In the Heart of the Garden

by Leah Fleming

  Gran said in the olden days it was once all of a piece but had lain empty for many years until it was turned into two cottages for farm workers. It lay snuggled against the church and the lane but the back was Iris’s special place and she couldn’t wait to be home to see how her tadpoles had grown in the old pond. Why couldn’t they gather moss every day instead of being shut in the dark classroom? Aggie raced her down the lane, waving as she sped off towards the lower village and the big house. Iris skipped to the gate. For once there were no clanking sounds coming from the barn or hammering from Granddad’s many workshops. She was starving and could eat a horse. She tore up the cobbled yard, in through the open door and down the passageway to the kitchen.

  The grown ups were sitting around the deal table in silence, Mam, Dad and her grandparents. There was a hush she didn’t like, food on the table but no one was eating and Mam’s face was the colour of an ash bucket, all silvery grey. She was twisting her apron into a tight knot. Dad stood up awkwardly, his dark brows knitted together in a frown. Iris stood in the doorway, suddenly afraid. ‘What’s up?’

  Mam wafted a piece of paper. ‘Bad news, our Nat’s gone missing…’

  ‘Missing from where? Can they find him again?’

  There was a terrible silence in the room and Dad handed her the note. ‘I regret to inform you that a report has been received from the War Office to the effect that Private Nathaniel Bagshott was posted missing on 29 April 1918…’

  Iris did not understand.

  ‘He’s just missing, not… not gone, is he? Gone to heaven like Tommy Arnold’s brother and Susan’s and Albert Machin’s.’

  Granny sniffed into her hanky.

  ‘Shush, don’t upset yer mum. He might be a prisoner somewhere. We must just hope and pray.’

  Dad was tinkering at the slopstone, trying to fill the kettle. He was never in the kitchen unless for a meal; he looked out of place and smaller with a kettle in his hand.

  ‘Here, I’ll do it.’ Iris lifted it out of his hands and slung it on the range. Mother said nothing but sat with her head bent. Iris could see the grey strands sprouting like silver wool in her hair.

  ‘It’s such a shock for our Rose. To have gone two years and now this, just when things have taken a turn for the better. Still, it’s not for the likes of us to understand the will of the Almighty.’ Granddad sat dabbing his eyes, tears glistening on his walrus moustache. ‘And such a grand lad. Summat to be proud of, a lad like that.’

  Iris looked out of the window to the blue sky and the spring green of the leaves. Somewhere out there Nat was lying still like a dead rabbit in a trap. Were his eyes open? Did the flies buzz over him? He was gone. She knew it deep in her belly. Now she would have to wear a black arm band and the poster in the window would be taken down and changed to one with a big black border around it. She would be important at school until the next telegram came along. I’m never going to see Nat again, she thought, and shivered. All they would have of him would be that serious-faced soldier in uniform in the picture on the mantelpiece and that wasn’t Nat at all.

  ‘I’m going out… I’m not hungry now, Mam.’ Iris fled from the kitchen as fast as she could. There was only one place to hide.

  *

  She hid by the little stream at the bottom of the garden. She loved to watch the water trickling over the stones and search for little fish, all the time clutching Nella, her wooden-faced doll, trying to remember not to get her clothes wet. Nella was very old with pretty petticoats and a muslin top dress stitched with ribbon. She had once belonged to Granny Bailey’s granny and should not by rights be outside but everything was changed now and nobody had the heart for Sunday rules.

  After worship at Barnsley Green Primitive Methodist Chapel where Granddad was a pulpit preacher it was usually straight home for quiet Bible stories. There had been many condolences, prayers and pats on the arm, as word got about. There were boys lost similarly all over the nearby villages for the Midshires were in some ‘push’ again. It was rumoured that Captain Henry Salt was also wounded and Dad had driven his family to the city station to catch the London train for he was not expected to live, apparently.

  Today Iris lay back on the damp grass, not bothering to search for fairy rings and toadstools or wade through the flag irises chasing frogs. She could not be bothered to run through the ghost walk at the bottom of the garden between the church and the orchard where the grey lady often drifted like mist. It was a spooky overgrown path where the tangled bushes grabbed at your arm, nettles stung your legs and the rooks swooped and cackled overhead in the churchyard beyond the old brick wall and the gate with the creaking hinges. She never ventured through the gate to Saint Mary’s. That was the road to hellfire, Granddad said for: ‘Wide is the gate that leads to perdition!’ The archway over it was of fancy stone pillars carved with squiggly figures; part of the old broken monastery wall which encircled most of their land.

  When she went to take the spring bunches to old Granny Bagshott’s grave she was careful to go the long way round by the path along the stream, the narrow way. The primrose path, she called it, with its pale lemony flowers on the bank, buttercups and purple violets. Today she did not feel like going anywhere.

  They had joined a new club now, not the Mutual and Friendly where you paid sixpence a week for sick relief but a silent club with only one rule. As a sign that you belonged there was a black-rimmed poster in your window which said FOR KING AND COUNTRY, and people spoke in hushed voices when you passed and stared pityingly. A club where everyone wore black and was ‘in morning’ and there was never any afternoon. Visitors called to express their sadness, saying what a clever lad Nat was, going to the grammar school and getting an education. It had cost them dear to send him for Dad worked at this and that but mostly mending machinery and cars while Granddad laboured on the nearby farms.

  No one bothered with this end of the garden; the wild bit where Iris could play undisturbed in her own magic land. Here no Devey boys bullied her or mother chivvied her to feed the hens, see to the stick collecting, gather some greens for the caged rabbits. No Aggie Salt to pull faces and call her names. No bloody Kaiser pushing up and down like a yo yo, and no ghostly picture of Nat staring out from its black drapery.

  There were only wild things to play with and they didn’t know about any of that. She could escape here. Dad could burst his chest yelling but she couldn’t hear his orders or Mother’s sighs and Granny’s tears. Here she was Queen of the country and she made the rules. Here Nella and Muffy, the old dog, obeyed her orders. No one else knew about the kingdom and she could do as she pleased so long as she didn’t get too dirty and came in for meals on time with hands rinsed clean at the pump.

  Iris knew she possessed this part of their garden with a certainty beyond her eight years. Friddy’s Piece belonged to her: the orchard, the bog pond, the stream, but most of all, the Ghost Walk and Stinging Nettle Lane which led into the heart of her kingdom.

  Everything here obeyed her command and she needed answers. Iris looked at the dandelion clocks which always told the time or if your sweetheart was true. Perhaps they could tell her whether Nat was still alive. She picked off a clock gently and sat down. One puff for yes, the next for no… puff, puff. Today not one of them would tell the truth for they all gave different answers. She tried to conjure up a memory of Nat on his last furlough.

  He’d looked so grown up in his khaki, his puttees and black glossy boots and peaked cap; a proper soldier, with a wispy moustache on top of his lip which made Mam weep with pride. Where was he now? Puff… puff like the fluffy seeds blown away into the air? She knew Dad would go down to the far orchard field and tell the bees in the hive that one of the family was missing. Why did everything go on the same, the sun come up and go down, the moon rise each clear night?

  I don’t want a postcard picture. I want my brother to come home. I want the telegram to be wrong, all rubbed out with an India rubber, all of it dusted off like chalk on the blackboard.
>
  It was lunchtime and she was ashamed that her tummy was rumbling. Queen as she was she could not hold back time or banish the Sunday ritual, but she would go on puffing at the clocks until she got a comforting reply.

  *

  ‘Here, let me help you with that luggage, Captain Salt,’ said Jim Bagshott, rushing forward to help the young man struggling with his case and stick while coming out of the city station. ‘Do you want to drive her? She’s the best yet.’ He pointed to the car with its biscuit-coloured folding hood and gleaming leather upholstery.

  ‘No… perhaps later when I’ve got rid of this damned stick.’ The young man took little interest in his father’s latest automobile.

  ‘Bit of a surprise, you coming home so soon. Your mother will be pleased.’ The chauffeur sighed, thinking that since that final telegram of confirmation his own son would never be able to fling his cap round the door and give his mother a hug.

  ‘I’m terribly sorry about Nat, a fine soldier… one of the best.’ Young Captain Salt could not look at his driver.

  ‘We did hope, sir, just for a bit. But then we heard the truth of it. Still it’s grand to see you back. You’ve made a quick recovery, considering…’

  The young man fell silent, his dull eyes averted. As he’d suspected, his injuries were the subject of some speculation. He sat in the back of the open-topped Model T Ford, already searching out the familiar landmarks; the three spires of the Cathedral, the tall rings of the gas works, the rise towards the ridgeway, the green hills of home. Another world, away from the mud, the shelling, the hospital tents, pain, numbness and the pitiful remnants of his Midshires regiment. He felt ashamed to be alive while Jim’s son and his pals were cut to pieces by shrapnel in some bomb crater, crucified on wires, rotting in the quagmire.

  Stop it! No more such thoughts. You’re going home, no more looking back. No one in Fridwell wants to know the truth of it all. Don’t talk about it and you’ll be safe.

  Mother had sat with him and Father coughed and wept, looking away in embarrassment when the nurses came to dress Henry’s wounds. He had seen the tears. ‘Just a cold, old chap.’ Reginald Salt was not one to show much emotion, leaving that sort of thing to the ladies. Their visits had been awkward, painful, and the silences uncomfortable. His father didn’t know what to say about such unspeakable injuries. Henry could see him trying to imagine his son’s sorry fate.

  The reconstruction had been done cleanly and promptly. It was adequate enough for passing water, a bit lopsided, painful when peeing at first but at least he had a bit of a stub. Some had nothing much left. Many took one brave look at what was left of their manhood, turned their faces to the wall and died.

  As he was joggled on the back seat he could feel the twinges in his side growing worse and bent double with the pain. His driver turned round and saw his green face. He stopped the car with a jerk.

  ‘It’s all right, Bagshott, drive on… early days. Stitches, you know.’

  Jim Bagshott didn’t know but he could guess the poor bugger was in agony down below. He’d heard the rumours that Captain Salt got a blighty in the worst place of all.

  Henry thought of the family at The Grange, wanting to embrace him and touch him, mollycoddle him as their hero returned against the odds. His war was over now, finished by a blighty in the goolies. There was no place for a eunuch in the trenches – a bloody eunuch, fit only for a desk job or a Sultan’s harem! Why was I not killed with the others, with men like Nat Bagshott, one second charging over the trench wall, the next blown to smithereens? But at least a good clean death, not a lingering one like Charlie Machin, hanging on until his leg swelled into a balloon and turned black. Now only Henry was left to tell of their passing but never to grandchildren of his own.

  Outwardly he knew he looked like any other officer returning from the face of Hell: ashen and baggy under the eyes, vague in his manner, as if he couldn’t really see ordinary folk going about their daily grind. His thoughts were constantly slipping back to his friends who were mostly dead now.

  ‘Stop!’ he told Bagshott. ‘Stop here, thanks, this’ll do. Take the bags on up. I need a bit of fresh air. Tell them I won’t be long. I’ll walk from here up by the brook. If I’m not home by dark, send out a search party.’ He tried to smile but was shaking with fear.

  Henry lit a cigarette and dragged in deeply to steady his nerves. He needed to control the homecoming, accustom himself to public exposure slowly, savour his own thoughts before the onslaught of good wishes and curiosity. Besides Aggie would be a fusspot and a pain. She was too young to understand.

  He paused by the brook, standing on the stone culvert bridge for a moment and walking slowly past the willows which hung their branches into the water. He could smell the fresh clean-rinsed scents of summer. He would follow the stream up towards the square church tower, he decided. In the distance he could see the outline of The Grange, its tall chimneys and fancy brickwork. Over the wall would be shaven lawns and edged pathways, neat borders full of Mother’s favourite flowers, tea on the lawn. Nothing had changed much there. But he walked on towards the village and the cottages by the church.

  His heart was pounding from the exertion. He was unfit, out of breath, and still not sure if he wanted to go on living in this clean, neat English world. He was a stranger now for he came from a foreign country the likes of which he hoped none of them would ever have to see. He stopped and took in big draughts of air to steady himself and saw the child watching him.

  The girl was sitting by the stream, dangling her feet in the water, picking watercress. It was Jim’s girl who played with Aggie sometimes, a sharp-faced creature with big staring eyes and a mop of dark hair tied up with a ribbon on top of her head. She stood up, shading her eyes in disbelief to see his uniform. She waved frantically. ‘Is that you, Nat? Nat… Mam! Mam! He’s come home!’ She turned to run up the slope towards the cottage.

  ‘Stop! Stop – Iris, isn’t it? It’s only Aggie’s brother, come for a walk. Captain Salt!’

  She turned back and glared at him fiercely.

  ‘I thought you were sent to hospital?’

  ‘I’m home now for a while, just walking up the stream to see if it’s all still there, like the old days.’

  ‘Did you see our Nat?’

  ‘Yes, I saw him, Iris.’

  ‘He’s gone missing and we had a letter. Is he with Jesus in Heaven?’ The girl was looking up at him, expecting a reply.

  ‘I expect so, along with his pals.’ That should soothe her, he thought silently.

  ‘I don’t think so. He’s still in the ground. They never found him. Aggie says he’s all in pieces somewhere.’

  ‘Little Miss Knowall isn’t always right. He’ll be buried properly,’ Henry lied. How could you tell a child or a mother that a body could lie for days before being collected or was scattered to the four winds with the next shell? ‘Are you two still falling out?’

  ‘Yes, and I don’t care, she’s not my best friend anymore. I don’t have friends, but I have this garden all to myself and it doesn’t argue like she does. It doesn’t tell tales or take sides. Look, this’s my patch.’ Iris pointed to the tumble down wild den where she had fixed up a tepee of sticks and cloth.

  ‘You are lucky. I’m surprised it’s not turned over to potatoes by now, with all the shortages.’

  ‘They shan’t! I won’t let them. Everywhere else is fruit and veg but not this. Would you like to walk around it?’

  ‘Not now, Iris,’ Henry humoured her. ‘I must be making tracks. You look after your garden. I know… knew a man who made a garden in the trenches…’ He stopped himself. He suddenly could not bear to think of Percy Allport’s rock garden. ‘’Bye, young lady.’

  He turned back along the stream and walked through the church gate into the cemetery where so many of his forebears were buried, generations of ancient Salts going back to Domesday. His branch of the line would end here up a siding for no seed would ever grow from him. Henry felt dead ins
ide but the charade must be performed, duties rendered, visits paid. It was time to face the reception party, see the pity in his parents’ eyes. Time to die again.

  *

  Iris walked back up the slope to tell the others she had seen the Captain. She stopped by the orchard to tell the bees but the hens clucked round her feet, wanting to be fed, so she ignored them, searching among the sheds for someone to tell all her news to.

  Granddad Bailey was a man of many sheds, tools and opinions. He collected sheds like Granny collected bits for her button box. First was the hen hut with a wire run to cage in the birds from the fox who feasted around the village at night. Then she lingered by the pig sty where the fat Tamworth snorted in the mud with a grunt. She never could look the poor pig in the eye for she knew just where he would be hanging before Christmas. Meat was tightly rationed now. Next along the line was the smelly hut made out of all sorts of coloured bricks to shelter the manure. What a pong! Pig muck and horse dung from the lane, chicken droppings, anything that would rot down. A cloud of flies was buzzing all over it and she held her nose in disgust as she passed.

  He was not in the woodshed chopping up logs. This was where she shoved the bunches of kindling sticks and furze which it was her chore to gather after school. She peered through the panes of glass to his greenhouse where the tomatoes grew on long stalks. It had been carried in pieces all the way from Parsonage Farm where it had lain rotting for years. Granddad put it together like a jigsaw and it leant against the old wall with relief, facing southwards. Here the cat stretched lazily on one of the benches, raising its head to greet her.

  The next shed was his usual hiding place and Iris loved to sit on the stool watching him pricking out his seedlings into little clay pots. The smell was sweet and sickly, a mixture of fish and bonemeal which he sometimes gave her in a bucket to spread on Mother’s roses. There was an earthy mouldy smell too and Iris loved to finger the tiny packets of seeds which he kept in a tin box with a scratched picture of the King and Queen’s coronation on top. On the high bench which came up to her nose he stored his pots, string and ropes. A line of garden tools, oiled and rust-free, were neatly tied with loops on to hooks. It was like a shop full of spades and shovels, hoes, rakes, sickles, forks and brushes. There were Oxo tins of nails which rattled and shook like music and she fingered them. It also smelled of creosote and tar, which got up her nostrils, linseed oil and baccy, which Granny didn’t approve of as a Methodist so Granddad sucked strong peppermints to scent his breath. There was always a little box of them hidden here. Iris liked rooting in this shed the best of all.