China Garden

by Liz Berry

  “Honestly, Clare, I do need to go back. I don’t know what they’ve been doing here, but Mr Aylward has been terribly neglected. He’s got bed sores, apart from all his other troubles.” She was outraged.“I suppose they’ve done their best, but Mr Bristow has been in hospital himself, and can’t lift him. They should have got in a proper nurse long before this. I know he’s a difficult man, but really, bed sores!”

  “Trying to save money,” Clare said.

  Frances looked at her sharply.“Why do you say that? There’s no lack of money here.”

  “But Roger Fletcher doesn’t want to waste any of it, does he? He’s already thinking that it’s all his. He doesn’t want to waste it on keeping Mr Aylward alive.”

  “That’s monstrous! Honestly, Clare, you’ve been watching too much television.”

  “That letter you had, asking you to come—did you know they had to smuggle it out? Mr Fletcher wasn’t exactly pleased to see you yesterday, was he? And it’s just a guess, but when did Mr Aylward last see a doctor? I don’t say Roger Fletcher is a murderer, but there’s a lot of money at stake here and he’d certainly not worry too much if the old man died tomorrow.”

  Frances looked at her indecisively.“I can’t believe ... But perhaps you’re right. I’ll call in Sarah McKinnon tomorrow morning. If she’ll come.”

  “You said Roger Fletcher was greedy,” Clare thought aloud.“But I think he’s crooked. Have you noticed how run down everything is? All the cleaning staff were sacked last year. Everything is dusty and neglected. There’s just a handful of elderly people trying to keep it all together. It’s not fair.”

  “How on earth did you find all this out?”

  “There’s more. A man on the tour had come to buy an extremely valuable book in the collection. The Sanctus something. Mr Fletcher had written to him. I just wonder if Mr Aylward knows the Ravensmere collection is about to be sold.”

  Frances looked horrified.“Not the Liber Somnium Sanctus? He can’t sell that!”

  “He can do a lot worse. He’s going to allow the archaeology people to dig here. And there’s to be an access road through Barrow Beacon Hill. Remember he told us that he was going to sell the estate to ‘developers’? Guess who he’s negotiating with?”

  Frances shook her head. She sat down shakily.

  “Nuclear Energy. You know they’ve had trouble with the Hinckley Point site which has to close in a few years. And there’s a need to find somewhere to dump nuclear waste.”

  “He can’t do it!” Frances jumped up.“He can’t. It’s unthinkable. What about the Benison? Mr Aylward can’t know about it.”

  “They say he doesn’t care. They say he’s a bitter man. His wife died young or something. What it amounts to,” said Clare, spelling it out,“is that this place, the whole area even, is on its last gasp. When Mr Aylward goes, Stoke Raven, Ravensmere, and the whole valley will go too. The archaeolo gists, the dealers, and the nuclear energy people will move in for the kill. They’re not going to develop this place, they’re going to destroy it.”

  Saying the words she felt again the pain, the profound sense of misery and horror that she’d felt on the hill.

  “I’ve seen it. They’ll pull up the hedgerows, and knock down the cottages, and build their concrete boxes. They’ll poison the land and pollute the waters. I can see the fields blighted, the trees brown and dying, the Abbey roofless and decaying in the weeds and nettles ...”

  She heard the high keening note in her voice and stopped dead, staring at her mother who was staring back, her hand over her mouth.

  “Clare?”

  Clare swallowed. She said, trying to make her voice normal and casual, as though nothing had happened,“And there’s nothing we can do about it, is there?”

  Frances’ eyes dug into her. She’d guessed, Clare thought, waiting, but Frances was silent, just looking at her.

  “There isn’t anything, is there?” Clare repeated.“There’s no one to protect Ravensmere.”

  “I don’t know, Clare,” Frances said slowly.“Maybe it isn’t too late. I’ll have to think about it.” She stood up shakily and pulled on her woollen jacket.“Don’t wait up for me.”

  When she opened the front door, the dark gold evening sky had burned into amethyst, rose and lilac Clare followed her and leaned on the door frame.“By the way, there was something else I wanted to ask you.“Did you have an older sister?”

  Frances halted, surprised.“What makes you ask?”

  “The tradition. The oldest Kenward daughter marries the oldest Aylward son. You should have married Brandon Aylward, Mr Aylward’s son.”

  Clare had expected her mother to laugh, or even exclaim with annoyance. Instead, all the colour drained from her skin. The face she turned on Clare had been wiped of all expression, the bones prominent like a skull.

  “Yes, that’s right. I was engaged to Brandon Aylward. I was the Kenward bride.”

  “But you never married him. Or did you?” Nothing would surprise her about her mother now.

  “I never married him in church.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “It means he died before our wedding day. He died.” Her voice was flat, dead, but Clare saw the tears standing in her eyes before she turned and walked hurriedly away.

  Clare could not sleep. She had heard her mother come in late and go to bed several hours ago. She had heard the stable clock chime twelve.

  The room felt hot and airless, and the events of the day chased themselves around her brain in endless succession. The church full of flowers, the people, the portraits in the house, and especially, the black figure in leathers, slid through her mind like a pack of holiday snapshots. Face replaced face and always there were those icy eyes drawing her in. She knew that there was an emerging pattern. But the fear inside was forbidding her mind to recognize it.

  The bright moonlight shone through the small window, pooling on the floor beneath, and suddenly she could bear the heat no longer. She got up and pushed the window wider, to let in the air. Outside, the stable yard was flooded with light, as bright as day. The granite paving between the cobbles glittered like diamonds, and even the shadows seemed luminous.

  She felt a sudden longing to be out of doors. There was no reason why she shouldn’t go out and walk for a while. This wasn’t London and there were no wild animals.

  What about wild people—in black leathers?

  But she could see no sign of the shadowy figure lurking under the stable arch and somehow she knew he was far away tonight. She could go safely and look at the garden she had seen from the hill. The air there would be cool and perfumed with the scent of roses and night stocks.

  She pulled on jogging pants and a T-shirt, and holding her trainers in her hand so as not to disturb her mother, she crept down the stairs.

  As she closed the front door, the stable clock began to chime. She looked up, waiting to see the white robed man, but instead the other door opened and a maiden appeared. No golden sun around her, but a full moon and stars, and instead of a staff she was holding a leafy branch.

  Delighted Clare stared upward, and received her single blessing. One o’clock. Of course there was a Moon and a Sun figure. A male and female. Yin and Yang. One for the day, one for the night.

  Tabitha, the cat, was waiting for her under the archway. She chirruped a greeting and wound herself around Clare’s ankles.

  “All right,” Clare said laughing.“Where shall we go?”

  To her amusement, Tabitha, her tail straight up, moved off briskly, as though she had been waiting for some time and wanted to be on her way.

  Intrigued, Clare followed where she led, slipping across the drive, choosing the shadows of the trees in the park, down past the front of the House, with its blind, shuttered windows and its great portico, ghostly in the brilliant moonlight.

  Tabitha was actually taking her to the rose gardens, Clare realized, surprised. The cat stopped, waiting for Clare to catch up, and then without hesitation sl
ipped through the entrance in the yew hedge.

  The beauty of the formal gardens in the moonlight took Clare’s breath away. This part of the garden was a series of terraces and walks, gardens enclosed in tall hedges like rooms, each with its own special plants and character. There were waterlily pools and a pergola hung with roses, white clematis and honeysuckle, great urns foaming with flowers, and marble nymphs hiding in secret arbours.

  Under the moon it looked frozen into stillness by an enchanter, waiting for someone to come along to release it from its spell.

  Clare wandered down the central walk dreamily, almost floating on a cloud of fragrance. Every flower, every rose bush seemed to have its own exquisite perfume, poured out on the warm, still air.

  At the end of the walk Tabitha was sitting motionless, like a small statue, on top of a sundial, watching her closely. When Clare reached her she jumped down and set off again, along the further path, shadowy with trees.

  Clare paused at the sundial to decipher the lettering set in brass around its base, but it was in Latin—dies natalis solis invicti. Something about the birth of the sun? Clare wondered, and then followed Tabitha beneath the trees. Tiny white petals drifted down over her like confetti at a wedding and Clare lifted her face to them, her eyes closed, breathing their perfume.

  When she opened her eyes, she came to an abrupt halt. Facing her across a grassy path, was a very high wall. Cut into the wall was a circular opening, about six feet high, its bottom curve forming a step about eighteen inches from the ground. Inside the opening two semi-circular iron gates interlaced in a beautiful Chinese design barred the way. A Moon Gate.

  The air seemed to leave Clare’s lungs. She had found the China Garden. She knew it immediately. Knew that all the time she had been wandering, losing track of time, it had been waiting for her here. If there had been any doubt, Tabitha, small and dignified, was sitting before the Gate between two stone, snarling creatures which could have been dogs or lions guarding the entrance.

  Clare smiled, although her heart was banging in her chest. The China Garden was making her feel frightened and excited at the same time. She knew that she must go in. There was something that she must do, something urgent and important.

  Reluctantly, she crossed to the Gate. Above it was a scroll with Chinese letters and a number—one—elaborately carved and gilded. Taking courage she tried to turn the big iron handle. It was stiff and rusty, too big for her hands, and no amount of rattling would shift it. The iron gates were locked and clearly nobody had opened them for years. They were boarded up inside, so she could not even see through.

  But perhaps she could get in through another Gate. There were six of them, weren’t there? No, seven.

  She turned and followed the heavily overgrown path around the outside of the walled garden. Once, long ago, it had been a properly paved path, but it was a long time since anyone had walked there. The weeds pushed up between the paving and small bushes and saplings had planted themselves against the wall. After a few minutes she came to another Moon Gate, but it was totally blocked by a stack of logs piled against the inner wall.

  Undaunted, determined to get in somehow, she continued on around the wall. One of the Gates at least must be open. The garden was large, octagonal in shape, its thick, confining wall at least four metres high. But when, sometime later, she found herself back again at the first Gate, she had discovered only five other Gates and all of them were impassable, blocked with masonry or overgrown with rambling plants.

  Clare was puzzled. Why was she so sure there ought to be seven Moon Gates?

  Frustrated, she shook the Chinese-patterned ironwork. She was surprised how upset and anxious she felt that she couldn’t get in. She poked hopelessly at the wooden backing through the iron lattice. There was a sudden cracking sound as two of the boards gave way, and thumped on to the ground, and at last she could see in through the narrow space.

  It was a disappointment. No trace remained of the original Garden. No beautiful secret garden. It looked like a field of hay. In the centre on a mound, spectral in the moonlight, was a small Chinese pavilion, like those on a willow pattern plate, with a curly roof and a key pattern balustrade.

  She felt a surge of anger. Why had Mr Aylward allowed the China Garden to die like this? Why leave it to rot away behind its locked and blocked Moon Gates? No wonder Mai was annoyed.

  One thing was certain, tomorrow she would try to get the key for her. If they could get in, it might be possible to give it at least a few more years of life, before it was all swept away forever.

  Chapter 10

  The next morning, in the clear light of day, Clare wondered what on earth she had been thinking of last night. She must be crazy to imagine she could have any effect on events at Ravensmere. She was here for only a few weeks.

  When she left the stables, Mai fell into step beside her.“You’re going up to the House?”

  “I promised to help out.”

  “If you’ve got some time, how does packing herbs grab you?”

  Clare grinned.“Okay, but I’m helping Mrs Anscomb first. Listen, Mai, at the end of the rose gardens there are big iron gates with two dogs outside.”

  Mai looked at her alertly.“The China Garden. You found it then?”

  “Last night. But the Gate was locked. Isn’t there any way in?”

  “I haven’t found one. And there’s only one key—which Mr A. looks after. Even Roger Fletcher doesn’t have a key. Neither of them want it opened up.”

  “But why? I mean what does it matter to them if it’s open or not?”

  Mai shrugged.“James says Mr A. always has his reasons. But he doesn’t have to give us any explanations.”

  “It’s all overgrown,” Clare said, depressed.“And the Pavilion must be falling down.”

  “What pavilion?”

  “Why, the one in the centre of the Garden.”

  “Do you mean you could actually see in?”

  Clare said, shamefaced,“A couple of boards fell off the inside of the Gate. I’m sorry.”

  Mai laughed.“Well I don’t know how you managed that, it never worked for me! I’ll get down there as soon as I can. I can’t wait to have a look. I want to get that garden back into cultivation. I want to make a real Chinese garden. I don’t like bits of my gardens going to waste. Clare, if you do get anywhere near Mr A, you will ask him about the Garden, won’t you?”

  “But I’m only a visitor. Why don’t you ask him yourself?”

  Mai grinned.“I’m a natural-born coward. Besides I’ve got this weird idea that he might just listen to you more than me.”

  They parted at the Orangery, Mai heading into the garden centre and Clare towards the kitchen entrance of the House.

  Dr McKinnon’s racy sports car was parked in the service yard, and Dr McKinnon herself was coming out of the staff entrance with Mr Bristow beaming behind her.

  Impulsively she called,“Dr McKinnon!” and regretted it at once when she saw how grim and upset the doctor looked.

  “I’m sorry, I’m interrupting. Mr Aylward—he’s worse?”

  “Not well and very uncomfortable. I don’t know if his condition has deteriorated recently. I haven’t been in this house for over twenty years. Stupid to keep up old quarrels. All over now. I’ve made my peace, but I feel guilty.”

  “My mother called you then?”

  “I should have come before. He needs medical treatment, but I thought he was seeing his London doctor. What can I do for you?”

  “It doesn’t matter now. I can see you’re upset.”

  “Nonsense.” She pulled a large cotton handkerchief from her pocket and blew her nose.“I’ve known Edward Aylward since I was five. I always rather fancied him—he was a handsome young man—but, of course, we all knew he would marry Caroline Kenward. Never mind, all done with now. Come along, walk me to my car.”

  She extended her long thin hand to Clare. Clare put her own into it and Dr McKinnon tucked it companionably under her arm. Cla
re felt the deep warmth spreading up her arm and across her shoulders, a feeling of well-being.

  “You’re nervous and wound up still, Clare. Won’t do, you know. Got to conserve your strength. Important events ahead for you.”

  Clare said shyly,“I, er, I’m not one of your regular

  patients, but I wondered if I could come and see you? Consult you, I mean. Do you have surgery hours?”

  “Not necessary. We’re a pretty healthy lot here. I know everyone who’s ill and I visit. What’s the matter? Speak up.”

  Clare swallowed.“I hope you won’t laugh. It’s a bit embarrassing. I’m ... Well, I’m seeing things. Hallucinating. I’m frightened I’m having a breakdown.”

  The doctor stared at her. Her eyes were pale, almost translucent.“What things?”

  Hesitating, Clare told her about all the strange incidents, from the children running across the fields, to the visions of the House, appearing and disappearing.

  To her relief Dr McKinnon listened without laughing or disbelief. There was a moment’s silence, then she said,“Do you remember I told you that most of the women in the village are psychic to some degree? Some outstandingly so. My late husband used to call it the second sight, but he came from Scotland.”

  “And some of the men, you said.”

  “You thought I was joking.”

  Clare’s eyes widened.“You mean, I’m…”

  “Your mother is. It passes through the female line here. Has she told you yet?”

  “About being a Kenward?”

  “Ah, I see she hasn’t.”

  “She never talks about being psychic, if that’s what you mean. But you’re a doctor. Surely you don’t believe all that stuff!”

  “Clare, I’m a doctor, but I’m also a psychic healer. Like you, I have to accept that I’ve inherited certain... abilities, just as I know that my eyes are grey.”

  Clare was embarrassed.“I don’t know what to say. I just can’t believe...”

  “They’re natural abilities, you know. My theory is that we all had them in the early days. Gradually we stopped using them or didn’t need them. But some people have them still. Dowsing. Telepathy. A good sense of direction, even. It’s just the same as being good at sport or maths or art. You know that we only use a tiny part of our brain capacity?”