The Watcher in the Garden

by Joan Phipson

  She could see the trees of the garden now, overhanging the gorge, and she longed to see Mr. Lovett so that she could call out to him. Yet one part of her, somewhere on the edge of her conscious mind, kept saying that it was justice that was being done, and there was no way out. She knew it was Terry and she began to fight against his invasion of her mind in this way. By concentration she kept him always at bay, and she began to think hard of Mr. Lovett. She knew that the thought of him would support her. As she thought and battled with herself the idea came to her that if Terry could so penetrate her defences she could do the same to his. If her feelings for her old friend could cross to Terry, could invade his mind in the same way, surely the warmth and positive strength of what she felt would melt his own cold hate. With the idea came the strength she had looked for. She opened her eyes to find the blackness gone, and she climbed on.

  Terry, too, pushed forward through the garden towards the look-out. His way was not easy, either. Once, for no reason, a large stone came rolling down the path behind him. If it had not rolled over a sharp stick just before it reached him it would have knocked him over, perhaps sent him rolling down the slope to the gully, perhaps snapping his leg, for it was quite big enough for that. A little later a tree fell with a crash. He felt the wind of it behind him and did not need to look round to know that it lay across the path. Now he wanted to be cautious, even to go home again while there was still time, but something propelled him forward and he went on down the path.

  They both saw Mr. Lovett at the same time. He was walking down the path from the lower terrace, making for the look-out. For once Conrad was not with him. Conrad was sitting on the edge of the terrace watching his master. He lifted his nose to the sky and in the sudden stillness they heard him howl.

  Catherine called out, but as she called the rumble that had died away began again. Again it filled the air and although it seemed so distant and so soft, it drowned her voice and Mr. Lovett did not hear. But he had heard the rumble and both of them saw him stop, his head lifted and slightly tilted to one side. He leaned forward with both hands on his stick, which was poked into the ground in front of him. As they watched he bent his head and seemed to be staring at his hands. He stood so for several minutes, as if reading a message through the stick. Then he straightened up and went on. Into Catherine’s mind came Terry’s thought—that once Mr. Lovett reached the look-out, or stepped on to the bridge, the smallest push, the slightest tripping of his feet, would send him headlong over the edge. Frenziedly Catherine tried to claw her way up the rocks. Terry hurried on down the path. The rumbling grew louder more quickly this time, and if either of them had looked down the gorge they would have seen all the trees on all the hills waving their branches.

  Catherine came to a blank face of rock, where she could climb no more. She was quite near the look-out and now she could see it clearly, but the rock implacably barred her way. She could only cling to the ledge she stood on and wait. Because she had come to a halt and was standing motionless, she felt it as soon as it began—the first small tremors of the ground under her feet. The rumbling grew louder, and the movement of the solid rock more pronounced. Suddenly she remembered Mr. Lovett’s words—a fault in the earth that sometimes slips. But Terry, hurrying to the look-out, was intent on only one thing and did not notice that he was stumbling more and more.

  She saw him then as he burst from the bank of rhododendrons on the lower path to the look-out. He was in full view of Mr. Lovett, but Mr. Lovett could not see and no footsteps were audible above the sound that now resembled the constant passing of jet planes. An inconsequent thought passed through Catherine’s mind that it must be like this when there was a bomb attack. This unwavering roar before the big bangs came. But there were no jets and no bangs. Only the rumble—a great roaring in her ears, and the ground moving under her, and Terry getting nearer to Mr. Lovett.

  In the midst of the uproar Catherine clung to the rock and tried to alter Terry’s purpose. She well knew what it was, and before he reached Mr. Lovett she had to change his purpose to her own. Compassion and kindness and plain humanity must be made to drive out all those destructive impulses. Something to build on, something to make, to grow, to live again. And she thought of Mr. Lovett—her friend, whose care for her was what she so much needed, and who needed also what she could do for him. Something to build on. Terry, who hated and destroyed and resented everyone’s life but his own. Drag him back, drag him into the common stream of living and loving. And she concentrated and clung to the rock, pressing her body against the lichened stone as the little patch of ground under her feet heaved and swayed.

  And Terry saw Mr. Lovett, and for the first time in his life saw him as a living creature fighting against blindness and age and Terry’s own hate. What had been growing so slowly for so long unobserved until the accident at last burst its way through that protective carapace. Perhaps it was Catherine’s mental struggle on the rocks below, perhaps it was a battle within himself, a fighting to reach the light. Perhaps it was both together. Whatever the cause, inside his mind something cracked. Like a seed in the furnace of a bushfire, a hard outer skin split and warmth flowed in and the seed began to grow. He saw Mr. Lovett move forward towards the old look-out, and now he noticed for the first time that the ground beneath his feet was moving. He saw the trees sway above his head. He saw the great clouds of dust rise from the gorge below. And as he watched there came a great crack, and one of the rock walls of the gorge tipped forward and hurled itself downward. The little bridge snapped like a cobweb. And Mr. Lovett, who seemed to have no fear at all, stepped on to the look-out. The tremor stopped as quickly as it had begun, but this time the rumbling remained. Terry had come to a halt and had been standing with his feet apart, arms rigid by his sides. Now, as the rumbling increased he appeared to come to a decision. Catherine knew what it was and for a moment forgot to be afraid. She saw him spring suddenly to life and run forward, and knew that he had not even seen the ground where he had been standing split apart, so that the deep crack that resulted would have engulfed him if he had not moved.

  She saw him run forward. “Terry!” she screamed. “Terry!” But he did not hear her for the rumbling had again turned into a roar. The trees in the garden waved madly, the ground moved, dust was everywhere. And Terry plunged down the path, past the loose, swaying ends of the bridge and reached the look-out. Mr. Lovett was standing pressed against the back of the stone seat, his head raised in its accustomed posture. Catherine screamed again and thrust the knuckles of her hand into her mouth. Terry flung his arms round Mr. Lovett’s waist, lifted him bodily off the ground and carried him back to the path. The stick, which had flown out of Mr. Lovett’s hand as he was swept up, spun into the air, out over the look-out and down into the gorge. Terry staggered backward, saw the new crack just in time and swung Mr. Lovett over it, on to the other side. He had only just put the old man on his feet when the ground moved again, this time with a mad, swaying motion. There came an ear-shattering explosion and, as he watched, and Catherine watched, the whole look-out—the whole monumental slab of rock that it stood on—broke away from the side of the hill and, slowly at first and then with increasing speed, crashed down into the gorge. The rumbling died away. The crash reverberated for a short time and then faded, dust rose out of the bed of the gorge like a yellow cloud, and at last silence fell. But the sound still rang in the ears and for a long time none of them moved at all.

  It was Terry who moved and spoke first. He released Mr. Lovett, ran to the new, raw edge of the garden and shouted, “Catherine!”

  She could not answer and she found her face wet with tears. But at last she shouted back, “You knew I was here?”

  “I always know where you are.” His voice was resentful, not at all friendly, but he added, “You’re mad to be down there. Are you all right?”

  At last she loosed her numbed grip on the jagged edges of rock and stood cautiously on her feet on the small level piece of hillside. She looked up, s
aw Terry peering down, and saw that there was now a foothold for her to climb higher. He pulled her the last bit, and she found she could no longer stand and sank on to the ground.

  “Bloody little fool,” said Terry, scooped her up and took her to where Mr. Lovett was standing waiting, helpless without his stick.

  Somehow they got to the house. “What does it look like?” said Mr. Lovett, and these were the first words he had said.

  It still stood there, but it wore a slightly bedraggled look. “A chimney has fallen,” said Catherine. “And the courtyard wall has cracked. The house looks all right.”

  At that moment the front door burst open and Bob hurled himself down the steps. “I couldn’t find you,” he said. “Conrad was under your bed so I thought you must be in the house. But I couldn’t find you. I—” He saw Terry and stopped dead.

  “If the house is all right we’d better go into it,” said Mr. Lovett.

  It was a silent session in Mr. Lovett’s study. Bob brought in coffee and Mr. Lovett was given a whisky. He was the only one to speak. “I’m in your debt,” he said to Terry. “You must have saved my life.” He did not make it sound as if a great boon had been conferred.

  At last Catherine spoke. “He did,” she said. “He did.”

  Across the silent room Terry looked at her. He opened his mouth, seemed about to speak and shut it again.

  Years later when Catherine knew Mr. Lovett even better, and when the Nicholsons’ unprofitable garage occupied a small corner of the garden, she said to him, “Why didn’t you go back when you felt the first of the tremors? You must have known what it was.”

  He had leaned towards her and smiled and patted her knee. “It’s sometimes nice to feel you are part of things. I hadn’t much to lose. In any case, I have always tried to tell you that in my garden I am taken care of.”

  When they went into the garden again everything was very quiet. But it was the quiet of crisis passed. There was still no wind, but the tension had gone from the day. The birds had begun their nesting and singing again and the spring blossom still hung on the boughs of the cherry trees. Above, though no one noticed, the clouds were breaking up and the sun had pushed through. Catherine walked beside Terry to the road above. As they passed under the cherry trees a small gust brought a cloud of white blossom down on their heads. In an instant Terry had jumped back, away from the trees.

  “It’s only petals,” she said. “They won’t hurt you.” When she saw his eyes move, suspicious and fearful, about the garden she added, “Can’t you feel that now you are welcome here?” He said nothing and as usual there was no expression in his face. But he stepped back on to the path and they walked on.

  At the gate they stopped. Catherine looked at him accusingly and said, “You are the bad of me, you know?”

  He did not answer her for a moment, but then he said slowly, “You must be the good of me, and this time you have won.”

  She felt a great strength rising inside her. She looked full into his pale, cruel face and let the strength, and the fire that supported it, envelop him. “I shall always win,” she said. “In the end.”

  At last he smiled and held out his hand. She stretched out her own and put it into his.

  The uproar she faced when she got home affected her not at all. It was hard to say whether they were furious or delighted. For once everyone’s nerves were on edge but her own. They had felt the quake. They had heard the noise and had watched, stunned, as pictures fell off the walls. And eventually Rupert had tottered into the house, white, almost speechless, dirty and shocked. It had taken him a long time to say he had not been able to find her. He was in bed now, sedated. They were prepared to give Catherine the same treatment but she waved it all away. It was enough for her just to see them all again, the people she loved, and to know that Rupert was safe. She had no intention of explaining anything.

  Watching Diana so easily assume the role of ministering angel she gave a small sigh. For her it was not going to be as easy as that, but there was no doubt in her mind, and no regret, either.

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