The Garden of Promises and Lies

by Paula Brackston

  “I understand you have vintage clothing for sale,” she said, her manner rather formal.

  “We certainly do. It’s through here,” said Xanthe, leading her to the entrance of the second room. She was reluctant to leave the teenagers unsupervised. The woman proceeded to examine the clothes on the rail, picking up one and then another, inspecting them minutely. “If you’re happy to browse I’ll leave you to it,” she said. “Any questions, please do give me a shout. There’s a changing room behind that curtain if you’d like to try something on.”

  “Thank you,” the woman replied without looking at her. “I shall be quite content here.”

  Xanthe stepped back into the main shop just in time to hear the sound of shattering china. She hurried to the young couple, who were looking suitably shamefaced. The girl stooped down and picked up the pieces of what had been a Wedgwood plate.

  “Oh my God,” she said, “I am so sorry. It just slipped out of my hand.”

  Xanthe took the pieces from her. “Well, that’s beyond repair…” she said, beginning to impart the bad news that breakages must be paid for, prepared to point out the sign to this effect that was on the wall. The boy interrupted her, however.

  “We’ll pay for it,” he said, pulling some folded notes from the pocket of his jeans. “How much is it?”

  It looked like a lot of money for a youngster to have, and he was surprisingly happy to pay up. Xanthe couldn’t help thinking that something did not quite add up.

  “Eighteen pounds,” she said simply, taking a twenty from him and then giving him his change. All the while the pair kept apologizing, making rather more of the whole event than was necessary. “It’s fine,” she told them. “These things happen.”

  With even more words of regret and thanks, the pair slowly left, reverting to giggles once they were outside the shop. Xanthe did a quick check but could see nothing missing. She was on the point of returning to help the customer in the clothing room when the woman emerged.

  “Find anything you liked?”

  “Not today. But thank you,” the woman spoke as she walked toward the door. “You have some rather fine pieces.”

  “Come again,” Xanthe called after her as she left.

  With the shop empty once again her mind returned to fretting about her mother’s safety.

  She was relieved when the old doorbell clanged again a little after three o’clock and Flora and Helga came smiling and laughing into the shop, Pie panting from the fun of the outing.

  “Mum, where did you get to? You’ve been ages.”

  “Sorry, love, has the shop been really busy?”

  “What? No, not especially. I was just … a bit worried, that’s all.”

  Helga unclipped the lead from Pie’s collar and the whippet bounced around Xanthe in joyful circles. “My fault entirely,” she said. “We found a darling café on the very bank of the Kennett and I begged Flora to agree to lunch there. Such a pretty spot. And delicious food.”

  “It was.” Flora nodded. “And we were able to sit outside and eat.”

  “Which allowed me to smoke without feeling like a pariah. Such a treat!” Helga laughed heartily again. “And it was better for Pie,” Flora put in. “She was so well behaved. Until she saw the ducks.”

  “Ducks?” Xanthe was moving from relief her mother was unharmed to slight annoyance that while she had been worried, they had just been having an extended lunch and messing about with the dog.

  “She’s never liked them,” Helga explained. “Good thing we had her lead tied firmly to the leg of the table.”

  “Would have been better if the table had been heavier!” Flora laughed at the memory. “I thought she was going to drag it, lunch, wineglasses, and all, into the river at one point.”

  Helga noticed Xanthe’s less than amused expression and looked a little sheepish. “No harm done. Why don’t I pop up and put the kettle on. Tea and biscuits? We must fuel the worker!” she announced before heading for the kitchen.

  After watching her go, Flora turned and said, “I’m sorry if I made you worry. Helga can be pretty persuasive, and it was lovely to sit out in the sunshine for a bit.”

  “It’s fine, Mum. I’m happy you were enjoying yourself. You’ve surely earned a bit of time off.”

  “I actually rather enjoyed having a dog to walk too,” she said.

  Xanthe crouched down and made a fuss of Pie, who responded by wagging her tail happily. “She is a funny little thing. Strangely appealing. Not sure if it’s the velvety ears or the way she looks at you with those bright eyes. As if she’s smiling, somehow.”

  “I’m glad you like her,” Flora said carefully, leaning on one stick and tugging the scrunchie from her hair, “because she’s going to be staying a bit longer than we’d expected.”

  “Oh? Have Helga’s plans changed?”

  “Not exactly. The thing is, you know her daughter is about to have her first child?”

  “The one in Australia, yes, Helga has mentioned it. More than once.”

  “Well, she wants to go out there to be with her before the baby’s born, spend some time, first grandchild and all that … only the woman she had lined up to look after Pie now says she can’t do it. The date of her hip replacement op has been brought forward. Of course she can’t turn it down, and Helga wouldn’t want her to. If she goes back on the waiting list it could be next year before she gets it done.…”

  “Wait a minute … is that the reason she suddenly wanted to come and stay? To ask you to look after her dog?” Xanthe stood up again, frowning down at Pie, who rolled over exposing her tummy in what she evidently thought was a winsome manner.

  “No, of course not. Well, partly, yes, in fact.”

  “Some friend.”

  “She’s desperate.”

  “Even so.”

  “I don’t mind, honestly.” She reached over and obligingly rubbed Pie’s tummy with one of her crutches. “I like having her around. And she’ll get me out of the house a bit more. As long as we steer clear of ducks and cats she doesn’t pull at all on the lead, so I just loop it over my wrist. And you could take her with you when you go for your hikes up to the white horse, couldn’t you?”

  Xanthe looked from the dog to her mother and found they were both wearing the same hopeful expression. How could she say no? And anyway, it might be good for her mother to get out of the workshop now and again. Not to mention have a companion when Xanthe was away. That thought reminded her of Fairfax and set her wondering about Pie’s abilities as a guard dog.

  “So long as she doesn’t chew anything…”

  “Oh, I don’t think she’s the type. Are you, Pie?” Flora fell to chatting to the dog and Xanthe realized that, in fact, there had never been any question of the animal being turned away. Pie, as if sensing her new position in the household, righted herself, ran a quick circuit of the shop, narrowly avoiding knocking over an umbrella stand, and then disappeared upstairs in a scramble of claws on wooden floorboards.

  “See”—Flora smiled—“she’s settled in already.”

  * * *

  That night Xanthe found another use for their new boarder. Under the guise of taking Pie for an evening trot around the quiet streets, she planned to call in at The Feathers and try to snatch a moment’s conversation with Harley. She still badly wanted to tell him about Fairfax’s reappearance. When she had first shared the secret of her time travel with him she had quickly realized that she would never dare send a text speaking of it. The thought of writing something down about what she did, with the possibility that someone other than the two of them could read it, made her uneasy. Likewise, she never could bring herself to phone him, for phone calls could be overheard, both ends. It was ten o’clock when she set off up the high street, an eager yet cooperative dog stepping out smartly beside her. Where the little hound could be a wild, racing creature when loose, once on the lead she behaved beautifully, as long as there weren’t any ducks around to trigger her drive instinct. There had been
a light fall of soft rain which had left the pavements shimmering beneath the street lamps. Pie picked up her feet as if the wetness was offensive to her dainty paws. Xanthe thought about going straight into the pub—dogs were allowed in, after all—but it would be impossible to talk privately with Harley at the bar. Better to go around the back, using the entrance through the rear yard. She could ask for Harley at the door and he could come out to talk with her there, if only briefly. She turned down the narrow road that ran along the side of the pub. Looking up, at the bottom of the street, she could see that Liam’s flat above his workshop was in darkness, with no lights at the windows. She remembered he had been visiting his parents for the day. At that moment, as if thinking of him had summoned him up, the familiar red sports car swung off the high street. Liam stopped the car when he drew level with Xanthe and lowered the window.

  “Who’s your friend?” he asked, smiling at the dog.

  “Our new lodger. Her name’s Pie.”

  “Chicken or beef?”

  She groaned. “She was named after the black-and-white birds.”

  “I didn’t know you were getting a dog.”

  “Neither did I.” Xanthe stroked the dog’s head as she spoke. “She belongs to my mum’s friend. She’s just staying for a couple of weeks.”

  “Cool. Were you coming to see me?” he asked.

  “Oh, well, I was taking her out for her evening walk. Apparently she’s used to having one. Just ten minutes. We were about to head back.” Seeing his slight disappointment she added, “I’d forgotten you’d be out. Helga will worry if we’re out much longer. I think she’s testing us as suitable dog carers. But I thought I might take her up to the white horse for a run tomorrow morning. D’you want to come with us?”

  “Sure. Maybe she’ll catch us a rabbit for lunch.”

  “God, I hope not!” She started to walk away, giving a friendly wave as she went. “See you early. Seven-thirty?”

  He blew her a kiss. “Bright-eyed and bushy-tailed,” he promised.

  As she made her way home, she wished she had not allowed herself to be diverted from talking to Harley. She would just have to look again at Spinners alone. The answers to everything were in there, somewhere. Discussing things with Harley might be reassuring, but it was up to her to find out what she needed to know. She should turn to other Spinners for knowledge and guidance. At that moment a black cat trotted across the road in front of them. Seeing Pie it paused to hiss, causing the little dog to let out a sudden and uncharacteristic yap. The sound echoed off the walls of the narrow alley they were in, causing Xanthe to jump. Suddenly she was wary, jolted back to the thought that Fairfax had been watching her for weeks. Was he watching her still? At that very moment? She whipped around, scanning the shadows and dark doorways of the shuttered shops. From the open window of a nearby restaurant the hubbub of happy chatter felt at odds with her own nervousness.

  “Come on, pooch,” she said to the dog with forced cheerfulness. “Let’s get home.”

  * * *

  Even after sharing a bottle of heavy red wine with Flora and Helga, sleep proved impossible for Xanthe that night. When she closed her eyes all she saw was Fairfax’s gaunt face, the brim of his hat casting a shadow across it, but his eye patch still clearly visible, a reminder of all that had gone before. What disturbed her even more, however, was the now constant singing of the wedding dress. She had it hanging in her room on a quilted satin hanger. The light from the bright moon and the streetlights falling through the fabric of her lightweight curtains cast upon the gown a cool glow, the tiny pearls and beads upon the bodice glinting as all the while distant church bells rang, accompanied by a persistent high note that vibrated through her mind. She sat up in bed, watching the dress, half expecting it to leap into life, so insistent was its singing. It was as she did so, with her encounter with Fairfax playing out in her mind’s eye, that she came to the realization that the two were indeed bound together in some way. Of course they were connected by the facts that Xanthe time-traveled, that she was bound to history as a Spinner, and through those bonds to Fairfax because he had been part of both Alice’s and Samuel’s stories. But she decided it was more than that. It was as if the dress was responding to her preoccupation with him. Was it warning her, or summoning her? That was impossible to tell. There was no doubt that its song had become more urgent since Fairfax had reappeared. Whereas before she had felt only that it wished to tell its story, now she felt it was agitated, demanding her attention, demanding, in fact, her action. And it was action that was needed, she could see that now. She could not simply sit about and wait for Fairfax to carry out his threat. She got up, taking a warm woolen shawl from the back of her bedroom chair and wrapping it around her shoulders. She took Spinners from its place on her bedside cupboard, switched on the lamp on her table at the window, pulled back the curtains, and curled up on the window seat. Outside more light rain had started to fall, feeding the burgeoning spring plants while they slept, keeping noisy cats and hungry owls silent for the time being.

  Each time she opened Spinners up she felt a thrill of anticipation run through her, for she could never be certain what she would find. The book held between its worn leather covers its own special kind of magic. Only a Spinner or someone chosen to help them could see anything at all. Only a rare type of Spinner could hear what the pages had to say. On this occasion, as Xanthe leafed slowly through the ancient pages, she became aware of a clamor of whispers, growing in volume, urgent voices seeking her attention in the way they did when she stepped into the blind house to begin her journey through time. The sounds from the wedding dress were still strong, so that her head was soon filled with a cacophonous tangle of noise. She did not attempt to make sense of it but simply let it wash over her, a wave of sound, allowing it to urge her on to seek the wisdom of the work without trying to listen to a particular voice or pick out the thread of a particular story. She had already learned to be patient when it came to asking the book for answers. It worked in its own way and at its own pace. She let her fingers glide over the surface of the thick vellum pages. Certain sections of the book, certain tales or images, were beginning to become familiar to her now. There was the story of the girl running through the woods carrying a baby in her arms. There were the cautionary words she had heard back in Mistress Flyte’s chocolate house. And there was the faded map of the English countryside with sharply straight ley lines drawn upon it. Another page showed a portrait of a stern-looking woman, though it had no caption to identify her. There was a sketch of a tall town house with long windows and steps leading to the front door. Another page had a recipe for a balm to cure skin infections. Toward the middle of the tome there were several pages of poetry. The whole thing was a collection of wise words, stories, recipes, images, and what looked like songs or possibly spells. Xanthe’s skin tingled at the thought that these were not random tales written to entertain, but real histories, or records of events or practices of people who had died possibly centuries before.

  “Who is it who needs me?” she muttered. “And while we’re at it, what is it you can tell me about Fairfax? Tell me what I should do.”

  She continued turning the pages and the clamoring voices continued to grow louder and more insistent. And then, abruptly, there was silence. Even the gown ceased its music. The cessation of sound was startling, it was so sudden, and the emptiness it left was in vivid contrast to what had surrounded her only seconds before. She examined the page she had reached, feeling sure the silence must indicate something important had been found. Like a game of musical chairs, the whispers and bells had pushed her toward the point where she must stop and take her place. Where she must read. Where she must listen.

  The blankness in front of her blurred with swirling ink and then words began to appear, as if written by some unseen hand. And though the calligraphy was fine, she knew the storyteller to be a young man, not much more than a boy, for she could hear his breathy voice in her ear, so that he spoke the tale as
it bloomed upon the page before her.

  I did not slow my step until I reached the cover of the narrower streets. Here the lamps were fewer, their pulsing light dimming at the edges, fading into the gloom. Here I could be concealed. I glanced over my shoulder, searching the damp night for that bulky, familiar figure. As I retreated further into the cover of a doorway I trod in an acrid pool, still warm, its stench reaching my nostrils just as its wetness found its way through the worn stitches and cracked leather of my boots. I was accustomed to such privations and paid them no heed; poverty having been my companion since birth. The sounds of the city dwellers going about their nightly deeds had ever been my lullaby. The rattle of cartwheels over cobbles and the cries of the hawkers and poppsies the music of my childhood. I knew well every snicket and alleyway and had countless times darted through the labyrinth of the borough to evade capture after snatching an apple or a small loaf from a stall. Now I waited, listening for another sound. For the ragged breathing of the one that I knew I could evade no longer. This night would see an end to running, and only one of us would survive to see another. This certainty yet gave me pause. That it should come to this. Now, from the distance of age, I see that it was my tender years that made me hesitate, for I was but a boy, on the cusp of manhood. I had been cut loose from my mother’s apron strings cruelly young by the swift intervention of typhoid fever. My experience of care thereafter had been loveless and lacking and brutal. Even so, I clung to the belief that grown men were the protectors of the innocent, defenders of those in need, with honor and integrity their watchwords. How, then, my fantasy was to be dissolved before my innocent eyes that night. As I cloaked myself in the shadows, in my heart I knew this. Knew that my moment of transformation had come. I gasped as the lamplight glanced off that blade, a flash of danger cutting through the caliginosity. I dared not move. I could hear those familiar heavy footfalls so near, but I was lighter, more nimble, more driven, I believed, than my foe. This was what gave me strength, while fear lent me patience and caution.