‘I think it’s a watering cart. Where was I? Yes, we’ll have permanent beds of artichokes and asparagus and perennial spinach—’
‘Will I have to eat it?’ asked Flavia. ‘It makes my teeth go like chalk.’
‘We’ll see. Now each plot will have to be double-dug. Double-digging means’ – I consulted my notes – ‘that we mark out a two-foot-wide strip with a line of string across the end of the half-plot to be dug first.’ I paused, then consulted them again. ‘Wait a minute: that’s after we’ve divided the plot down the centre with another piece of string.’
‘Is that in the same direction or across?’ asked Constance.
‘Um, let me see. Parallel. Take the soil out of this trench to the depth of a spade’s blade.’
‘I know nothing about a trench.’ Sissy looked about her. ‘Where is it?’
‘It’s the trench you’re going to make by digging,’ I explained patiently. ‘Marked by the lines of string.’
‘A spade’s blade,’ murmured Constance. ‘Blade of the spade in the shade of a glade made to fade by a jade palisade …’
I gave Constance a reproachful look and referred again to my notes. ‘Heap the soil at the same end but on the path near the adjacent half-plot,’ I read out.
‘What’s that?’ asked Sissy.
‘What’s what?’
‘An adjacent half-plot?’
‘It’s the other half of the bit of soil you aren’t digging that’s next door to the bit you are.’
‘Begor, and it’s confusing.’
‘I like the idea of digging out the soul,’ said Constance. ‘As though this garden has a spirit crouching in the ground waiting to be rediscovered.’
‘Soil, Constance. Let’s all try to concentrate. Yes, well. When you’ve done that you break up the bottom of the trench to a depth of, let me see, ten inches with a fork.’
By this time only Constance was listening to me. Flurry was wheeling the watering cart away to the far end of the garden. Liddy was sitting in a deckchair, deeply absorbed by the copy of Vogue which had been delivered that morning and from which she refused to be parted. Flavia was attempting to walk the length of the garden on the stone rope-edging of the path and Sissy was hanging upside down by her knees from the pergola.
‘Where’s Timsy?’ I asked crossly.
Three-quarters of an hour later, after Flavia and Liddy had eaten nearly all the sandwiches and Flurry had finished taking apart the greenhouse stove and Sissy’s gymnastics had broken a section of the pergola, the Land-Rover arrived. Almost speechless with annoyance I handed round the spades to the four grown-ups, bidding them tersely to dig. I got busy with sticks and string and Liddy was deputed to hold one end. After she had several times let go of it at the crucial moment I set her to the task of fixing hoses to taps and substituted Flavia as string-holder.
Timsy complained volubly of his back and blisters and Constance was several times distracted by a particularly beautiful cloud formation. Sissy and Katty dug like terriers. A quarrel broke out because the former had accidentally thrown mud into the latter’s eye. They resorted to rolling on the ground and pulling out each other’s hair before they were forcibly separated. I had an inkling of how Napoleon must have felt after the failure of his Continental Blockade. It ought to have worked and it was not his fault that it did not. But this must have been small comfort. I took myself off to prune an espaliered apple tree to recover my equanimity.
Several hours later, I was planting the last spinach seed. It was nearly seven o’clock and I was alone in the walled garden. Katty had walked back to the house soon after the mud-throwing incident. She refused to be shaken in her conviction that she would be forevermore blind in that eye. She had made a pathetic spectacle tapping the ground before her with a dead branch as she stumbled across the walled garden. I had gone to the gate a minute later to check that she had not fallen into a ditch and was relieved to see her give a little skip of pleasure like a week-old lamb as she ran up to the top of the hill.
Timsy had biked away an hour later saying that Siobhan’s teats were giving trouble. Liddy had managed to soak herself setting up the irrigation system (that is, fastening two hoses to two taps) and had been sent to take a hot bath. Flavia had been constantly busy, burying with hymns and prayers each mouse’s skull and pig’s tooth that surfaced.
Sissy had continued to dig as though attempting to penetrate the earth’s crust and get down to magma. She was remarkably strong for such a small woman and had tremendous stamina. Long after Constance and I were lying exhausted in deckchairs, blowing on the patches of stinging raw flesh on our palms and fingers, the sun was flashing on Sissy’s spade as she hurled clods, stones, sticks and nettles into the sky. The ground looked as though a meteorite had collided with it but she would not be governed in any way as to method or result. I had some sympathy with this. None of us likes to be told what to do.
They had pedalled away at about five o’clock, Constance to act as amanuensis to Eugene’s poetic needs, Sissy and Osgar to check her sidh snares and Flavia to groom and powder the verminous cats. As fast as we defleaed them they picked up new ones, presumably from the colony of rats that had previously been such an essential part of the roof’s ecosystem. But their ears and necks (the cats’, that is) were growing hair again and there was less scratching. Also they were putting on weight. The half-tester sagged a little lower each day.
I put down the rake and stretched to relieve my aching back. There was a great deal of simple satisfaction to be had from horticulture. The objectives were straightforward and their achievement, provided one was prepared to put in the work, presented no difficulties. So I thought then, in my state of prelapsarian innocence, not having read the chapter on neck rot, dry rot, white rot, smoulder, scab, rust, spraing, gangrene and club root, to say nothing of slugs, snails, caterpillars, flea beetles, wireworms, eelworms, leatherjackets and carrot flies. I wound up the hoses and put all the implements into the back of the Land-Rover. I had a glorious vision standing knee-deep in flourishing verdure in a few weeks’ time, holding a basket laden with produce. As it was the second half of July I must not forget to buy onion and shallot seeds for planting next month.
The second half of July? Then today was – I made a mental calculation – yes, the twentieth. I had been so busy that for the first time in my life I had forgotten my own birthday. For nearly a whole day I had been twenty-seven without being aware of it. I leaned my elbows on the tail-gate and sighed. For a few hours I had also forgotten Burgo. We had made love for the first time three weeks after my last birthday. Not long ago he had said that we must remember to celebrate our anniversary. Such sentimentality is the glue of love affairs that lack reality.
‘Bugger!’ I fastened the tail-gate and kicked the rear tyre as I walked round to get into the driving seat. ‘Bugger! Bugger! Bugger!’ I slammed the door.
‘What’s the matter?’
I looked out of the window. ‘Flurry! I thought you’d gone back with the others.’
He was standing beside the Land-Rover, his face, hands and clothes filthy with rust and cobwebs. I noticed that his latest stye was getting better. ‘I’ve mended the greenhouse stove. It just needs a new top plate. Thady O’Kelly could make one. And the radiators need soldering.’
I had a brief pleasing picture of rows of seedlings, cuttings, tomato plants, a vine jewelled with grapes cloudy with bloom before I remembered that there was not a single whole pane of glass in the entire building.
‘I’m afraid it would cost a lot of money to glaze it,’ I said. ‘It certainly couldn’t be managed out of the housekeeping.’ Flurry’s expression became despondent. ‘It would be lovely. Do you think your father might be able to afford to have it done?’
‘Every time Dad comes home he says we’ll soon have to move out and live under canvas with the tinkers. Once I went camping with the scouts at school.’ Flurry shuddered. ‘It was hell. So far we haven’t had to but I’m working on a design for a te
nt with a chimney and drainpipes and a proper roof. And proper walls.’
‘I suppose it wouldn’t be a tent then. It would be a house.’
‘Oh, yes.’ For some reason this amused Flurry. He had a rich chuckle that was pleasant to hear. We were nearly back at the castle when he stopped laughing and said, ‘What were you swearing about?’
‘Oh, nothing.’
‘It sounded like something.’
‘I was cross with myself. But it’s over now. I’m going to try to forget about it. We all do stupid things, I suppose.’
Flurry thought for a while. ‘Dad says Timsy makes a profession of stupidity. What do you think that means?’
‘I think he means Timsy pretends to be more stupid than he is.’
‘Why would he do that?’
I thought for a while. ‘I don’t know. Perhaps because it amuses him. Perhaps he’s bored.’
‘When Liddy said she was bored Dad said it was because she had an empty mind. If she learned to think as well as feel she’d be much happier. Liddy said all she wanted was to fall in love and then she’d never be unhappy again. Dad said love was an overrated emotion, nearly always doomed to disappointment.’
As the possessor of a wife and a mistress conveniently under the same roof Mr Macchuin could afford to be disdainful of affection, I thought resentfully as I parked the Land-Rover in the old coach house.
‘I think he must’ve said that because of Mummy being ill.’
My resentment was softened immediately.
The kitchen looked really rather attractive, I thought. Constance had washed up the picnic things and apart from Katty and Pegeen slumped by the fire everything was tidy. The flagstones were gleaming, the copper pans were polished to a high shine. The wild roses I had picked that morning and arranged in a lustre jug glowed against the snowy whiteness of the table. I could smell the fish pie cooking in the oven. Constance had unmoulded the egg mousses for the first course with only one serious casualty.
This did something to lighten my burden of self-reproach, which had weighed so heavily recently. I ought to check the drawing-room fire. I remembered to duck the chain on my way to the hall which further improved my mood. Flurry had run ahead of me. I was just in time to see the drawing-room door open and someone’s arm come out – I thought it was Flavia’s – to yank him out of sight. I followed him in. I was surprised to see not only the two children but Liddy, Constance, Maud, Sissy and Eugene as well. They were standing in a group before the fire with glasses in their hands, smiling at me. Except Maud, who looked irritated.
‘Happy birthday, Bobbie.’ Constance came over to kiss me. She put a glass in my hand.
‘Happy birthday, happy birthday!’ cried Flavia and then they broke into the traditional song, all except Maud who sank slowly on to the sofa with an expression of acute suffering. Eugene sang loudly with a great deal of vibrato.
I felt foolish as one always does on these occasions, but also moved. ‘Thank you all very much. How did you know?’
‘Several people rang this afternoon,’ explained Constance. ‘They sent messages wishing you a happy birthday. Just a minute.’ She fumbled in her sleeve for a piece of paper. ‘I wrote down the names. Sarah. Jasmine. Oliver. And David. I thought the occasion justified raiding the cellar for real champagne,’ she went on. ‘Besides, Finn did say last time he was home that they needed to be drunk. They were laid down by my grandfather more than twenty years ago and apparently some of them are already past their best.’
‘How did you get in?’ asked Flurry. ‘I thought no one was allowed in the cellar.’
Constance’s cheeks became pink. ‘I found the key the other day when I was looking in Finn’s stud box for a pair of nail scissors.’ She grew redder. ‘Perhaps we needn’t mention it when Daddy comes back. Unless he asks, of course. Then I shall tell him, naturally. I chose one I hadn’t heard of. I hope it’s the kind he keeps for the Hunt Ball raffle.’
I took a sip from my glass. It was deliciously rich. I glanced at the label on the bottle which stood on a table nearby. Krug Grande Cuvée! One of the most expensive champagnes in the world! I felt immediately guilty. Such a prince of wines ought to be drunk at the correct temperature with concentration and appreciation. It was already much too warm.
‘It was such a kind thought,’ I said, pretending to examine the label and then putting the bottle down further away from the fire. ‘The most marvellous treat.’
‘Of course we didn’t have time to get you anything specially,’ said Constance. ‘But I want you to have this.’ She handed me a small black box. Inside was a pretty ring set with garnets and seed pearls. ‘It’s of no value but it was left me by my godmother so it truly is mine to give away. It doesn’t belong to the family.’
‘It’s beautiful,’ I said. ‘But, Constance, I can’t accept it.’
‘Please take it. I shall be so hurt if you don’t. I’ve never worn it. It’s too small even for my little finger.’
Her soft eyes were pleading. I put it on the ring finger of my right hand and kissed her.
‘It’s much too generous of you but I’ll wear it while I’m here anyway.’
‘Constance would give a beggar her best coat,’ said Maud. ‘You may call it generosity. I call it folly.’
‘And I would like you to have this.’ Eugene bowed, presenting me with a clear view of his rather grubby parting, and handed me a sheet of paper. I recognized Constance’s writing. ‘My spring poem. I shall be happy to translate it for you.’
‘Thank you. I shall treasure it.’
‘Rubbish!’ said Maud. ‘You’ll stuff it in a drawer and never look at it again.’
‘I made this.’ Sissy held up a crown woven from leaves and flowers. ‘There’s meadowsweet for fertility, wood sorrel for sexual pleasure, thistle to cure jealousy, milk vetch for prophetic dreams. You must wear it till the moon sets on your name day for the pishogues to work.’
‘Gosh!’ I bent my knees so that Sissy could place it on my head. ‘Thank you so much. That sounds an explosive combination. I’m not sure I’m quite ready for all that.’
‘Nonsense!’ said Maud. ‘Modern girls are little better than tarts.’
‘I’m sending for your present,’ Liddy informed me. ‘I’m afraid you’ll have to wait a few days.’
‘Really, it’s too kind of you,’ I protested.
‘You’ll have to wait for my present too,’ Flavia explained. ‘I’ve taken a photograph of each of the cats. But I’ll have to finish the film and then get it developed. Some of them wouldn’t stay still and I only got their back views but I hope you’ll be able to tell which is which.’
I kissed her. ‘What a lovely idea!’
‘I haven’t had time to think of anything.’ Flurry looked grave. ‘I could give you my knife for good.’ He took this sacred object from his pocket and looked at it doubtfully.
‘I’d rather have a ride in the train when it’s finished,’ I said.
He looked relieved and put the knife away.
At dinner I was not allowed to do any fetching or carrying but had to sit at the head of the table and be waited on. The thistles in Sissy’s crown were scratchy but after a while I managed to forget how ridiculous I must look. Sissy had gone to town with the table decorations. Despite it being still light outside there were as many as six three-branched candlesticks on the table and between them and above them, like a jungle canopy, were bunches of gunnera leaves, some of them more than a yard across, which shrivelled into holes where the heat from the candle flames scorched them. Earwigs and black beetles launched themselves from the leaves to fall on to our plates.
‘I brought up some white wine from the cellar to go with the fish pie,’ said Constance. ‘It’s in the fridge. I’ll go and get it.’
‘Why is Osgar hugging Maria?’ Flurry pointed to the window.
Liddy and Flavia rushed to look. ‘You silly baby!’ said Liddy. ‘They aren’t hugging, they’re mating.’
‘Co
me away, girls,’ said Eugene. ‘The sexual congress of beasts is a barbarous sight.’
‘You should know,’ said Maud.
‘’Tis Nature’s poetry,’ said Sissy, going to look.
‘Oh, damn!’ I said. ‘I never thought of that!’
‘The tone of your mind is too exalted,’ Eugene suggested gravely.
‘Supposing Maria has puppies?’
‘’Tis a bucket of water that’s needed,’ said Sissy, evidently tiring of quite so much poetry during dinner. She lifted her panniered skirts to reveal slim strong hairy legs and plastic sandals and skipped out.
‘If Maria does have puppies,’ said Flavia in a voice of awe, ‘it’ll be the second time today that my prayers have been answered. And that’s never, ever happened before, even when I’ve asked for really easy things like not having to do gym or Peg Loony not being foul to me in break.’
‘Who is Peg Loony?’ asked a voice from the door.
‘Daddy! Oh, my darling daddy!’ Flavia ran to fling herself at the man who stood surveying his own dining room, a range of expressions (but one of surprise predominant) on his handsome face.
TWENTY-EIGHT
I was immediately conscious that Mr Macchuin’s arrival was ill timed. He had looked at me once and turned away but not before I saw astonishment in his eyes that his place at the head of the table had been appropriated by a perfectly strange woman. Matters would hardly be improved when he learned that I was his new housekeeper. I pushed back my chair and stood up, feeling horribly awkward.
‘Finn! Darling!’ Constance had come back into the dining room. ‘How wonderful!’ She embraced him as effectively as anyone can when holding a bottle of wine in each hand. Flavia was still clinging tightly to his waist. ‘Why didn’t you let us know?’
‘I tried to ring as soon as I was sure I could get away but the line was always engaged.’
He was not at all what I had expected. I had imagined … what, precisely? A bon viveur, with his cellar, his appetite for urban life. Something of a rake too, keeping a mistress and a wife in the same house. I had pictured the expansive girth, flushed cheeks, perhaps even the red nose of an intemperate sensualist. This man was tall, spare and pale-skinned with short black hair turning grey. I guessed his age to be about thirty-five, perhaps even forty. He was wearing a dark suit and a plain blue tie. By contrast with the rest of us he looked tidy, respectable, conventional, almost ascetic.
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