Book
The young teacher Franca Palmer is at the end of her rope. Her marriage is reaching a crisis point, and she barely feels capable of continuing to face the demands of her career, her husband, and day-to-day life. In a mad rush she leaves her comfortable home in Berlin and flees to the island of Guernsey in the English Channel; there she rents herself a room in the old rose gardener’s house in the village of Le Variouf. In a short time, a peculiar, guarded friendship develops between her and her host, Beatrice Shaye. The older woman has lived on the charmingly situated property for many years with Helene Feldmann — tied together by fate in a relationship that is marked with repugnance and hatred. The two women appear to be bound to one another in a mysterious, incomprehensible way — dating back to the year 1940, when during the occupation of the Channel Islands by German troops, Helene and her husband Erich, a high-ranking officer, took Beatrice in as if she was their own child. From the beginning, the Feldmanns competed for Beatrice’s favor, all the more so since, where his wife was concerned, Erich felt only contempt. So it was that with his death on May 1st, 1945, an agonizing phase in both women’s lives came to an end. But nevertheless, a shadow still hangs over the house. And one day, another May 1st, there is again a death in Le Variouf.
Author
Charlotte Link, born in Frankfurt, is the most successful German author of the present day. Her psychological suspense novels have been translated into numerous languages and are international bestsellers. In Germany alone, over 24 million books by Charlotte Link have been sold to date. Charlotte Link lives with her family near Frankfurt.
Charlotte Link
The Rose Gardener
Translated from the German
by Marshall Yarbrough
The original edition was published under the title
»Die Rosenzüchterin« by Blanvalet Verlag,
an imprint of the Verlagsgruppe Random House GmbH, München.
English E-Book Edition 2014
© of the original German edition 2005 by Blanvalet Verlag,
an imprint of the Verlagsgruppe Random House GmbH, München
© of the English edition 2014 by Blanvalet Verlag,
an imprint of the Verlagsgruppe Random House GmbH, München
Cover art: www.buerosued.de / gettyimages / Miquel Bohigas
eISBN 978-3-641-14096-0
www.blanvalet.de
PROLOGUE
There were times when she just couldn’t stand roses. Times when she thought she could no longer bear their beauty; the sight of their soft, bright petals; the arrogance in their stretching towards the sun, as if the warmth of its rays was meant for them and them alone. Roses could be more sensitive than the proverbial mimosa; first it was too wet for them, then it was too cold, too windy, or too hot. Often, for some indiscernible reason, they would hang their heads and make you think they were getting ready to die — and it took effort, strength, and nerve to prevent them from doing just that. But then, just as inexplicably, they would reveal an unexpected tenacity. They would hold their own in the face of harsh weather and improper handling. They would blossom, thrive, and become fragrant. They made it easy on no one who had anything to do with them.
I shouldn’t have such an aggressive reaction to roses, she thought. It’s foolish. And unreasonable.
She had spent forty years of her life growing roses, but really, she had never had the right touch for handling them. This was probably because she didn’t like these flowers and had actually always wanted to do something else. She had managed to develop a few interesting crossbreeds, hybrid teas mainly — for if it had to be roses, this was the variety she could bring herself to like at least a little bit. They combined elegance with a certain hardiness and strength — and they sold well. Somehow she had always been able to secure a livelihood for her small family, but she had often thought that if some benevolent fairy was to appear all of a sudden and offer her a pile of gold, she wouldn’t touch another rose for the rest of her life.
There were times when Beatrice Shaye faced up to the knowledge that she neither liked roses nor really understood how to handle them as an actual expert might. It was then that she asked herself what it was, exactly, that was near to her heart. Every now and again she had to reassure herself that there was still something, because there were times when she was saddened by the knowledge that she had given her life to an activity and an object that could summon so little sympathy from her. It set her to brooding, in search of some kind of meaning. This even though she herself had always voiced skepticism about those in search of meaning. She had always asserted that the meaning of life was just to keep living — which is to say, survival, in a plain, undramatic sense. Survival meant doing what was necessary: getting up, carrying out the work that needed to be done, eating, drinking, going to bed and going to sleep. Everything else was just for decoration: the sherry that shone in its glass like bright gold. Music that raged through the room and made your heart beat faster and your blood flow more freely. A book you couldn’t put down. A sunset over the sea, down by Pleinmont Tower, that immediately touched the soul. A dog’s nose, wet and cold and wild, pressed against your own. A quiet, warm summer day, its calm broken only by the cries of seagulls and the soft crashing of waves in Moulin Huet Bay. Hot stone under bare feet. The smell of lavender fields.
Actually, all these things were the answer to her question: she loved Guernsey, her home, the island in the English Channel. She loved St. Peter Port, the picturesque port town on the east coast. She loved the narcissus flowers that bloomed along every path in the spring, loved the wild, blue hyacinths that you came upon in the bright forests, flooded with light. She loved the cliff path high above the ocean, especially the stretch that led from Pleinmont Point to Petit Bôt Bay. She loved her village, Le Variouf, loved her stone house, which lay high up on the upper edge of town. She loved even the island’s wounds, the ugly watchtowers, once a part of the fortifications that had been built by the German occupation forces; the dreary, granite-hewn German Military Underground Hospital, that the captive laborers had had to build back then; and the train stations that the Germans had expanded in order to be able to transport material for the building of fortifications along the Siegfried line. Besides all this she loved the landscape, the things on this island that no one saw or heard other than she: memories of voices and images, of moments scorched into her memory, never to be extinguished. Memories of more than seventy years of life, almost all of which she had spent right here. Maybe what was near to your heart were the things you had known all your life. Whether for good or ill, the familiar worked its way into that corner of the heart where affection was born. At some point, you no longer asked what it was you had once wanted; rather, you considered what it was you had received. And you came to terms with it.
Naturally, she would think now and again about what her life in Cambridge had been like. The old university town in East Anglia came to mind particularly often on evenings such as this. It felt like she had sat on the harbor and drunk sherry — just as she had today — a thousand times, and this feeling was like a symbol of her life — of the life that she had instead of the one in Cambridge. And instead of a possible life in France as well. If back then, after the war, she could have gone to France with Julien …
But after all, she thought, bringing herself back to her senses, what good would it do to think so long on it? Things had gone the way that, perhaps, they had to. Every life was lousy with missed chances, with wasted opportunities, of this she was certain. Who could say of themselves that they had always been consistent and driven? That they had never compromised?
She had come to terms with the mistakes a
nd errors of her existence. She had ordered them in among all the other events that had happened in her life, and there they got a bit lost in the crowd, grew faint and almost imperceptible. At times she managed to overlook them completely. There were even times when she managed to forget them.
As she understood it, this meant that she had come to terms with her life.
Just not with the roses.
And not with Helene.
The barman at Le Nautique in St. Peter Port approached the table by the window where the two old women were sitting.
“Two sherries, same as always?” He asked.
Beatrice and her friend Mae looked at him.
“Two sherries, same as always,” answered Beatrice. “And two salads. Avocado with orange.”
“With pleasure.” He hesitated. He was fond of chit-chat, and at this early hour — it wasn’t even six in the evening yet — not one other customer had ambled into the restaurant.
“Another ship’s been stolen,” he said in a low voice. “A big white sailboat. Heaven Can Wait, she’s called.” He shook his head. “Strange name, wouldn’t you say? But she’ll scarce get to keep it, no more than she’ll keep her pretty white color. They’ve long since repainted her, and I’ll bet she already belongs to some Frenchman over on the mainland.”
“Boat theft,” said Beatrice, “is as old as the island itself. It happens, and will always happen. Who gets worked up about it anymore, really?”
“People shouldn’t leave their boats unattended for weeks at a time,” said the barman. He took an ashtray from a neighboring table, placed it before the two women, right next to the vase with the roses that adorned the room that week. He gestured towards the small white reservation plate. “I need the table at nine o’clock.”
“We’ll be long gone by then.”
Le Nautique sat right on the harbor of St. Peter Port, the capital of the island of Guernsey. The restaurant’s two large windows offered a wonderful view of the countless yachts that sat anchored there. You could even get the idea that you were sitting out among all the ships and were yourself part of the lively activity there.
From the restaurant, you could observe the people strolling along the wooden boardwalk; you could watch children and dogs at play, and far off in the distance you could just make out the large steamers that brought vacationers from the mainland. Sometimes the view was like a painting, brightly colored and unreal. Too beautiful, too perfect, like the photographs in a travel brochure.
It was Monday, August 30th, an evening full of sunshine and warmth and yet already noticeably touched with fall’s approach. The air no longer had that gentle softness of summer. Now it was like crystal, cool and crisp. The wind carried along a dry aroma. The seagulls shot from sea to sky and then back down, calling wildly, as if they knew that autumn storms and cold weather were ahead of them, that soon sheets of heavy fog would lie over the island and make flying difficult. Summer could last for another ten days, maybe two weeks. Then it would be gone beyond recall.
The two women said little to each other. They agreed that the salad was excellent, as always. And that nothing beat a good sherry, especially if it came in champagne flutes, filled with generous pours, as it did here. Other than this, however, scarce anything was exchanged between them. Each seemed to be deep in her own thoughts.
Mae watched Beatrice closely. She could get away with this, since it was clear that her companion didn’t notice a thing. She found the way Beatrice dressed to be totally inappropriate for a seventy-year-old woman, but there had already been countless discussions between them about this. None of them had borne any fruit. She lived in her jeans, which she would wear until they were threadbare. She paired them with washed-out T-shirts or shapeless sweaters, the sole advantage of which was that they kept their wearer warm in wind and bad weather. As for her white, curly hair, usually she just held it back with a plain rubber band.
Mae kept trying, though. She herself favored close-fiting, brightly-colored outfits, went to the hairdresser every fourteen days, and used makeup to try and hide the signs of aging. Undaunted, she sought to prod her friend into taking care with her appearance.
“You can’t run around like a teenager anymore! We’re both seventy years old, and we have to take this into account. Those jeans are simply too tight, and …”
“That would only be awkward if I were fat.”
“… and these eternal tennis shoes of yours are …”
“… the most practical thing you can wear if you’re on your feet all day.”
“Your sweater is covered in dog hair,” Mae said, reproachful and resigned at the same time. She knew that neither the dog hair nor the tennis shoes, nor yet the jeans, would change in the least.
Today, however, she didn’t say a thing. She had been Beatrice’s friend since they were both children. And she possessed finely-tuned antennae when it came to gauging the state of her friend’s psyche. Today, she could tell, Beatrice was not in a great mood. Unhappy thoughts seemed to be going through her head and it was better not to further irritate her by fussing over her appearance.
She has a good figure, Mae thought, you’ve got to envy her there. She doesn’t look to have gained an ounce since she was twenty. She knew Beatrice to be so lithe in the way she moved, it was as if the bodily ailments of old age were an invention, something made for others but not for her.
Mae thought of the stolen boat, the one the barman had just spoken of. Heaven Can Wait.
A truly peculiar name, she thought.
Beatrice looked out the window onto the harbor and took a sip of her sherry. She wasn’t watching what went on down below. She was completely lost in thought.
Mae finally broke the silence.
“How is Helene?” She asked.
Beatrice shrugged her shoulders. “Like she always is. She complains a lot, but in the end no one can really understand what it is that makes her existence so awful.”
“Maybe she doesn’t exactly understand it herself,” Mae said. “She’s simply gotten so used to complaining that she can no longer stop.”
Beatrice hated talking about Helene.
“How is Maya?” She inquired, to change the subject.
Mae always got nervous whenever anyone mentioned her granddaughter.
“I’m afraid it might be bad company she’s keeping,” she said. “I saw her together with a man recently, it made me shudder, it’s not every day you see a face that brutal. My God, I’d be so happy if it finally worked out between her and Alan!”
Beatrice didn’t like to talk about Alan, her son.
“We’ll see,” she replied. Her tone made it unmistakably clear to Mae that she did not wish to speak any further about this topic.
Mae quickly picked up on this as well, and so they again sat silently across from each other, ordered two more sherries and looked out at the soft last light of the fading August day.
And in this light, in the ever more quickly falling twilight, Beatrice suddenly thought she recognized someone whom she had last seen many years ago. A face in the crowd that drew her attention, that startled her and made her face grow pale. It lasted only a second, then she was already convinced that she was mistaken. But Mae had noticed the change in Beatrice.
“What’s wrong?” She asked.
Beatrice creased her brow and turned from the window. In just these few moments it had gotten too dark. She couldn’t have seen anything anyway.
“I thought I might have seen someone just now …” she said.
“Whom?”
“Julien.”
“Julien? Our Julien?”
He was never our Julien, Beatrice thought angrily, but she took in Mae’s remark without comment.
“Yes. But I was probably mistaken. Why should he come to Guernsey?”
“My goo
dness, he has to have changed so much anyway,” said Mae. “He’s got to be eighty years old by now, right?”
“Seventy-seven.”
“Not much better. I can’t imagine that we’d even recognize him.” She giggled, and Beatrice asked herself what there was to giggle about. “And I’m afraid he wouldn’t recognize us two old bags, either.”
Beatrice said nothing. She looked out the window one more time. Even if she could still have seen anything, the man whom, for one breathless moment, she had taken for Julien would surely be long gone by now, swallowed up by the crowd.
A mistake, she thought. God knows my heart shouldn’t be racing like this on account of a mistake!
“Come on,” she said to Mae, “let’s pay and go home. I’m tired.”
“Alright then,” said Mae.
PART ONE
1
Every morning was the same. Beatrice’s alarm clock rang at six o’clock. She gave herself five minutes to lie quietly and enjoy the warmth of her bed and the calm all around her, a calm interrupted by certain familiar sounds. Birds chirping in the yard. Sometimes, when the wind was right, the soft roar of the sea. A few floorboards creaked somewhere in the house, a dog scratched himself, a clock ticked. Then the door to Beatrice’s bedroom opened up a crack as Misty stuck her nose inside. Misty’s fur had the same lead-gray color as the fog that lay over Petit Bôt Bay in the fall, and for this reason the name had immediately come to mind when Beatrice first held the dog in her arms. As a puppy, Misty was nothing but big, clumsy paws, soft, bushy fur, and coal black button eyes that brimmed with life. Now she was the size of a small cow.
Misty ran up and jumped on the bed, which rocked and groaned under her weight. She snuggled up on the comforter, turned on her back and stuck all four legs in the air, and quickly licked Beatrice’s face with her tongue, a sopping wet sign of affection, straight from the heart.
The Rose Gardener Page 1