The Tea Gardens

by Fiona McIntosh

  I laughed. ‘I’m nose-deep in books on tropical medicine, actually.’

  ‘That sounds daunting.’

  ‘An important subject.’ I smiled. ‘To me, anyway.’

  ‘Will you tell me why?’

  ‘Only if you can shoot all these ducks,’ I said, as we found ourselves at the shooting gallery. I needed to think through how and what to say, for this would have to be the crux of my agreement to marriage.

  ‘All? I’m not that accurate, I fear,’ he bleated.

  ‘Let’s make it six, then.’

  He took the small air rifle that was loaded with metal pellets and the man behind the counter winked at me. Jove shot carefully but missed all but three of the ducks that travelled along a small track from eight feet away.

  ‘I am no lover of guns,’ he admitted, handing the man back the weapon. ‘I was never invited to hunts at country manors.’

  I relinked our arms. ‘I’m glad. I’ve never grasped the pleasure of killing animals for sport. I find it desperately cowardly.’

  We gravitated to the pier railings to look out across the sea, back towards Hove, further still to Shoreham. The breeze was picking up. We wouldn’t be able to stand here long and yet I was in no hurry to leave.

  ‘Soon the anglers will be racing down the boards to find the best spot. There have been sharks spotted off this pier,’ he said.

  ‘None caught, I bet.’

  He grinned, shaking his head. ‘My granny used to tell me the marine fairies were riding white-maned seahorses all the way to shore,’ Jove remarked, pointing at the gently white-capped waves rippling towards the shingle beach.

  ‘Both you and your granny were romantics, clearly,’ I chuckled.

  ‘I still am,’ he said, turning to face me, fixing me with that look of his I was finding increasingly addictive. ‘Despite my poor aim, will you still tell me why you’re reading about tropical medicine?’

  This was the moment, then. ‘I should admit first that I fear my father discovering it.’

  ‘He’s forbidden you?’ He sounded concerned.

  ‘Not in so many words. It’s just taken as granted that I will not.’

  He blinked, frowning his consternation. ‘Your secrets are safe, and perhaps the burden is halved?’

  The truth is I was keen to share my dilemma. ‘All right, but we should get out of this wind or I shall lose my hat,’ I said, reaching for my velvet cloche as France did her best to blow it off my head from twenty miles away.

  We moved to sit on a bench in the colonnaded section shielded from the wind behind the theatre.

  ‘I am building up to telling my father that I wish to practise medicine as my mother did in India.’ He waited, sensing there was a reason I was so hesitant. ‘My mother died of the complications of tuberculosis.’

  ‘I didn’t know that was the reason. I can understand why your father would not want you involved in the same pursuit.’

  ‘So can I. But that doesn’t make me any less determined to practise medicine at the toughest coalface, as she did.’

  ‘It killed her,’ he reminded.

  ‘I don’t plan to let it murder me. And if it did, frankly it’s preferable to death by hosting coffee mornings or afternoon teas, garden parties, jamboree fundraisers, elegant soirees and piano recitals, which is where I might be headed if I don’t keep pushing for my career.’

  The darker humour and sarcasm worked. He smiled, knowingly. ‘Even so, your father’s concern is justified and perhaps that’s part of his urgency for you to marry.’

  I looked down to see him take my hand. His was ungloved and I could feel the warmth passing through the suede covering mine; it was reassuring, made me feel safe. Old synapses must have connected in my brain because suddenly I was thirteen again, staring at the man who used to make that teenage heart race.

  ‘I’m guessing you’ve made a deal?’

  I nodded. ‘I’ve been working at the Royal Free Hospital School of Medicine.’

  ‘That’s not far from St Pancras, near St George’s Gardens?’

  ‘Hunter Street,’ I said, nodding absently. ‘I was enchanted by the legend surrounding it that the founder, a surgeon, found a girl collapsed on the steps of St Andrew’s Church. She was clearly dying of disease but mostly from hunger and yet none of the nearby hospitals would offer help to her. She died and William Marsden was so moved that he set up a small dispensary for the poor who were sick. After a cholera outbreak – epidemic, actually – Queen Victoria granted a royal charter to extend the clinic that helped so many of the patients into a hospital. It became the Royal Free Hospital for people of pitiful means.’

  ‘Now there’s a fellow to admire,’ Jove murmured.

  I recalled my father had mentioned a number of social welfare projects that Jove was privately involved with: He uses his own coin. He asks for and seeks no recognition for his support but there are several worthy causes that would collapse if not for Mandeville’s funds. I waited for Jove to say more, perhaps mention his special charities, but he was instead waiting for me to continue.

  ‘The bargain I struck with my father was that I did not remain close to patients with tuberculosis beyond two years. Furthermore, not to practise solely in the same area as my mother. I have kept my side of the former promise and stopped working in the TB wards six months ago.’

  He inhaled, the air whistling lightly through his nose. ‘But you’re flouting the promise regarding the latter?’

  ‘I do intend to follow in my mother’s footsteps as to where she did her best work and sickened. And that’s because I’m a wicked, defiant daughter. That should surely give you sufficient insight to steer clear of me. I’m nothing but trouble, Jove.’

  He curled his surprisingly long fingers to encase my hand. ‘The contrary: I admire you. I am a sucker for an independent woman who knows her mind and treads her own path. So you’ll move from obstetrics into tropical disease research at the hospital?’

  I smiled sadly into his understanding gaze. ‘No, the plan is far more dramatic.’

  ‘You might as well tell me. We’re conspirators now.’

  ‘I want to practise in India.’

  I watched the light of amusement dim in his eyes. ‘Oh.’ He paused. ‘That’s dangerous, surely.’

  ‘Plenty do take care of the sick without getting sick themselves.’

  ‘I can’t imagine your father would let his only child go to the colonies.’

  ‘Now you know the heart of my secret. I live with constant vexation over it.’

  He stared at our linked hands, nodding. Finally, he stirred. ‘Well, that is a conundrum. I think we have two choices.’ He held up a finger. ‘Either I take you to those tiny bumper cars we passed that are called the Dodge-ems so you can smash into me and take out your frustration. Or —’ he held up a second finger ‘— we can consult the Lady Palmist for a reading.’

  ‘The Lady Palmist?’ I was grinning now in spite of how gloomy my confession had made me.

  ‘Oh, my word, yes. She’s the high oracle. So smash around in bumper cars, or have some insight into your future?’

  ‘Definitely the Lady Palmist!’

  Jove looked delighted with my decision. He stood, urged me to follow and led me to one of the many slot machines. We passed ‘What the Butler Saw’, ‘The Execution of Mary Queen of Scots’ and ‘The Haunted House’. These were more for titillation value. I’d seen a couple of them over the years: fast-moving photographs that gave the viewer a brief visual drama to share. These vignettes suggested more than they actually showed, with a theme that was usually sexual or violent in nature.

  We stood before the slot machine. It was as wide as a door and deeper than a bookcase. Inside was an illuminated scene of a decadently furnished sitting room replete with marble fireplace, oriental rug, wall hangings and plaster busts. Within the tranquil, Victorian-style scene stood the doll of a woman; she was dressed in dark velvet, wearing a serene expression as if in contemplation, awaiting he
r next client. The machine proclaimed that the Lady Palmist would answer any questions that I may desire to explore with her.

  I laughed gently as Jove pointed to a circular brass plate with a pointer that could pick out any of the twelve set questions.

  ‘Just a penny will earn insight into your future,’ he said in a grave tone, reaching into his waistcoat pocket to pull out some copper. He held up the penny and then put it in my hand, folding my fingers over it. ‘This is highly private business. I shall go in search of some light refreshment for us while you consult the Lady Palmist.’ He didn’t wait for my reply.

  I scanned the series of questions, which ranged from When Shall I Meet My Beloved? to Is My Friend True? I felt ridiculous and cast an embarrassed glance around me but no one was present, and so to humour Jove I twisted the dial to How Will Our Courtship End? It seemed the most appropriate question for today.

  Slipping the penny into the slot, I waited while the machine gave my query some thought. The prediction appeared in the fireplace, turning through answers to finally reveal its decision: Rest Content, Happiness is at Hand.

  The machine gave another guttural sound as wheels and cogs moved and, to my left, from another slot, a card appeared, which I was apparently free to take. The card told me that the person I was courting was true and that our love would ‘transcend all worriment and dilemma’. It was ludicrous to feel relief and yet I definitely felt a loosening within that a funfair machine was signing off on Jove’s suitability as a life partner.

  I tucked the card away into a pocket of my coat and was still grinning to myself when I rounded the corner and nearly bumped into Jove. He was carrying fairy floss the near-luminous colour of tooth tincture in one hand and a glistening toffee apple in the other.

  ‘I didn’t know which you’d prefer, and the fairy floss man was just getting his sugar machine cranked up for the day.’

  He really was the kindest fellow. ‘Well, you can break your teeth on it as I reserve my toffee apples for Bonfire Night but that fairy floss is most welcome,’ I said.

  He handed me the stick and the breeze bent its top-heavy cloud of pink. I had long ago learned not to chew directly into the floss as it often resulted in a face full of the sticky confection and instead pulled off a chunk of the wispy sugar strands.

  ‘One final amusement,’ he promised.

  How could I deny him? ‘Last one before I should be wending my way back to London. Will you be joining me?’ I asked, as he escorted me towards a small roofed enclosure. I chewed on the sugar, and its texture turned almost immediately into a sweet, liquid swallow. I was flung back to childhood and a feeling of security. The pleasure flooded me with joyful memories as I walked. I could hear my mother’s laugh – when genuinely amused she lost control and sounded like she was being frantically tickled; I could hear my father talking gently to me as he dabbed antiseptic on my scraped knees, the singing of our canaries and the low growl of my mother’s lap dog whenever someone came to our door.

  ‘If you’d like me to, I should be delighted. The car is already waiting.’

  I had to think about Jove’s words before I realised he was responding to my previous query.

  ‘Yes, I thought I glimpsed it when we were on the ferris wheel. So, what last surprise do you have for me?’

  ‘Follow me.’ He’d deliberately led me in from a side entrance so I couldn’t see the hoarding on the small building proclaiming what fun it held inside. And as we entered I realised we were in some kind of maze.

  ‘A hall of mirrors,’ I breathed.

  ‘With a difference,’ Jove assured and urged me in deeper to where I confronted my reflection, which was so distorted I exploded into delighted laughter.

  Jove stood by my side, and we both regarded our mirrored images that had us standing on legs that were ridiculously tall while our trunks were compressed to one quarter of normal size.

  He kept me moving while I ate my fairy floss and he the toffee apple and the convulsive laughter continued. It was truly helpless and delicious to laugh with such abandon, and without having to be aware of others, or good manners.

  ‘This is how I used to laugh as a child,’ Jove admitted, ‘carefree and uproariously.’ He stretched, holding his ribs. ‘Oh, gosh, laughing hurts, doesn’t it? I’d forgotten that bit.’ He took my floss stick and threw it with his half-eaten toffee apple into a nearby rubbish bin.

  I was wiping away tears, dabbing my face with a handkerchief and then the hilarity hit me again when I caught sight of a barely two-foot version of myself. My cloche had been flattened atop a wide head that was now barely inches in depth, with all my features squashed. It was both a hideous incarnation of me and side-splittingly funny. I pointed and convulsed again. ‘Jove, you look like one of the seven dwarves!’

  ‘And you’re my Snow White,’ he said. I thought his legs were buckling from the laughter but he was lowering himself to his knees.

  ‘Are you all right?’ I said, still laughing distractedly.

  ‘I’m perfectly well, deliriously happy.’ He withdrew a small black polished leather box from his inside pocket and snapped the lid open. Nestled in the velvet cushion sat a ring of diamonds.

  My breath caught and the amusement died in my chest, allowing my heart’s beat to fill the void with a thump so suddenly loud it was like a drum beat that I could swear in that moment an army could hear and march to.

  ‘Jove —’ My voice was small, choked.

  ‘Let me speak, Isla,’ he said from his knees. He glanced at the curved mirror and couldn’t help a small snort of laughter. I should not have looked but I followed his gaze and then we were both holding on to each other, off again into the hilarity of how squat and ridiculous he looked in that kneeling position.

  ‘You look like Rumpelstiltskin,’ I admitted through watering eyes.

  ‘And here I am hoping to look back at this moment as a profound one of my life,’ he moaned, but we both knew he had deliberately chosen this ridiculous situation, this moment of unbridled hilarity, to ask me for my hand.

  He stood. ‘Let me try again . . . ’

  I wanted to deny him, stop him asking; it was too soon surely, and we’d only just rediscovered each other. Even so, the whole day had been joyous, designed with every intention to entertain me, and I do believe that Jove was also testing me. I remain convinced that he chose the location of sharing tea and conversation in plain surrounds and a morning on the pier to see how comfortable I might be without all the usual status symbols around me that our families’ wealth and position afforded. He wanted to know that I liked him for the glimpse of his pleasure into the ordinary rather than his access to the extraordinary. And I suppose most of all he was testing that I found him agreeable, attractive, with a sense of fun – even that I may find him desirable.

  I sensed all of this in a few of those pounding heartbeats. I knew what he was saying without him having to explain and it was this point, perhaps – my realisation that we communicated so well without words – that made me finally fall back in love with Jovian Mandeville.

  ‘Isla, I know it’s a cliché but as a child I found you challenging and thus interesting. As the adult I loved you on sight. I couldn’t take my eyes from you once we sat down – I’m sure you’re aware of that . . . watching your lip pout as you sipped your tea, those eyes of yours, with their copper-sulphate colour that remind me of a glacier I once encountered on my travels. Their unflinching gaze penetrated the shield I’ve built around myself; it looked within and found me.’ He shook his head. ‘But I mentioned that looks are not enough for me. And so it’s your heart, Isla, that I love most. It’s pure; you’re looking to help others rather than to follow the easy path of wealthy indolence. It’s honest too. You’re looking for love of the most romantic kind rather than the wealthy kind, and I swear I will never look away from you, never let you down, and never take you at my side for granted.’ He lifted a finger. ‘Wait. This must be said. I am older, much older, and there will come a
time when you will have to care for me, indulge my deafness, my grunts from arthritis, my general tetchiness at the young, my —’

  ‘Stop!’

  He did.

  ‘Jove, you’re only a dozen or so years older.’ He nodded.

  ‘We must consider your future.’

  ‘You see that in itself is a revelation. It’s that you care how I might feel in twenty years that endears me to you. But, Jove, by then I shall be nearing fifty and I assure you that men age better than women. I should be asking myself about how you’ll cope with an old maid at your side.’

  He took my hands in his. ‘Cope? I should be the luckiest man in the world if you were still at my side when you were nearing fifty. Be my wife, Isla, and I will give you no cause ever to regret it. I know it may seem odd, even creepy, dare I say, that I used to push you on the swing or turn your skipping rope. But there have been a lot of intervening years – you grew up and I grew old. And I feel like not much has changed for me – I still find you fabulously interesting, unnerving, demanding, challenging and hugely intelligent. I couldn’t want for more in my life.’

  I swallowed, glanced left and saw two dwarfed versions of us holding hands, and I loved him for this hilarity around something so serious.

  ‘Walk with me,’ I urged, for fear of derailing this important moment. He followed me outside and I discovered the wind had turned brisk. Little whips from an invisible icy hand slapped our faces and were determined to remove my hat. I looked at my wristwatch. ‘We don’t have much more time to ourselves, do we?’

  ‘You’re right,’ he said, lifting a small but heavy-looking gold watch from his waistcoat pocket. ‘The pier is no longer ours in two minutes.’

  ‘Come with me,’ I said.