In the Heart of the Garden

by Leah Fleming

  In front of them, looming out of the mist, a man limped his way back towards the camp; his shoulders were slumped under a gabardine mac several sizes too big for him. He wore a black beret and carried a string bag. Flora shoved on the brakes and jerked to a halt, almost flinging Iris into the windscreen. ‘Let’s give him a lift.’

  The young man jumped back, startled by the noise of the engine. He whipped off his beret, revealing dark hair slicked back. His shabby clothes were obviously straight from one of Flora’s salvage boxes.

  ‘Lift?’ Flora smiled but the man stepped back, unsure. ‘You, camp?’ She pointed far into the distance and then to Iris and herself in an exaggerated gesture. ‘We… go… à la camp?’ She turned to Iris appealing for back up.

  ‘Parlez-vous français?’ Iris leaned across the dashboard to make eye contact. The man shook his head.

  She waved to the back of the vehicle. ‘Here, in the jeep, hop in?’

  He saluted them with his hand and made for the back of the jeep, opening the flap to climb in amongst the boxes piled high with clothes and groceries gathered in the Hungarian Relief Collections in the city. He turned his back on them, dangling his legs over the edge until they reached the check post at the gate of the old barracks. The refugee jumped down, bowed to them both and limped away without uttering a sound. The women watched the lone figure in silence for a moment.

  Iris looked around in dismay at the depressing sight before her. It had always been the windiest and bleakest of places, beautiful in full leaf and in autumn but the forest here always dark and forbidding. In this secluded camp the military had carried out secret manoeuvres.

  ‘This is grim, Flora. Just rows and rows of battered huts in the snow. What a place to escape to.’

  There were groups of men and women lounging about in doorways, smoking and watching the new arrivals.

  Flora waved at them. ‘It’s better than prison, torture or execution back home. The interpreters are all telling the same grim tales. They’ve chosen to come westward in search of a better life but of course new arrivals must be vetted and checked over. Wouldn’t put it past the Russkies to slip a few spies through the Iron Curtain, posing as genuine refugees.’

  ‘If that’s the case then they’ll soon be wishing themselves back home, far away from this bleak spot in the middle of nowhere!’

  Iris was trying to imagine what they must be thinking of their new abode. ‘Whoever they are, they’ve had to leave wives and girlfriends, mothers and children behind. Freedom will cost them dear. Anything worthwhile usually does. How do they pass the time? It’s miles from the nearest town.’

  ‘Living like POWs mostly. Playing cards, reading old newspapers, mending their clothes and waiting for the next mealtime. They’ve rigged up a cinema and there’s the old gymnasium. It’s not that long since there were National Servicemen here… surely you remember them? They’re trying to put on a few lessons but it’s been hard to find interpreters and English teachers.’

  It needed little imagination to see how quickly boredom would set in, stuck in this foreign land with no money and no means of communication. ‘Someone ought be organising crash courses in Common English to help them settle in. Take their minds off what they’ve had to leave behind. Keep them busy over Christmas, don’t you think?’

  ‘Right on the button as usual, Iris, so what are you waiting for?’ challenged Flora. ‘You’re a teacher, you live close by, you’ve no work on…’

  ‘Hang on a minute! I’ve never taught English as a foreign language before. I wouldn’t know where to start.’

  ‘Start with all the words a stranger would need to know and read to get themselves from A to B. Then words to do with food, asking for directions, greetings. Lots of practice at speaking and writing. Most of them are young and bright with spunk enough to have got themselves to safety here away from the tanks and the tyranny. They’ll pick up English soon enough, given direction. Let me put out a few feelers to see if we could start a group.’

  ‘Don’t go treading on any toes, Flora. They may have it all set up already and I’d only be a nuisance.’ Iris could feel her pulse racing at the thought of such a commitment.

  ‘Rubbish! There are hundreds of them here. They’ll be grateful for any help they can get. Don’t you worry. Leave it all to me.’

  ‘Bulldozer!’ Iris slammed the jeep door with a smile.

  ‘Come on, where’s your Dunkirk spirit? Give me a hand with these boxes and I’ll show you round the camp.’

  Iris looked around the bleached landscape. Not much of a place to be spending Christmas. She tried to imagine herself in their predicament. If the Germans had driven their tanks up the Trent valley would she have thrown herself before them in protest? Or would she have fled across the sea to Ireland, America or Timbuctoo in search of a better life?

  She saw again the dark eyes of the man by the roadside, his gratitude and effort to understand. How could she ignore people in such a plight? Flora was right. Never ignore the impulse of your heart. The hour was chiming loudly.

  ‘Give it a try, Iris. You can only do your best,’ she told herself.

  *

  What have I done? thought Ferenc Hordas, lying exhausted on his bunk. The long walk uphill had strained his tendon again and he could feel the dull ache of his weak calves and poor circulation. He mustn’t lose his muscle tone or he would never play football again. Coaching it was so much a part of his life that he had hoped to get a few games going here, but no one had the energy. He was weaker than he’d thought and his chest hurt but he rubbed warmth back into his legs with the ease of long practice. Yet his heart was cold, ice cold.

  The two women with smiling eyes had briefly touched it with their spark of kindness in giving him a lift back. There had been sympathy and warmth but his soul was frozen by the knowledge of what he had done. Those crazy ten days of hope erupting into the hell of 4 November. On Radio Kossuth he heard details of the invasion. Comrades who had escaped from Buda had seen tanks lumbering along Stalin Avenue, dragging the bodies of Hungarians behind them as a warning. ‘Ruszkik Haza!’ the crowds had shouted from the barricades, fired into acts of heroism by the righteousness of their cause. But words could not destroy tanks and bullets could not hold back the waves of Soviet reinforcements.

  The nightmare of his escape still haunted him. His voice was hoarse with shouting and his eyes dried up with weeping for Ilona, his woman. What would become of Ili, who had refused to leave her country and her family; of all those other brave souls who were staying on to nurse the dying and patch up the wounded, or pump petrol into the veins of police spies as punishment for their betrayal? He had escaped over the border while others were still fighting or already dead. He had decided that if he was to have any future he had no choice but to run away.

  Now he sipped the last of his palinka. The bitter juice of the fruit brandy reminded him of the sunshine of home, the orchards, the lakes and lush vineyards. Never would he see them again. He was doomed to this exile amongst strangers with only the bitter spirit of defeat burning in his throat. Soon his comrades here would be scattered to the four winds and he would be alone. The English priests gave their blessings, the nurses and the camp staff were doing their best to cheer them up, but he was locked in the silence of despair.

  English Lessons

  The officer sat smoking a pipe in front of a portrait of the young Queen Elizabeth, bedecked with faded paper chains. The mess had made a brave effort to look festive with paper bells and bits of tired tinsel strewn haphazardly around the windows. Iris, who had been summoned for an interview, sat nervously wondering what orders she would be given.

  ‘Miss Bagshott, your students will come and go. This is a transit camp. Three weeks at most and then they’ll be off to another hostel and hopefully a job. We don’t expect you to work miracles but we’re bulging at the seams and most of our intake will be staying over Christmas now. A smattering of the lingo would help them get resettled. Damn’ shame it’s so ne
ar to the holidays, don’t you think? Our chaps in Suez and these poor sods… it gets to them all, being away from home and all that.’ He sucked on his pipe and sighed.

  ‘Would it help if they worked in my house? It’s not far from the camp. I could familiarise them with some of our ways of doing things and teach them vocabulary at the same time. I have a car of sorts.’

  ‘It’ll do them good to walk, and you don’t want to be using up your petrol coupons, do you? I’m afraid we couldn’t allocate you extra ones and fresh air might cheer them up a bit. Bit of an imposition on you, having strangers and all that…’

  Iris shook her head. It would suit her far better to work with a group in her own home. It might settle her nerves and reduce the panic she felt about failing them. What if they came away without learning anything? What if she was useless with adults instead of children? It would make her get off her backside and clear out the guddle of boxes and books, clothes and belongings, which lay scattered around the cottage.

  When Flora heard the news she was round like a flash with bags of kindling and sent Grumps the Gardener with coal and logs. She tried to chivvy her friend into some festive decorations too but Iris stood firm.

  ‘First you get me into this and then you try to make me into Mother Christmas! First things first. Just let me get them started. I’m shaking at the very thought of trying to teach them our language. What if I scare them away?’

  ‘Nonsense! You’ll be fine, just be yourself. Henry says you’re a natural. And don’t forget, it’s open house on Christmas Day… you’re coming to us, and all your students too, of course. We dine after the Queen’s speech. Give them some turkey and all the trimmings. Cheer ’em up with plenty of booze, eh?’

  Iris nodded meekly. She was in no mood to stop the bulldozer and it would save her making an effort. Food was the last thing on her list of priorities.

  Iris frittered away the morning of her first class in a frenzy of anxious cleaning and polishing, as if they were sanitary inspectors not students. The cold snap was back and the paths were like mirrors so she set to clearing away the ice and laid salt and cinders in a sooty trail to the goodbye gate. At least the water was trickling through the pipes and the power flickered only now and then.

  She banked up the fire in the old parlour. Shabby as it was, the flickering firelight added an extra warmth to the room, setting her newly polished brass fender and coal scuttle glistening by the hearth rug. Something always drew her back to Granny Bailey’s old living room. This was the scene of the happiest of her childhood memories.

  The door bell rang and she primped her hair, straightened her tweed skirt and grey cardigan and wished she’d had a cigarette. She took a deep breath. Steady the Buffs!

  They stood at the door like a bunch of windswept carol singers on a winter’s night, out of breath, silent, as nervous as she was. Each one bowed and shook her hand firmly before she ushered them into the hall and down to the parlour. There was a golden-haired handsome boy with a steady nervous tic to his mouth; a tiny dark-haired woman who could be twenty or forty, so hunched and thin and pale was she. She clung on to another student, a girl with braids wrapped over her head. Three older men stood together. Finally, at the rear, was the sad-eyed young man she’d seen limping up the road. He was shivering, half stumbling into the room.

  Once their coats were piled at the foot of the old staircase they went into the parlour. At the sight of the glowing fire their eyes lit up with delight and they all chattered joyfully, warming their hands, sniffing the wood smoke with obvious pleasure.

  Iris felt herself relax a little. Everyone loved an open fire on a cold night and she pointed out to them where to sit while she collected pens and paper.

  She smiled at their eager faces and pinned a label to her cardigan. ‘I am Iris. My name is Iris Bagshott… Bag… shott. My name is Iris. You say it, please.’

  She gestured for them to repeat it slowly and smiled encouragingly as they attempted to copy her. Then she handed them each a pencil and paper on which to write their own name for her. She had been warned that the surname would be written first.

  Nagy Peter… Kocsis Zoltan… Kocsis Georgy. Brothers evidently. Eva… Jozef… Magda… Ferenc. ‘I am Peter. My name is…’

  Over and over again she repeated the exercise. Only the short square-set young man with the slicked back hair remained silent. ‘I am Iris… and you are Franz… Frank?’ She was struggling to pronounce his name. For a brief second his lips curled into a smile at her efforts. The others laughed. ‘Feri?’

  He raised his hand in protest. ‘Igen, angol… Iris, I am Frank… ee?’

  The ice was breaking and she passed around some biscuits, teaching them please and thank you in a group. They sipped the Camp coffee warily. Iris gathered that they liked their coffee black and strong, thick and in small cups. It was amazing what arm waving, mime and goodwill could do to aid communication but it was hard work for all of them nevertheless.

  When the lights were lit around the house, Flora arrived in the jeep and bundled the students into the back. ‘How did it go?’ she whispered, as if they could understand a word she was saying.

  ‘OK, I think.’ Iris smiled shyly. ‘It feels like we’re climbing Everest. In three weeks we’ll barely be in the foothills.’

  ‘Just be thankful it’s not you learning Hungarian. It’s supposed to be fiendishly difficult.’ Flora was leaning out of the window, cheeks raw in the bite of the wind.

  ‘When you get back to camp, please ask the interpreter to see if they’d like to come for a proper English tea on Saturday, if they’re free? The quicker we get on with these lessons the better.’

  They all waved and practised their ‘Goodbyes’, calling down the path to the goodbye gate. Frankie lingered there, looking back over the yard and bowing awkwardly.

  ‘Danke… Mees Ireese.’

  Afterwards she cleared the room and poured herself a large sherry from the bottle she had been going to give to Henry Salt. Iris sat by the fire, exhausted but strangely satisfied. She found herself drifting off into wild dreams of dark eyes and handshakes and the smile on Frankie’s face.

  *

  ‘Time to get yourself trimmed up for Christmas. Shift yourself, old girl, down to the bottom of the garden. You’ve got guests coming on Christmas Eve, guests who’ll want to know all about ye olde English Yuletide.’

  Iris often talked to herself as she went about her chores but down the garden path, searching for greenery, she turned round to make sure no one was listening. Just the robin on the gatepost and he didn’t count.

  There would be plenty of yew and woody rosemary wands, a few straggly box bushes and surely some holly at the bottom by the field. Then Iris spotted streamers of dark ivy, masses of it going spare. If she trimmed the mantelpiece with cotton wool and Christmas cards, wound ivy and holly berries around the brass candle sticks and bought a few red candles, it would brighten up the place immeasurably.

  But whatever would she cook for her English group? Flora was not at home to guide her for she had whisked Henry and James off to London to finish their shopping and take in a show, lucky things!

  The group was going better than Iris had dared hope, such an interesting bunch of individuals. At first they had been lumped together in her mind as ‘the refugees’. Now she was beginning to see them all separately, all with differing needs and abilities. After a promising start Frankie was the one causing her most concern. His attention was always wandering and his cough was dreadful.

  They were on to money and sizes in their classes. The women were eager to buy clothes with their allowance, underwear and stockings instead of the terrible hand-me-downs from Flora’s charity boxes. Iris cut out masses of adverts and pictures for them to label and price and rehearse the right coinage. It was proving a monumental task as the vagaries of English money continually caught them out. Her students needed to know about tanners and bobs and half dollars, florins and crowns. She borrowed a set of cardboard coins fr
om the local school for them to fathom out and name. She did not want any of her group being cheated by the local shopkeepers who’d diddled the Yankee soldiers shamefully in the last war.

  Iris decided to serve hot soup, then cold pork stand pie, chutney and potatoes in their jackets, followed by hot mince pies and cream, washed down with cider and hot ale and spice punch. That should warm everybody up. Numbers were a bit vague and she could squeeze out a few more portions if extras tagged along. She could not bear to think of any poor exile stuck up there in the dark forest when there was a British Christmas going on.

  The depression she’d felt on her arrival had somehow evaporated with all the trekking to and from the camp, the classes and her festive preparations. She was far too busy now to bemoan her lot. Having Flora to chivvy her along had proved unexpectedly welcome as well, her ebullience balancing Iris’s own natural reticence. Henry had had the measure of the way his wife could bulldoze her way through red tape, restrictions and flannel. She was becoming a true friend.

  ‘Deck the hall with boughs of holly…’ Why was she humming to herself on such a grey afternoon when darkness was falling? Iris wondered if there was still mistletoe in the orchard and searched the apple trees where the old swing was tied. She checked the rope and sat on the damp wooden seat, pushing herself off as she had done as a child, not caring if the whole world saw this middle-aged spinster playing games. The winter scene before her, once so familiar as to be invisible, suddenly sharpened into focus. You’re lucky to have ended up back in such a place, she told herself. She saw the silvery tinges to the wood, the stark outline of arches and paths in the garden, the warm red brick of the cottage. It seemed all of a piece somehow.

  There must be mistletoe in here somewhere. Iris leapt off the swing and rooted amongst the gnarled pear trees. There it was, nestling in the crook of one branch, dark sprigs with pearl berries. Enough to make a traditional ball for the hallway. What on earth am I bothering with mistletoe for at my age? Iris laughed but picked it just the same. Because underneath you’re still the big kid with her dreams of bulging stockings and parties when it comes to Christmas…