She stamped her feet to try and warm them up, blew on her fingers. The silence was less total now. She could hear drippings and ploppings from the trees, the faint screech of a vixen in a distant copse, the soughing of the wind. She glanced around her. Nothing but ghostly rows of vegetables, glistening clumps of nettles. She moved to plot fourteen, the one they had used exclusively for herbs—comfrey and white horehound, feverfew and vervain—names which were almost poetry, herbs which could salve or season, heal or beautify. She stepped on to the soil. This second plot was further from the street-lamps, more closely veiled in darkness. Yet she could just make out the herbs—the more common everyday ones sought out from fields and hedgerows; others, more exotic, purchased with the money which Matthew had first given them for handing over the diaries. That was more than sixteen months ago, just after her miscarriage. She had buried all her grief and disappointment in the soil—coddled her nursling plants like substitute children, feeding them and watering them until they grew tall and strong.
But wait—some of the plants were tiny—babies still, only newly sown. And the plot was full, whereas she and Lyn had left it half denuded. They had dug up most of the herbs before they moved to Putney, loath to leave them there for a new allotment holder to fling on the rubbish-tip as weeds. She had stripped off all the leaves and flowers and used them for herbal extracts, then replanted the perennials in Matthew’s garden. So what were they doing here again, some of them cuttings from his older stock, others newly purchased, the taller ones staked and supported, all meticulously weeded? Even the layout was the same. She had planted the original garden herself, following Hester’s plan, and here it was in replica, exactly as before, the bushy cushions of chamomile making an edging in the front, the tall spikes of marshmallow protected by a burdock bush behind.
She threaded her way through the plants, crushing leaves and sniffing them, picking fruits and berries. Yes—there was the figwort in the centre, the hyssop next to it, the musky scent of southenwood, sharper after rain—all the herbs that Hester recommended, in the order she approved. It was strange, uncanny, as if Hester herself had risen from her grave and re-sown this stretch of ground, re-created Hernhope down at Cobham.
No—not Hester—Lyn. It was Lyn who must have been here and revived their two allotments, laid out her herb garden exactly as she had done it in the first place, filled in the missing gaps. No one but Lyn would have planted aconite or rue, or known where to purchase skullcap and valerian. Ordinary gardeners stuck to mint and chives, rosemary or thyme. Only Hester’s son would have tracked down feverfew or lovage, transplanted them successfully, searched the hedgerows for wood sage and wormwood. Only he would have remembered the exact spacing and siting of all the different varieties, alternating savory with mugwort as Hester recommended, shading peppermint with witch hazel. No new owner, however faithful or admiring, could have recreated a garden which was so distinctly hers and Hester’s own.
She turned back to the other plot. Now she could see Lyn’s touches everywhere—marigolds sown among the tomato plants to keep the whitefly off; the way he had used the tough outer leaves of his cauliflowers to blanket and swaddle the frail white heads inside: even his home-made cloches constructed on the cheap out of polythene and old wire coat-hangers. He must have returned to Cobham to rescue these two plots—officially re-rent them—but when and why? Their tenancy had been due to expire in early September, but long before September they would have been overgrown and jungled. Had he been creeping back, even in the summer, to do a little secret gardening? But why had he never mentioned it? And why should he sow more vegetables when he had left all the rest ungathered? There were enough on this plot to feed a tribe, and Lyn was on his own—no wife to peel and prepare them, no family to share them, not even a house or larder to store them in.
No, Lyn had come here for an entirely different reason. It was hard to put it into words. It sounded foolish, even crackpot, yet she understood instinctively. This was his gift to her, his offering—this patient dogged labour, this restoring of their plots. He had re-created their life and work together to prove that it was precious to him, a secret homage to their former way of life, a tribute to their marriage—almost a replacement for their child. He had sown her in vegetables, blazoned her in herbs, written her a message in the soil, telling her he missed her, begging her to come and pluck his harvest before it went to waste. She had arrived only just in time. Another few weeks or even days, and this bounty would be blighted.
She crouched down on the path, grubbed up the smallest of the lettuces, plucked out its heart and ate it leaf by leaf; tugged out a carrot, scraped it clean with her fingernails, cradled it in her hands before biting into it. She picked a tomato, squashed pulp and seeds against her tongue, swallowed … savoured … found a last late strawberry, spun it out in slow sensual bites. She snapped off a runner-bean, split it with her thumbnail, squeezed out the fat mauve seeds inside, gulped them whole. She must devour his harvest, consume and relish all that he had planted for her, so that she could be one with him and joined to him, swallowing the fruits his hands and breath had touched. She picked a leaf of marigold, already brown and dying; crushed sage between her fingers, sniffed its fragrance. Even humble sage and scraggy marigold were precious. He had sown them between his vegetables as ritual and homage, because she and Hester had done it that way. It revived the old traditions, kept their past unchanged.
She was on her knees now in the centre of the plot. Her hands were stained and muddy, her body tense with cold. Yet she was aware of Hester’s presence all around her—in the vast and sequinned night, the gauzy leaves of potent herbs marbled in the moonlight, the raw smell of wet earth. It was Hester who had drawn her here, shown her Lyn’s devotion. This was his scrap of country, his substitute for Hernhope, her proof that he belonged with soil and nature. He would never feel at peace in a city or an office. They were both of them refugees, both cut off from their roots.
It was Susie who had trapped her, upset all her values. She couldn’t blame the girl—would never break with her—but she must look after her in some less intensive way. Now Sparrow had shown up again, perhaps he could share the room with her, or find another place—and there was always Jo to keep an eye on things. She herself would visit, be present at the birth. She wouldn’t break that promise, but in the three long months before it, she must return to Hernhope before it reverted back to wasteland, or their marriage choked in weeds.
She eased up from the ground. The rain had started again—drenching down on her like a slap, a reprimand, punishing her for those selfish, sterile weeks, for allowing Susie to distort her views, so that she had judged her husband unfairly by the standards of cruder and more conventional men. She blundered along the path, blinded by the rain, shoes sinking into the mud. She must shelter before she was completely soaked. She slipped through the allotment gate, followed the track which skirted it. Fifty yards along was a dilapidated barn, abandoned by the farmer who owned the land beyond. She groped towards it, tearing her clothes on brambles, tripping on loose stones.
She stopped at the door, glanced nervously around her. The clouds were hurtling overhead, as if frightened themselves and stampeding away in panic. The drone of the rain mixed with the stealthy tinkle of a dozen homemade bird-scarers, whispering to her over the allotment fence. A white shape in the field beyond changed from spectre to old horse, startling her with its sudden drum of hoof-beats.
Stupid to be scared. Cobham was a law-abiding place, with one of the lowest crime rates in the country. She pushed at the heavy door, heaving her shoulder against it, took a cautious step inside. She could see almost nothing but shadow piled on shadow. She crept between the shadows, groping out her hands in the spidery blackness, trying to find a box or bench or bale of hay where she could sit and rest, remove her sodden shoes. Her foot encountered something heavy lying on the ground. She felt it stir, leapt back in terror. Another body was looming up in front of her, a shadow with real hands.
Screams were scalding from her throat, lending power to her stupid shaking legs. She turned and fled, tripped on a piece of lumber, sprawled her full length on the floor. She was sobbing now with pain and shock. The shadow had solidified to a threatening presence creeping up behind her. She could hear its breathing, smell its sweat. She closed her eyes. No point in screaming any longer. It was all over. She waited for the cosh, the knife.
‘J … Jennifer?’
She jumped, looked up. Her name was as much of a shock as the startle of light now blinding her eyes. She ducked away from the beam, stared at the thin, paint-stained hand holding the flash-lamp. She knew that hand, knew the voice which had spoken her name. She rubbed her eyes. She must be imagining things again, like her fleeting vision of Hester on the site of the old hostel. Except this time, the details were much clearer: the bony wrist, the long tapering fingers—artistic fingers—the broken nails. Her eyes moved from fingers to face, a face which looked older and more haggard than when she had last seen it. She took in the three days’ stubble, the dark circles beneath the eyes—eyes which were neither black nor blue nor grey nor …
‘Lyn,’ she whispered. ‘Linnet.’
‘Jennifer.’
They were both crouching on the damp floor of the barn, only a yard or two from each other. Neither moved, just stared, trembled, until Lyn slowly stretched out a finger, touched her face as if proving it were flesh. His hand burned, yet was as numb and chilled as hers. He kept it there, his breathing rasping and too loud. Neither said a word. The beam of the lamp was directed against the wall now, but even in the shadows, she could see how ill he looked. He was thinner even than usual, his eyes huge and almost feverish in that gaunt and ashen face, his clothes ragged like a tramp’s. He seized her hand, gripped it so fiercely it was as if he were trying to solder them together, finger to finger, joint to joint.
‘I love you, Lyn,’ she whispered. She hardly felt the pain.
‘Are you all … right?’ His voice was hoarse and croaky, as if he hadn’t used it for some time. ‘You fell.’
She glanced at her knees, touched them with her fingers, felt the hole in her tights, the sticky trail of blood.
‘It’s … nothing.’
‘Come over to the bed and I’ll clean it up.’
He fumbled for the lamp, shone it in front of her, lighting up the barn. She could see now that he had turned it into primitive living quarters. What he had called the bed was a pile of straw with a piece of sacking spread on top; the kitchen was an enamel mug, a jar of coffee and a battered biscuit tin; the dining-room a camping stool and table made of planks. Dinner had been simple—bread, cheese, fruit. She could see the scrap of rind, the scatter of crumbs, a browning apple core, discarded on an old tin plate. A few rusty nails hammered into the wall did duty as a wardrobe; the laundry-room was two wet and still grubby shirts strung from a piece of rope.
He crouched on the straw, smoothed the sacking out. ‘I’m sorry, it’s a bit … damp.’ He sounded embarrassed, as if she were a rich guest who had come by chance to a low-grade dosshouse. ‘Here, sit on my … jacket.’ He took it off, coaxed her down, then turned the lamp on her legs and examined the grazes.
‘There’s grit in them. I’ll get some water.’
‘No, really. They … hardly hurt at all.’ She didn’t want him to go away, not even for a second. There were a hundred things she longed to ask—how he was, what he was feeling, how long he had been living here, why he hadn’t been in touch. There were seven weeks to fill in, fifty-two whole days to trap and question, yet all his concentration was fixed on two grazed knees—easing out a piece of grit, mopping up the blood.
‘Wait there,’ he said.
He groped only a few yards away, to a corner of the barn, yet he had taken the lamp with him, and it was dark, suddenly—dark inside her head. She longed to go after him, fling her arms around him, tell him how desperately she had missed him. Yet one wrong move could frighten him, drive him off again. She fidgeted on the straw, glanced at the pile of sketchbooks by the bed, two or three loose drawings scattered on the top. She picked one up, could barely make it out in the fitful light. Wild and broken lines seemed to be hurtling towards each other in a shocked and reeling space. All the fever and suffering in his face was repeated on the paper. She laid it down, blank side uppermost—couldn’t bear to look at it. Lyn was back beside her. He had scooped a mugful of water from a bucket in the corner, found two clean handkerchiefs.
‘You’d better take your … things off.’
She felt nervous now herself. This was her own husband, yet she was bashful like a school girl. She turned away from him as she eased her tights down. Her shadow repeated the movement, gigantic on the wall. Two shadows now, his hovering over hers, dabbing at her knees.
‘I’ve … nothing to put on them. No antiseptic or …’
‘It doesn’t … matter. They’re … fine now.’
They were talking like strangers—warily, with pauses. All the things she had ached to say—seven weeks of longing, loving, loss—were dammed up tight inside her. He was still holding the handkerchief cold against her knees, staring down at the grazes, as if he couldn’t yet cope with anything beyond them.
He pushed her skirt aside, frowned as he felt it damp. ‘Your … clothes are wet.’
‘Yes, I know.’
‘Shouldn’t you take them … off? You’ll get a chill.’ That’s what she had always said, to him.
‘Yes, I … suppose I should.’ Her fingers fumbled with the buttons of her raincoat, but were too cold and clumsy to undo them. He did it for her, slipped the mac off, unbuttoned the blouse beneath it. She was shivering so much, she could do nothing but just lie there while he undressed her like a baby.
‘That raincoat’s worse than useless. Even your underclothes are damp.’ He sounded angry suddenly—angry with the rain, angry with anything which might do her harm. And yet his hands were gentle, easing off her slip, fumbling for her bra-hooks, and at last his gaze had moved up from her knees. He was staring at her body—breasts, belly, thighs—as if it was the first time he had ever seen it naked.
She was trembling under his scrutiny, shaking like a fool. Even her teeth were chattering. She tried to stop it, but her body was stubborn, out of her control.
‘You’re cold.’
‘N … no.’
He stretched up from the straw, still gazing at her, as if he feared she might vanish if he lost her reflection in his eyes; reached out for his duffel coat, spread it over her. He hardly touched her, yet the graze of his coat was almost a caress.
‘It’s quite … warm in here, in fact.’ His voice was gruff still, uncertain. He was tucking the coat around her feet.
She nodded, couldn’t speak. He had never cossetted her like this before. He was nursing her like an invalid, reversing their roles. Yet, somehow, it made her uneasy, kept them strangers still. He was the one who was ill.
‘Look, we’d … better save the light.’ Total darkness plunged as he switched the flash-lamp off. Now she could no longer see the tiny comforting things which made it home—the mug, the food, the washing-line, the upturned cardboard box he was using as a dressing-table, the unused comb and razor. His body was just a blur now, looming over her, standing guard. She longed for him to join her, lie down on the straw beside her. She wanted a husband, not a sentry. She stared up at the rafters. Part of the roof had fallen in, and a jigsaw piece of sky was peering through the hole, with a swatch of moon inside it. She could hear the rain drumming against the roof, spitting into the bucket which Lyn had placed beneath the hole. She was glad of the noise. It filled and tamed the silence, gave her something to fix on, like a mantra. It was stifling under the duffel coat, yet she couldn’t stop her shivering.
Lyn was leaning over her. ‘You’re still cold.’ It was almost an accusation. ‘I haven’t any blankets, but you can wear my clothes, if you like. At least they�
��re dry. I sleep in them myself most nights.’
‘You ‘ll be cold, then.’ She remembered his icy fingers on her knees.
‘No, I won’t.’ He was already dragging off his sweater, unbuttoning his shirt. ‘Put those on.’
The sweater smelt stale and musty. She slipped it over her head, submerged a moment in dark and blinding wool. When she had struggled free, Lyn was naked, his body barred with silver like a cage. She slipped her hands through the bars, fractured the moonlight.
And suddenly, he was holding her, pushing up her sweater which she had only just pulled on, covering her with his body instead of with his clothes. She could feel his face pressed close against her breasts, hands quiet and cold, stroking down her back, heartbeat throbbing into hers.
‘My wife,’ he said.
It was very slow, very careful. He didn’t rush her, wasn’t greedy, didn’t make up for lost months or wasted time. There wasn’t any time. They had been here all their lives—joined, dovetailed, overlapping—the slow rhythm of his body slowing down all nature, so that the clouds were barely moving now in the scrap of sky above her, and even the rain had stopped again—suddenly—as if holding its breath in awe.
She lay silent, all her senses sharpened, so that she could hear the almost imperceptible sigh and shudder of elm trees on guard outside the barn; could feel every wisp and prickle of straw against her bare legs. Each tiny stir and sound was somehow part of her, part of Lyn, merged with their merging bodies. She could smell rain, straw, damp clothes and tractor oil, all mixed up and overlaid with the musky scent of herbs still fragrant on her fingers. Rue for sorrow, wormwood for bitterness. Wrong. She could measure her joy in every thrust of Lyn’s body, every throb of her grazed and burning knees as he pressed against them. He was moving faster now, his breathing wild and jagged, his voice broken into snatches.
Born of Woman Page 41
