The Rose in Winter

by Sarah Harrison

  She turned the photo over and her heart tripped.

  Me and S G, Salting July 1922

  Looking again at the picture, there was no doubt. It was Stanley, of course, but not as she had ever seen him. An almost unrecognisable Stanley translated by – she sought the word – joy. Yes, joy; occasioned, unmistakably, by love.

  Barbara laid the photo face down next to the letter and sat very still, her hands braced either side of her on the edge of the bed. Beyond the windows, the tops of the pines stirred against a pale sky. The weather was changing.

  After a few minutes, she put photo and letter on the bedside table, heeled off her smart shoes and lay down. When Maureen tapped discreetly, to ask if she was all right and what would she like for supper, she told her that she had a headache and asked her please to lock up.

  It was the beginning of August and by mid-evening day was turning dusk. There was no need to draw the curtains as she undressed and returned to bed. She didn’t put on her nightdress but lay between the smooth sheets bare as a newborn, in her strange new world.

  Edith has gone on her way. She’s set you free.

  Twenty-One

  Maureen had the weekend off, but Barbara was glad to be solitary. The weather had turned restless with a moist breeze from the south west brushing grey clouds before it. The spell had been broken. In spite of the cooler temperature, the air inside Heart’s Ease felt stuffy as it had not done during the weeks of sunshine, when windows and doors had stood open. In contrast, the garden became unsettled, the full-blown flower heads swinging and trembling, ready to fall, and the tops of the trees switching like irritable cats’ tails. The rhododendrons, with their green internal caves, seemed to take great breaths, heaving and subsiding. No rain fell, but it was coming, you could feel it, borne on the back of the breeze.

  On Saturday, she laid an oil cloth in the boot of the car and loaded it with roses, the least-open ones she could find. With the cooler weather and in the enclosed shade of the church, she considered that they would last. She left early, arriving at St Catherine’s not long after eight o’clock, when the verger unlocked the door. Normally, she would have timed her session to coincide with Phoebe, but now she wished expressly to avoid her. Exceeding her usual brief she created two large arrangements – exuberantly flowing and informal – for the altar and another, smaller one, for the font near the south door. There were still some stems left, so she found a bucket in the cupboard at the back of the nave, filled it with water and placed all the remaining blooms in it except one. Then, leaving the bucket in the south aisle where Phoebe would see it, she went out, closing the door with its massive iron latch behind her. She passed through the porch and turned right, following the path that led between the ancient, lichen-covered graves. Then went up the gentle slope to the top of the churchyard, where the more recent burials were, the resting places of those who had died this century.

  Stanley’s, at his own request, was a simple soldier’s grave, an arched white stone with his name, regiment and dates. Barbara hadn’t wished her name to appear on it, nor on the plaque in the church.

  The churchyard was well cared for, the grass mowed and the graves weeded. A few bore metal containers like upturned colanders and three contained flowers in varying states of decay.

  She felt a warm rush of affection for Stanley, the strongest and most genuine she had ever experienced. Stanley, who had said to her when he was ill, but before she had accepted the inevitable,

  ‘Organise me something simple and serviceable Bar, no quotations and whatnot. You know me well enough. And don’t feel you have to deck me with flowers, what would I do with them?’

  So she hadn’t. She had done as he asked and left him alone, as he had left her: heeded, taken care of, remembered, but alone. Tears ran down her cheeks as she laid the golden rose at the foot of the plain white stone. They had had more in common than they knew, but understanding had come too late.

  For Stanley anyway. Barbara got to her feet and dusted her knees. Now she wanted only to get away before Phoebe arrived. Before reaching the lychgate, she looked once more over her shoulder and saw that her offering was already on the grass, brushed aside by the wind.

  All day long on Sunday, she moved around the house and garden: remembering, looking … Seeing. Her slow tour had much in common with the very first time she had come to Heart’s Ease with Stanley. The day he had proposed and when she had refused him. Nothing had changed; everything was cared for, then and since. But Barbara realised that, in her whole time here, she had made no impression on this place. It remained her husband’s. For nearly twenty years, both with him and on her own, she had inhabited it like one of those tiny crabs that makes its home in a discarded shell.

  In the afternoon, she placed the photo of Molly and that of Stanley with Edith, on the drawing room mantlepiece, with Kit’s letter tucked behind them. She moved Stanley’s polo and golf trophies aside to do so. She folded the découpage screen and propped it in the corner.

  Out in the loggia, she dragged out the old golf clubs and tennis racquets and stacked them on the terrace against the wall. Squeamishly, she opened the deckchairs and those that were rotting with mildew she also threw out. The piles of flowerpots she set a few at a time on the table. The tiles revealed by this exercise were a different colour, a warm terracotta unbleached by the sun, though littered with insects (dead and alive), dry leaves and a fine powder of desiccated potting soil.

  By the time she’d swept the floor, she was sweating, her arms ached and she went to pour herself a cold drink in the kitchen. Everything now cried out for her ministrations: the pantry, with its glass-fronted cupboard full of grand, seldom-used glasses; the old-fashioned kitchen with shelves of enormous meat platters; the heavy saucepans and chipped, enamel pie dishes standing on the stove. What did she want with such things? What had Stanley wanted with them? The weight of it all squeezed the breath from her and she had to sit down on the only upholstered chair, the one she thought of as Maureen’s. The wireless stood on the dresser and she reached out and turned the knob until she found music that she half-recognised, sombre but tuneful. She laid her head back. In the hall, she heard the phone ring, quite persistently … stopping, ringing again. She ignored it.

  She fell asleep and when she woke it was to a faded, grey light, the wireless crackling with interference. The wind had dropped, but rain freckled the windows. Disorientated, she looked at her watch, half past six. She finished the squash in her tumbler and walked, a little stiffly, to the dining room, where she poured herself a glass of sherry. For almost the first time, she took pleasure in the stealthy enlivening heat of the first sips hitting her stomach and spreading through her veins.

  She had still not turned on the light. This evening, in spite of the rain, the house and garden seemed of a piece and at peace. When she opened the door and stepped out into the loggia still carrying her glass, she was not surprised to see Johnny standing there, below the step. He wore a jacket, but no hat, the rain was soft and beads of it lay on his shoulders and on his hair.

  ‘Barbara.’

  ‘Hello Johnny.’

  ‘I wanted to see you.’

  She took a slow sip and set her glass down on the table. ‘Here I am.’

  He glanced slowly around. ‘You’ve been busy.’

  ‘Better late than never.’

  She was never sure which came first – her step forward, or his outstretched hand. But just before her fingers touched his, she heard him say,

  ‘Will you come with me?’

  What she would always remember – when she needed to, when everything that came later seemed to disappear in dry smoke – was the greenness. She’d remember: the tender half-light, which was like being under water; the sweet, poignant smell of the damp earth and leaves; the tip-tapping of the half-hearted rain. This was Johnny’s place – she saw he had been sleeping there – the eldritch cave, where he had watched and waited for her. She remembered that, except for their mouths, they we
re cold. Their smooth damp skin moved on smooth damp skin, like two mer-creatures. She remembered his long and beautiful Jesus-hands, with their calloused palms, that seemed to draw patterns on her, swirls, feathers and rosettes … A slender fern of black hair grew up his belly and spread at the start of his ribs. The wet hair on his head was ruffled into points. His eyes were bright slits, barely seeing her. She remembered her passive, spellbound ecstasy, and his glorious devouring of her, as the leaves over his head melted into one another and lost their greenness to the dark.

  With the dark, their mood changed. They were shivering with cold and with crazy laughter at themselves.

  ‘Come on!’ he said and they ran over the grass, clutching their bundles of clothes.

  ‘Maureen …!’

  ‘To hell with Maureen!’

  Across the hall and up the stairs they scampered and into her room. This was the other thing she remembered. How, when they had closed the door behind them they had fallen, still laughing, into her bed, their cold limbs warming up as they wrapped them around one another.

  Alongside stood Stanley’s empty bed, quiet as a catafalque.

  Twenty-Two

  They found the letter long after Barbara Govan had gone, with no forwarding address. The new people in Heart’s Ease had painted the house pink and glassed in the loggia to make a conservatory. They had also put up a tall, wrought-iron gate, so passers-by couldn’t simply stop and admire as they used to do.

  The letter was slotted into an album of hand-coloured postcards of the area. Edith had left them to the village museum, but they weren’t interested in all that – times and tastes were changing – and it was a year before they looked through the album and found the envelope. This time it was simply addressed to ‘Barbara’, so they gave it back to Mrs Bryant who had brought in the album and who might know.

  The Bryants realised at once who it was for and found themselves in a quandary as to what to do. So much time had passed and so much water had gone under the bridge. Barbara Govan, whom they had all been prepared to like, not least for her husband’s sake, had left Salting without so much as a goodbye and under the most peculiar (and, it had to be said, unsavoury) circumstances. Maureen Parr and Ron Dexter, who had worked up at Heart’s Ease, were not to be drawn on the subject and loyally unprepared to condemn. At least, everyone murmured grimly, she wasn’t a bolter; she hadn’t run off in this extraordinary way while Stanley was still alive. But her behaviour cast a disturbing backward shadow. After all, what else might have happened, clandestinely, during Stanley’s lifetime? And what might have happened since his death, when they had all rallied round and kept an eye on her, the funny little thing?

  The Bryants considered opening the letter, but not for long. It was not intended for them and Barbara had severed all her connections with Salting, with all of them. They dropped it into the ideal boiler and replaced the lid as if shutting a snake in a basket. The paper curled, crackled and was gone.

  Not that it would have meant anything to them.

  My dear Barbara,

  It occurs to me that I should have explained the contents of the box; although I know that you’ll surely cotton on. The letter from Kit tells you why I was quite unable to respond to or care for anyone else. The expression on Stanley’s face says everything about what he hoped for. He was a dear man and very lucky that, in due course, he met you.

  I have no idea whether you were happy with him and it certainly isn’t my business. But your life is yours again now Barbara, and has been for years, so – forgive me – don’t be afraid of the freedom. On with the dance! Kick up your heels and wave your arms about, if you want to.

  I am feeling very groggy at the moment, so shan’t be joining in.

  Fondest love,

  Edith.

  It would have meant a great deal to Barbara, who thought often about Edith. Not many days went by when she didn’t keenly feel the loss of her old, true friend. Their conversations hung like lanterns in her memory of those dim, constrained years after Stanley’s death. The last one especially, with its urgent, loving advice, had been like guiding light, without which she would never have found the courage (she thought of it as Edith’s spirit) to do what she had done. Even now, the realisation of her own daring had the power to snatch her breath away. This evening, Barbara wondered if Edith was watching her as she got ready to go out and, if so, what her expression would be.

  The bedroom of the Bayswater flat was big but, like the large drawing room, had an empty, under-furnished appearance. Thanks to Stanley’s provision for her, and the proceeds from Heart’s Ease, they had been able to buy the flat, but neither of them had the inclination or aptitude to select and purchase things to go in it. Johnny’s line was that, as long as he had her and somewhere to hang his hat, he couldn’t care less. And she had no experience of homemaking, having moved into a ready-made one when she married Stanley. She went to Whiteley’s and self-consciously ordered basic furniture and kitchen equipment, sure the staff were laughing behind their hands at her incompetence. The result was that they had only what was necessary and none of it suited the Victorian flat. She had no confidence in her taste either, so wasn’t able to dress things up with the little touches and grace notes that other women were good at. So everything felt rather impermanent.

  That feeling extended to the two of them. They were going to marry, but had not yet got round to it. Johnny said that he wanted to look after her – once he got up, he was busy, in and out all day, and often had meetings with useful contacts in the evening.

  Barbara wouldn’t have minded a job herself, but The Countrywoman had closed down some time ago. She still had her shorthand and typing, and some useful experience, so she was sure she’d be able to find something, but Johnny wouldn’t have it.

  ‘I may not be the Brigadier,’ he’d say, pulling her against him, growling into her ear, ‘but I have my standards.’

  She no longer had friends in London and didn’t know how or where to start making any. Her loneliness was exacerbated by not having enough to do. She employed an amiable, rather slatternly woman to help with the cleaning, but there had been no option but to learn to cook and she was terrible at it. Johnny often breezed in late in the evening with a bottle of scotch to find her in tears amid some ruined experiment, but his line was that he didn’t care. They would open the scotch and have fish and chips. But she cared and it was becoming increasingly hard not to show it. She had fled headlong to happiness. Now it seemed happiness was fleeing her and she could not catch it.

  This evening, they’d been invited by a pal of Johnny’s (he had many ‘pals’, most of whom she had never met) to join him for dinner with a well-known actress (he mentioned a name she didn’t recognise) and some others. Johnny was keen on the idea of working in the expanding field of PR – he had had one or two freelance jobs – and the pal had assured him that the actress and her coterie would be fertile ground. He was febrile with excitement and impatient with her hesitation: come on, they must go! It would be fun!

  It was now seven thirty. Barbara wasn’t sure of the evening’s timing. She wanted to be ready when Johnny got back so that, if necessary, they could leave right away. She stood before the wardrobe mirror. The black taffeta dress was his favourite, one that he had persuaded her to buy; she herself would not have bought it without his persuasion. Her hair needed cutting, but he liked it long and she had rolled into a loose chignon that was a less tidy copy of the one her mother used to create when Barbara was doing the season. Johnny also liked lipstick, ‘a bit of glamour’, so she had put on a little, hoping it didn’t make her look like a clown.

  The door of the flat opened with a rattle and closed with a bang.

  ‘Anyone at home? You ready?’

  Barbara heard him in the kitchen – the clink of a glass, a tap running, a snappish ‘Blast …!’

  ‘Hello darling – yes, almost!’

  Was she ready for Johnny? She tweaked the neckline of her dress, patted her hair –
there was something missing, something he would notice. Just in time, she remembered and went quickly, breathlessly to the dressing-table drawer.

  ‘Barbara!’

  ‘I’m here,’ she cried. ‘Coming!’

  The will o’ the wisp of happiness flew before her, as she touched her hair once more and turned out the light.

  For the Salting crowd, there was a final postscript to the Govan affair, a public one. Dick and Evelyn Keyes took the Express and happened to spot it in the William Hickey column. The photograph was of a glamorous, British film actress surrounded by admiring hangers-on, sitting at a nightclub table crowded with bottles and glasses. She was the star, the subject of the accompanying small story and the focus of attention. Closest to the camera and the only one looking straight into the lens was, unmistakably, Barbara Govan. Her neckline was rather too low for a woman of her age and her eyes were dull and exhausted. The man next to her, who may or may not have been her companion, was turned away, paying court to the actress.

  The décolletage was altogether too much. And then – oh dear, such a mistake! – there was that ridiculous rose.

  The End