The White Garden: A Novel of Virginia Woolf

by Стефани Баррон

  Another ghost, shut up and shelved…

  “But a ghost from a book?” Jo murmured, frowning. “Or the ghost of someone real?”

  She had no idea. The fragments of strange script swirling across the fragile pages might be an attempt at fiction. Or they might be an account of something else. A woman who felt hunted to the point of drowning herself; a woman who escaped in fear. To Sissinghurst?

  She flipped to the back of the notebook and felt her stomach plummet.

  A chunk of paper had been torn from the spine, wrenched out, it appeared, by a dull knife or a vicious hand. Scrawled on the inside of the back cover were the words Apostles Screed. But that was wrong; surely the term was Apostles Creed?

  The story she’d only just started, had no ending.

  The cell phone lying under the circle of light shuddered visibly, skittered on the tabletop, demanded Jo’s attention.

  “Good evening, Mr. Westlake,” she said, with deliberate lightness. As though the formal address could recast their relationship. As though it were still possible to be just a gardener and her potentate.

  “It’s morning where I am. Where are you?”

  “In my room.”

  “Then I’m not distracting you from work. Good.” He paused. “What would you do, Jo, if I showed up on your doorstep?”

  “You mean… here?” She sat up straighter against the pillows, reached unconsciously to tidy her hair, as though he could see her. “In Kent?”

  “Or London. Or the middle of the Atlantic, if you happened to be there.”

  “Is Alicia flying over for another auction?”

  “Alicia’s at Canyon Ranch. For the next ten days.”

  Jo gripped the phone spasmodically. There were several possible meanings behind the careful words. “But you’re in Argentina.”

  “For the next few hours. Then… who knows?”

  She could almost see him, in that half-remembered, half-imagined way the mind supplies: a wing of dark hair, peppered silver; white cuffs rolled back to reveal his forearms, tanned from sailing. But no — it was morning in Buenos Aires. He’d have his jacket on. A tie, Windsor-knotted. The cell phone resting against his crisp collar…

  “You want to see the garden?” She was stalling, and knew it.

  “I want to see you.”

  Gray was extremely good at dropping sentences like bombs. Assessing the damage.

  “What are you saying?”

  He laughed.

  That quickly, she could see the quirk of the lips, the amusement reserved for himself alone. The essential unreachability of the man.

  “You think I know? What am I saying? That if I rang your English bell — ”

  “ — You wonder whether I’d… open the door?”

  “Exactly.”

  Jo’s gaze drifted over the half-timbered walls, the deep orange of the plaster. It was not a restful room, this hip outpost at the George. Her mind was full of an unknown woman, a hunted creature gone to ground. The impulse to tell Gray what she’d been doing — the research, the notebook she’d found in a dusty cupboard, her grandfather’s suicide — was strong. But she couldn’t. The world of water and singing birds, train rides to nowhere, had nothing to do with Gray. They’d never talked about her, Jo. She’d never told him anything real. They didn’t know each other at all. They shared a spark — a sexual frisson of recognition, completely wordless. Gray liked it that way.

  Did she?

  If she let him in, when he knocked at her door?

  Sex. Entanglement. Deception.

  And all the possibility of Gray’s world. Power. Privilege. Being wanted —

  What was she afraid of? Walking in too deep. The water closing over my head —

  “Jo,” he whispered. “Where am I flying tomorrow?”

  “Let me sleep on it,” she said.

  Chapter Six

  ON SUNDAYS, THE PEOPLE WHO MADE THE GARDEN their church would wander through Sissinghurst’s gates and spend the morning in communion with nature. Imogen Cantwell understood the impulse — the essential piety of the place, particularly on a morning like this, when the rain was done and the October world glowed with color. Her feelings were bittersweet: Sissinghurst was open to the public only another week, and then the massive show she had been sustaining for half a year would be over. Between November and March the castle and its grounds slumbered in winter cold, a private kingdom restored to The Family.

  Imogen put in four hours of labor before the opening at eleven o’clock. Three of her staff were set to trimming the massive Irish yews that flanked the Top Courtyard paving; two others were busy at the Powys Wall in the Rose Garden, where the crowning glory of the curving brick, five Perle d’Azur clematis vines, were ruthlessly cut back in preparation for winter. Imogen herself ventured over to Delos, a disconcerting bit of ground west of the White Garden. It had never come together to Imogen’s satisfaction, in Vita’s day or hers. Vita had thought of it as an Attic Ruin, a place where saxifrages and aubrietias ran wild among massive fragments of masonry, like a windswept terrace on a Greek isle; but most of the rock bits had been carted off by the Nicolson boys in their youth, and the original maze of wandering paths had been tidied over the decades. It was an outer wing of the garden, frequented most often by people who loved Sissinghurst well and had long since surfeited on the stagier parts; these were the sort of visitors who were sometimes discovered long after closing, absorbed in a book amidst Delos’s teal-blue bromeliads. This morning, Imogen found Jo Bellamy there.

  The American was standing stock-still in the middle of the curving brick path that bisected the Aegean wilderness, and a book did indeed droop from her hands. Oast houses loomed behind her, but there were no hops any longer at Sissinghurst, to scent the air with beer. Jo was studying the rear of the White Garden, or what could be glimpsed of it through a gap in the hedge; taking notes, Imogen surmised. She ought to be nearly finished poaching on other people’s grounds.

  “Hullo,” Imogen called as she swung into view from the Top Courtyard. “Conjuring the Ghost of Gardens Past, are we?”

  The American started slightly. “How did you know?”

  “You’ve gone all unfocused about the eyes. Rather like the psychic my batty sister-in-law consults about her children’s future. Are you planning to stay on through Visitor Hours? See how the garden bears up under the strain of all those dragging feet?”

  Jo smiled faintly. “I’ve been wondering about that. The grass paths. They must get worn down.”

  “Special blend of seed,” Imogen confided, “and strenuous mowing schedules. We only cut midweek, during Closed Days — gives the turf time to regroup before the weekend onslaught. But you won’t have to worry about that. Yours is a private client. A game preserve.”

  “Yes,” Jo murmured.

  “Today’s almost the last of it, you know.” Imogen stabbed the end of her grubbing hoe into a hillock of hellebores. “We shut down next weekend until mid-March, barring the odd festive note at Christmas. I must say I’m looking forward to the peace and quiet — time to concentrate on the real business of gardening. Get into the greenhouses and the cold frames. Propagate. What about you? Heading back to the States?”

  “Next Sunday.” Jo stepped toward her. “Can I ask you something, Imogen?”

  “Course.”

  “Did Vita’s friends stay here at the castle? For weeks at a time?”

  Jo’s eyes had gone from unfocused to probing. Imogen wrinkled her brow and glanced away. “Lord! I don’t know. She had scads of friends, I should think. Vita was known for collecting people — but you’ll have read that, in the biographies.”

  “Is there any way to find out? — Who might have been here during a particular time frame, I mean?”

  “Jo,” Imogen said with a sigh, “she died in 1962. Why do you want to know? It has nothing whatsoever to do with the White Garden, surely?”

  By way of answer, Jo held out the book she’d been reading. Imogen saw that it was th
e slim notebook they’d unearthed from the tool shed the day before. “It has no ending.”

  “Vass’s book?”

  “Not Vass. Someone else. A woman. Read this section,” Jo urged. “I want to know what you think. Whether I’m out of my mind or…just read it. Please.”

  29 March 1941

  Sissinghurst

  London, as it happens, was a mistake.

  Big Ben was striking as she stepped into the street. Something solemn in the deliberate swing of the strokes; the murmur of wheels; the shuffle of footsteps. There is much more to be said about us than that we walk the streets of Westminster; but she had loved London in the old days, loved it far more than walking in the country. Her London was gone as brutally as childhood —

  Mecklenburgh Square, a jumble of brick and Portland cement. Book bindings scattered like dead leaves. Somebody’s old pot resting on a broken pediment. One pigskin glove, lavender-coloured. The airraid klaxon. The shouts of men in pompous uniforms. Whistles! The granite bulk of Queen Victoria, sandbagged in her chair. The klaxon sounding again and the breathless descent of crowds, flowing like rats into the Underground. She hugged her elbows to her chest as the earth shook around her.

  “It was the same with me,” Vita said later, when they were tucked up in the sitting room. “There was a filthy run last autumn, the whole world coming to an end and Hadji gone in London. I lay under the bed with the dogs until the bombs stopped falling. Shook for days afterwards. You oughtn’t to have gone, truly. One only thinks one can go back. But it is impossible, isn’t it? We go only forward.”

  We go only forward.

  The words made her shiver again, now that she was alone in the delicious feather bed, the curtains drawn round. Ben’s bedroom, it was, and determinedly mannish; he was attached to the Gunners at Rochester, while Nigel had gone into the Grenadier Guards. Vita worried constantly despite her brisk talk of her brave boys, sound as a bell, doing their bit. She grew anxious by week-end for Harold’s arrival, although some Fridays he never got away from the Ministry at all. Aloof as Vita always was, careless of the people she desperately loved — unkind to them even — she’d opened her arms wide for this unexpected visit. Sent a boy to Staplehurst when she got the wire — a lad named Jock, peering through the dusk for this old woman.

  He took my stick — I had no bag, it was an embarrassment to me, something that ought to require explanation — but the boy asked for none. Helped me up into Vita’s pony trap, the petrol or perhaps the sumptuous car too precious to trust to a schoolboy. Became my saviour, though he can’t have known it. A simple boy, dark and serious, with sensitive hands managing the reins.

  Vita was quite alone. Gave me sherry, then more of it. Patted the dogs and fed the fire while she let down the blackout shades. “Now then,” she said. “What’s it all about?” Both of us warm, free of care, snug as Ali Baba in his cave. I took still more sherry. “Life,” I said. “Singing life.”

  “So I gathered, from your wire.”

  I telegraphed from London. Wrote of the treacherous river, the persistent bird. No time to wait for Vita’s answer; the train was leaving. But she had not failed me. The boy, Jock, standing in the station’s gloom.

  “Now then,” she said again, and sat at my feet.

  How old we both are! All those years ago, when I first loved her, Vita scared me a little with her riches. Young and ripe as a sheaf of corn. Or a bunch of grapes — that was how I thought of her — the aristocratic mouth, the heavy breasts, the fat pearls she looped about her neck. Her need for love, her pursuit of it despite her children and the demands of public life. Her lordship of the manor. She was like a goddess in those days, Junoesque, heavy and omnipotent with lightning at her command. And now? As spare and wizened as an old strip of saddle leather.

  “It was the lead poisoning,” she says with her usual carelessness. A bout of illness several years back, something to do with lead in the cider-press; I remember it now. Vita propped up in bed, surrounded by gardening catalogues. Illness stripped the flesh from her bones. Her cheeks are riven with vertical lines, her fingers crabbed from digging. I know the truth: we have both of us been worn down to bones. The loss of too much love, the loss of our singing lives.

  “What do you mean to do,” she asked me quietly, “now you’ve really left him?”

  “Live,” I said.

  IMOGEN CANTWELL LOOKED UP FROM THE PAGES INTO JO’S anxious face. “Devilish hard to read, isn’t it? She could have tried for neater handwriting. But I thought it was a garden book — a diary of some sort.”

  “So did I.”

  “Why would Vass have kept this?”

  “He didn’t.” Jo reached for the notebook as though she couldn’t help herself, couldn’t leave it in Imogen’s hands a moment longer. “The boy she writes about — Jock — that was my grandfather’s name. He would have been seventeen. Sent over from Knole, where he grew up, to work here during the war.”

  “Ah.” Imogen leaned on the handle of her grubbing hoe and studied Jo frankly. “A personal interest, is it? That’s why you’re so keen to see our records from the forties. It’s not about the White Garden at all.”

  “It may be. Remember the title of this.”

  “Title?” Imogen frowned. Notes on the Making of a White Garden. “You think it’s… some sort of fiction? But the writer mentions Vita. That’s real enough.”

  “Yes. And she’s careful never to mention her own name at all. Who would have been close enough to Vita Sackville-West in 1941 to arrive at Sissinghurst on the strength of a telegram, and be immediately welcome?”

  “A lover, you mean? Vita took them in scores. Mostly women, though the odd man does come up.”

  Jo turned the book in her hands. “Only one of them could write like this.”

  Imogen stared at her, thinking. Like everybody who’d made Sissinghurst their world, she’d learned a lot about The Family along the way. It was impossible to sustain Vita’s garden without knowing about Vita herself. She was everywhere: in the roses, the heavy Bagatelle vases that dotted the landscape, the looming shadow of the tower. Imogen had read the biographies. Lord, she’d even read Vita’s poetry, which almost nobody bothered with now. What was Jo saying? A lover of Vita’s, who’d had the ability to write?

  “We should tell The Family,” she decided. “This might be valuable. If it really is…”

  “… a lost manuscript of Virginia Woolf’s?” Jo finished.

  The two women stared at each other in silence. The American’s eyes had gone unfocused again, Imogen noticed, and her own mind was racing. Virginia Woolf. Vita’s friend and correspondent for two decades. Vita’s lover, until she moved on to everybody else. A manuscript of Virginia Woolf’s, however partial, abandoned in the tool shed with the mice and spiders? Which reminded her —

  “So it’s not Jack’s Book written on the notebook label,” she attempted, “but Jock?”

  “I think so.”

  “How did a gardener’s lad get his hands on this?” Imogen demanded. “Oh, Jo. It can’t be a Virginia Woolf — ”

  “Imogen,” she said hurriedly, gripping the notebook, “I know you’ve got to tell The Family. I know it’s terribly important. I know you owe me nothing — you’ve already done me several favors, and I’m very grateful. But if you could manage just one more thing — if you could give me twenty-four hours, to finish what’s here and learn what I can about my grandfather — it would mean everything. Everything,” she repeated.

  Imogen glanced over Jo’s head, toward the oast houses. Notes on the Making of a White Garden. Which hadn’t existed when this journal was written. What in all that was holy did it mean? And why should she do anything for Jo Bellamy, who kept more to herself than she was willing to share? If it was a lost Woolf manuscript… and she, Imogen, was credited with the find… the publicity would be enormous. For Sissinghurst. For the gardener.

  “Can’t you ask him? Your grandfather, I mean?”

  “He’s dead. We found
him hanged in the garage. The morning after he learned I was coming here.”

  “Bloody for you.”

  “I can’t shake the thought that I’m somehow responsible. That the news of this trip triggered his death. Do you see why I have to know?”

  Imogen shivered suddenly in the October sun; the American’s expression was too intense, too painful to bear.

  “Twenty-four hours,” she relented. “No more. But then you bring that book back, understood? I’m jolly well not going to lose my place over you, Jo Bellamy.”

  Chapter Seven

  PETER LLEWELLYN WAS HALFWAY THROUGH HIS PAIN au chocolat that morning when she walked into the café.

  He was late for the Group Meeting. He should have forgone his breakfast entirely; but he had no desire to listen to his Director, Marcus Symonds-Jones, summarize the results of a recent sale. He liked eating his pain au chocolat at his usual table in the house café, with a pot of Assam; and why provide Marcus with another opportunity to demonstrate Enlightened Management? Marcus was one of the new breed of directors at Sotheby’s UK; he had suffered through a four-day training course in New York last summer, and consequently assured his subordinates that they were All On One Team, Although Competition Among Equals was Quite in Order. Marcus had perfect teeth, which Peter found suspect. He hewed to an extreme of Savile Row tailoring, but affected a proletarian accent. Peter judged him false from shell to core. Marcus was a rousing success at Sotheby’s, however; and the slight suspicion that he, Peter, was simply jealous of Marcus’s ease, made him vaguely uncomfortable, as when he’d once disturbed a fellow seventh-former wanking off in a neighboring stall. Peter averted his eyes from Marcus when the two came into contact; the Results meeting would be sheer torture, Peter twiddling a pencil between his thumbs as Marcus spoke roundly of Better Than Projected Earnings. Far wiser to finish his breakfast and get on with the appraisal of the Broadwell collection.