The Rose Gardener

by Charlotte Link

She and Frederic got married in June. Helene hadn’t been heard from, but Beatrice sent her the wedding announcement and informed her of her new address. There came from Helene a cool note of congratulations. Mae, who had come for the wedding, proudly showing off her newborn baby, reported that Helene was living cutoff from any kind of social life on Guernsey.

  “She’s completely withdrawn. I visit her sometimes, but she doesn’t seem to appreciate by it. My goodness, she’s still a young woman! But she’s chosen to lead the life of an old widow!”

  “She’ll come to her senses again I’m sure,” was all Beatrice said.

  Frederic’s research work in London was over at the end of August. At the start of September they went back to Cambridge. The tiny little house took them in, as did the members of the colleges, all of them friendly and warm. Beatrice found a position at the library at Trinity College. Professor friends invited them over for dinner, and they returned the invitations. It was a self-contained, manageable, and peaceful world, in which life trickled past, calm and orderly. If there were any intrigues, Beatrice knew nothing of them. She took notice of how she became a part of the calm and tranquility that surrounded her. She soaked up Frederic’s even warmth and felt how she began to give off that warmth herself. The wounds were starting to close.

  SUMMER 1956

  In the summer of 1956 she went to Guernsey to sell her parents’ house.

  She had come to the decision earlier that year. Her life was in Cambridge, and Guernsey belonged to a past lost in a fog that grew ever thicker. Frederic had pressed her a few times to go there, to spend a few weeks in the warm summer weather and look up the people she knew from her childhood.

  “If you’d like, I’ll come with you,” he said. “And if not, I’ll let you go alone.”

  But she refused every time, and at some point Frederic said, “I have the feeling you don’t ever want to go back to your home again.”

  They were sitting in a small pub in the middle of town in Cambridge, drinking wine, and their conversation was interrupted again and again by students or professors coming by to greet them. Beatrice felt safe and secure in this atmosphere, and she looked upon Frederic’s intelligent, calm face with profound warmth.

  Love? She couldn’t have told herself for certain if she loved him. Still, she thought, there was a feeling there that was at least very similar to the feeling of love.

  “I think I’ll really never go back there again,” she said in response to his remark. “I’m so happy to be able to forget a lot of what’s happened. I wouldn’t like to open any of the old wounds.”

  “Do you intend to have Helene Feldmann sitting in your house for the rest of her life?” Frederic asked carefully. “I mean, you could get rather a lot of money if you were to sell the house, or to rent it out. Not that it matters to me,” he hastened to add, “we have everything we need. But you should think about whether you aren’t maybe being taken advantage of.”

  She came to the decision within seconds. “I’d like to sell the house,” she said. “Yes, what I’d most like to do is to sell it.”

  “Then that’s what you should do,” Frederic said.

  In the months that followed, Beatrice didn’t think about her decision — this was firm — but rather about what was supposed to become of Helene, and how she best could tell her. She would have most preferred to leave the business of making the sale to a broker and otherwise stick her head in the sand, but Frederic said that wouldn’t be appropriate.

  “In the first place, not with regard to Helene,” he said. “And in the second place, it wouldn’t be the right thing for you either. You have to see about the furniture, the keepsakes, everything that belongs to you. At some point you’d be sorry if it all were to go to strangers.”

  “What you’re saying, then,” said Beatrice, “is that I have to go Guernsey.”

  “I think you should do so,” Frederic nodded. “Should I come with you?”

  She thought for a moment, then shook her head. “No. I’ve got to get through this on my own.”

  Just before she went aboard the ship in Portsmouth, she sent a telegraph to Helene to let her know she was coming. She knew that Helene would be unsettled, and she didn’t want to deal with her agitated babbling on the telephone and to have to explain things to her before they saw each other in person.

  She reached St. Peter Port on a bright June evening; the air was gentle and warm, and a mild breeze was blowing that smelled of ocean water and summer. The sunlight still lay upon the houses on the hillside. The steeple of the parish church stood as it had always stood, and it seemed to send her a silent greeting, full of love. The seagulls rose, crying, from the harbor walls on up into the sky. Beatrice noticed the peculiar, painful tugging sensation in her chest that she hadn’t felt for so long, but that was still all too familiar to her.

  “I shouldn’t have come here,” she thought, filled with foreboding.

  She surrendered the money for a cab to take her to Le Variouf. How well she knew the island’s narrow streets, lined with walls and hedgerows, the little houses and enchanted gardens. How well she knew the colors and the smells, the light, the sunshine playing on the leaves. She knew the road’s every turn, every spot where you held your breath for fear that another car could be coming towards you.

  Strange, she thought, on my last visit I didn’t have such a keen awareness of all these things. It’s probably because I know I’ll never come back.

  Helene was waiting for her, feverish and upset. They had not seen each other in four years, and their last parting had been full of anger and bitterness. Helene had responded to her wedding announcement with a cool congratulatory note, and aside from that they had sent each other polite cards (saying nothing at all) at Christmas and on their birthdays.

  But now Helene seemed determined to give up her icy, negative manner. With her sharp instincts she might have suspected the disaster that was due to befall her. She didn’t know exactly what it was that threatened her, but she understood well that there had to be a solid reason for Beatrice to show up on Guernsey. It could only mean something bad.

  Beatrice had to admit that Helene had been very responsible about keeping the property in order. The garden looked well cared-for, the surrounding hedgerows were trimmed, even the abandoned greenhouses had been kept clean. Inside the house every surface was gleaming. Helene stood in the middle of the dining room. Her cheeks were blotchy and red.

  “I’m so happy that you’re here,” she said. Her voice sounded childish and upset.

  She looked very pretty, Beatrice saw, much prettier than before. It suited her, getting older. She had cut her hair, and her face had gotten thinner. You could see it in her eyes that she was often lonely and that she cried a lot. Pain had left its mark, had carved fine traces in her features and driven away all things sweet and cute that had made her look so childish before. Now she seemed more serious and more mature, and far more like a woman who could be taken seriously.

  “I think it’s nice that we’re finally seeing each other again,” said Beatrice. That wasn’t quite sincere, but nevertheless it seemed to her the appropriate thing to say at that moment.

  Helene’s gaze glided over her figure. “You look good. That dress you have on, it’s pretty. Your marriage to this … Frederic seems to be agreeing with you.”

  “I’m very happy in Cambridge,” said Beatrice. She knew it was awkward to just blurt out what she had come to say, but the moment seemed right to broach the subject.

  “That’s also the reason why I’ve come,” she said in a rush. She wanted to get it over with as quickly as possible. “I’ll likely be staying in Cambridge permanently. It’s my home now. And so …”

  “Yes?” Helene asked. The panic in her voice was unmistakable.

  Beatrice summoned her courage. “I have to decide what’s to become of the prope
rty here, Helene. You understand that I can’t … I mean, what am I supposed to do with the house now? I won’t be coming here anymore. I won’t be living here again. Therefore …”

  She didn’t say any more. Helene’s eyes grew wide.

  “Yes?” she asked again.

  “I’d like to sell the house,” said Beatrice. “It’s dead weight for me. Frederic and I could use the money to buy something bigger in Cambridge. Or we could get a cottage somewhere in the north of England, for holidays. We’ll think of something.” She laughed unconvincingly. “One can always think of something when it comes to spending money.”

  Helene had turned gray in the face. “But I live in this house,” she got out with an effort.

  “When it comes down to it, Helene, this place is far too big for you alone,” said Beatrice, uncomfortable. “And it’s too lonely. You’re cut off from the world, living here. You can’t bury yourself like this. You’re young, you’re pretty. You can get married again …”

  “So you’re throwing me out the door! After all we’ve …”

  “If you absolutely don’t want to go back to Germany, then get an apartment here on the island. In St. Peter Port. There are people there. You’ll find friends. Here,” she made a gesture with both hands that took in the house, the garden, and the surrounding fields. “Here you’ll just get depressed!”

  “Depressed? This is the only place where I can live. The place where Erich and I were …” She didn’t finish the sentence.

  “… You and Erich were happy?” Beatrice completed it for her. “Oh, Helene!”

  They stared at each other. Beatrice expected Helene to burst into tears, since normally she reacted to crises with intense weeping. This time, however, there wasn’t a single sniffle.

  “When is this all supposed to happen?” she asked instead, surprisingly matter-of-fact.

  “You’ll have enough time to find new accommodations for yourself,” Beatrice answered. “No one’s throwing you out the door. I’d like for you and I to discuss everything that happens.”

  The look Helene gave her held both sarcasm and offense.

  “Really?” she asked. “Are you sure that’s what you want?”

  “Of course. I’m not your enemy, Helene. I’ve just got to see to it that I … well, my life’s got to get on somehow too.”

  “If you think the only way you’ll be happy is …”

  “What do you mean, ‘the only way’?”

  “The way you’re trying. In Cambridge. With this Frederic. Turning your back on Guernsey and burning all your bridges behind you.”

  “I don’t know in what way I’ll be able to be happy in the future,” said Beatrice. “I just know that I’m happy at the moment. In any case, happier than before,” she improved upon this, “more at ease. The old memories don’t hurt as much any longer. I’d like to bury them for all time, and therefore … therefore I must loosen my ties to Guernsey. I can’t keep carrying it around with me any more.”

  “Apparently you’ve got to loosen your ties to me, too,” Helene said. “In any case, you’re working very diligently on a final parting between us.”

  “I’m working on an independent life, which each of us should lead for herself, alone,” said Beatrice. “And there can of course be points of contact between us …”

  “Oh, God, points of contact!” Helene cried. Her voice sounded shrill. “Points of contact! Do you think that’s what I’d ever wanted from you?”

  “What did you want from me, then?” Beatrice asked.

  “It doesn’t matter now,” said Helene, and left the room.

  The next day Beatrice went to look up a realtor in St. Peter Port to take care of the sale of the house and property. The realtor gave her hope that the matter could be settled quite quickly.

  “It’s not the best time,” she said, “but nevertheless, I see a whole lot of options. I’ll have to take a look at the property myself of course, but the way you’ve described it, it shouldn’t be hard to find a whole bunch of people who are interested.”

  Beatrice felt relieved after the conversation. She had taken the first step. It was as if she had set out on a path from which there was no returning. She found relief in the feeling that she didn’t have a choice, even if it wasn’t real, since of course she could have turned back at any moment. But she had put the machinery in motion, and from now on it would run off its own momentum. It seemed to her that she had made it over a huge hurdle.

  Over the next few days she tallied the things she had in the house: furniture, artwork, rugs, dishes. It was clear that it would be impossible for her to keep everything, and she told Helene she should take anything she wanted.

  “It would just be a shame if it all went to strangers,” she said. “Really, Helene, I want you to have whatever you like.”

  “I don’t think I want to have anything,” said Helene. She went around stone-faced. “I should make a new beginning. That’s what you want, right? So I shouldn’t save anything from the old days either.”

  “I can’t force you, but you could …”

  “You’ve done quite enough,” said Helene. “Now let me see for myself how I go about picking up the pieces.”

  “Have you been looking for an apartment?” Beatrice asked after a moment of silence, during which she had considered whether to respond to the ‘picking up the pieces’ remark or to take up a new, practical subject. In the end, she had chosen the second option.

  “I’ll inform you of the date when I’ll be moving out,” said Helene. “Well in advance, you can be certain of it.”

  Oh god, thought Beatrice, we’re going to have a war. I’m almost certain of it.

  Every day she spoke to Frederic on the phone and kept him up to speed about the steps she was taking.

  “A married couple will be looking at the house tomorrow,” she said to him ten days after her arrival on Guernsey. “I’m already nervous. Maybe they’ll take it.”

  “Don’t set your expectations too high,” Frederic gently cautioned. “Things rarely go so quickly. If the fourth or fifth person interested makes a move, you’re still doing very well, time-wise.”

  As always, his gentleness and his reasoning did her good.

  “Of course,” she said. “But I’d be glad to have it all behind me, and quick. I … it’s not so easy to be here.”

  “Should I come?” Frederic asked at once. “If you want, I’ll be on the next ship!”

  She had to smile. “Frederic, you can’t just leave your students sitting around the lecture hall by themselves. I’ll pull through here one way or another.”

  “I love you,” Frederic said softly.

  “I love you, too,” she replied. And I’ll be happy when I see you again, she added silently. Later, there were times when she asked herself why she hadn’t said it out loud.

  The next day she saw Julien again.

  The meeting came like a bolt of lightning on a clear day, straight out of a blue, cloudless sky. There was nothing she was less prepared for, nothing she would have expected less, nothing that could have hit her so immediately, so violently.

  The realtor and the married couple had turned up that morning as expected to look at the property, but Beatrice had gotten the impression that nothing would come of the business. The married couple had turned out to be fussy and particular. The fat husband with the pale, doughy face had wandered around saying nothing and had only put on a revolted expression here and there, while his wife shot off question after question and criticized what, in her eyes, could only be criticized, and this included just about everything she came across. The realtor reacted to her clients’ clearly visible reluctance with forced cheer and, her good mood unshakeable, had kept up a steady chatter that more and more began to grate on Beatrice’s nerves. She hated having to subject what was once her
parents’ estate to criticism from a nouveau riche couple. She could see that Helene was happy about the lack of interest from the prospective buyers, and that made her bad mood still worse, although Helene, she told herself, had the right to be happy about it. From the way she was looking at things, this was only reasonable.

  When the couple, together with the peppy realtor, had gone, Beatrice put on a pair of good shoes and set out for Petit Bôt Bay. The day was windy and cool, the air crystal clear, and not a wisp of fog lay out over the water. The sun kept on disappearing behind the clouds that darted past. The fruit bushes along the path were no longer in bloom; now the fruit would begin to ripen.

  How nice it’ll be to pick the blackberries later in the summer, thought Beatrice, and only a moment later did she realize that for her, there wouldn’t be another autumn on the island.

  She first saw the distinctive, dark-haired woman sitting on a bench at one of the observation points along the path. From there one had a magnificent view of the ocean and the steep cliffs that encircled a small bay. Just then the sun came out again and lent an intense light to the colors of the landscape. The ocean sparkled, a deep, clear turquoise. The woman on the bench was beaming. She wore light, ankle-length pants and a short, dark gray sweater. She looked happy and relaxed. Her pitch-black hair was shining, as if someone had spent hours polishing it with a soft cloth.

  How rapturously she smiles, thought Beatrice, and right at that moment she had gotten close enough to notice the man a few steps away from the woman, crouching in front of the bench, in his hands a giant camera with which he eagerly took one picture after another. The woman barely changed position, but she played with her face, varied her radiance, her laugh shifting from warm and tender to coquettish and seductive, and then to subdued and secretive. You could see a certain practiced quality to this, a casual ease with which she approached the situation.

  The man was Julien.

  Eleven years had passed since the end of the war, sixteen since they had seen each other for the first time. All in all, she found he was not particularly changed. He scarcely seemed to have grown older, he looked strong and restored. His face and arms were deeply tanned, they had none of the ghostly pallor from the years he had spent in the Wyatt family’s attic. But she knew him as tanned from the time when he had worked for Erich, and so this appearance offered no particular surprise for her. It was her Julien.