The Midsummer Garden

by Kirsty Manning

  Pip didn’t know what to think. ‘I don’t know, Mum. Has Will seen this letter?’

  Mary and David shook their heads.

  ‘Is it—is she eating properly?’

  Mary nodded. ‘Will says so.’

  ‘Right.’ Pip pursed her lips. ‘I’ll talk to her.’

  She opened the door to her sister’s room and saw a thin, pale Megs lying in the bed, covered with a neat white sheet, staring out the window. A drip was attached to her arm, and a heart monitor beeped intermittently with blue dots in the corner. She had a bandage around her head.

  Pip had never seen her sister so still. She felt the prick of tears in her eyes and took a deep breath to stop herself from crying—Megs would kick her out of the room at the first sign of tears.

  As Pip closed the door behind her, Megs turned her head and the corners of her lips twitched.

  ‘You came,’ Megs whispered, as if it hurt to talk. ‘I made Will tell you not to. Why aren’t you in Italy?’

  ‘Because you are in hospital, you idiot. Now. What the hell is this?’ She waved the resignation letter in the air. Megs sighed and looked back out the window.

  ‘Are you getting a divorce? Is that it?’ Pip asked softly.

  Megs shook her head.

  Pip exhaled, then thought of something far, far worse. ‘Have you got cancer? A brain tumour?’

  ‘Brain damage?’ Megs turned back to Pip and gave a half-chuckle as she shook her head.

  ‘You’re eating, right?’ Pip’s voice was escalating.

  Megs nodded. ‘Thanks to the food you had delivered. And Will.’

  ‘Well, did your brain fall out when you hit the kitchen bench? Why would you resign, Megs?’ Pip tickled her sister gently on the arm, trying to lighten the mood. But when Megs turned back to face her, huge tears were running down both cheeks and dripping onto the sheets.

  Pip plonked beside Megs on the edge of the bed and wrapped her sister in a gentle hug. ‘Ssh,’ she said as she stroked her hair. ‘It’s okay. I’m here. We don’t have to talk about it now if you don’t want to.’

  Megs sniffled and whispered in a trance-like voice so low that Pip could barely hear her, ‘I’m so tired.’

  ‘I know. Just have a little sleep.’ Pip continued stroking Megs’s hair, like she did to Chloé when she was trying to send her off to sleep. ‘If you move over, fatso, maybe I can sleep too,’ she joked.

  ‘No!’ said Megs, a little louder. ‘I mean, I’m so tired I can’t cope.’ Her tears were flowing freely now and there were two wet patches on the pillow on either side of her face.

  Pip passed her sister a tissue and Megs blew her nose.

  ‘I’m a terrible mother,’ Megs blurted. ‘I can’t look after Chloé—I can’t get her to settle. She won’t sleep through the night. I nearly hurt her.’

  ‘It’s okay. Will said she’s fine. Didn’t even hit the floor—although I see you made up for it with that bump on your head.’

  ‘No.’ Megs’s voice had dropped so low Pip had to lean in to hear her. ‘You don’t understand—I’m not capable of looking after Chloé. It’s only a matter of time until I do something wrong.’ She faltered and corrected herself. ‘Another thing wrong. I—I …’ She turned away, flushing.

  Pip took Megs’s hand and squeezed it tight for a minute. They both lay there taking slow deep breaths in sync.

  Pip ached with guilt and regret. How could she have missed this—her own sister? Megs had been unravelling right in front of her eyes and Pip had failed to notice. The constant fatigue. Edginess. Missed calls and texts. But Megs was a surgeon and a new mum—that was par for the course, right? Megs was strong; she strode from one success to the next in skinny jeans and heels. Except that here she was: limp, pale and broken.

  Megs couldn’t stop sobbing.

  ‘Shush now. You have done nothing wrong, Megs. Do you hear me? You are an incredible mother. Don’t roll your eyes. I mean it.’

  ‘I’m pretending to be a mother. Eva’s better than me.’

  ‘That’s just not true,’ Pip whispered as she gave Megs another squeeze, gulping back her own tears.

  ‘I can’t even cook toast. Everything I touch burns or curdles. And that’s only if I even start. Will does all the food. And there’s your deliveries. But …’

  ‘But what?’

  ‘The food from Dan just made me feel—’ Megs hiccupped ‘—so embarrassed. Like I’m an idiot.’ Megs turned to face the far wall. ‘I can’t even get through the washing most weeks.’ More hiccups. ‘I’m such a failure.’

  As Megs lay there, hiccupping, her limp body radiated shame through starched white sheets. Pip felt her heart pull and tear as she searched for the right words. ‘Megs. This isn’t your fault. None of this is you talking.’ She corrected herself. ‘Well, it is, but you need help.’ She felt waves of uncertainty crash around her. Could Megs be suffering from depression? Really, they needed some professional advice to work out what was going on. Would Megs even talk to a counsellor? ‘I’ll call Will now and ask him to come back in. And Mum will know …’

  Megs flinched.

  Pip put her hand over her sister’s. ‘You don’t have to do this alone.’ She leaned over and hugged her sister tighter. Megs smelled like antiseptic and soap. After twenty-four hours of flying, Pip probably needed fumigating, but Megs didn’t seem to notice.

  ‘I’m right here. I’m going to try to help you work out what is going on,’ Pip said gently. ‘I’m not going anywhere.’

  Megs sighed and wiped her cheeks with the back of her hands. ‘I’m glad you’re here,’ she whispered.

  Pip’s head throbbed with a mix of frustration and unanswered questions. Every day Megs dealt with crisis after crisis in a methodical, calm and systematic way. Not once did she buckle when her patients and their families depended on her. Why now?

  Megs broke her silence, her voice slow and strangely detached as she said, ‘Last month when I gave Chloé five mils of paracetamol for a slight temperature, I thought of slipping her fifty mils so she’d sleep right through.’ She paused. ‘I nearly gave her the whole bottle.’

  Pip squeezed Megs harder as she closed her eyes. Her sister wouldn’t hurt her own child, would she? She was a doctor. Pip’s heart lurched—there was something very, very wrong.

  ‘And then, just last week, I was paged straight back to do some emergency paediatric surgery on a fifteen-month-old girl who had come in on the trolley from a car accident—carotid artery damaged,’ Megs explained as she wiped her eyes. ‘There was no specialist surgeon on duty. The paramedics did a good job, but there was some gastrointestinal bleeding and the toddler was close to bleeding out.

  ‘I—I imagined that it was Chloé lying there on the slab, her soft dark curls pressed flat against the stainless steel and sterile green sheets. All it would take was the faintest twitch of the scalpel, a sudden spasm from the child …’

  Pip’s heart sped up. How long had this been going on? Poor Megs! Why hadn’t she told anyone?

  ‘Afterwards, I rushed straight to the bathrooms, kneeled on the floor in my scrubs, leaned over the toilet bowl and dry retched.’ Megs began to sob again. ‘I can’t even vomit properly.’

  Pip started to cry too. Big, heavy, unstoppable tears. Megs needed help. Pip needed to go call Will, but she didn’t want to leave Megs alone. Not now.

  ‘Then, on the way home after that surgery, a roo jumped out from behind some scrub and I clipped it as it bounded across the asphalt. It bounced up the hill into the forest without breaking rhythm. I was relieved, you know—that I didn’t kill it.’

  Pip dreaded what was coming.

  ‘But it occurred to me that if I’d just braked and swerved a fraction harder, then I could have slammed directly into the telegraph pole on my left …’

  Pip shuddered as the realisation hit her. Her brave sister was telling her that next time she wouldn’t miss.

  She pulled Megs tighter and kept stroking her head like she was the baby whil
e she tried to work out what to do.

  Megs took a deep breath, and when she spoke she sounded slightly more in control. ‘Pip, can you call Will, please, and ask him to come in? And when he gets here can you ask Mum to come in here too. Leave Chloé with Dad.’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘I—I need help.’

  Chapter 37

  Château de Boschaud, Midsummer 1487

  The long midsummer light streamed in shards through the high narrow windows of the banquet hall and the yellow stripes made the room feel a little magical. Andreas eyed the large tapestry behind the head table. It looked as if the naked maidens dancing to the lutes with their heads thrown back might step from their golden threads and join the celebrations. Large leafy branches of elm, chestnut and oak lined the cold stone walls of the hall, which made it feel as if they were feasting in the middle of a forest. Posies of roses, lilies, garlic and tansy lay scattered in the middle of every table.

  Andreas watched the po-faced stewards clop across the parquet in clogs to direct the incoming pageboys delivering steaming platters of roasted meats to the tables. The hall was instantly filled with the smell of roast meat, cinnamon, garlic and ginger. In pairs, the boys carried rolled caramelised roasted hog with soft cheeses and garlic spilling from the seams, sides of beef and lamb covered with parsley and rows of hare and capon. A line of pages stepped behind carrying shining silver tureens of aioli, thick brown gravy, piquant cameline sauce and green herbed jellies. As the pages nodded and stepped away from the raised head table, a row of trumpeters started to play. Guests dived towards the platters before a fuming—but largely ignored—Abbot Roald could say the prayers. They tore chunks off the meat with their hands, knives and spoons.

  Nobody stopped their chatter and laughter to listen to the music—instead the rowdiness and noise of the room rose to the vaulted ceiling with the sounds of trilling and quavering brass. Burgundy was poured into gold goblets from large jugs and Andreas saw the abbot, sitting to the left of Lord Boschaud, discreetly tap a second goblet for the hapless page to fill.

  The bride and groom sat on two broad oak chairs with bunches of sage tied to the top. A touch from Artemisia, Andreas presumed, who wished this fair couple wisdom for a long life. He turned his head towards the sideboard, looking for the entremet Artemisia had spent two moons preparing; he’d never seen another like it at all the banquets he’d attended. He was surprised to find it wasn’t there. Perhaps she’d decided to serve it after the meats with the jellies and other entremets? He hoped nothing was amiss—Lady Rose was in for a beautiful surprise from his clever fiancée. He shivered; he was growing impatient waiting for the time to pass till he could ask for the lord’s permission to marry his love.

  The bride pulled the rosemary from her sleeves and dipped two sprigs into the goblets, passing one to Lord Boschaud to suck. The groom looked bemused, but did as he was bid. The marshal stood and, with a flourish, cut a green apple in half with a giant sword. The couple laughed and fed each other the pieces through crossed arms: sharing equal sorrow and happiness. The young couple looked pleased enough with the pairing—their matching milky skin was flushed with excitement and liquor. The lord would be off to his tourneys soon and Andreas sent a quick prayer to keep this young man safe, whatever battles he faced.

  Andreas could smell the perfumes rise from where the pageboys and stewards trod on lavender, rosemary and rose petals as they whisked past him. The thick white linen tablecloths were strewn with red wine, splatters of pumpkin soup and orange peel slathered with honey. The velvet blue table runners were twisted and rumpled. The master baker sitting to his left lifted the corner of his cloth and wiped a splash of mead from his chin before taking another sip from his goblet.

  Andreas sat at the table with fellow master corps de métiers merchants and crafters. Opposite were the jolly village weavers from whom he purchased all his mid-sized willow and chestnut baskets. Next were the coopers, the fishmongers and boilermakers. They all delivered to Artemisia at the château and he wondered what they would make of him marrying the cook. Would they treat her like any other wife of a master? He looked across at the pinched, frail wife of the baker, her waist as slender as a stick of cinnamon, as she surreptitiously wrinkled her nose at the ruddy-faced boilermaker’s wife. The bigger woman was drinking her Beaune in hearty swigs and laughing and whistling between the gaps in her teeth. He looked at the strong lines of her arms and thought: These good, hardworking people will accept my bride. Artemisia was stronger and smarter than all of them and his heart swelled with pride. Besides, what choice would they have once Lord Boschaud and the burgher approved the marriage?

  Chapter 38

  Tasmania, April 2015

  Pip stood dicing fennel, onions, garlic and cherry tomatoes, scraping them into piles on plastic chopping boards to avoid scratching Megs’s stainless steel bench. Mary was beside her, chopping chives, and plucking tarragon and oregano leaves. She’d been fidgety all week around the house when she wasn’t playing with Chloé, so Pip decided it was best to keep her mum busy. Mary blamed herself for Megs’s fall. It wasn’t rational, but Pip understood the guilt. She’d felt it surging through her body, draining her energy ever since she’d cuddled Megs on that stiff hospital bed.

  It was lovely to be cooking beside her mum again after so many years. The kitchen was steamy from the large pot of stock boiling on the stove. ‘We should be using one of your pots from the shed for this,’ said Mary as she sipped her wine. ‘There’s masses of soup here.’

  ‘I’m going to freeze some portions.’

  ‘Pip, darling, I’m not sure there’s any more room in the freezer. They’ll be eating out of it all year!’

  That was Pip’s plan. At least until Megs started to feel stronger.

  ‘Are there any recipes for fish stew in that manuscript of yours? Such a generous gift from Gabrielle. Magnificent. Have you written to her yet, to thank her?’

  ‘Of course, Mum. And yes, there’s something called a “chaudumé of pike”. Gabrielle is sending me through the translated recipes one by one—we’re emailing all the time—so I’ll be able to use them all.’

  Pip glanced up at where she had tucked the manuscript in a plastic sealed specimen bag on the bare shelf. It was three days until the party at Falgino—and then was Jack coming home? Alone? She felt herself blushing as she chopped. He’d seemed surprised and a little doubtful about her spontaneous trip to Tuscany to see him. She hadn’t heard from him since she’d had to cancel it, other than a quick call to check Megs was okay—although he had sent a huge bunch of pink and white peonies for Megs.

  Jack was drifting away from her and there was nothing she could do about it. Besides, Megs needed her here. That was the most important thing now: Megs’s recovery.

  Will and her dad had brought back an abalone and a bucket of couta, flathead and squid after their early-morning fishing expedition in the boat, so Mary and Pip made a massive pot of bouillabaisse. Mary boiled the fish bones to make the stock and Pip added the abalone offcuts to give it a creamy richness. They’d tipped three-quarters of a bottle of chardonnay into the stock, pouring themselves a glass each as they cooked. As she added the saffron, Pip also threw in some crushed chilli and smoked paprika to give it a Spanish touch.

  David walked into the kitchen to get a couple of Cascades from the fridge. ‘Beer o’clock. I see you ladies have a wine. Do you need any help? Will’s just going to take Chloé down to the rocks to grab some mussels. Thought I might go supervise if you have everything under control here.’ He lifted the lid of the casserole dish and had a whiff. ‘Superb.’ He nodded his head. ‘Rightio, I’m off.’

  Pip watched her father walk through the newly landscaped courtyard, which was paved with sleek oversized black granite pavestones and bordered with dozens of box hedge spheres planted into steel pots. It was as chic as anything she’d seen in Paris. Tucked in the far corner of the courtyard was a little square sandpit made from old hardwood railway sleepers
, complete with a wooden lid to keep the sand dry. Beyond it, out on the flat green lawn, and made from the same heavy sleepers, was a sweet A-line swing with an old tyre on a length of rope. The sleepers framed the clear blue water of North West Bay like a painting. The colour of the sea reminded her of Jack’s eyes. For the first time in days, Pip smiled broadly. Why hadn’t she noticed this play equipment before? Jack must have built these for Chloé when the old garden was ripped up, before he left for Tuscany. She was sure of it; she would recognise his handiwork anywhere.

  Mary followed Pip’s gaze and gave her a squeeze. Reading Pip’s thoughts, she nodded. ‘Jack popped over and helped Will build all this.’ Pip thought ‘helped’ was probably a stretch—the only drill Will knew how to use was orthopaedic.

  Mary scanned the box hedges. ‘We’ll need to get a gardener to come in and clip them to stay in shape,’ she whispered. ‘I don’t dare do it myself in case I muck it up.’

  Pip put her knife down on the kitchen bench and put her arm around her mother.

  ‘Mum, you have to stop blaming yourself. Will does too. If anyone should have recognised the signs, it was me. I’m her sister.’ Mary shot her a knowing look and rubbed Pip’s back. ‘The good news is that Megs admitted she needed help. We have a diagnosis. A plan.’

  ‘I know,’ said Mary, nodding. ‘But all the signs were there for post-partum anxiety and I missed it.’ She started listing them on her fingers: ‘Emergency C-section, the milk, the rush back to work, one hundred hours a week. I mean, how can anyone function with those hours?’

  ‘Mum, Megs is a freak. That’s how! You know all this. The psychiatrist said Megs was suffering from severe postnatal depression. Exhaustion opened the door for PND. And the PND fed her fear of hurting Chloé. And self-harm.’ She shivered. ‘It snowballed quickly.’

  ‘I know, I know. It’s crippling,’ said Mary. ‘Thank goodness the antidepressants have started to kick in. I know she hates them, but they really will give her a bit of a reprieve.’ Mary paused for a beat. ‘Despite what she said to you last night.’