He felt and heard the train begin to slow for the next station, and without further thought he clutched his jacket, pushed his catalogues into his bags and prepared to leave the train. The engine slowed and came to a halt amidst a rush of hissing steam and, as he stepped down onto the hot platform, Taylor realised he was the only alighting passenger. He watched the train leave the station, waved away by a middle-aged woman dressed smartly in summer frock and cardigan.
The woman turned from the departing train and seemed surprised to see Taylor waiting with his ticket in his hand. As the woman walked almost warily along the platform Taylor began to notice how interminably hot it had become. The sky was an unbroken blue, as blue as some girls' eyes, unmarred by even the merest hint of cloud. The sun was at its height, shining with full force onto this small country train station.
The woman acknowledged Taylor with a cautious nod. "We don't have many visitors these days," she said. "I was surprised to see you standing there."
Taylor shrugged his shoulders. He was never comfortable conversing with others whatever the circumstances, and as he couldn't satisfactorily explain his reasons for leaving the train, he felt safer in silence.
Evidently the woman was not used to shyness for she persisted. "I was just waving off my nephew. He's to be a boarder.”
Forced into reply Taylor said, "I must say I was struck by the beauty of your village, at least what I saw of it from the train. My time is my own, and I have decided to break my journey to have a look."
The woman looked concerned, although Taylor couldn't imagine about what. "Will you be stopping for a few days?"
"I doubt it. I love gardening you see, and unless I am mistaken there is a wonderful garden in the village. You must know the one I mean, could you direct me?"
The woman stared at Taylor with a curious expression on her face. "The last train leaves at seven twenty three, I believe," she said. With that she disappeared out through the green and cream painted gates, leaving Taylor to pick up his bags and find the exit.
Once outside the station Taylor found himself in a leafy country lane, bordered on both sides by low hedgerow, with cow grazed pastures drifting away into the distance. Heat dozed bees floated by, stopping instinctively on cowslip and foxglove growing wild on the grassy bank, while birds maintained a constant chorus of congratulation for the glorious weather. The day was so hot a haze lifted lazily from the cracked earth of the lane, as Taylor walked slowly away from the station. He looked back after a few yards to check the name of the village from the station name-board. The white letters on the black sign read, Perranwell.
The sun was shining so ceaselessly that Taylor soon found his shirt soaked with sweat and his mouth, conversely, dry and calling for a drink. The winding lane had little shade, although the occasional elm cast welcome shadow, as did the two bramble thickets he passed. After a short time Taylor saw the first building of the village, a pink washed thatched cottage that marked the end of the lane. Surrounded by privet, the cottage was not the owner of the garden he had seen from the train. It was pleasant, but he was searching for more than that.
Opposite the pink cottage was the village church. Seventeenth century tower additions had been built onto the thirteenth century original, whilst Norman buttresses were in good repair. It was a small church and the churchyard was neatly kept, with freshly cut grass and headstones clean and upright. Taylor was hot after the walk from the station and he welcomed the shade the yew tree would provide, as well as the comfort the wooden bench beneath it would give to his feet. He walked through the lych-gate, meaning to sit on the bench for a few minutes.
As he passed them he glanced quite naturally at the gravestones and the sad inscriptions upon them. He did not notice at first, it was not something he would have expected, indeed it did not strike him as odd at all until he was seated on the bench with the sun shielded from his face by the yew tree. All the graves in the churchyard belonged to women. There was not a man's grave amongst them. As soon as he realised this strange oddity Taylor searched the rest of the headstones, behind the church and to the side, looking for sign of the men who surely must have died during the history of the village. There were none. He searched in vain.
This realisation unsettled him. Although he knew there had to be a logical explanation, an old Cornish custom perhaps that meant men were buried in a separate graveyard to their womenfolk, still he felt uneasy. A confirmed bachelor he had never felt comfortable in the presence of women, and now, surrounded by so many, dead and buried even so, without a man's name even upon a headstone, he felt decidedly wary. He gathered his bags and continued into the village.
The road from the church led into the main part of the village. A narrow road flanked on either side by small cottages, some whitewashed and immaculately thatched, others adorned with rambling rose and clematis. Full leaved trees shielded some houses from the casual view of the road, whilst discreet signs on the pavement advertised a little row of shops.
The road widened onto a green that rolled gently down to a duckpond where ducks and a single swan accepted bread from a gaggle of small girls, watched by adoring mothers who sat gossiping on the grass. The scene was so bright in the early afternoon sunlight that Taylor stopped to stare.
"Having jolly fun."
Taylor was surprised to hear the words spoken to him as he had not realised there was anyone else on the village green close to him. He turned to see whom it was, and was met by the kind smiling face of a plump little woman who must have been in her sixties. Grey hair was captured almost neatly in a straw hat that had seen better days. Rosy red cheeks showed her to be an outdoor sort of woman, and the stoutness of her physique could only have been achieved through a healthy appetite. She looked like anyone's idea of a favourite grandmother.
She did not seem concerned that Taylor had not replied to her opening remark. She stood smiling to herself as she watched the girls playing.
"Yes, they are," Taylor said.
The old woman looked up at him as if she had no idea what he was talking about. "Pardon, dear?"
"The girls," Taylor indicated with his arm. "Having jolly fun."
"Ah, yes, I see. Quite." She seemed pleased to have picked up the thread of the conversation. "Innocent and harmless. Such a shame they have to grow up isn't it?"
Taylor did not know if it was a remark that warranted a reply and so he remained silent. The woman did not seem to notice.
"Visiting someone in the village?" she asked, after a short pause. "I know some of the women still have male visitors."
Taylor hesitated. He had no idea where the garden he had seen from the train was located. He sensed he was near but he might spend hours looking for it, and he dare not miss the last train, as there did not seem to be anywhere in this small village where he could stay for the night.
"Cat got your tongue?" the woman said, a playful smile on her friendly features.
"Sorry. No. I'm not quite sure how this will sound, but here goes. I was travelling home, on the train, and I saw the most beautiful garden. This will sound odd, I know, but gardens are my love, and the one I saw was so exquisite, I left the train, broke my journey, just in order to visit it."
"But you don't know where this garden is," the woman said, joining in with relish.
"Only that it must be in Perranwell somewhere," Taylor said, aware that his voice carried with it a resonance almost of despair.
"That will be my garden," the woman said with pride.
Taylor could only stand and stare at her, so casually did she pass the remark. The sound of the mothers calling to their children, the birdsong, all the sounds of a summer afternoon faded into a muffled background hum. All Taylor was aware of was the little old woman. He was barely able to reply when she said.
"Would you like to see it?"
Taylor indicated that he would most definitely like to see her garden, and without further word she marched off across the green, with Taylor struggling to keep up with her. They p
assed some more cottages and a pub before they came to the concealed entrance to a small lane. It was so narrow only a person on foot would have comfortable access.
The plump little woman busied along the restricted width of the lane, pushing thorns, grasses and nettles contemptuously out of her way. Taylor hurried after her, using his free hand to cut a swathe through clouds of midges that hung in the hot air, surprised at being disturbed.
"Here we are," the woman called over her shoulder. Taylor caught up with her where she had come to a halt in front of her house.
The house was medium sized, white washed and thatched with latticed windows, half-hidden by ivy and creeper. Roses, red and pink, entwined around the doorway. The front garden was awash with all the colours of summer, planted so imaginatively that Taylor could only stand in mute admiration at the planning of size, shape and colour. There were combinations of plants he would never have considered, but they worked beautifully. A waist high privet in which a carriage wheel gate allowed entrance encompassed the whole front garden.
The woman led Taylor through the gate and into the house.
"Let me get myself ready," she said, removing her hat. "I'll make us some lemonade, then I can show you the back garden."
Taylor looked around the living room of the house and found it much as he would have imagined, rather old fashioned but neat and clean. There were several photographs on the mantelpiece, mostly black and white, although there were some older ones, the brown faded images cracked and dry. All were of men, posing, for the most part, self consciously and awkwardly, as if they would prefer to be hard at work on some labour, instead of waiting for their photograph to be taken. Taylor imagined one must be the woman's late husband, probably another her father, and the others possibly her brothers or cousins. Being the type of man he was it did not seem at all strange to him that there were no photographs of women.
The woman returned shortly with a tray of five glasses and a jug of obviously home made lemonade.
"Let's sit in the garden, dear," she said. "Such a glorious day, and I expect you'll be keen to see my efforts."
"I shall be delighted," Taylor replied, and took the tray from her as he followed her through the kitchen into the back garden, where some white painted cast iron chairs were placed either side of a large wicker table. Seated on some of the chairs were some more elderly ladies, all of who turned to stare at Taylor as he walked shyly towards them.
"These are some of my friends," the old woman said. "We ladies like to get together in one another's gardens and swop notes."
The woman nearest to Taylor squeezed his arm. "We like to gossip," she said, and the others giggled.
Taylor put the tray upon the table and turned with anticipation to the garden. It took his breath away. A lawn combining cultivation, with the natural attractiveness of the grass, rolled amongst flowerbeds that were so artfully rounded and curved they revealed no sign of human endeavours. There were so many types of plant and flower Taylor could have spent a week cataloguing them all. The design of the border beds was so skilfully done that each had its own character whilst contributing to the overall effect of the garden.
Further appreciation of the garden was prevented by Taylor's awareness of the women staring at him. He looked at them around the table, and each of them was staring at him as though he was the prize exhibit at a show. He felt as if he was being evaluated, but for what purpose he was unsure.
The woman who had squeezed his arm earlier leaned forward and said, "Suit a Viburnum."
The other women murmured their approval at this comment, although to Taylor it made no sense at all.
Taylor wanted to get on with the pleasurable business of looking around this marvellous garden, but there was something about these old women and the attention they were giving him that began to make him feel uneasy.
As if sensing his growing discomfort, the little old woman whose garden it was, took him by the arm and led him along the stone flagged path. "Let me show you what you have come for," she said.
"I'll call some of the others," one of her friends said, and the level of excitement around the wicker table increased. Taylor was already too intent upon a forest of fuchsia to notice.
He was led around the garden for hours. The woman was able to name all the species and to give little stories about most of them, such as where she had discovered them and how long she had been growing a particular plant type.
Magnificent as the garden undoubtedly was, the most noticeable aspect about it was the use of feature shrubs and trees. Dotted at random intervals amongst the perennials, they heightened the effect of the garden having grown naturally from the environment, and not having been created by its owner at all. They gave structure to the garden but in a completely natural way.
Taylor felt compelled to comment on this point. He drank some lemonade, then mentioned the shrubs and trees.
The woman nodded. "I thought you would mention those. They are rather special. Each has its history. They are like pages from the book of my life if you like. Let me show you what I mean."
She led Taylor to a splendid Philadelphus. "My first husband is buried here. I planted the shrub in his memory and it has never failed to flower."
They moved further into the garden until they came to a Weeping Birch. "My father," the woman said simply. "I must have buried him nearly twenty years ago."
She continued down the garden but Taylor began to feel uncertain about the wisdom of following her. The sun still shone, though not with as much intensity as before, and the day was as bright and clear as a baby's soul, but Taylor was beginning to sense a chill encroaching upon him. When the woman called him to her, to show him another fine shrub, he went slowly and apprehensively.
She was standing in front of an orange berried Pyracantha. "My youngest brother. He was killed during the war but I managed to bring him home for a decent burial."
Taylor began to edge away from her, and tried to judge how far from the house he was, and how far beyond that the train station lay. He suddenly realised why the churchyard was so devoid of males. Before he could develop the thought he heard movement behind him. He turned and saw what seemed to be dozens of women. Many were elderly, like his hostess and her friends, but others were younger, some in their teens. They all seemed to be very aware of Taylor. Some were seated around the table, others stood chatting, while still more were around and about the house, and in the lane in small groups and in pairs. If Taylor had wanted to escape from the garden then he could not have done so easily. He looked again and all the women seemed to merge into one, as if there was just one shape of them, and they themselves had grown from the earth.
Fear became his overwhelming emotion, as the natural sense of self-preservation that had been lacking in him so far came to the fore.
One of the women came over to Taylor. "The secret is in the preparation of the soil," she said, and as she did so she fluttered her fingers on his shoulder. "You need a good fertiliser."
"Shall we start the digging?" one of the younger women called out to the old woman.
"Yes please, dear," she said. "I'm just about to show our guest the rose garden."
With that she took Taylor around the side of the house where a further extension of the garden was laid out in informal beds of roses, each with a colour scheme casually nudging into the next shade, so that the overall effect was of a rainbow reflected on the surface of a lake.
With his desire for this garden diminished, he glanced at his wristwatch to gauge the time back to the train station. He was aghast when he saw that the time had fallen away like autumn leaves from a tree, and it was already past seven o'clock. He had just over twenty minutes to catch his train. But first he must escape this garden of unearthly delights.
"Don't worry about your train," the woman said, as she saw him looking at his watch. "You can stay here." With that she moved, deceptively quickly, back into the main part of the garden.
Taylor followed, somewhat slower.
He was trying to decide how best to leave this garden and at the same time what to do about the train, which almost certainly he would miss. All such thoughts left his head when he caught up with the old woman and stood next to her.
"Over there," she indicated. "Is where I am preparing to plant my next specimen."
Taylor followed the sweep of her arm into the garden. A group of the women stood around a large hole. They held forks, some leaned on spades. They had been busy. To Taylor's anxious gaze the hole was about six feet long and a good three feet wide. It was a very large hole, even for a large shrub or small tree. It made him think about the graveyard.
"Would you like to help us with the planting?" the old woman asked.
Taylor cried out unintelligibly and ran from the garden. With a wild sweep of his hand he knocked one of the group of women to the ground and snatched from her the spade she had been holding. He pushed some of the women out of the way and wrenched open the gate. Though there were many of them, by swinging fiercely with the spade he was able to run through them, like a combine at harvesting time. None of the women seemed to make any serious attempt to stop him. Some were laughing, although others seemed angry. He ran out into the narrow little lane and back towards the village.
He had no desire to spend the night nervously crouched upon a bench in the station waiting room, and so he walked, half ran, along the track until, as dawn began to flutter, he reached the next station along the line. From there the first train of the morning took him home.
Echoes of Darkness Page 18
