The Flower Garden

by Margaret Pemberton

  Nancy stared across the room at her. What had she done? Where had she gone wrong? How, in simply loving her, could she have created this charmless, unpleasant, unloving, unlovable, intolerant creature that called Jews pigs and was able to say without the slightest discomfiture that they should all be got rid of? Verity knew nothing about Jews. By accident, not design, their social circle had never included Jews.

  She remembered Bobo’s withering assessment of Dieter. People like Verity and Dieter had no need to know Jews to hate them. They were unreasoning, unthinking. They were Nazis.

  She made one last attempt. Very quietly, very slowly she said, ‘What do you think we should do with Jews, Verity?’

  ‘Burn them,’ Verity said and blew a cloud of cigarette smoke into the air. When she rose to her feet and left the room, Nancy did not detain her.

  The waiters entered to clear the table and Nancy dismissed them. Maria hesitantly entered and was also dismissed. She remained sitting on the sofa, staring into space. She could see Verity at eight years old when it had been her birthday party, quietly watching while the others played. Verity at ten, never part of the crowd, always alone. ‘A strange little girl’, friends had said affectionately. ‘She’ll grow out of it’. Verity at fourteen, receiving her mother’s goodnight kiss but never proffering one. Always contained; always unemotional; always an enigma.

  There was a knock on the door. She did not bother to answer it. Even when she saw it was Ramon she was too numb to react other than to give a surprise, ‘Oh!’

  ‘I’ve just heard a condensed version of what happened, from Venetia and Felix.’

  His voice was grim. She couldn’t see the expression on his face because she couldn’t bear to look.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she said. She couldn’t move. She should be offering him a drink, asking him to sit down. It was his hotel and his guests and her daughter and son-in-law had insulted one of them on a scale that was unprecedented.

  ‘Why have you to be sorry?’ he asked harshly, striding across to the drinks trolley and pouring himself a whisky. ‘You’re not a Nazi, are you?’

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous.’ She began to cry.

  ‘Nancy …’

  ‘Just ask them to leave.’

  Her hands covered her face. She was sobbing uncontrollably. His arms were around her, his deep voice urgent. ‘Come back to me, Nancy. Let’s stop hurting each other. Let’s love again.’

  ‘I can’t! Oh Jesus Christ! I can’t! I can’t!’

  His arms fell. He stood looking down at her for a long time but she did not turn to him. Even now, when he knew what she must be suffering over her unspeakable daughter and detestable son-in-law, she still did not need him.

  ‘I’ll see that they leave tonight,’ he said, regaining his lazy drawl. ‘As I will.’

  When she knew he had left the room, she stumbled towards the bed and lay across it, crying, crying, crying.

  She didn’t remember sleeping. Six months ago she had had a husband who, if not faithful, she did at least respect. The sight of him masked and bloody and with the damning syringe in his hand had destroyed that illusion for ever. She had had a daughter she had loved unreservedly. A daughter she had thought of as compensation for the hollowness of her marriage. A daughter she believed had loved her as totally as she had been loved. Now she knew that the shy, undemonstrative little girl had been not shy but simply cold. There had been no demonstrations of affection because none had been felt. Her father had been the idol of her life and had come crashing off his pedestal in one terrible, brief conversation. He was a murderer. He had killed—not with his own hands—but just as effectively. The sickness was worse that morning. Maria had abandoned all immediate plans of marriage. Something was terribly wrong with Mrs Cameron and she could not leave her until she regained her strength. Despite the heat of the sun, Nancy felt cold as she slipped on her dark glasses to hide puffed and blue-shadowed eyes and went in search of Senora Henriques. She dreaded facing the housekeeper after the debacle of the previous evening, yet it had to be done. She pulled her cardigan closer around her shoulders.

  Senora Henriques smiled and made no mention of the disturbance that had taken place in Mrs Cameron’s suite. She flicked efficiently through the list of new arrivals and departures: the necessity to arrange a birthday party for Lady Helen Bingham-Smythe who would be eighteen the following week; the dismissing of a light-fingered footman; the engaging of two still-room maids from Oporto. Black coffee was served to them and after the third cup Nancy began to feel a semblance of normality.

  ‘Mr Sanford has asked me to inform you that Count and Countess Mezriczky have decided to curtail their visit and join the liner on which they arrived. It sails this evening.’ Her voice was expressionless. ‘Unfortunately, Count Mezriczky had a bad fall late last night and broke two ribs. The doctor has strapped them and I believe the count is reasonably comfortable.’

  Nancy poured herself another coffee and wondered what obscenity Dieter had uttered to provoke Ramon to such an act of violence.

  ‘Mr Sanford also asked me to give you copies of the newspapers from London that were aboard the liner. Will that be all?’

  ‘Yes. Thank you, Carlota.’

  She poured herself a fourth cup of coffee and opened a copy of The Times. A small paragraph on an inside page had been ringed in red to draw her attention.

  Senator Jack Cameron has announced his intention of instituting divorce proceedings against his wife, the former Miss Nancy Leigh O’Shaughnessy. Senator Cameron is citing Ramon Sanford, the millionaire playboy and head of the wine shipping house of Sanfords …

  Nancy could not read on. A less literate paper simply carried the headline: ‘Senator seeks divorce from Panther-Loving Wife’. A photograph of Ramon had been superimposed upon one of Nancy when she had attended the Arts Ball. It was the best the press could do. To their chagrin there were no photographs of the couple together in existence.

  She rang for fresh coffee and leaned her head against the high back of the leather chair.

  She now had no reason to stay. She should ring for Villiers and ask him to make her a booking on the first available liner. Though not the one carrying Dieter and Verity back to Europe. The coffee arrived and she nursed the cup in her hand.

  Where would she go? Not back to Washington or New York or Hyannis. Not back to America at all. England then, and Molesworth? Vere would welcome her but his domestic life would be nearly as chaotic as her own. He would be divorcing Clarissa and devoting all his attention to Alexia. She would be de trop at Molesworth – especially if she brought to it her own private scandal. Private no longer, she thought, looking distastefully at the garish newsprint. One inhabitant of Molesworth seeking a divorce would cause headlines enough. Two would reduce the press to gibbering incoherence.

  There was Paris, Rome, Venice. She shrank from the thought of lonely hotel rooms and meaningless days. Here at Sanfords she had a purpose. She had friends: Bobo and Venetia and Georgina. None of them showed any signs of leaving. Charles had returned to his naval duties and in Georgina’s eyes had not expressed sufficient regret at having to do so.

  Ramon had said that he was leaving. It had been nearly four months since she had stood in Dr Lorrimer’s hatefully opulent office. There could not be much time left for her. She would spend it at Sanfords. She would paint and help Senora Henriques and try not to think of Ramon.

  Summoning the remains of the strength that was fast deserting her, she rose to her feet and crossed to the open French window, intending to take her usual route to the rocks and her painting. The easel and oils would already be waiting for her: as would a wicker basket of refreshment a little more suitable than the cheese and rough red wine that Giovanni favoured.

  He was striding purposefully towards her office. She backed away quickly and rushed to the door, opening it with trembling hands. What did he want of her? To tell her himself of the Mezriczkys’ departure? To be angry with her? To be kind? Whatever it was, she c
ould not bear it. She could not bear to be in his presence and not to touch him. He was leaving. He had said so the previous evening. Perhaps that was what he was coming to tell her. Whatever it was, she hadn’t the courage to stand only inches away from him and listen to the deep timbre of his voice, see the strong movement of his hands, feel the powerful nearness of his body. She had endured unspeakable horrors in the past few days – she could not endure that.

  When she entered her suite, panting as if from a long run, it was to find Zia sitting on the terrace in a gown of loosely flowing shining silk. A rope of pearls encircled her waist and hung in a long single strand, almost ankle-length. At the end was a huge sapphire and she was toying with it, letting it fall as Nancy entered.

  ‘Ramon tells me he is going to leave Madeira,’ she said in her deep velvety voice. ‘I came to ask you if you would stay.’

  ‘Yes, I’ll stay. I don’t seem to have anywhere else to go.’

  She very seldom felt nauseous through the day but now the sickness came in full force.

  ‘Excuse me,’ she said to a startled Zia and hurried quickly to the bathroom.

  Zia rose to her feet in consternation, intent on following her. Maria forestalled her. ‘Mrs Cameron will be all right in a few moments’time. It is the sickness.’

  ‘The sickness?’ Zia’s sea-green eyes were baffled. ‘Is Mrs Cameron ill? Why didn’t she tell me? Has she seen the doctor?’

  ‘Babies don’t need doctors,’ Maria said practically.

  Zia swayed on her feet.

  Maria watched her closely. It had been no casual slip of the tongue. Mrs Cameron was pregnant and seemed to have no intention of doing anything about it. There had been no reconciliation between her and Ramon and yet Ramon Sanford was looking as tortured and haggard as Nancy. True, he continually had the little English girl at his side but she knew from his valet that he was drinking heavily in the privacy of his suite: that his nights were sleepless: that his gaiety and mocking laughter were shed with his evening clothes. It was all very mysterious and Maria could not begin to understand it. Something had happened between them and pride was keeping them apart. A reconciliation had to take place – especially now the baby was on its way. Zia Sanford might be able to do what she, Maria, could not.

  ‘Brandy,’ Zia croaked. ‘A glass of brandy, quick.’

  Maria watched interestedly as the elegant Zia Sanford clutched with trembling hands at the brandy glass, gulping the liquid down as if it were medicine. Without the beautifully-applied cosmetics there would have been no colour in her face.

  ‘I must lay down, rest.’

  Maria helped her to the door. Outside the three aides who had escorted her from her own room to the Garden Suite took one look at her and practically carried her back to her flower-filled boudoir.

  Mrs Sanford had suffered a relapse. Her heavy velvet drapes shut out the sunlight and the cooing of the doves. The champagne and orange juice and petits-fours were abandoned. Medicinal brandy took their place. She would speak to no one: not the doctor, not Villiers, not even Ramon.

  Ramon, believing his mother’s condition to have been caused by the announcement that he was leaving, revised his plans. They were plans he would have found virtually impossible to execute anyway.

  Nancy felt guilty. If Zia hadn’t attempted the long walk to the Garden Suite, she may never have collapsed. Daily she went to see Zia and daily she was told that Mrs Sanford was not receiving visitors.

  The visit to Camara de Lobos could no longer be put off. To her everlasting relief Ramon was not present. Just Tessa and her quiet, charming parents and Reggie Minter and Helen. It was, all in all, a pleasant day. The Rossmans lived comfortably but quietly. The villa was not the usual showpiece to display Gaugins and Picassos and Oliver Messel decor in an attempt to establish the owner’s wealth. The Vermeer in the main salon was an original and was there only because Mrs Rossman had fallen in love with the picture. In an alcove nearby were four flower studies by an artist Nancy had never heard of and at the top of the balustraded staircase was a large crayonned picture of an owl – a childish signature in the corner said ‘Tessa Rossman, 1922’.

  A week after Zia’s collapse Giovanni returned. He wanted to see the work she had been doing in his absence. He nodded his head, eyes glowing, rubbing his blunt-fingered, peasant hands together, almost rapturously.

  ‘They are good. Good. Carreras, my dealer, wants to mount an exhibition. He offered twenty-five thousand dollars for your painting. I told him it was not for sale. He wants to know who painted it, where you are. I said nothing. Soon, soon …’

  ‘Twenty-five thousand dollars,’ Nancy repeated in amazement. The money itself was negligible to a woman cushioned from birth by millions of dollars, but the millions had been earned by her grandparents, her parents, by investment and securities. Twenty-five thousand dollars for something she had done? It was incredible. She sat down on the rock, weakly.

  ‘Twenty-five thousand dollars?’ she said again, unbelievingly.

  Giovanni grinned and nodded. ‘You must work hard. You will need at least six pictures. Six good pictures.’

  He was amused by her incredulity. ‘We must work,’ he said.

  She nodded. Work was her only solace. For a few brief, blissful hours she was able to forget Ramon and enter a world where only colour and light and texture were important.

  After half an hour or so Giovanni startled her by suddenly speaking. It was an unwritten rule that while working no conversation ever took place.

  ‘Artists are a rare breed of people. They see things not obvious to the eyes of others.

  ‘Yes.’ She assumed he was talking in the abstract.

  ‘Yourself, for instance.’

  ‘Me?’ She halted, her brush poised in mid-air.

  ‘I see the change in you and I wonder why you have not told me. Me, to whom you tell everything.’

  ‘Because I was happy about the painting. Excited at the thought that anyone should want to exhibit my work. I didn’t want to spoil anything by talking about my daughter and her political beliefs.’

  This time it was Giovanni’s brush that remained poised.

  He said carefully, like a man about to confront a fifteen-year-old girl with an awesome truth. ‘That sundress reveals your breasts. Have you not noticed the difference in them?’

  Nancy stared down at herself in surprise. Her figure had changed. Her breasts were fuller and heavier than they had been. The previous afternoon a new Shantung dress had been discarded and replaced by an old favourite, shaped more loosely. She had not thought about it twice. She was leading a relatively inactive life. Reading on the terrace; sunbathing with Georgina. There were no hectic walks along Nantucket Sound to disperse the excess pounds of fat. No energetic rounds of golf on the Hyannis links. It was natural enough that she would put on weight.

  ‘I used to walk a lot,’ she said. ‘Miles and miles every day. Madeira is not a country for walking. There are no long beaches – only mountain cliffs dropping sheer to the sea. There are no golf courses and though I do play tennis, I haven’t had the energy for it lately.’

  ‘Mama mia!’ Giovanni exclaimed and laid his brush down. ‘You have told me many things in the hours we have spent alone down here. Now it is my turn to tell you something, but not about myself. Never that. If the world wants to know about the life of Giovanni Ferranzi it will have to be learned through my paintings. There will be no biographies, no tiresome interviews with philistine reporters.’

  Nancy suppressed a smile. ‘What is it you want to tell me?’

  On the rocks a few feet away from them the sea pounded in sprays of surf. Above them creepers and shrubs and massive palms provided a solid background of greenery. From the angle at which they were sitting not even Sanfords’rose-red roofs gleamed through the foliage.

  ‘That you are with child,’ Giovanni said.

  She laughed. ‘Giovanni, I’m thirty-five years old.’

  ‘My mother was still having
babies when she was a decade older than that.’

  ‘But I can’t have children. I wanted more after Verity but the doctor said it was not possible.’

  Giovanni shrugged dismissively. ‘Doctors, what do they know? A different man, a different result. It is that simple.’

  She was no longer laughing. Unthinkingly her hand had cupped the heavy fullness of her breasts. The sickness every morning, the menstruation that had ceased. She gazed down at her breasts and saw the pale blue veins beneath the honey-gold of her skin. The veins that had not been visible since she had been pregnant with Verity. Wonderingly, she ran her hand over her belly. Beneath the soft silk of her dress she could feel the change: the rounding, the fullness.

  ‘When?’ she asked dazedly aloud, and knew the answer. When they had picknicked in the mountains and made love by the banks of the icily rushing Ribiera de Janela. How many weeks ago had that been? Six? Eight? So many things had happened that she had lost all track of time.

  ‘I can’t be! It isn’t possible!’

  Giovanni did not bother to contradict her.

  She stared unseeing at the canvas before her. A baby. Ramon’s baby. The brilliance of the sun seared her eyes. She was trembling violently. She had been given a respite. She was pregnant and she was going to carry the life within her to full term. She must carry it to full term. The brilliance of the sun seared her eyes. She felt weak with wonder and joy.

  ‘Oh God,’ she said pleadingly to the Deity she had doubted ‘Let me have my baby! Please let me have my baby!’ and she took the canvas from the easel and replaced it with another. There was no more darkness in her mind. Only hope. Her next painting would be as full of joy as her others had been of grief.

  Giovanni drank from the neck of his wine bottle, and returned to his work. Perhaps she would allow him to be the godfather … He would like to be godfather to a child of a woman like Nancy Leigh Cameron.

  Chapter Twenty-Three