The Rose Gardener

by Charlotte Link

  “Misty, off the bed,” Beatrice commanded half-heartedly. Misty knew she didn’t have to heed her master’s protests, and stayed right where she was.

  Beatrice’s five minutes of tranquility were over. She stood up quickly, ignoring, as best she could, the light stiffness in her joints that told her she was no longer as young as she sometimes felt. In no way did she want to become like Mae, who worried about her body day and night. She was constantly checking in on herself, going to the doctor every third day because she claimed something wasn’t right with her insides. As Beatrice saw it, Mae’s constant worrying was what caused her various ailments in the first place. But they had spoken of it all too often already, and neither woman had changed her opinion. Their friendship boiled down to a single image: the two of them standing across from one another, each shaking her head in astonishment.

  While she was in the shower, Beatrice thought about what she would do that day. She could afford such thoughts, having withdrawn from the working life that earlier had dictated how she spent her days. She continued to look after her rose garden only for her own personal pleasure — though the word “pleasure” didn’t quite convey the truth of the matter. But the roses were still there, after all, and so she looked after them. She would still sell a few every now and then, if someone, usually a tourist, came by and wanted to buy some. But she no longer advertised in industry magazines, and had stopped shipments completely. Furthermore, she no longer tried to breed new varieties. That she left to others. It had never been especially fun for her anyway. By the time she left the bathroom, she had usually thought of a hundred things that needed taking care of, and in her movements there was already the speed and impatience that were typical for her. It seemed that everything she did, she did in a hurry, and this was extremely stressful for most of the people who knew her.

  Beatrice and her dogs went for a walk from half past six to half past seven. Besides Misty there were two other mutts, both large, both wild, both an indeterminate mixture of breeds. Beatrice loved all dogs without exception, but she liked best to surround herself with those as big as small cows or ponies. The dogs charged off immediately, as soon as Beatrice had gotten the front door open. The house stood above the village of Le Variouf, and from it you could see out to the ocean. The surrounding landscape was made up of broad fields, with clumps of trees scattered among them. Streams pattered down to the sea, and here and there on their banks stood rickety old mills which in former times had been powered by the water. Stone walls enclosed expansive pastures where cattle and horses grazed. The air smelled of salt and water, of algae and sand. It grew cleaner, and the wind grew more crisp, the closer one came to the ocean. Soon Beatrice reached the cliff path and could see the water. There were only a few trees here, windswept and low. The path was hemmed in with wild thickets of thorn bushes. There were also blackberry bushes, hung with fat, ripe fruit. The dogs ran off barking loudly, animated by the sound of the seagulls and by the wind in their noses. They knew every inch of the ground here. Beatrice knew this and thought nothing of their risky leaps. She stopped on the rise overlooking the water and took a deep breath.

  Though it was still early in the day, the sun had already pushed itself up above the eastern horizon. It cast red-tinged rays over the waves. The September day was warm and would be almost as hot as midsummer. All of the last week had already been unusually warm for this time of year. The heather on the high cliffs was tinged with red; down in the bay the sand shone brightly. Cormorants and terns rose into the sky for their first hunt of the day.

  Beatrice continued down the path. Now and again she would pull a blackberry in passing and bite down with relish. To a certain extent this was a means of distracting herself. These few early moments, walking high above the ocean, were among the most dangerous moments of her day. The path led to Petit Bôt Bay, a place bound up with too many memories. These were both good and bad — but that made little difference. In the bad memories, old frights were alive once more, and some of them, even now, had lost none of their power. As for the good memories, they held within them the knowledge that they could not be brought back, and the sadness of knowing that moments of happiness pass through our lives but cannot fix anchor there. Beatrice had long ago forbidden herself any stirring to self-pity, but there were times when she could not hold back the bitter thought that life hadn’t brought her all too much happiness. Like when she thought of the ease and contentment Mae had always lived with — at least when she wasn’t going around with made-up illnesses or dark forecasts for the future of the world. Mae had never had to suffer through a real tragedy; up to now the most painful event had been the death of her father, five years before. Aged ninety-two, he had had a heart attack while living in a pretty nursing home near London. The way Beatrice saw it, he had had a better twilight to his life, and an easier death, than plenty of other people. Mae had made it seem like she’d had to endure a tragedy, while her old mother, who remained at the home, alone, had accepted fate’s blow with great dignity.

  Mae’s husband had lavished her with attention, her children had never disappointed her, and even her grandchildren had grown up to be shining model citizens. Except maybe for Maya, from whom no man on the island was safe — but even she might become an entirely respectable person once her turbulent phase was behind her. No, life had never really treated Mae badly.

  And what about me? Beatrice asked herself. Has life treated me badly?

  It was the question that came to mind almost every time, up here on the cliff path, and for this reason she sometimes thought it might be better to avoid the bay and its surrounding area. But up to now she had always succeeded in leaving the question unanswered. Again and again she repressed it, and every morning with a kind of furious spite she took the same path she had taken now for decades. She wouldn’t let a few painful thoughts drive her away from it.

  This morning, too, she pushed the question of her life’s trials off to one side, and called to the dogs — time to head back. Helene was certain to be sitting up in bed already, waiting for her morning tea. Beatrice knew how impatiently she waited for her to return from her walk. Not that she would have been at all hungry or thirsty. But after a long night Helene was eager for another person she could whine and complain to. Helene cried a lot, she relished it, and similar to Mae she was also all too preoccupied by her countless little aches and pains. But while Mae had her happy and companionable sides as well, dissatisfaction and carping were often all there was to Helene.

  “Come on, boys!” Beatrice called to the dogs — Misty being the only female among them, she simply lumped her in with the group — “we’ve got to get home and look after Helene.”

  The dogs shot past in a pack and trotted ahead of Beatrice in the direction of the house. If the prospect of a wild romp by the sea had had them excited before, now they were drawn on by the expectation of a hearty breakfast at home.

  They’re always content, thought Beatrice, because what’s important to them are the really simple things in life. They don’t question anything. They simply live.

  On the way back she walked even more quickly than on the way out, and by the time she had arrived back at home, she had shaken off all her painful thoughts.

  The house sat in the morning light like a small, peaceful paradise. Its walls, made from the island’s brown granite, were surrounded by roses, rhododendrons, and giant blue hydrangeas. The green window shutters stood wide open; only those over Helene’s window on the second floor were closed. It was exactly 7:30. Everybody on Guernsey could have set their watches by Beatrice.

  At ten minutes before eight o’clock Beatrice stepped into Helene’s room. She carried a tray which held a cup of tea and a plate with two pieces of toast. It was true that Helene always claimed not to be able to eat anything in the morning, but later, in some secretive way, the bread had always vanished. Beatrice had asked about this once. Helene had answered that she had fed
it to the birds, but Beatrice had only half believed this. Helene was thin and delicate, but by no means did she look emaciated, and it was clear that she secretly ate more than she let on.

  She had turned on the lamp on the night table and sat propped up against her pillows. She had to have gotten up to go to the bathroom already, because her hair was brushed and on her lips was a glimmer of light pink lipstick. Beatrice asked herself, irritably, why it was that, since she had already gotten up, she was not also capable of opening the windows and the shutters. Her room — dark, stuffy, and warm — made Beatrice think of a crypt, and this was probably the exact impression that Helene wanted to give. She was eighty years old and could be somewhat forgetful and muddled at times, but she continued to prove herself remarkably astute when it came to arousing sympathy in those around her.

  Helene wanted people to feel sorry for her at all times, morning and night. She had not always been like this, Beatrice knew. Still, she had always had the tendency to abandon herself to her feelings of helplessness and to force those around her to respond with sympathy and compassion, to position themselves at her side, ready to help. This tendency had gotten stronger with the years, and by now there were only a few left who could put up with her emotional behavior.

  “Good morning, Helene,” Beatrice said, placing the tray on a table next to the bed. “Did you sleep well?”

  She knew the answer, and it came at once. “Oh, to be honest, I barely closed my eyes. All night long I was tossing and turning. More than once I turned on the light to try and read, but, well, weary as I am these days I simply couldn’t concentrate, and …”

  “It is just too hot in here,” Beatrice interrupted her. After less than a minute in the room’s musty, muggy air she felt like she couldn’t breathe. “Why you sleep with your windows closed in the middle of summer I will never understand.”

  “It’s not summer anymore! Today is September Second!”

  “It’s as hot as it is in summer!”

  “I’m afraid that someone could climb in here,” Helene said despondently.

  Beatrice let out a sound of contempt. “Alright, Helene, really now: how is that supposed to happen? There’s nothing there for someone to climb up onto!”

  “The wall isn’t completely smooth. A skillful cat burglar could …”

  Beatrice opened the window and threw the shutters out wide. Soft and fresh, the morning breeze poured into the room. “For as long as I can remember, Helene, I’ve slept with my windows open. And never once has anyone climbed inside. Not even in the years when I was young and might have been glad for it to happen,” she added, trying to make a joke in order to soften the anger that had likely entered her voice.

  Helene did not smile. She squinted in the sudden brightness, reached for her tea cup, took a sip. “What do you have planned for today?” She asked.

  “This morning I wanted to look after the garden. This afternoon I’m going to meet Mae. In St. Peter Port.”

  “Oh?” Helene’s voice sounded hopeful. Sometimes Mae and Beatrice took her along when they were meeting somewhere on the island to go shopping or to go for a walk, and Helene loved to be together with Mae. Mae was always considerate with her, was more caring and warm-hearted with her than Beatrice was. She asked how she was and listened patiently to all of her complaints, taking in every last detail. She never got irritated and talked over her, as Beatrice often did; she never made her feel she was a burdensome old person who only ever got on other people’s nerves. Mae was always charming and nice. Unfortunately she rarely got to choose what happened: it was usually up to Beatrice, and she was hardly ever keen to take Helene with her anywhere.

  Nor did she respond to the questioning “Oh?” this time, but rather busied herself around the room, put away Helene’s dirty linen from yesterday, got clean clothes from the chest of drawers and placed them on a chair.

  “What are you going to do in St. Peter Port?” Helene kept at it. “Meet for coffee?”

  “I never drive somewhere just to meet for coffee, Helene, you know that!” said Beatrice impatiently. “No, we’ve got various things to take care of. Maya will be there, she’s to pick out a birthday gift for herself that Mae wants to buy her, and she’ll be getting something small from me as well.”

  “But Maya’s birthday isn’t until next month,” grumbled Helene. She had mixed feelings towards Mae’s granddaughter, but she made an attempt to sound neutral. “How old will she be then?”

  “Twenty-two. She wants to have a party, and she would like to have something to wear for the occasion that is so sexy that men are drawn to it like bees are to honey — that’s how she put it, anyway.”

  Helene sighed. A respectable woman could have only contempt for Maya’s promiscuous way of life. But there were times when, to her great bewilderment, she discovered a sliver of envy. It was somewhere between all the layers of disapproval and indignation, not to mention moral self-satisfaction at the thought that Maya did at least sometimes receive her comeuppance for her uninhibited excesses — be it in the form of a black eye from a jealous lover or a painful procedure to do away with the unwanted result of a nightly assignation. Maya had had two abortions already — or at any rate, two that Helene knew of; there might have been more. Mae had confided in Helene that Maya was world champion when it came to forgetting to take the pill on time. Helene told herself that on all of Guernsey — and on the neighboring islands as well — there was probably no man to be found who would ever be willing to marry Maya, a woman who had taken up with almost every man who crossed her path. And so, truly, there was no reason to be envious! Nevertheless, there was something there that gnawed at her at times. She couldn’t explain where the feeling came from, and perhaps she didn’t want to know where it came from either. When it came to questions like this, knowledge would have meant only pain. Even if she took into account the fact that she had been young in a different era and that life back then had been ordered around a different set of values, still now and again she couldn’t help but make comparisons between the young Helene and the young Maya. And every time this stirred up a strangely intense pain within her.

  You could have had more from life, if you had taken more, a harsh voice within her had said once, and since then this voice had never been entirely quiet.

  “I’d like to give Maya something,” she said quickly. “I’ll come with you all, and she can pick something out.”

  Beatrice sighed. She had known that Helene would try this again.

  “Helene, you don’t want to give Maya a single thing, and what’s more, no one expects you to,” she said. “You don’t like Maya much, and you’re well within your rights to do so. You don’t have to make like things are different just because it’s her birthday.

  “But …”

  “You only want to come along because yet again you don’t know what to do with yourself. It’s really not a good idea. You know how Maya is when someone’s buying her a present — she races from store to store, and even Mae and I can barely keep up with her. With you in tow we’d be completely immobile, just think of all the steep streets and stairs in St. Peter Port. Just think of your rheumatism!” Helene flinched, and her eyes filled with tears. “You really can be very cold, Beatrice. Wouldn’t you just say from the outset that I’m a burden on all of you?”

  “I imagine that then you’d find me even colder,” Beatrice replied, turning to the door. For the most part she had tidied up everything in the room, and yet again she felt like she might suffocate any moment if she had to listen to Helene’s whiny voice or look at her pale face any longer.

  “It’ll be a very nice day. You can sit in the garden and read and be happy that you don’t have to run all over the island.”

  Helene pressed her lips together. Other people looked unsympathetic wearing a tight-lipped expression like that, but not Helene. She seemed all the more worthy of com
passion.

  “Since you’re so busy with Maya’s birthday,” she spat out, “Did you happen to consider that I have a birthday coming up soon?”

  “That, I couldn’t forget if I tried,” Beatrice replied curtly.

  And how was she supposed to? Her and Helene’s birthdays were on the same day — on September 5th. Though Helene was born ten years earlier. And not, like Beatrice, on Guernsey.

  Rather in Germany.

  She had ordered a load of cow manure to be delivered by a farmer from Le Variouf. She wanted to use it to fertilize the roses for the last time this year. Cow manure was the most well-suited, far better than any other fertilizer you could buy. Sam, the farmer, had arrived with a load right after breakfast. The stink of it was now rising from the box in waves, and somehow Beatrice had no desire to start in on the work. Maybe it was just too hot. Sam too had remarked that it was going to be almost unbearably warm — or anyway, far too warm for this time of year.

  “I noticed it right when I woke up,” he had said, pushing his hat off his forehead and wiping the sweat off with a handkerchief. “It’ll be hot as hell today, I thought. And at least then there was a breeze. Nothing’s moving now, have you noticed? Not a whiff of wind, nothing! It’s gonna be brutal, working today!”

  “Today of all days I’ve got to go into town,” Beatrice had said, “But there’s nothing to be done about it. I’ll survive.”

  “Of course you will. You always survive, Mrs. Shaye!” Then he had laughed and, despite the heat, had accepted the nip of liquor that she had offered him. Sam liked a good stiff drink every now and then, but he had to do it on the sly. His wife would nag him if she ever caught wind of it.

  Beatrice was made to think back on what he had said while she made her way through the garden, a large hat on her head for protection from the sun, a straw basket on her arm and a pair of shears in her hand for removing the withered plants and cutting back the wild shoots that clung to the roses. A peaceful, pleasant activity, well-suited to the weather that day.