Don’t think of it, she would command herself then, just don’t think of it!
Helene bombarded her with letters in which she implored her to come home again.
“What are you doing in London?” she wrote. “In that cold, ugly city, where there’s nobody you know, no one who’s familiar to you. Here on Guernsey you have friends. You have me!”
Sometimes Beatrice thought that it was Helene herself who kept her away from Guernsey. She couldn’t stand being near her, couldn’t stand how she acted like they were family, like they belonged together. She herself didn’t at all consider Helene to be the stand-in mother she so liked to see herself as being. Once, Mae had visited her in London, and she had spoken with her about the Helene problem. Mae had been astonished.
“We all thought you were so attached to her. If it’s not like that, why don’t you just throw her out? What right does she have still to make herself at home in your house?”
“I can’t chase her off.”
“You’re not responsible for her.”
Of course she wasn’t. But as she couldn’t have managed being on Guernsey one way or another at the moment, it was simply a comfort to have someone looking after the house. In certain respect Helene also meant the chance to put off the question of what should become of her parents’ estate. She could wait a bit longer, wallow in her depression and hope for whatever solutions time would bring.
Beatrice practically never went out, except, rarely, to a pub, and only then when she had a bit of extra money, which was hardly ever the case. She hesitated when, towards the end of November, she was invited by one of her students to a piano concert she was giving in her home.
“I don’t know if I’ll quite fit in with your friends,” she said carefully. “Perhaps I’d better not come.”
“Oh, but of course you’ll fit in with our friends!” cried Mrs. Chandler. “Beatrice, you are such a charming person, you simply must do me the pleasure!”
Mrs. Chandler was an extremely excitable lady, and Beatrice suspected that she felt it highly interesting and unusual to invite the French tutor to a society gathering. The Chandlers lived in a large, beautiful house in Windsor, and all in all Beatrice liked to go there, even if it meant a trip halfway around the world for her. The thought of making her way there on a dark, cold November evening and returning in deepest night was not alluring, rather frightening, but she came to the conclusion that she had no choice. Not only did Mrs. Chandler pay her generously, she also would frequently slip her food or give her discarded clothes. It would have been foolish of her to upset this particular woman.
She found the evening rather horrible at first. There had been nothing for it but for her to wear a dress that Mrs. Chandler had given her, since try as she might, she found nothing among her own clothes that would have met the standards of an evening among high society. She knew that the whole time she’d be suffering from the thought that each of the guests recognized the black velvet dress in which she seemed to herself so unfamiliar and so oddly false. It wasn’t too difficult to make it to Windsor, but it was a rather long way by foot from the bus station to the Chandlers’ house. Normally she travelled this way by daylight, and it didn’t pose too much trouble, but on this dark, cold wintry evening the time stretched out eternally. The fog dampened her coat, seemed to press through the threadbare fabric to the gown and then on through to her skin. She had forgotten to bring a hat or a headscarf with her, and knew that her hair was wet and clinging to her head. When she finally reached the Chandlers’ house, her cheeks were burning from the cold, and in a mirror that hung in the foyer she confirmed that she looked like a mangy cat. She was too thin. She had altered the gown to make it fit more closely, but still it hung loosely on her. I’m about as attractive as a scarecrow, Beatrice thought with resignation.
It was around sixty guests that had gathered there. They all seemed to her to be extremely well-off; without exception, Beatrice saw good clothing and expensive jewelry.
“Oh,” said one lady, who wore a floor-length lace gown and had put on too much perfume. “How distinctive! That dress looks completely different on you than it does on Mrs. Chandler. You’re significantly thinner, no?”
She seemed not to expect an answer, turning and greeting an acquaintance by letting out a squeal of excitement and throwing her arms around her neck. As Beatrice came to realize, this behavior was absolutely normal and chic in high society. You demonstrated effusive emotions and thus impressed others with how well-loved you were and how many close friends you had. It all struck Beatrice as rather false, but aside from her it didn’t seem to bother anyone. She felt miserable and alone. She wandered aimlessly through the rooms, wineglass in hand, and acted as if she happened to be looking at the books on the shelves and the pictures on the walls — but in truth she took none of it in and longed only for her cramped, ugly apartment, where it was quiet and she could close a door behind her and be alone.
After an endless amount of time, Mrs. Chandler announced dinner; endless because it was impossible for Beatrice to disappear before dinner, and the longer the beginning was delayed, the later she would be able to excuse herself. There were several round tables distributed throughout the first floor, each of them set for eight people. There were no seating assignments, and Beatrice tried in vain to find a place at five different tables, one after the other; each time she was given to know that these seats were being reserved for other guests, and she might find accommodation someplace else. She broke into a sweat, imagining herself as the extra person left standing somewhere in the middle of the room, nothing to protect her from the others’ stares, but finally she managed to grab a chair at a table in the winter garden. The branches of some unidentifiable plant got caught in her hair whenever she leaned back, and all the other guests at the table were between seventy and ninety years old. The conversation was about the war. A lady who had lost her son at Dunkirk burst into tears when a gentleman spoke in glowing words of the soldiers’ magnificent evacuation campaign. He was hard of hearing and for a long while didn’t realize that he was sitting next to someone for whom the events at Dunkirk had not been glorious. Only when the lady pushed back her chair, jumped up and ran out of the room did it occur to him that something was amiss.
“Have I said something wrong?” he asked, miffed.
No one felt obliged to enlighten him. They all picked at their plates and acted as if nothing had happened. Beatrice resigned herself to the knowledge that the evening would last quite a bit longer, that she had to endure and that she would make it past all of it somehow. She was obviously the only one at the table, and possibly the entire party, who had lived under German occupation, and it was clear to her that she would suddenly have had a whole slew of listeners if she had begun to talk. But she didn’t want to. She couldn’t.
I’ve actually never told anyone, she thought. Not even Mrs. Chandler knows that I’m from Guernsey.
By eleven o’clock all courses had been served and consumed, and Beatrice asked Mrs. Chandler to excuse her now, as she had such a long journey home. Mrs. Chandler wouldn’t hear of it.
“Now comes the pianist! It’s the highlight of the evening! I just cannot let you go now!”
You don’t have to hike three miles through the night till you get to a train station, Beatrice thought angrily, and then hope that a train will even come!
The pianist was a pimply young man with a long, thin neck. He wore a suit that was too broad for him at the shoulders, and he wrung his hands nervously. The piano stood in the living room. Unseen servants had arranged rows of chairs during the meal, but naturally there weren’t enough seats for everyone, and many had to stand in the door and even outside in the hall.
Mrs. Chandler fluttered about and announced that she had engaged a “remarkable young talent” for the evening. It sounded as if she had discovered the young man and was acting as his patroness —
and maybe, thought Beatrice, that was indeed the case.
She was tired and frustrated. She had managed to grab a seat, and she didn’t care that she was among the youngest and that possibly a few of the old geezers who had sat at her table had to stand. She didn’t want to be polite. She wanted the time to pass.
The young pianist played a few pieces by Chopin, then switched over to Handel. As far as Beatrice could judge, he did in fact acquit himself quite well. His nervousness vanished, he seemed focused and composed. Maybe someone will discover him, Beatrice thought. I’d be happy for him.
She made an effort not to listen all too closely to the melodies. The music was stirring; it made her aware of her loneliness, reminded her of the sadness that lay within her. Among all these many people she felt far more alone than if she were, in actuality, completely by herself in her room. None of them had anything to do with her. No one knew her, no one shared any part of her life. She stood outside, and not a single door would open for her.
Mrs. Chandler announced a short intermission, but almost no one got up, since everyone was afraid they wouldn’t get their seat back. Beatrice also stayed where she was; she had no idea where she was supposed to go anyway.
The gentleman who sat next to her, and whom she had scarcely noticed up till then, bent towards her.
“A gifted young artist,” he said. “Wouldn’t you agree?”
She nodded. “He is very talented, no doubt. Now there’s at least some point to the evening.”
He smiled. “You’re not happy to be here?”
“I don’t really know,” said Beatrice. She was Mrs. Chandler’s guest and didn’t want to bad-mouth the party. “I fear I don’t really quite fit in here,” she said finally. “I don’t know anyone here. Mrs. Chandler meant well in inviting me, but …” She didn’t finish the sentence. Perhaps her neighbor would understand what she meant anyway.
He put out his hand to her. “My name’s Frederic Shaye. Now you know someone here. You know me.”
Beatrice had to laugh. “Well now at least I’m one step closer. I’m Beatrice Stewart. I tutor Mrs. Chandler in French.”
“You’re a teacher?”
“Not really. I studied English and Romance Languages and at the moment I can’t find work. I keep myself afloat by tutoring.”
It seemed to her that she read admiration in his eyes. “Romance Languages? You love France, I take it?”
“I’ve never been there,” Beatrice admitted, “but I love the language. And the literature. I lived very close to France, on Guernsey. People there are half-French.”
“How fascinating,” said Frederic Shaye. His expression showed legitimate interest. “Guernsey. Did you go through the German occupation?”
“Yes,” said Beatrice. “But I wouldn’t like to speak of it.”
He nodded. “Of course. I apologize if I’ve touched upon an old wound.”
“You couldn’t have known.”
“Nevertheless, I apologize.”
“You really don’t have to apologize.”
Frederic Shaye laughed. “This could go back and forth forever now.”
Beatrice laughed too. “Let’s just leave it then,” she said.
Frederic Shaye had come to the party by car, and he would not be dissuaded from driving Beatrice home once he’d heard of the circuitous route she had to take.
“Out of the question,” he said. “It’s past midnight. There probably won’t even be another bus. I couldn’t possibly let you go out into the dark now alone.”
They were standing in the foyer and were waiting for the maid to bring their coats.
“What a shame that you’ve got to go already!” cried Mrs. Chandler. “Don’t you want to stay just a little longer? Things are just now starting to get really cozy!”
“No, thanks very much,” said Beatrice and Frederic as if speaking as one. Earlier they had both confessed to each other that they longed to leave the party, and Frederic had said that once it had gotten past midnight it could by no means be considered too soon.
He drove the car himself. The rain had turned to sleet, but the fog at least had cleared up, and the street was somewhat visible. Frederic drove with great focus, a bit tensely, as it seemed.
“I’m sorry,” he apologized, “my eyes aren’t so good at night.”
She had learned by then that he was a professor at Cambridge and that he had been a student at the same boarding school as Mrs. Chandler; because of this he had counted among the guests this evening. He was living in London for a year, having been given leave from the university for a research fellowship at a laboratory. Frederic Shaye was a biologist. Beatrice found it fascinating to hear him talk about his work. While they sat in the car and drove through the dark London streets, Beatrice stole a few looks at him from the side. He had dark hair and very bright eyes, and his narrow face had a pale, almost see-through cast to it. She liked his distinct profile and the refined look of his hands, which gripped the steering wheel a bit too tightly. For the first time in a long time — for the first time since Julien — she saw a man and perceived him as a man. This stunned her, and made her a bit insecure. It didn’t fit in with her sad and bitter mood. She didn’t know if she wanted the armor that enveloped her to be broken open.
When they finally arrived at her place the snow already lay in a thin layer over the sidewalks and on the roofs of the buildings. Frederic Shaye accompanied Beatrice to the door.
“I think it would be nice if we could see each other again sometime,” he said in farewell. “Could I call you?”
“Unfortunately, I don’t have a telephone,” Beatrice answered.
Frederic took a moment to think. “When is it that you’re at the Chandlers’? I’ll try and reach you then.”
She told him the times, and he said he would absolutely keep them in mind. But as they said goodbye, Beatrice thought, No. Really I’d not like to see him again. Really I’d not like to get tangled up in anything.
Frederic Shaye wouldn’t relent. He called every time Beatrice was at the Chandlers’ and tried to invite her out to dinner. Beatrice said just as often that she had no time, and immediately deflected any other attempt he made to meet with her as well. Naturally Mrs. Chandler caught on that something was stirring between them, and she badgered Beatrice about finally giving up her reserve.
“Frederic is a charming man,” she assured her again and again. “Of course at first glance he seems a bit out there and withdrawn, but he is interesting and intelligent. You should meet with him.”
“I have other things to do,” said Beatrice dismissively.
Mrs. Chandler gave a snort. “My dear child, you don’t very well have that much to do. That is precisely the problem. You can’t find a job, and so you may therefore in good conscience spend all that extra time with Frederic Shaye.”
She let December pass by. Early in the morning on December 24th, she boarded a ship bound for Guernsey — unwillingly, since she’d really rather have stayed in London and barricaded herself in her apartment and her hopelessness. But Helene had besieged her with letters saying she had to come, and gritting her teeth she had finally decided to give in to this arm-twisting. She hadn’t seen Helene in almost a year and feared that she might just show up outside her door one day if she put off a visit any longer.
It was stormy and cold, and the trip over was a perfect catastrophe. Beatrice became so ill below deck that she thought she would die, and so she climbed up above despite the frightful weather, her face chalky white, a hand pressed to her stomach. She had hoped the fresh air would do her good, but she ended up hanging over the railing, vomiting, and when she arrived in St. Peter Port, her legs were like jelly and she was shaking like a leaf. Helene was there waiting for her with the car. She looked elegant and rested, and her cheeks were red from the cold.
“
God, what’s the matter with you?” was the first thing she said. “You’re white as a sheet and far too thin! London seems not to agree with you at all. You’re obviously not eating or sleeping enough.”
“Nonsense,” Beatrice said angrily. She felt horribly ill, but very slowly her stomach was beginning to settle. “I got seasick, that’s all. The trip over in winter has its own distinct charm, you can believe me!”
The Rose Gardener Page 35