Gifted and Talented

by Holden, Wendy

  The neglect of Branston’s gardens had its benign aspects; beneath the weeds and the crisp packets were the tiny, glowing petals of many an ancient species. She was surprised to see, this late in the year, a few scattered red and yellow bird’s foot trefoils, and even a couple of yellow tormentil, and that little purple one, the little circular flower head with turreted purple petals, called ‘self-heal’.

  She had already decided to create a wild-flower garden at Branston. Diana loved wild flowers, the names especially: viper’s bugloss, bats-in-the-belfry, priest-in-the-pulpit, hairy tare, frogbit, water soldier, policeman’s helmet. Lady’s bedstraw, once used as a mattress stuffing. Rest harrow, which is what grew if one rested one’s harrow, presumably. Periwinkle, or ‘joy-of-the-ground’, because it bound itself to the earth with nodes from the trailing stems. There was some in Branston’s garden and Diana crouched by it now, marvelling at the history of the dark purple flowers. In Italy it was known as ‘fiore di morte’, flowers of death, because heretics had been led to the stake wearing garlands of it. Periwinkle was planted on graves in the belief it protected against evil. Uprooting it was said to cause nightmares and haunting.

  Diana tackled a buttercup root. Buttercups were so deceptive, that delicate yellow enamelled flower belying the tough and vicious root system beneath. You had to get all your fingers underneath, difficult to do properly in gloves. Apart from really freezing weather, or when picking up litter, Diana never wore them. She preferred to handle nature directly; nature returned the compliment by ruining her nails and ageing her hands.

  About to pull up another plant, she paused. A delphinium, it looked like: weedy, yellowish, the plant dying off, but those fringed leaves were unmistakeable. It gave her a wonderful idea. She imagined the stained concrete walls which so abounded at Branston transformed by row upon row of great blue floral rockets ranging from deepest violet blue to palest forget-me-not. What a sight it would be: a jump of blue joy that would hit anyone entering the garden right in the eye and in the heart.

  Her thoughts swung back to Rosie and she felt apprehensive once again. How was her daughter getting on? How was she finding the school? How was she coping with going from one extreme to the other, from the private and exclusive with education individually tailored to the child and delivered by committed professionals, to . . .

  Diana pulled herself back from sliding into wholehearted panic. Well? she demanded of herself, To what? Who was to say that the education at Campion Primary wasn’t delivered by committed professionals? She hadn’t given them a chance yet.

  She had weeded so fast and frantically her bucket was full. Standing up to get another, Diana spotted a small coil of brown dog poo under a nearby bush. Her nose wrinkled in disgust. One of the few advantages of Branston’s garden was that it seemed relatively free of animal faeces. Certainly there was nothing akin to the horror stories she had heard about London’s prestigious garden squares, whose gardeners could encounter anything from aggressive tramps to Coke bottles filled with taxi drivers’ pee, tossed out of the cabs as they drove by.

  The poo looked new, Diana thought, rummaging for a plastic bag with which to remove it. But she had seen no dogs at Branston. They weren’t, or so she understood, allowed.

  The session with the council, at a table of Arthurian roundness in one of Branston’s peculiar circular concrete meeting rooms, was proving even longer and drearier than Richard had feared. So far he had thought mostly about his ongoing experiment, tuning in only occasionally. The first time he did this the Bursar was being congratulated for employing such a cheap new gardener, at a salary half of that enjoyed by her predecessor.

  ‘A gardener?’ Richard put in, suspiciously. Any effort at improving the grounds was a sinister development, in his view. He had hoped the college would not find one; who in their right mind, after all, would wish to tackle such a wilderness? Who could?

  He felt slightly relieved to hear the person chosen was a recent graduate of horticultural college, and a woman. He pictured someone very young and slight, someone whose impact on the wholesale wreck of the Branston gardens would surely be minimal. With any luck, she’d resign after a week. ‘And a single parent,’ the Bursar had added, shaking his head. ‘A sign of the times, I suppose.’

  At this, all Richard’s liberal neurons sparked at once and, for a second, the temptation flared to demand what exactly the Bursar meant by that. He desisted, however; the college officials were quite curious enough about his personal circumstances as it was and he had no intention of positively inviting their attention. He dismissed the college gardener from his thoughts. But instantly, perhaps inevitably given the topic, they routed to Amy and a huge, hopeless wave of longing swept over him.

  He lowered his eyes; such private thoughts in a public place were doubly difficult. He tried to remain scientific and detached and examine this fascinating close personal evidence of how mere patterns in the brain folds could produce such intense physical misery. But the scientist, as always, was instantly overwhelmed by the man, and mental images of cortices were replaced by pictures of her soft brown hair in the sun, the scent of her skin, how happy they had been together.

  ‘. . . look to alternative sources of funding and ways of raising the college’s profile . . .’ the Bursar was intoning in his fruity voice.

  Richard, now drowning in memories, realised the agenda had moved on. He battled his way back to the surface. This could not continue. He must find a permanent way to cope.

  Last night a bottle of cough medicine spotted in the bathroom cabinet had reminded him how drinking the whole lot would produce a neuronal blockade detaching sensory information from meaning. But he knew also that the effect would be short term and it would eventually become reattached. Harder drugs like heroin, mimicking as it did the chemicals produced by the brain to alleviate suffering, was another potential source of comfort. But he would hardly be solving his problems by becoming a drug addict.

  He forced himself to think of the labs, of work, and felt the coiled spring within him give a little. Amy was gone, he was far from home, but at least he had his research. If he could ever get to it. The temptation to kick his legs against this ridiculous round table was almost irresistible. Would this meeting ever end? Looking at the agenda, he couldn’t work out where they were. There was an item called ‘Amber Piggott’ – was that a person?

  The college admissions tutor, a combative-looking woman with claret hair and purple glasses, was expressing her hope that one of the new students might attract some of ‘the right sort of attention’ to Branston.

  They were discussing this Amber Piggott, Richard realised. She seemed to be a person. She was very rich and, for some reason, famous.

  ‘An “it girl”?’ he echoed, puzzled.

  The Bursar leant over. ‘Goes to lots of glamorous society parties.’

  This made no sense to Richard. ‘What sort of societies?’ His frame of reference was firmly academic and none of the societies he could think of was remotely glittering.

  ‘Oh, you know,’ the Bursar said vaguely. ‘Nightclubs with Prince Harry, that sort of thing. She’s always in the gossip pages.’

  Richard’s frown deepened. ‘And she’s coming here?’

  ‘When she deigns to turn up,’ put in the head of the English Faculty, acidly. She was a woman mountain, Richard thought. Her booming tremolo voice seemed to come from some deep cavern within, like that of the Delphic oracle.

  Purple Glasses now leant forward and explained Amber Piggott had been allowed into Branston as part of a profile-raising effort.

  For all his intention not to get involved, Richard found indignation stirring. ‘Does Branston really need to resort to that?’ he asked. ‘We’re part of one of the most famous universities in the world.’

  ‘Yes, my dear Master,’ the Bursar replied evenly. ‘But we’re struggling for funds, even so. We need
publicity.’

  Richard drew himself back. It was up to them; he wasn’t going to get involved. He was here as decoration only. Nonetheless, he found himself thinking that there were better ways to raise money and profile. The American universities he had worked in had had alumni offices that had hunted down former students without mercy and squeezed every last shekel out of them. They had organised ring-rounds with current students calling old students, set up alumni dinners. Amy had been involved with some of it. Perhaps he should mention it; Branston didn’t seem to have a clue about that sort of thing, to judge by the list of merchandise Flora Thynne was sending to Allegra Trott.

  Oh, whatever. It was their business. Abruptly, he stood up. ‘I have to go,’ he announced.

  The day’s early dullness had, most unexpectedly, melted into a glowing October afternoon. Autumn’s fiery wand had transformed even Branston’s beleaguered acres into a coppery blaze and wherever she looked – so long as it was not too closely – Diana saw radiant trees with light bouncing off every leaf and grass with a hovering layer of gold atop the green.

  She was working near a long, low box of grey concrete with a long slit close to the top, which went across the entire width of the building and made it look like an enormous postbox. In the unlikely event that anyone even noticed it, they might have assumed it to be a garage, or perhaps the room where all the electricity cables were gathered. In fact, it was the Branston College Master’s Lodge and the long slit was the building’s main window, although the influx of light was severely compromised by a dangling growth of red-tinged Boston vine, which fringed the edge of the building’s roof. This meant that, for all the building represented in cutting-edge constructional thought, the effect within was, Diana imagined, not dissimilar to the gloomiest of Dark Ages fortresses. She was trimming the vine.

  As she worked, she became aware of a growing commotion at the garden’s other side, in the area nearest to the college entrance. Formerly empty, it now held a considerable number of people, mostly men in casual, dark clothes, jostling to get a glimpse of something she could not see. They were calling out and brandishing large, long objects with glass pieces that caught the light: cameras, Diana realised. She recognised the furry things swinging about as sound booms – and wasn’t that a film camera there? What or who were they filming?

  The possibility that it was the new Master flashed through her mind. She knew nothing about him, neither his name nor what he looked like. But he seemed the most likely contender.

  Drawing near out of curiosity, Diana saw the crowd part suddenly and a beautiful blonde girl came striding through. She wore a mortar board and a dark scholar’s gown with high heels and stockings. And nothing else, a bemused Diana saw. Except some very skimpy underwear, revealed now as, with a dazzling smile, the girl opened the gown wide. There was a roar of approval and the whirr and click of cameras.

  Diana, clippers in hand, could only stare. It seemed most unlikely that this girl was a student. This must be some sort of fashion show or something.

  A small white fluffy dog was pushing its head out from under the black gown. It appeared to be clamped under the girl’s arm. As Diana watched, she pulled it out, thrust it into the mortar board and, striking another pose, held it up for the photographers. There was another roar of approval.

  A liberated man at last, Richard was striding towards the bike racks to the rear of Branston and considering the next likely move of the worms he was using in his research. The experiment involved associating smell with colour, and what that revealed about the brain. The worms, exposed to a certain smell, were supposed to head for a certain colour. So far, however, they were refusing to play the game and match any one colour to any one smell. Perhaps, Richard thought, strapping on his helmet, it was just that these were particularly stupid worms. He brightened. Were some worms more intelligent than others? Another whole new field to explore, potentially.

  He swung his leg over the saddle, looking up at the Branston dome framed by autumn trees as he did so. It looked rather uncharacteristically picturesque and Richard was conscious of a brief burst of something almost like affection for the place. Why couldn’t they leave it alone? He could still almost hear the Bursar banging on about the financial challenges Branston faced. Challenges which Amber Piggott’s rich father could potentially help with. There was, apparently, a very brilliant Scottish first-year English student the college was funding. But more such bursaries were needed across all subjects to attract top students who might otherwise go to more prestigious colleges. Wobbling off, Richard almost groaned aloud. If only Branston would just get over it. Unprestigious was good. Drab was good. It was great there was nothing happening at Branston, that it was a quiet place, a backwater.

  Or was it? As he wheeled past the college entrance, he was surprised to see a crowd of people standing in front of it. Men, mostly, dressed in dark padded coats and jeans. They looked too old to be students and were shouting and gesturing to someone Richard could not see. There was an aggressive, rather wild atmosphere.

  ‘Amber! Over here, Amber!’

  ‘Give us a smile, Amber. Thassit, girl. A bit more leg; yeah, that’s right.’

  A loud whirring, clicking sound accompanied these exhortations. Cameras, Richard now saw. Above the heads of the shouters, a slim brown hand, flashing with jewels, could be seen turning slowly in the air.

  Half of Richard wanted to go on his way; it wasn’t his business, after all. But the other half shoved his way towards the back of the crowd.

  Whatever was going on, he didn’t like the look of it – or the shouty, raucous sound of it. Why did these people have long lenses the size of drainpipes swinging about? There were a couple of grey and furry boom microphones too, as well as what looked like a TV camera. A small, bossy-looking girl was striding about with a clipboard. What on earth was happening?

  ‘Over here, Amber.’

  ‘Work that mortar board, babe!’

  There was a roar of lascivious approval at whatever action this had elicited. Richard had elbowed his way to the front now and could see, in front of the excitedly opening and closing college entrance, a heavily made-up blonde in a black bikini accessorised by high heels, a black scholar’s gown and navy blue fishnet stockings.

  He blinked in amazement.

  Her legs were placed wide apart and she was holding the mortar board over the front of her bikini bottoms whilst bending forward to give the assembled cameras the full benefit of her cleavage. Under her other arm was clasped a small white dog. It caught Richard’s eye and started to yap loudly.

  He rubbed his eyes. His ears were buzzing. He reached for his mobile phone. Fighting through the throng to the main doorway was out of the question and it was anyone’s guess in which part of the ludicrously over-complex building the Bursar might be now.

  When finally he was located, he sounded smoothly unperturbed. ‘Yes, Master? How can I help?’

  ‘There’s some kind of underwear shoot going on at the entrance,’ Richard gasped. ‘You’ve got to stop it.’

  He was surprised to hear his colleague chuckle. ‘On the contrary, my dear Master.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I rather imagine,’ the Bursar said in a tone of rich amusement, ‘that you’re seeing Amber Piggott arrive to begin her studies.’

  Richard was a man of few words, but rarely was he speechless, as he was now.

  ‘We have to do what we can,’ the Bursar was saying. ‘Even if it means agreeing to be the setting for a fly-on-the-wall documentary about Amber Piggott’s first term.’

  Richard nearly dropped the phone. He cleared his throat to collect himself. ‘I’m obviously hearing things, Bursar.’ He gave a nervous chuckle. ‘I just thought I heard you say “fly-on-the-wall documentary about Amber Piggott’s first term”!’

  ‘I did say that, Master.’

  ‘It’s f
ine,’ Isabel assured her mother. ‘Yes, everyone’s very nice.’

  ‘You sound a bit – well – flat,’ came the voice from the other end of the mobile.

  Actually, Isabel felt irritated. And tired. And probably a bit hung over still – vodka was not her usual tipple; nothing was.

  The long journey of the day before had caught up with her, as well as the late night in Ellie’s room, watching films. After Dog For Christmas had come Hide The Sausage, a tale about romance in a provincial butcher’s. This had been followed by Happy Accident, where a female doctor with a broken leg fell for a male nurse. For Isabel, yawning amid the sequins and feeling mildly overcome by the powerful scented candle, they had eventually all merged into one.

  ‘Really, I’m fine,’ she insisted. Then, changing the subject, ‘How’s Lochalan?’

  Her mother launched into the expected sequence of anecdotes. ‘The minister’s wife’s doing her alternative therapies again; she’s at loggerheads with the doctor, apparently . . .’

  Isabel chuckled. Mrs Craig, the vicar’s wife, had caused a sensation in Lochalan with her sudden espousal of New Age beliefs and holistic treatments. Those who had experienced the latter, reported that the front room of the manse had been given over to beanbags, whale music and joss sticks.

  ‘Mrs Robertson’s run out of midge spray . . .’

  Isabel smiled. That, from July to November, the hardiest and most macho of Highland stalkers and gamekeepers splashed themselves liberally all over with a sweet-smelling beauty lotion called ‘Skin-So-Soft’ before stepping foot out the door was one of Scotland’s best-kept secrets. And that Mrs Robertson, who ran the supermarket, had run out of the stuff would be nothing less than a local crisis.

  As her mother chattered on, Isabel closed her eyes and there was her home village, spread before her like a painting. She was driving into it, on the familiar rain-slicked black road, the bordering grass glowing greedily green in the limited light. Past the white chapel with the pointy windows, past the ancient graveyard with the green-furred mossy stones, past the pitch and putt, past the garage, past the village’s one, rather stern looking, hotel. On the other side was the silver loch stretching to the west and the sea from the shawl of familiar hills, hills covered with thick, green misty heathland broken here and there by secret mountain lochs, or dotted with the occasional high, lonely lodge. There were deer up here, stags and does, as well as tiny flowers with honey-sweet scent and, above it all, wild birds crying and riding the sweeping winds.