The Tea Gardens

by Fiona McIntosh

  I didn’t respond, letting him continue, quietly thrilled that India was part of our conversation.

  ‘The grand old days of colonialism must be relinquished. I’ve seen it all firsthand . . . not just in India but on the African continent and elsewhere . . . don’t let me bore you but our days as the ruling class, taking so much from these nations, needs to end. We can maintain great relations and be allies . . . friends . . . or, if we continue down this path, we can ultimately become enemies, as nationalist fervour will take much firmer hold. The Indians don’t wish to be ruled by a sovereign in a country on the other side of the world.’

  ‘I’d like to see India,’ I admitted, surprised I was skimming so close now to my truth and where my real passion lay.

  ‘Well, maybe we can travel together and I can show you the world,’ he offered.

  I didn’t answer because I wasn’t sure what to say; it felt affectionate and exciting to have his offer but I intended to see India on my own terms first. ‘And when you’re not party politicking?’

  ‘I like to get away from London as often as I can – up to Scotland or into the Cotswolds. I’ve seen your father at the club occasionally but not as often as you would think.’

  ‘It’s odd, isn’t it, that my father’s thoughts suddenly landed on you after all this time?’ I nibbled more of my cake politely.

  ‘Not really. I’d been away for almost a year and then I became an MP, so it brought me back to London and we ran into each other at the club, then soon after found ourselves seated together at a fundraising dinner. He talked about you and I think he may have experienced some sort of epiphany when I sympathised with your attitude over a choice of marriage partner.’ He smiled conspiratorially. ‘Now, Isla, I didn’t bring you all the way to Brighton simply to talk over cold tea at Lyons’,’ he said, touching the side of the pot.

  ‘I have a little surprise for you.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘It requires braving the cold.’

  ‘I’m game.’

  ‘Drink up,’ he urged.

  4

  The breezy walk from North Street to the seafront was having less impact than perhaps it should have. I was in a state of measured excitement because, try though I might to temper the feeling, I was beginning to think that my father and I might share common ground with regard to Mr Mandeville.

  Setting attraction aside – and there was no doubting I was attracted to him, even more so as an adult – I was interested in his approach to life. His humour, his whole bearing, was as pleasant as it was intriguing to be around. He was striking me as a man of the age – modern in his thinking but without a desire to toss away tradition. The traditionalist overtones I could pick out – his background, education, elevated manners, language – and they were desirable rather than detracting. What did this all add up to? Well, as we walked and he talked animatedly about Brighton being his favourite place in England, I decided that the years of not even laying a glance on each other had been good to us; we were more alike than I cared to admit and I found myself enjoying this man very much, even admitting aloud to my long-held secret desire for a house on Brunswick Terrace.

  ‘Technically that’s Hove, of course.’

  ‘Splitting hairs, Jove,’ I warned, as we moved through the Old Steine Gardens.

  ‘Just keeping you honest.’ He winked. ‘Brunswick Terrace is delightful – have you got one picked out?’

  I enjoyed him indulging my daydream. ‘Of course. Number fifteen would suit me perfectly. It’s near the middle, not too close to Waterloo Street but close enough to the Brunswick Square Gardens.’

  ‘Where you’d take the two Labradors for a walk, of course.’

  I laughed. ‘Yes. But only in winter. That’s the best season to be down here.’

  ‘When all the daytrippers have fled?’

  ‘Exactly! And our drawing room has a clear view over the stormy grey sea and we wonder – even worry – when the tide is in whether the waves breaking over the top of the promenade could flood us.’

  Did he hear me say ‘our’ drawing room? It was a slip of the tongue but I pretended I hadn’t made it.

  He grinned at our smooth banter. ‘And we can taste salt on our lips when we step out.’

  ‘I can taste it now,’ I gushed, making a show of licking my bottom lip briefly.

  ‘Queen Victoria and Prince Albert were no fans of Brighton,’ he said, helping us to move on swiftly. I appreciated his discretion.

  ‘How come?’

  ‘I think the Queen once famously levelled the words of “indiscreet and troublesome” at the people of Brighton.’

  I shook my head, perplexed.

  ‘Well, Brighton has always been so liberal, so daring in its attitude, and the Prince Regent led quite the high life down here,’ Jove explained. ‘Our Queen hated the outrageously extravagant folly of the Royal Pavilion, of course, and sold it to the town of Brighton for a song.’

  ‘I see. So that’s why she used Osborne House on the Isle of Wight as her palace by the sea.’

  ‘Precisely. Quite the opposite of fashionable Brighton and no prying eyes from daytrippers.’

  We were passing through the Steine Gardens, with the main Brighton promenade directly ahead of us. The long wrought-iron finger known as Palace Pier reached out into the Channel, pointing at Dieppe in France.

  Jove was cleverly picking out relevant, interesting titbits. But what he probably couldn’t guess was how much I also enjoyed the sound of his voice. ‘The fishermen of old used to lay out their nets here when we used to call the region Brighthelmstone.’

  ‘I thought these gardens were an extension of the Royal Pavilion?’

  ‘All of this is relatively new. The tide used to come up to just below the cliff we’re walking on.’

  I looked impressed.

  ‘Marine Parade was built as protection and Madeira Drive leads off to Black Rock. The colonnade below us with all of its novelty shops was there for the original chain pier that acted as a staging point for the cross-Channel ferries.’ He paused, appeared suddenly embarrassed. ‘Enough of all that, though; it’s simply an introduction as I thought we might visit Palace Pier.’

  I gasped, genuinely surprised by the childish delight that rippled through me. ‘But it’s closed, surely? The piers don’t open until later.’ I glanced at my watch before scanning the firmly shuttered gates. ‘Oh, what a pity – that would have been fun.’

  ‘Do you like the pier?’

  ‘Enormously.’ This confession prompted a smile so I gave him more. ‘I like to think that once I step through the turnstile I’m crossing an ethereal threshold: from land to sea.’

  Jove chuckled. ‘Where magic is possible, especially during the equinox.’

  ‘And we hover between those two worlds as the sun crosses the celestial equator,’ I replied, matching his playful tone.

  ‘Marvellous. A girl after my own heart,’ he said, walking closer to the pier.

  I remained still. ‘But . . . ?’

  He stepped back, leaning close. ‘I may feel comfy among the working classes, Isla, but I am not ashamed of having the money that allows me to pay for Palace Pier to open one hour early so that my exquisite companion and I might have a quiet stroll upon its boardwalk with no other people to dodge and a private conversation of the utmost importance.’ He crooked an elbow again. ‘Will you join me?’

  Helpless gushing followed. As a doctor I’d learned to keep my mood even, emotions in check, but this felt like childhood fun of yesteryear. ‘What a treat! Yes, I would love to join you.’

  It was a working winter’s morning so the majority of piergoers would likely land tomorrow and probably in the afternoon, which was promising a milder temperature. I didn’t feel in the slightest guilty that we were cheating anyone, but even so it felt like a naughty pleasure to slip through the turnstile, past a ticket seller at the counter who nodded, clearly expecting us.

  ‘Jove, this feels a fraction wicked.’

>   ‘I agree, and there are not enough simple but wicked pleasures in our all too serious lives. Enjoy!’ he said, making a sweeping gesture. ‘I’m afraid the concert band only plays in the summer and the theatre is not yet open but the rest of the amusements await us. What shall we do first?’

  I still couldn’t believe the pier was ours for a full hour. ‘I’m astonished.’

  ‘It would have been fun to be alone on here at night to see the thousands of illuminated light bulbs across all these arches.’ He pointed to the nearest tall curves of iron and steel. ‘The whole look of the place, with all of its oriental domes and majesty, was ridiculous pretension at an Indian Mogul’s palace.’

  The second mention of India felt prophetic. I took it as a sign that I could share more about the dream I held . . . the one I was yet to approach properly with Papa. Talk of marriage was adding a new obstacle I hadn’t seen coming.

  I realised I wasn’t paying attention to Jove, who was still lost in his pleasures of the pier. ‘ . . . the onion-shape of the domes.’ He looked at me and I quickly gathered my thoughts.

  ‘Er, well, I think of them more as iced swirls on a birthday cake,’ I said, admiring the top of a minaret-like flourish that adorned several of the pier’s structures.

  ‘One day I’ll bring you to see this in the evening – it’s glorious. But a morning expedition it is for now. Come on.’ He led me across the boards. ‘We have nearly two thousand feet to walk out to sea. I used to love going to the tearoom. It faced out to France and its menu had a more French than English tone. Coffee was café noir but I used to order café au lait simply because I enjoyed saying it, plus they called their cold cuts viands . . . Marvellous!’ he said.

  ‘Did a man used to ride his bicycle off the end of the pier, or was that West Pier in Hove?’

  ‘No, no, it was definitely here. Professor Reddish was his name. I was among the crowd in 1912 that watched him “Fly the Foam”, as he used to call it. Hilarious.’ I laughed as Jove mimicked sitting astride a bicycle. ‘He’d ride at speed and just shoot off the end of the pier.’

  ‘Ridiculous, surely?’

  ‘Oh, but so much fun. The crowd would be laughing long before he plunged because it really was so very silly and thoroughly English, don’t you think? Which other nation laughs at itself as we do?’

  I shook my head to say I couldn’t think of one.

  ‘And the Brighton Air Race used to pass overhead here. I watched Hamel winning in his monoplane. I told my aunt who had brought me that he was waving to me. That’s how it felt, anyway.’

  ‘How old were you?’

  ‘Ooh, about seventeen, I think, but I was one of those youngsters who could be termed a dreamer.’

  I smiled at him. ‘I like that.’

  ‘I was completely in love with Zoe Brigden too,’ he continued.

  ‘Someone from school?’

  ‘Only in my dreams,’ he scoffed gently. ‘No, Zoe Brigden was what they call an aquatic entertainer. She used to give diving exhibitions from the West Pier jetty and then swim to Palace Pier. Her most famous dive was called the “wooden soldier”. We’d all hold our breath as she’d leap into the sea from the pier, head first, arms by her side, and hit the waves like a spear. It must have felt like concrete. I was quite captured by her in her bathing costume. Heaven only knows how she got all that curly dark temptress’s hair into her rubber hat!’

  ‘Which teenage boy wouldn’t be charmed?’ I added archly.

  ‘My point exactly.’

  I began to feel warmed by Jove’s company and his amusing, self-effacing manner. ‘I think I would have been frightened rather than entertained by her antics,’ I added.

  ‘Then I think I should do the test of strength first to reassure you to never be afraid of anything when I’m around.’

  The declaration was made softly, intently; there was a deliberate message being conveyed. He knew his way around the pier, threading us in a looping stroll various amusements and the Winter Garden that had been designed as a miniature Crystal Palace. He offered further titbits of information as we passed by.

  ‘His Royal Highness the Prince of Wales was patron to the Palace Pier Follies who performed here,’ he said.

  ‘Follies?’

  ‘A small troupe of men and women: singers, dancers, general entertainers who had three shows a day; they were good too – I saw them in 1923. I’m sorry I can’t show you through the Winter Garden itself – it’s rather lovely, with its central fountain and lacework in iron. The theatre, too, is considered a triumph in acoustics and is very beautiful inside, lavished in royal blue and gold. I was here recently to see a pantomime as a treat for a godson. Mother Goose – great fun.’

  ‘Care to demonstrate your muscle power to the young lady, sir?’ the man holding the hammer said in his best funfair voice.

  ‘Indeed. I do hope you’ve rigged this contraption to ring that bell no matter how puny I am,’ Jove jested. ‘I mean to impress this wonderful woman.’

  ‘Oh, you will, sir. You look a likely one.’

  I was chuckling even before Jove took off his hat and overcoat to get a good swing and we were all rewarded by a loud gong of the bell. Our trio gave a small cheer.

  ‘Madam, you will have no problems with this very strong man carrying you over the threshold.’

  I was surprised that neither of us felt awkward at the man’s innocent remark, although we seemed to take an age choosing our prize, perhaps unable to meet one another’s gaze. I settled finally on a jar of cinder toffee and we strolled on, arm in arm again. We decided against the helter skelter but took one brief ride on the ferris wheel, which made me feel as if I were flying with the gulls that wheeled and hovered overhead.

  Back on the ground, we strolled on, feeling exhilarated from the chilly air at the top of the wheel.

  ‘What are you reading and enjoying at the moment?’ I said, keen to keep our conversation going so I could learn as much about Jove as possible before we parted. We skirted the other side of the Winter Gardens.

  ‘I’m always reading – lots of contracts and documents, newspaper reports, but I’ve just finished a novel called The Last September.’

  ‘Oh, by Elizabeth Bowen?’

  ‘I can’t admit that I enjoyed it.’

  ‘Too feminist?’

  ‘Not at all. Actually I found that aspect of it revealing . . . the idea that modern women may be regarding marriage as potentially futile is something we men should not be dismissive of.’

  ‘In what way should men consider it?’ I was impressed but didn’t want him to know this yet.

  ‘Well, I suppose in how we approach marriage today. It’s a contract, after all, and gone are the days of women meekly agreeing to their parents’ choices.’ He gave me a meaningful glance. ‘Today, while financial suitability still rules as a major concern, I am certain daughters now have a lot more say. They are looking for love, for romance, for integrity of the promises being given. For example, “I make solemn oath before witnesses to you that I shall be this or that”. By the same token you also grant me certain promises.’ He waved his hand as though he didn’t need to state the obvious of what those may be. ‘But I think there is a case to be answered by too many men who marry because it’s the right thing, or the done thing. It gives them the woman they need in their life – that is to say, to be in a state of wedlock.’ He drew a small tick sign in the air with a finger. ‘Then there’s the brood of children bearing their name: more ticks in the right place. Meanwhile those men go on having their affairs, or carousing, or simply neglecting their solemnly sworn oath . . . the promise to love and cherish.’

  I would be lying if I said I didn’t feel stirred by his words. ‘Women are just as cunning, of course.’

  He nodded thoughtfully. ‘I have no doubt. But if the right choice is made – both parties with high affection for one another, romance alive and well in their relationship – then disappointment need not enter that marriage.’

  �
�I love your sentimentality, Jove. It is inspiring.’

  He gave a small bow of his head in thanks.

  ‘So how do we recognise the right partner, then?’

  ‘Ah, and there we have the age-old question. My take on it is that we should all look for someone who can grow alongside us and mature at a similar rate, and be keen to develop and be open to change and enrichment of all kinds. The danger is stagnation. A woman marries, has children, becomes content if there is sufficient money and status. The man marries, has children, begins to realise his wife is distracted by household duties, raising the family, keeping up with friends and acquaintances . . . ’ He put a finger to the side of his mouth. ‘Keeping up with friends and acquaintances in the worst of ways too, and the husband feels he’s queuing now for all that former attention that was lavished on him.’

  ‘And he strays?’

  ‘He strays, he finds other amusements, reasons to work longer hours, and suddenly the happy couple feel mismatched, no longer in tandem. I’ve seen it repeated in several marriages of colleagues . . . even close friends. Their union turns stale, predictable. It’s all about the children, the right schools, the right house in the right neighbourhood, attending the right parties but having little to say to each other that makes them throw back their heads in delighted laughter. As for intimacy, it becomes routine.’

  ‘Oh, gosh, Jove, now you paint a bleak picture of marriage.’

  ‘It’s not my intention. My point is it doesn’t have to be that way!’ he said, rounding on me, keen to make his point. ‘It begins with the right choice and for all the right reasons. That’s my position and why, until now, I haven’t married.’

  ‘I truly understand your reluctance.’

  Our gazes held in agreement.

  ‘You and I are not so different. I’m sure you desire the same. Let me leave it at this: if women are turning away from marriage, then we men have ourselves to blame. I doubt very much that women are turning away from men. Quite the contrary – women have never been more sure of themselves.’ He nodded at me as if I were his point in question. ‘As to why I didn’t enjoy The Last September, I think it is a lonely story and I felt maudlin after reading it.’ He shrugged. ‘I prefer my novels to be uplifting. How about you? What are you reading?’