In the Heart of the Garden

by Leah Fleming

  How would she explain the custom to the group? But kissing under the mistletoe was as much a part of the ritual as plum pudding and Christmas crackers. Magda would help her out. Her English was better than the rest and she knew a little French. Magda wanted to be a teacher and had escaped over the border, leaving her family behind. She would be feeling dreadful at this time too.

  As Iris dragged her sack of greenery up to the house she caught sight of some little white flowers poking through their dense green foliage: the Christmas roses. How could she have forgotten that bunch on the shade path which Mother always preserved for Christmas Day, placing them on the table in a china egg cup? Dad transplanted some to the fairy glen which he then promptly dug up. Primrose Path and Stinging Nettle Lane… It was years since she had remembered her own gardening days. I must come back here and pick some hellebores tomorrow in memory of the old days, she thought. Rituals should be followed in the festive season. It was one of the few bits of the magic still left to grown ups, after all.

  *

  The tightness in Ferenc’s chest was not going away. Sometimes he could hardly breathe when he got out of his bunk. But nothing was going to keep him from that party, even if he had to crawl there on his hands and knees. Lessons in the old house were the sun around which his whole week revolved. They made this place bearable and the dark wintry nights flit past as he recalled the peace of that place.

  As buildings went he had seen far prettier ones at home but there was something about the setting and the garden which lifted his dreary spirits. He longed to walk around it at leisure, not capture brief glimpses. His English was not good enough to ask for a tour, though, and Miss Iris might think him forward and ungrateful to want to see outside instead of inside. How could he explain he was used to open spaces and tilling his father’s land, working hard to grow food, vegetables and fruit? A man could keep his family well fed in such a garden as this. In the war he saw many bombed out ruins and houses sliced in half, their empty shells decayed and forlorn. He knew not everyone in England lived in a house like this for he had seen their slums from the train, the backs of dreary little houses, black with soot. Iris Bagshott was obviously one of the privileged class and maybe he should despise such opulence but she was so kind and eager for them to learn. His thinking was very topsy-turvy now.

  Joining the group had changed his perspective, forced him to mix and talk, forget the scenes of home imprinted on his brain. Familiar shapes and scents, like Ilona’s face when he kissed her, so many scenes to be blotted out. When he tried to study he could lose himself in the exercise and forget his loneliness in the warmth of that room with its cheerful fire spitting sparks on to the hearth rug. He liked the other students. Peter was concerned for him and wanted him to see the doctor in the surgery hut for his racking cough but Ferenc wanted no fuss and no confinement. It was only a heavy cold. If he stayed warm he would be able to disguise his fever.

  He wanted to take a gift to the party. It troubled him that he had nothing to give Iris and the Lady in the Jeep. He had nothing on him worth giving and the palinka was long since drunk. Was there nothing of Hungary in the camp, no souvenir of home? Only a few makeshift flags, scars and bullet wounds, bitter mementos indeed. And there was one special ingredient which was sorely missing from the flavour of the English food dished up so sloppily to them. Where would he find the magic Magyar spice paprika, the red dust of the orient which brightened up their stews, as typically as soured cream, Liptauer cheese and Tokaji? Yes. Surely someone had had the gumption to bring with them a taste of home?

  He asked around the huts and people laughed at his request. Do you think we had time to bring the kitchen jars with us? When you’re swimming for your life, what good is a packet of paprika? We had other things to worry about. He yearned for this taste of home; thought of all the exiles missing from their family tables this festive season who might never again taste the sharp pungence of the spice. He trudged back to his hut and flopped down, feeling the familiar aching sadness creep over him as he watched the moon climb in the clear sky.

  Later the men smartened up their shabby clothing, shaved and slicked back their hair with water. The group and some extra friends were driven down to Fridwell in a convoy of battered vehicles. Ferenc loved the moment when the forest track widened and the curtain of trees opened to reveal the plain below and the sloping edge on which the village was perched. He wanted to savour the moment when the car turned through the gate and he saw the smoke rising from the wide brick chimney. Once there he got out slowly to stretch his legs, his breath catching in the cold damp air. He felt the sky whirling round him and grabbed on to the wall to steady himself. Sweat was pouring from his brow and only will-power got him down the path and into the house, making for Miss Iris’s sitting room.

  When he saw the candles flickering in the half light and the greenery swathed around the pictures he recalled Christmas Eve in the old church at home before the Russians came. The room was crammed with visitors, a noisy cheerful gathering squashed together, but the crush was taking his breath away and he made for the door. Perhaps outside he could breathe. The lady had gone to so much trouble to please them, a table in the kitchen full of food, but he had no stomach for it.

  He watched Iris shyly trying to introduce her students to a priest, looking neat in a winter dress the colour of ripe tomatoes. It suited her and with her wavy hair hanging loose on her shoulders she looked younger and more girlish, less severe. For the first time he looked at Miss Iris as a woman, not a teacher, and it disturbed him to be doing so. It felt disloyal, comparing her with others. She was no beauty but those dark eyes shone even though there was a sadness to them at times and he wondered how she had come to be living here alone with no man by her side. In his country it would not have been so. Perhaps the war had robbed her of her lover. He thought of Ilona far away. There was still no message from her though he had written and sent out a radio request for her to contact him.

  Perhaps if he found his coat and took a breath of air, walked in the garden, it might clear his cotton wool head. There was a mound of coats on top of his own and he could scarcely lift them. The effort seemed to sap his last reserves of strength. He dropped them and made for the door in a paroxysm of coughing. He staggered out into the dusk as if he were floating, unaware that Iris and Peter were following behind, alarmed by the sound. ‘He sick, very sick…’ were the last words he heard.

  The men carried him upstairs to a cold bedroom high in the roof. Sounds came and went from him. His limbs were strangely light and the ceiling circled round and round above his head. Ferenc sank back on the bed with relief and then felt nothing.

  *

  ‘I ought to put him in the Cottage Hospital,’ said Doctor Mac who had threaded his way through the revellers. Having demolished the buffet they were now round the piano, singing the Hungarian carol ‘manybol oz angyal’ with great gusto. He examined the man and shook his head.

  ‘This chappie’s not been taking good care of himself… his right lung is filling up. He needs watching… I’ll ring for an ambulance.’

  ‘On Christmas Eve, Doctor? Is that necessary? If he stayed put here wouldn’t that be sufficient?’ asked Iris, concerned that her charge would wake up to find himself in yet another strange place. ‘I’m sure I can manage, with a few instructions.’

  ‘That’s awfully kind of you, me dear, but surely at Christmas you’ve enough on your plate? Rest and these antibiotics should do it.’

  ‘My plate’s not that full. I’ve time to be Florence Nightingale for a few days. The other students will help, I’m sure. None of them is doing much over Christmas either. But if he’s in any danger then, of course, you know best.’ Iris did not want to take any risk with Frankie’s chest.

  ‘Oh, he’ll live. Yer old ma would be proud of you, Iris Bagshott. Not everyone would open their home to strangers on Christmas Eve.’

  ‘I thought that was how the first Christmas happened, room at the inn and all that?’


  The doctor raised his eyebrows over his glasses.

  ‘He’ll recover quicker in familiar surroundings with nurses who speak his own language but the journey back to camp would not be wise in his present state. The sick bay’s a wee bit draughty up there.’ Doctor Mac shut his case and bounded down the stairs to his next call. ‘I’ll be in to see him later. Merry Christmas tae one and all!’

  He grabbed Magda and kissed her under the mistletoe, to the astonishment of the foreign guests who wondered if all English doctors did this.

  Iris smiled and tried to explain. ‘We kiss, so, and it brings peace on this house. Good luck.’

  This they seemed to understand and the men winked and stood about in turn waiting for a kiss. Iris ushered them back into the kitchen to tell them the news about Frankie. ‘He stays here. He is very sick.’

  ‘We stay?’ The group laughed while she looked shocked.

  ‘Beds for Magda and Eva, igen… yes. Nem beds for you.’

  ‘We sleep here,’ said Georgy, pointing to the old sofa. ‘All one and one all!’ They nodded their heads and laughed.

  ‘Where did you learn to say that?’ Iris was so confused she sat down on the kitchen bench to mop her brow. What a strange loaves and fishes Christmas this was turning out to be. Friddy’s Piece would be school and hospital, hostel and canteen. She would have to borrow some food from Flora. There was no time to dash into town for a chicken now. Thank God they would all be going to the Salts tomorrow!

  *

  Ferenc watched the chinks of morning light seep through the gap in the curtains. He stretched his legs under the covers and stared up at the old beams in his attic bedroom. What a strange dream, waking to find visitors at the foot of his bed: a grey nun-like figure, a child with golden curls like an angel on a Christmas tree, and a tall man in strange costume and fancy waistcoat. So many people trooping through his room on their way to where? Now he was fully awake. His mouth tasted foul and his beard was like sandpaper. Where was he? Then he remembered he was safe in the cottage.

  He rose gingerly from the pillow. The tight feeling around his chest was gone. He inched himself slowly to the edge of the high bed and dangled his feet over the side. He could hear the noisy banter of his compatriots, his mother tongue interspersed with broken English, and was half mindful of anxious faces while the doctor examined him. How long had he been up here? Then Iris popped her head around the door and smiled.

  ‘There is life at last! Good. Happy Christmas, Frankie.’ She shouted down to the others and they bounded up the stairs to shake his hand and wish him well.

  In the days following he made his way downstairs to join Peter, Zoltan, Eva and Magda, who stuffed him with Flora’s leftovers, wine and brandy to build him up. The gang conversed in English and his head ached from trying to follow it. Peter was moving north to a hostel soon and Magda to Birmingham with Eva. They would all go back to the camp for the New Year celebrations but he must remain at Friddy’s Piece until Doctor Mac gave him the all clear. He was stuffed like a turkey with strange spicey mixtures, including Granny’s elderberry cough medicine which had fermented for years in the back of the larder, and made to rub his chest with Vic embrocation to ease his catarrh. Ferenc could not move without somebody waiting on him like a servant and began to feel embarrassed. How could he ever repay such kindness?

  When the cottage was empty and all the visitors were out for a long walk in the crisp snow he sat by the fire with Iris, silent as she raked over the coals. How could he thank her? Watching the flames leap into golden light he came upon the first glimmer of an idea. He stood up and drew back the curtains. High above the garden the moon rose, not a paprika moon like the red-tinged ball he remembered from home but a silvery orb highlighting the tips of the branches, the roof of the barn. He mimed his intention and she smiled.

  ‘You want to dig my garden?’ she mimed back and they both laughed. ‘Not yet, Frankie… but soon, when you are stronger.’ Pointing to his chest. He raised his thumb. He understood. ‘I dig garden…’ And later that month he returned to do just that.

  Ferenc spent all his spare time forking over the kitchen patch, pulling out weeds. ‘We have shit?’ he asked innocently one day, pointing to the ground. Iris fell about laughing at his words.

  ‘Nem… We need manure for the soil.’

  ‘Yes, horse shit and cow shit, yes?’ Ferenc smiled.

  ‘Horse dung and cow dung, Frankie.’

  ‘Why you say dung, manure? It is shit, yes? I no understand why no shit?’ He could not get over all these words meaning the same thing. He would never learn them all. He turned back to his digging.

  Iris dug a hole and pointed down. ‘When I’m angry, sad or do not understand… I dig hole and shout down it… see? Then I dig it over again. It makes me feel good.’

  ‘You Crazy Horse!’ was the only way Ferenc could reply.

  They took Gertie down to Flora’s stables to beg some well-rotted manure and lugged it back in the open boot to spread over the bare soil. Iris felt a twinge of excitement to see the old patch looking like it had under Granddad Bailey’s care.

  One by one she said her farewells to the students as they were dispersed across the Midlands. Soon another batch took their place for brief English lessons; new students bringing fresh news out of Hungary. It was getting harder now to escape and there were horrific tales of shootings and drownings. Ferenc sometimes sat in and acted as interpreter but Iris felt it was more like the blind leading the blind when he was in charge.

  She became used to seeing him at work in her garden, clearing the ditches and trimming back the rampant hedge growth. He sorted out the chicken hut and cleared the pen for a batch of pullets in the spring. He took a fancy to Granddad’s hut and carried a chair down so that he could smoke in peace and listen to the shortwave radio there. It was no real surprise when Henry and Flora came to tea one day and offered him a job in the S & B works. Henry had watched how conscientiously he had cleared the garden and struggled with his English lessons. He would fit in with the other men for he was quick to learn and eager to please. He would be a general workman and do some ferrying about as he had driven trucks in his army days in Hungary. Gertie was commandeered to give him driving practice and her poor gear box took a pasting as he constantly veered to the right when he was not concentrating.

  ‘We ought to put a red flag on the bonnet when you’re at the wheel,’ Iris teased. ‘Red flag! Danger! Stop! Yes?’ He was getting to understand her teasing a little. He would pause and give her a soulful look and then the widest grin like a naughty boy caught out in the classroom. One of those looks would melt the coldest of hearts.

  Sometimes he stayed late and she cooked an evening meal, once trying to copy a goulash recipe from a ‘Round the World’ cook book. It was a disaster for it was sloppy and she had put in ordinary pepper not paprika. Ferenc was very polite and tried to eat it but goulash it was not! Even the bottled sauerkraut tasted like cabbage in dishwater. For the first time he talked of home and his mother. ‘I write letter to Mother for a… Guylas?’ ‘For a recipe, a list of all the things in a goulash.’ Iris seized the opportunity to ask him about his home. ‘You live with your mother and father, yes? You were a sports teacher in the school? You have girl friend, a fiancée?’ She pointed to her ring finger.

  ‘I have friend… Ilona… a teacher. She not come with me. I wait at station. She not come. Why she not come?’ He bowed his head.

  ‘You wrote to her, yes?’

  ‘Yes, five letters. I not understand.’

  Iris could see he was upset and did not pursue her questions. Sometimes she felt an Iron Curtain coming down between them. She knew that he was angry that no countries had come to Hungary’s aid in the last days when Imre Nagy had cried to the west to intervene. ‘I not understand’ covered so many feelings and conflicts for Frankie. When he had gone back to his lodgings she felt the first twinges of jealousy flood over her that he had a sweetheart but brushed aside her own foolishness
and smoked a packet of cigarettes to calm herself down.

  *

  Iris watched winter turn into spring and the days pull out. Her work at the camp dwindled. She discovered snowdrops and yellow aconites spreading like a carpet under the trees. The garden had been a backdrop to her activities before, somewhere to play and sit and think. Now it was taking on a life of its own. She began to look forward to the arrival of the primroses and marsh marigolds along the banks of the stream. She found her week was filled with supply teaching in nearby schools and that Saturday afternoons flashed past as she tidied up the herb patch and trimmed the yew arch back to shape again. She slashed the tired roses back to the base in the hope that if she fed them they might perk up and give her a surprise in the summer.

  It had been so many years since she had bothered with outdoor work and the funny thing was that now she had soil on her fingers and felt the loam sifting grittily through them, it was no longer a garden but her garden. Suddenly all that was growing here was her responsibility, her baby, to do with as she pleased. What a surge of power it brought. I can shift things and change plants, she thought. I can see what comes up and execute, exile, imprison or liberate, as I please! There was always something coming up, going down, needing attention, and she found herself lingering over the borders to see what was happening there. She would take her class preparation to the window seat and look out over the garden, no longer with despair but with hope. It was her new friend, no, her childhood friend rediscovered.

  On Sundays she would find Frankie hard at work somewhere, his black beret bobbing up and down, the wheelbarrow creaking along the gravel paths. She pottered about like Flora giving orders to Grumpy Greggs. The idea of herself as lady gardener with straw hat and trug was hilarious and she promptly donned a boiler suit and wellies to get stuck in with the great potato planting. Iris had read up in the old books that she should plant to a waxing moon and on Good Friday but it had bucketed down all day so the chittings had to wait to Easter Monday. Frankie was in a foul mood then, sullen, quiet and not himself. She had not asked him to help her but he felt vegetables were men’s work and he must oversee the operation like a gaffer. In the flower beds he was a pussy cat but here the tiger was in control. ‘Nem!’ He showed her how to plant a tuber and trench over the crop, stomping about the garden with a face like the wet Bank Holiday it was. Iris could have sworn she saw him digging a hole and shouting down it.