults, lean and austere.

  Rose Ella's father crouched down and pulled out from the lower shelf, an old helmet. It had gone and underneath, on a shelf, there was an old helmet. The leather had gone black too, and its braid and its chin strap. Its black copper badge said 'Irish Lifeguards.' He pulled it down low over his eyes.

  Some of the other men laughed, and called things that Milena couldn't understand.

  'Oh, Tatty, take it off,' said Rose Ella, embarrassed. They all sat together at one of the long tables. Food was heaped up on plates: stir-fried vegetables, all crisp, and a kind paprika stew of cauliflower, and huge GE prawns that were carved up and served like roast chickens.

  Talk spilled back and forth across the table. The Stone and Timber Estates were playing up and charging too much. It would soon be cheaper to go cut your own and drag it back. Why not? said Rose Ella's mighty father. Eh? I'd fancy a quest to the outreaches, out to the woods, even out to the hills.

  'William,' said Mala, 'Don't talk out your fantasies. It would take months to haul your way up to Cumbria and back, it's nearly to Scotland.'

  But the men and boys were growing excited by the idea. There were great plans made. Seconds were served, and the candles lit, and the tables were pulled back. Rose Ella's great beefy father opened up the Spanish sweet dresser, the one with the musical children. He took out bagpipes. Whistles came out as well, and drums, flutes and harps and oboes.

  A little piping ditty began, with a drone of pipes in the background. Elegant fiddles joined in, stately, calm, one of them played by Mala. The harp made a sound like stars, isolated and clear, and a muffled drum began to beat, and the Estate of the Restorers lined up, to dance, two at a time in the centre of the room.

  And Senior Fenton sang. Milena looked at Rose Ella, and Rose Ella cast her eyes down, fighting a grin. Senior Fenton sang a story about a delegation from a Tarty official, sent to inspect the family of a Restorer who wanted to marry his daughter. The inspectors saw the goats, and thought they were an honour guard with beards. They saw the old broken furniture and the dirty paintings. They heard the crickets living in the fireplace, commonly called Pipers, and concluded the young man had his own private orchestra hidden behind screens. They slept on straw-stuffed mattresses and declared they were the finest beds. The Tarty official was so impressed, he sent his daughter to live happily among the Restorers, thinking them wealthy indeed. For the last verse, all the Restorers rushed into the middle of the room. Milena found herself pulled by someone she did not know into their midst. She danced as best she could, hugging a book, her clogs making a sound like a factory loom. The Restorers roared with laughter and applauded her. Milena fled, back to the sidelines. She saw Rose Ella dance, her eyes shining, turning under the arched arm of Senior Fenton, like a doll on a music box.

  It was a short walk back to the Gardens, though the Gardens were a different world. Rose Ella walked back home with her. 'How can I become a Restorer? Is there time to learn?' Milena asked her.

  'If it's right for you, there will be time,' Rose Ella said. 'Now good night, love. You come to see us soon.'

  Who would have thought life could suddenly turn so delicious? In front of the door to her block, Milena looked up at the stars. Rose Ella. Rose Ella, she said, over and over to herself, as she thumped up the stairs, her head wobbling from side to side to the sound of the reels. Rose Ella, Rose Ella, she thought as she lay on her little bed by the window. She could still look up and see the stars. I want to go back there, she thought. I want to be a Restorer and live in the Row. I want to knit glass, and save the old books. I want to learn how to play the pipes and I want to dance.

  It was Rose Ella she wanted to dance with. The stars seemed to spin overhead, and she fell asleep, slipping into darkness with a smile.

  All that summer, Milena visited Rose Ella. She stayed overnight at the Row, sleeping in a guest bedroom, that was stuffed with luxury. It had built-in Chinese cabinets. Milena would sit at a table, reading her books, and look up and see the doors of the cabinets. Ivory people had been inlaid in them. The people hunted or they fished or they carried bundles of grainstalks on their backs. But some of the ivory people had fallen out, leaving a hole behind them, a space that was in their shape, grey and broken, forever. Sometimes, most poignantly, their tunics or their shoes would be left behind, still in their shape, as if waiting for their return.

  Milena remembered the bathrooms, which were a wonder. The bathtub was huge and stood on metal legs. The white enamel was wearing through and the great brass taps were lopsided. There was a strange metal plunger, that you had to lift up and turn to keep it raised so that the bath would drain. There was a footbath, and there was a toilet bowl that was moulded in the shape of animals and inside the basin it said in blue lettering 'The Deluge'. The Milena who remembered saw all of this as clearly as if she could simply turn a corner and find it all still there, real and solid.

  She remembered exploring a house by High Holborn that was being restored. Its roof had gone, and most of the floorboards. Milena and Rose Ella had to tiptoe on the foundations, the poured concrete, the rows of bricks. Yet colour still clung to the walls. Milena remembered a yellow room, with a broad band of red all around it. In the corners, where some of the ceiling was left, there were spreading plaster fans, mouldings. Just inside one of the doors, there was panelling of wood on all the walls. The wood was grey and weatherbeaten now, open to the sky and the rain. The stairwells were empty. There was only a zigzag tracing up the walls where the stairs had been. A fireplace still had its tiles. They were green with red flowers, twenty-first century Gothic. The grate had gone bright orange with rust.

  'People got very rich,' said Rose Ella, leaning over it. 'Some people. Just before it all went wrong. They lived in big houses. They had many houses, and travelled all over Britain, all over Europe, to live in them for a week, for a few days. Can you imagine that? Shall we fly my dear to Edinburgh for the weekend?' She adopted a deep and portly voice.

  'Why not? What amusement,' said Milena, imitating a Tarty wife. Together they stepped arm in arm across the missing floorboards, balancing on brick supports.

  'Imagine being this rich,' said Rose Ella again.

  'It's as if, if we could climb the stairs, and find a way into one of those rooms, we'd everything back in place, with the people there. Like they didn't know anything had changed.'

  'Ugh!' said Rose Ella and shuddered. 'I wouldn't want to end up back there. You and I would just be servants. Coming in miles every day in the train.'

&nb
sp; 'Breathing poison.'

  'Thinking the world was going to end.' Rose Ella suddenly stepped forward. 'You've got to see this,' she said. She pulled Milena into the next room.

  Stinging nettles grew high outside the windows. But here in this last room, the floorboards were in place, fitting perfectly. The floor was beautiful. There was no ceiling, just one huge beam all the way across the room. And still clinging to that one beam, by purest luck, there was a huge light fitting, a kind of frozen fountain of plaster, moulded into leaf shapes, and ending with a small hole in the tip.

  'What is it?' Milena asked. It looked like some kind of wasp's nest.

  'It was for lights,' said Rose Ella. 'It was called a rose. A ceiling rose. Now, look at this, too!'

  She pulled Milena with her, into the next room and spun her around. In an arch over a broken door, a wall painting still remained. It showed a man in some kind of chariot, flying through the air, pulled by horses.

  'Is that an airplane?' Milena asked, and knew it was a stupid question as soon as she asked it. An airplane with horses, sure. But she had no viruses to show her what an airplane had looked like, and had never bothered to find a book about them. Rose Ella kept looking up, pretending that Milena had not said anything out of the ordinary.

  Beyond the broken doorway there was a pile of roof slates, all in a layered heap where they had avalanched, their edges chipped like stone-age arrowheads. On the yellow walls someone had written in a kind of flourishing red marker.

  Raisa 2050

  and underneath that, in the same hand, but with smudged charcoal