by Leah Fleming
So many goodbyes at that gate when another war threatened; goodbye to the fly-by-night soldiers and airmen from nearby camps in the forest who came to strip down their motor bikes in the barn and never returned to collect their spare parts; goodbye to so many wartime pashes and friendships; goodbye to the evacuees whom Mam welcomed as long-lost sons, billeted on her briefly during the worst of the raids in Birmingham. There were so many memories attached to the garden of many sheds.
Time now to turn back towards the cottage for that last and dearest bit of the tour, around the side of the house and up the slope of friendship’s garden to where my heart lies buried. Through another arch of evergreen honeysuckle and laburnum, a path edged with many shrub cuttings to remind her of friends: golden forsythia in the spring; white Japanese anemones shining in the moonlight in autumn; orange Chinese lanterns tucked by the low wall together with purple euphorbias and silver Eucalyptus gunnii; the tassels on the Garrya Elliptica already forming nicely. So many joys to look forward to from gifts representing a wealth of past friendships.
How could I have hated gardening so much? For a time Friddy’s Piece lay neglected like my cold heart after the Dig for Victory efforts were over. Then just when I was growing old and bitter, when I thought romance had passed this sleeping princess by, the magic garden kissed my frozen heart alive.
PART EIGHT
FRIDDY’S PIECE
1956
‘To be happy for a day – get drunk.
To be happy for six months – kill a pig.
To be happy for a year – find a wife.
To be happy for a lifetime – make a garden’
—Chinese proverb
‘Mistletoe
This rises up from the branch or arm of the tree whereon it grows with woody stem putting itself into sundry branches… it hath no roots of its own. Some have so highly esteemed it for its virtues thereof that they have called it… Wood of the Holy Cross.’
‘Lore
Large bunches are hung up in houses at Christmas. All who meet beneath its branches should kiss as a sign of friendship, peace and goodwill’
Arrivals
The heron circled the frozen fish pool, alighting at the edge to stand like a grey statue, upright, alert to morning movement. In the silver field a rabbit sniffed the air; a fox slunk into the shadows of the woody copse. On Friddy’s barn roof a blackbird pinked, watching the tortoiseshell cat pad its way sleekly across a thick bough overhanging the gate, curling itself, waiting to pounce for its breakfast. The blackbird screeched the alarm and flew higher out of reach. December was the blackest, cruellest of months for birds and beasts as they scavenged for the last of the food, huddled together for warmth.
In the winter garden at Friddy Piece Cottage all above ground was frozen and dormant, crusted and nailed hard by frost, but far below there was a flurry of movement. Moles were mining a tunnel to the surface, turfing up a fine tilth, and worms turned again, sifting and reburying all the hidden treasures though the snowdrops were fast spearing upwards for their brief January show.
In the cottage the loo handle cranked but nothing happened. Iris turned on the brass tap in the bathroom. Just a splutter of brown water dribbled out. She sat on the wooden seat and howled with frustration. ‘It’s freezing and damp and now there’s no water. What a welcome home! Thanks very much!’ She stormed out of the bathroom, kicking the black banister rail and stubbing her toe. ‘It’s not fair, not bloody fair!’
A hot tear of self-pity rolled down her nose and acid rose in her throat. It was no fun to be starting one’s forty-sixth year alone, with Christmas approaching, without even a single invitation on the mantelpiece.
I should never have agreed to come back now the house is empty and Mother gone. I can cry about a frozen pipe but not about all the other things.
Iris perched on the sill of the mullioned window, halfway up the stairwell. Funny how it was the place she’d always thought of as hers in the house; a snug hideaway out of sight of the grown ups.
What am I doing here? she thought, scraping the frost ferns from the inside of the pane and licking the ice from her fingers.
For months now she had shed no tears. There was just this frenzy of grief; sadness and fury were like two tethered horses trying to gallop in opposite directions, tugging the guts out of her. How could she have been so naive as to think Gerry would ever leave his teaching post and his wife for her? How could she have clung on to their stolen moments, burying herself in after school activities, prolonging the moment when she must leave to face her empty flat? Now the whole world had gone topsy-turvy, with hostilities breaking out in Europe and Suez. She didn’t know what to think of it all.
Mother had managed well enough on her own. S & B Motors was run by Henry Salt when Dad died. She tended the garden throughout the war, filling the house with evacuees, doing her bit and never complaining that she was out of breath and bone weary, until the afternoon when she came into the kitchen and fell asleep by the fireside.
You and I never got to say goodbye or make our peace, thought Iris. A senseless argument over her affair had led to a serious quarrel which festered for years in stubborn silence.
Now I can’t make any of it right. You wanted what was best for me and I was blind to your love until now. I don’t deserve to be living here. How could anyone be so blind, so stupid, as to ruin their career over a love affair?
In wartime there were passionate encounters all around her but Iris had stayed unscathed. Then, once it was ended, Gerry Parker arrived fresh from his emergency teacher training course with wife and child. Iris found herself drawn into a passionate friendship and then a clandestine affair which had lasted ten years before one day she bumped into Gerry’s wife, six months pregnant, radiant and full of news, gabbling on about them moving down south to a new Headship. So much for his ‘not sleeping with the wife for years’ routine, and all those wasted years of Iris’s life.
Now she was marooned among frosted fields with over two acres of jungle, ramshackle outbuildings and stables; hemmed in by narrow lanes with familiar hedges. She had struggled up the ungritted winding lane in Gertie, her neat blue Standard, slithering on patches of black ice treacherous beneath her bald tyres. It looked like a scene on a Christmas card but that tunnel of a lane on to the hilly ridge was dark. The wooden gate stuck fast against her on the gravel. Not a promising start. Not one friendly light to guide her in the gloom of a December dog day. The wooden sign was half hanging off the gate, its plastic letters announcing FRIDDY’S PIECE.
‘Home at last!’ she muttered, fumbling to find the key in her bag and sort out which door it would fit. Despite the alterations it was still a higgledy-piggledy sort of building with windows all over the place and no symmetry. Inside the air was cold, and smelled of Izal and disuse.
She hoped she might feel more kindly disposed to her old home after she had lit the fire. Disappointment stuck in her throat like a fish bone. I’ve stayed away too long and now dampness has invaded the place, she thought. The rosebud wallpaper was peeling off the wall. The oak beams were painted gloss black and ominously pitted with holes overhead. Here and there were white bare patches where pictures had once hung.
Friddy’s Piece would have to stay as it was, unloved and unwelcoming, for a few months until she could get her confidence back enough to apply for some menial job. She had given in her notice and fled back to the Midlands, using her mother’s death as an excuse to get away from Gerry’s embarrassed avoidance in the staff room.
*
The tortoiseshell cat stirred with disdain at Iris’s entrance, curling back on to the chair close to the fire which was almost out. Someone must have been feeding her for she looked smug and plumped up. There was just enough coke in the sack for her to stoke the fire back to life. After that she would have to do a Cinderella and collect twigs and ferret in the outhouse sheds for any dry wood. What a pantomime that would be!
She switched on the kettle which did at least have some
water in it from the night before. Nothing. She tested the light switch. Not a flicker. No wireless either. The power was off. A rush of panic flooded through her as she paced back and forth on the sticky lino which curled up at the edges.
I don’t believe it! No water, no power. What am I expected to do… die of thirst or freeze to death or both! The metal tips of her shoes banged down the stone passageway to the door into the cobbled courtyard leading up to the kitchen patch. She was looking for the water butt to flush the loo. Banging her arms across her chest like Magwitch in Great Expectations, she stormed down the garden path, snagging the sleeve of her thick cardy on the over hanging rose thorns.
From the top of the garden she could see the rooftops of the ribbon of cottages strung out along the high road to Barnsley Green. There were no lights anywhere in bedrooms or kitchens.
The crow of a cockerel startled her for a second. Sometimes she could still hear the roar of city traffic and buzz of cafe chatter, the overhead drone of aeroplanes and clink of milk floats. How quickly she had forgotten the sounds of country living, especially the cawing of the rooks from their churchyard roosts, the rumble of a distant tractor, a dog barking in response. Now the silence was broken only by a trickling, gushing sound.
She pushed her way through the undergrowth like a pioneer to find the source. There at her feet, running from under a mossy stone culvert, was the old spring which tumbled into the brook, half iced over with frozen weeds curling at the edges. The water looked clear as crystal and Iris stooped down, scooping her hands to taste. Metallic, sharp but drinkable. Buckets and pans would do the trick. She smiled with satisfaction, remembering her Girl Guide days of campfires and tents. Now sticks could be gathered for the fire, candles from the cupboard under the stairs and pans filled. All was not lost. Iris Bagshott would survive.
As she marched purposefully back to the cottage she surveyed her domain. Her eyes glanced up at the lead-paned window seat and she thought for a moment she saw the face of a child peering down at her. Iris blinked in disbelief and looked again. There was nothing. Chime hour child or no, now you’ve really flipped over the edge, girl, she chided herself. Wake up, this is no dream.
*
Where did she start first? Iris looked around the kitchen with dismay. This would be a Herculean task. The larder shelves were sprinkled with mice droppings, the cupboards swimming in silverfish. She wanted to shove everything into the bin and start fresh but there was no time to nip back into the city for her trunk would soon arrive from the station. The first task was to fetch up water from the stream and light the old range. At least with some hot water she would feel civilised again. There was still no power and snow was beginning to fall on top of the ice outside.
She swept out the kitchen dust and stood back, leaning on the brush to picture once again all the family gathered around the table, smelling the roast meat and steamy fug of a childhood winter. Home was always safe and warm before the fallings out and arguments about the garage and the Salts and the premises.
Henry Salt was ruled by his head and Jim Bagshott by his heart. It was inevitable that they went their separate ways in the business. The Captain ran the show and Jim ran the motors about, gathering and depositing people around the district. By the time of the Second World War Henry was an officer in the Home Guard and Dad tagged along with the rest of the Fridwell gang to the local Drill Hall.
Then Henry Salt made an unexpected marriage to a young slip of a war widow whose husband had died in a Jap prison camp, a lively lady with a small son to support. Flora Bowman and her boy James brought new purpose to his life and put the sparkle back into his eyes. Iris liked the woman but she was everything that Iris was not: smart, energetic, pretty with her snub nose and bright green eyes, indefatigable at WI meetings. Mother had said her heart was in the right place but never worn on her sleeve.
When the child went off to boarding school Henry and Flora took holidays abroad in Jersey and the South of France. Iris caught glimpses of the glamorous woman in her mannish slacks, driving a jeep at top speed. Daunted by her air of enthusiasm she tried to avoid Flora Salt on her infrequent visits home. Yet at Mother’s funeral Iris had been touched by her kindness and frequent visits though still determined to keep the lady of The Grange at arm’s length.
As the crow flew Flora was her nearest neighbour now that the cottages down the lane were derelict and the farms dispersed. Fridwell had shrunk to little more than a hamlet; all the shops had moved to Barnsley Green and the school scarcely supported itself. The water mill was disused and empty and Parsonage Farm was turned back into a house. The quietness of the place would suit her fine, Iris thought as she scrubbed on her hands and knees, back and forth across the grimy floor with the old brush, worn away in the middle from all her mother’s efforts. It was oddly satisfying to be so violently busy.
Then she heard the rat-tat of the front door knob. Iris’s first instinct was to duck down and ignore the visitor but a voice called through the letter box, ‘Iris! Iris, is that you? Only me come to feed the cat. Saw the car…’
It was Flora Salt, standing in her winter glory covered in snowflakes, a trim fur hat and thick pre-war sheepskin jacket worn with tweed trews and wellingtons. Her cheeks were flushed and pink as she shook off flakes on to the clean floor. ‘Whoops! Hard at it, I see… That’s the ticket. And just in time, eh?’ She beamed and Iris stood up, knowing she looked like a stoker’s mate.
‘Mrs Salt, how kind of you to call.’
‘Tosh! Call me Flora… if you’d told me when you were coming, I’d have sent Mrs Barnswell down to lay a fire and dust a bit. No water? It’s frozen solid again right up the lane. I shall have to get on to the Council to lay the pipes down lower. The power line’s playing up again too. No peace for the wicked, eh? Still, not as bad as some, eh?
‘The rush is on, Iris. All hands to the pumps now the refugees are arriving. Can I count on you? They’ve rustled up some sort of transit camp for them out of the old barracks in the forest. You know the sort of thing – for medical checks and rehousing. Not exactly Butlin’s but the best we can do at such short notice. So much to do and only three weeks to Christmas. James will be home from school soon and poor old Henry’s tied up with the garage. If you’re at a loose end, I could find a ton of jobs for you.’
‘But I’ve only just arrived and there’s so much to do here!’
‘I know, I know. Just like the poor blighters stuck out in the woods in this weather, with only the clothes they stand up in, no families or comforts and so far from home. Doesn’t it make you weep? I feel so sorry for them, don’t you?’
How could Iris admit that the current upheavals in the world had slipped her by unheeded in the midst of her own misery and isolation?
‘What exactly happened to them?’
‘Iris dear, have you been living on another planet? It’s been in all the newspapers though squashed out by the Suez crisis, of course. These poor people tried to hold back the Soviet tanks for days as they rolled through their cities, and died in their thousands in the attempt. Didn’t you hear that terrible broadcast, “The light is going out in Hungary. Help! Help!” I’m surprised at you, not knowing that.’
Flora stood four-square, her fair hair gently waved and caught in a clip at the side, nails polished pink, fingers stained with nicotine.
‘Come on, Iris, where’s your Christian compassion?’
‘A bit thin at the moment. How can I possibly entertain people here? I’d hardly be good company for them. But when I’m sorted, I’ll think about it.’
‘Tosh! They won’t notice a bit of damp! I’ll pick you up tomorrow and you can see it all for yourself. It’s awfully bleak up in the forest, and there are children too.’
‘Do you want some coffee, I’ve only got Camp…’
‘No thanks, I ought to be getting along. Just wanted to see that old Topsy was OK. We’ve been feeding her, hope you don’t mind?’
‘If it wasn’t for you the poor old thing
would be dead. She looks contented enough. Thanks again.’ Flora stood in the doorway, watching the feathers of snow settling on the path.
‘At least it’ll cover up the jungle out there. Your poor mother would have a fit if she could see it now. Shall I send Grumpy Greggs to see to it for you?’
Iris smiled to think that the old gardener who had shooed Aggie and her out of his domain was still at work.
‘He must be ninety! No, please, it’ll have to wait. I may sell up and move on, then someone else can have the pleasure.’
‘Nonsense, you can’t sell the family home! How proud Rosie was to own her own place. Give it some time. We don’t want to lose you just when you’ve returned. You’re far too valuable an asset to the village. I was only recently telling the ladies of the WI how you saved poor Henry’s life.’
‘I did what?’
‘You heard. When you were a little girl and he was so badly wounded in the war. It all got too much for him and he went into the woods to end it all. Then up you popped from the bluebells, making him feel very foolish. You and your little garden helped him stay around.’
‘I never knew all that.’ Iris was taken aback by such frankness. She stared out at the whiteness covering the ground.
‘How could you? You were only a child, and a stroppy little madam by all accounts,’ laughed Flora. ‘Never underestimate your own strength. Whatever has brought you home to us, you’ve arrived just in the nick of time. Welcome back. It’s good to have you on board.’
‘Wait a few weeks before you say that!’
For a brief second she wondered if she might tell Flora all about Gerry but then drew back. ‘Give me time and I’ll help you out.’
‘Good show. See you tomorrow then.’
*
The women struggled up the twisting dirt path through the oak woods to the barracks, bouncing over the snow-lined track in Flora’s army surplus jeep. It was a slow bumpy ride and the windscreen was soon splattered with dirt.
