China Garden

by Liz Berry

  “What absolute garbage! Protect me from what? I’m nearly eighteen. I can look after myself, thank you very much.” Clare was furious. She said bitterly,“You’re just trying to get rid of me. Making excuses. But don’t worry, I won’t stay. It’s only for a few weeks and then I’ll be gone. Permanently.”

  “I didn’t mean it like that,” said her mother helplessly.“It’s just ... Oh God, I can’t explain now. I’m so late. We’ll have to talk about it later. You’ll change your mind when you think it over.”

  But Clare did not change her mind. Perversely, the more her mother tried to dissuade her, the more she knew that she would have to go.

  She couldn’t explain, even to herself, why the determination to go to Ravensmere with her mother had ceased to be a choice and become a compulsion. There was no logical reason.

  She tried to tell herself that it was because her mother needed her support, but even that was not the reason. She only knew that deep down there was a driving urgency, a sort of timing that required her to go to Ravensmere—and be there as soon as possible. She felt it so strongly, there was no way she could think of opposing it. Curiosity, she thought uncomfortably. Just curiosity. But it was more than that. A lot more.

  At last, after days of argument, when the books and packing cases were stacked around them on the dining room floor, Frances gave way, no match for Clare’s steely determination.

  “Oh, very well, come if you must. But it’s your own choice. Remember I tried to stop you. Don’t blame me. Remember, I tried to warn you.” Her eyes were wild, almost distraught.

  Clare felt cold. She knew it was a serious warning. But why then had her mother somehow never managed to find the time to explain everything properly?

  Chapter 2

  “Why are we going this roundabout route?” asked Clare, impatiently. She had the road map book open on her lap.“We could have been in Somerset now, if we’d kept on the motorway.”

  They had started early, but it was already uncomfortably hot as they crawled around the M25 and out through the interminable western suburbs of London. They had been snapping at each other all the way like bad tempered Yorkies, Clare thought, ashamed, but somehow unable to stop. Frances was edgy and strained, and Clare was hugging her resentment and anger to her like a baby blanket.

  “There’s no mad rush. I don’t start until Monday.”

  “Anyone would think you didn’t want to get there at all.”

  Frances rubbed the back of her neck and tried to relax her shoulders.“I thought you’d like to see something of the countryside. We’ve not been out of London much. Money too tight.”

  Clare shrugged, sliding down in her seat morosely. With every mile she felt more and more out of place. What on earth was she doing here?

  The June countryside, laced with trees and flowering hedges, was like a single great green parkland beaded with ancient towns and villages. Every inch looked as though someone or other had tended it lovingly for hundreds of years, ploughing and plastering, trimming and painting, and training up the clematis.

  Picture postcard England, Care thought disparagingly, feeling like a foreigner. It was all true—the pictures on the biscuit tins and the birthday cards, and none of it felt real.

  It was a long way from gritty old London, with its rushing, shouting people, and broken houses, its grand buildings, and bags of spilling rubbish, the new offices glittering with glass and fax machines buzzing out information and news from every part of the world. The centre of everything she had thought.

  But all the while this other England had been going on without her knowing. The thatched cottages and timbered houses sat in their gardens, serene, uncaring, about all the exciting, important things happening in London. A forgotten, permanent world, hardly changing, in a different time warp.

  Adrian would hate it.

  She wondered how his first day had gone. He’d be running the bank for them if they gave him half a chance.

  “What are you grinning at?”

  “Adrian started a job in the City today.”

  “On his way to his first million, no doubt,” Frances said acidly.

  Clare closed her mouth and looked out at the high open country of the Marlborough Downs, wishing she did not feel so miserable and flat. Exam reaction, maybe. Think of it as an adventure. Something new. If only her mother didn’t dislike Adrian so much.

  The first time Clare had taken him home he had got into an argument with Frances about some common land nearby where they wanted to build a six-lane motorway extension. Adrian had said you couldn’t take the badgers and foxes into account when it was a question of economic profit. Frances was organizing the Save-the-Wildlife protest group.

  “Patronizing fool!” said her mother, when he’d gone.“A greedy, conceited, male chauvinist. He’s glib and specious, as smooth and hard as marble. I don’t know what you see in him.”

  That was easy, Clare thought. He was the best-looking boy in the college, clever, a high-flier—and he was the only boy who had ever asked her out. Clare had been flattered and grateful. She knew she wasn’t popular with boys. Too serious. A ‘brain’ who worked too hard. She was relieved to know she could find a boyfriend after all, like her friends who had all been dating for years.

  Clare had been unsure about her choice of career. She was a good all-rounder, interested in all sorts of things, and in crisis about the subject she should read at university. She was glad to talk it over with Adrian.

  You had to have money, Adrian believed. That was the first and most important thing. You had to have a career that would allow you to make big money and give lots of perks, like cars, mortgages and health and pension schemes.

  Adrian had thought it pointless to read Social Sciences, Medicine or even History (Clare’s vague long-term choices) because who in their right minds would want to be a social worker, a doctor or, worst of all, a teacher? You couldn’t be a bleeding heart worrying about all the failures like the unemployed and sick. Why didn’t Clare try for a business degree, he suggested, then she could go into a range of City jobs and get really good money.

  As the time ran out, Clare, confused and finally desperate, had put in her application to read Economics and Computer Science at Sussex, and had been accepted, subject to her A-level results.

  Her mother had been more angry than Clare had ever seen her.

  “It’s wrong for you, Clare. Economics is your weakest subject. Here you are, mad about History, brilliant at the Sciences, if Mr Syms is to be believed, yet you’re forcing yourself into a business career. There’s loads of things you could do that would give you a good career and where you could help people too.”

  “You’re such a bleeding heart,” Clare said angrily.“Always wanting to help everybody. I want to be well paid.”

  “Who doesn’t? But I don’t want you messing up your life just grabbing for money.”

  “There’s nothing wrong with money.”

  “There is if it takes over, alters how you think about life. You’ve changed, Clare, since you’ve been with Adrian. All you think about is number one and getting on.”

  “But it’s like that now. You have to be competitive if you want to get a job. Not like in your day.”

  “That’s right. I’m the sixties’ generation. I’ve got different values. I think the community matters too.”

  The disappointment and weariness in her voice stung Clare.“Other parents are pleased when their children have got ambition and sensible ideas that lead to a proper career.”

  “I’d love to see you make good and have an easier life than I’ve had. You know how much I want you to go to university. We planned it together. But there’s more to life than money, Clare.”

  “Such as,” said Clare, sceptically.

  “Doing something you’re interested in. Satisfaction. Self-fulfillment. Education isn’t for getting a job. It’s about developing yourself as a human being.”

  “Are you going to tell me that you can have a good li
fe on family benefit? Adrian says ...”

  “I don’t want to hear it. I’ve been hearing it for months. You’re like a ventriloquist’s dummy. Why don’t you start thinking for yourself?”

  And they had said hurtful, bitter things to each other—the worst quarrel they had ever had. The stiffness was still there between them.

  Frances changed gears noisily, as they began to climb up a long hill.

  Of course I don’t agree with all Adrian’s opinions, Clare thought. But had she been over-impressed with his ability to put words together cleverly, and perhaps a bit intimidated by his incisive, arrogant manner?

  “What did Adrian say about the move?” Frances jabbed the window jet button viciously to sweep away the impacted flies and dust, as if she would like to sweep Adrian out of her life in the same way.

  Clare glanced at her and shrugged.“That he’d write. Maybe.”

  In fact he had been very unpleasant, angry that she was not staying in London for the summer, and Clare had been angry too, at his lack of support and understanding. She was still hurt and angry.

  Her mother looked at her sideways.“You don’t sound too worried.”

  “I’m not a door mat. He can please himself”

  After a moment Frances said, cautiously, “Plenty of fish.”

  “What about Chris Stevens?” Doctor Chris Stevens.

  “What about him?”

  “I thought... well, I mean he really likes you.” An understatement. The poor fool was head over heels. He was continually underfoot whenever he was off duty.

  “He’s five years younger than me, Clare.”

  “So? He’s not exactly a boy, is he?”

  Frances shrugged, her lips tightening.“He’ll get over it. They all do.”

  Clare said impatiently,“You’re always so bitter about men. I can’t understand you. Anyone would think Dad treated you badly, but you always say how great he was.”

  “Your father was one in a million. They’re not all like that.”

  A thought struck Clare.“Did he live in Stoke Raven too?”

  Her mother looked at her sharply.“You know very well he didn’t. He was Welsh. I met him when I was doing my nurse training.”

  Clare said, catching the undertones in her mother’s voice,“There’s a lot you haven’t told me, isn’t there?”

  “About Ravensmere?” Frances purposely misunderstood, trying for a light cheerfulness and failing dismally. Clare could see the increasing tension in her tight mouth and across her shoulders as she gripped the steering wheel.“There’s something in the guidebook. We’re in the stables.”

  “The stables!”

  Frances grinned reluctantly.“Don’t worry, you won’t be sharing your bed with a horse. They’ve been converted into apartments for the estate workers. But if you’ve changed your mind about staying, I can telephone Sara’s mother.” Her voice sounded hopeful.“You could catch the train back tomorrow. Maybe you could even get a holiday job.”

  Clare said, flatly,“There may be a job in the village.”

  “I shouldn’t think so. It’s a very small place.”

  “Or on a farm, fruit picking. Or maybe they need help at the House.”

  Frances said quickly,“The staff have all been with Mr Aylward for years. In any case, I don’t want you working there.”

  Clare said,“I thought I was supposed to be the money grabbing snob.”

  “I didn’t mean... Oh, here…” Frances reached into the door compartment and tossed her a guidebook.“Read about it.”

  Clare found Stoke Raven in the index and read aloud:“Stoke Raven. Remote, picturesque stone village, snuggled into one of the valleys of the Raven. Inn: Sun and Moon (no lunches/ dinners). P.O. Village stores (cl Wed.) Population: 920.” She grinned involuntarily.“Sounds like a really wild place to live.”

  “I told you you’d be bored.”

  “Church: St Michael and St Mary (C. of E.). Norman on Saxon foundation c.AD 700. Founded by St Aldhelm. One of the loveliest church interiors in an area abounding in splendid churches. Notable tombs: Sir Edward Aylward (1196); Edward John Aylward, Second Earl (1603). Memorial window by Burne-Jones, The Waters of Paradise’ (1883).”

  “Oh, here it is.“Ravensmere. (Occasional Summer opening only). The ancient Stoke Raven Abbey incorporated into a Tudor house, with extensive rebuilding in eighteenth century by Colen Campbell. Roman mosaic pavement (discovered 1896). Ravensmere Park includes one of the great eighteenth-century landscape gardens, the creation of James Edward Aylward, the Tenth Earl, with his son Edmund. Some work by Brown and Repton. Palladian bridge. Lake. Cascade. Follies. Grotto. Temples (Flitcroft 1765). Statuary attributed to Cheere and Rysbrack. Famous Herb Garden. Site of Holy Well, and ancient Maze (not open to the public).”

  Clare looked at her mother curiously.“Why did you say I wouldn’t like it? It sounds wonderful. Very old. Historic.”

  “Everywhere’s historic down here.” Frances said shortly. “We’re coming up to Stonehenge. Do you want to stop?”

  But there were too many cars and coaches and they drove on, following the road through the high, bare Salisbury Plain.

  Without any apparent reason Clare began to feel a lightening of her depression, a growing excitement. She stared out at the great open uplands, with hills that seemed to move as the cloud shadows drifted across the land.

  “What’s that up there?”

  “Barrows. Long barrows. Bell barrows. You know, ancient burial mounds made of earth and great stones.”

  “Before Stonehenge?”

  Frances laughed.“Before the Pyramids. Long barrows are five thousand years old. We’ll stop at Avebury for a meal. You’ll find it interesting.”

  Avebury was bigger than Stonehenge, a massive circle of standing stones so big they had built a whole village inside it.

  Fascinated Clare wandered down a broad avenue of alternate pillar and lozenge shaped stones winding its way across country. She spread her hands over the ancient rock surfaces, thinking of the people who had erected them thousands of years before, and dug the fifteen metre deep ditch that surrounded the whole place. Almost she imagined she could feel a tingling sensation, like a mild electric shock, spreading up her arm, gathering intensity. Hastily she took her hands away and shook them. This strange old country was beginning to get to her.

  But when they started on their way again, she could still feel the tingling in the palms of her hands.

  There was silence in the car. Clare stared out of the window. It was a long time since they had left the last town behind, some time even since they had left the last small village, and miles since they had turned off the A361.

  There was fold upon fold of smaller hills. The lane was twisting and turning about, dipping and lifting. It narrowed, became single track, the hedges getting higher and brushing the sides of the car. The old trees grew closer and met overhead until it seemed they were driving through an endless green tunnel.

  They turned into another lane, and then another and yet another, all unmarked by any signposts, threading a labyrinth of ever narrowing one-track lanes burrowing ever deeper into a lush secret country, overhung with tall trees, while above them the shoulders of great hills emerged from the hanging woods.

  Clare said,“What happens if we meet a lorry coming the other way?”

  She glanced sideways at her mother, suddenly aware of her growing tension. Frances was clutching the wheel tightly, her knuckles a tell-tale white, staring grimly ahead.

  “You’re driving too fast,” Clare said.

  The lane was rising up now along the side of a hill, bigger and higher than all the others in the surrounding country. Below, between the trees, there were panoramic views of the patchwork fields of the valley farms and the open moors spreading out into the blue distance.

  “Barrow Beacon Hill,” muttered Frances.

  Clare found it on the map. ‘Barrow Beacon, 303 metres’, and looked up to see a road sign showing the twisting bends—`Gradie
nt 1 in 5’—as they began to descend.

  “You’re driving too fast,” she said again, sharply.“Slow down.”

  But Frances appeared not to hear. Her face was shuttered, her eyes fixed.

  Clare put her feet on the dashboard and held on tightly. The trees flashed past, black bars of shadow against the gold road. The brilliant light flashed on and off. On-off. She began to feel giddy and light-headed, gripped with a kind of reckless euphoria as the lane switchbacked down and the car went even faster. For a strange moment it seemed that she had done this before, that she knew every twist and turn, every hump and hollow of the road.

  She was laughing aloud, enjoying the wild sensation of speed, when Frances screamed “Bran!” and slammed on the brakes, narrowly missing the big motor bike that had appeared from the left and swung past them, blaring its horn.

  Clare caught a glimpse of its leather-clad rider, his mane of black hair streaming behind him, as their car careered on over the concealed crossroads and came to a stop, its nose inches away from a huge mottled stone standing deep in the grass.

  “Bloody road hog!” Frances shouted after the motor bike, her hands shaking.

  Clare said,“Oh come on! You know you were driving too fast. Didn’t you see the crossroads sign?” and realized that Frances hadn’t heard. She was still gripping the wheel, staring straight ahead through the windscreen, her face a strange greeny-white.

  “Oh my God!”

  “What’s the matter? What is it?”

  “The Leper Stone.”

  “Leper Stone?” Clare turned her head and saw the big stone, glittering darkly, seeming to gather the intense afternoon light into itself.

  “They used to leave food and water here in the old days for the lepers. Wouldn’t let them into the village.”

  Clare shivered. She said.“Why the suicide bid? What’s the matter with you?”

  Frances took a deep, shuddering breath.“Sorry about that. I wasn’t concentrating.” She flexed her wrists.“This is a bad place. They had a gibbet here once, too.”