The Juniper Tree

by Barbara Comyns

  Chapter Nine

  So Stephen became my friend, not a trusted friend, but a friend. He used to arrive without warning, sometimes with a bottle of wine and sometimes without, but he usually expected a meal. He came about once a week, often when it was fine because now the days were drawing out; he liked to sit in the garden if it was warm enough. He even fixed an outdoor light and gave me two garden chairs, and the gritty old backyard turned into a flower-filled patio with whitewashed walls. Sometimes Tommy was still running around when Stephen came. At first he was uneasy with her, but when she talked to him in her trusting way and put her small brown hand on his knee and called him ‘Friend’, he was won over. She called him ‘Friend’ because I’d told her he was a friend when they first met.

  One evening he took us both to Richmond Park to see the deer, and when he heard the passers-by remarking how beautiful Tommy was, he became quite proud, as if he really were her father. Another evening he took us to visit friends of his living at Kew, a photographer and his wife. They were delighted with Tommy and took photographs of her eating and playing. They thought she would do well as a child model; but I wasn’t at all keen on the idea because it would upset her settled life between the shop and nursery, just when things were going so well and we didn’t need the money.

  I wanted to keep the Forbeses apart from Stephen and seldom mentioned them to each other; but he soon discovered that we were often away at weekends and that I went to the theatre now and then. One Saturday evening, when Bernard was helping me to close the shop, Stephen arrived, his golden hair glittering in the evening sun as he crossed the road. He said he happened to be passing, but I knew he was just being inquisitive or even spying for my mother. Of course I had to introduce them, particularly as Tommy ran up to him and flung her arms round his legs and called him ‘Friend’ so it was obvious he was a frequent caller. It amused me to see the two men summing each other up.

  Bernard seemed a little huffed. He hung the ‘Closed’ notice on the door and said, ‘I’m afraid we are about to leave. My wife is waiting for us at home and we’re late already.’

  I said, ‘Yes, we’d better go out by the side door now it’s all locked up. I’m sorry we have to rush off like this, Stephen.’

  ‘It doesn’t matter,’ he said petulantly. ‘As I said, I was just passing.’

  We all left together but I had to run back to collect a plastic bag containing our things for the weekend and to turn the water heater off – I always forget things if I’m rushed. When I rejoined the men I saw that by a coincidence they had parked their cars nose to tail against the Green, Stephen’s an MG and Bernard’s a large Volvo he used for work. They were talking cars and seemed more relaxed and Bernard was holding Tommy in his arms ready to put her in her own little seat at the back.

  We parted in a friendly way but immediately we left the Green behind, Bernard was asking me questions: ‘So that’s the man you left home for,’ he said teasingly. ‘He’s certainly handsome, except that his eyes are slightly close together. Didn’t you say he was a little on the mean side?’

  Feeling rather disloyal to Stephen I agreed, but added, ‘He isn’t as bad as he used to be. He brings me wine quite often and he gave me the garden chairs and fixed the light, you know, so he must have improved. I expect I didn’t know how to manage him.’

  ‘And now you do?’ he asked smiling.

  I thought for a moment. Did I know how to manage him? ‘No, not really, but I don’t care for him all that much. I used to be fearfully vulnerable when I did.’

  We crossed the bridge and weaved our way through Richmond’s narrow streets towards the Forbeses house. When we reached it and I stepped into their courtyard I felt I was on enchanted ground. I think my daughter felt the same and she always called it home.

  It was May. Hardly anyone noticed Gertrude was pregnant except that she had this radiance and just to look at her made one feel happy and at peace. Bernard adored her more than ever and kept saying, ‘Look at her, isn’t she lovely?’ When we were alone, he’d sometimes become quite apprehensive and ask me if I thought thirty-seven was too old to have a first baby. ‘You don’t think anything could go wrong, do you?’ he’d say in a most unBernard-like way. ‘The doctor would tell me if anything was wrong. I asked him about all the gardening she did and walking the dog in the park, but he said pregnancy wasn’t an illness, exercise was good for her.’

  That weekend they teased me a little about Stephen, but it was kind teasing and I didn’t mind. I wasn’t very pleased, though, when they got on to the subject of my mother. They really pitied her. Poor woman, deprived of her lovely little grand-daughter and living in Kilburn with the horrible Mr Crimony smelling of coal-dust. I said she was happy as she was; she liked her work in the travel agency and seemed to like Mr Crimony too. She’d known him most of her life and if she wanted to see her grandchild she was welcome to come any day she liked. That wasn’t quite true; I was dreading her coming.

  Fortunately they soon forgot about my mother because some German friends arrived with a small boy not much older than Marlinchen and they played together very well as soon as we left them to their own devices, which consisted of mildly teasing the old dog, putting stones on the swing and picking wild flowers in Gertrude’s thicket. They left the flowers scattered on the kitchen floor and when she saw them Gertrude was upset because they had brought may into the house. She kept saying, ‘It’s fearfully unlucky to bring may into the house. Don’t tell Bernard.’

  I tried to reassure her by saying that may in the house was considered lucky in some countries; but she looked at me with her great eyes filled with disbelief and said, ‘We are not in other countries, we’re in England.’

  She still appeared uneasy when it was time for Bernard to drive me home. As we said goodbye, I whispered in her ear, ‘I don’t think it was may. It looked like blackthorn to me and I definitely saw a thorn.’

  It was worthwhile lying to see the relief on her face as she murmured thoughtfully, ‘It’s late for blackthorn, but it’s shady down there in the thicket. Yes, it could easily have been blackthorn.’

  It was as if a ripple of our talk about mother had touched her because she telephoned the following evening, when calls are cheap, and said that she had run into Stephen, which must have taken quite a lot of arranging because he lived in Chelsea and she hardly ever left Kilburn. She said, ‘I asked Stephen about your little girl and he said that she was a lovely child but he wasn’t her father. Is this true, that he isn’t her father?’

  I told her that it was true; Stephen wasn’t Marline’s father and that I’d never said that he was. Actually her father was ‘a foreign gentleman’ who had returned to his country.

  ‘A foreign gentleman, but what kind of a father is that?’ she shrilled.

  ‘Don’t do that, mother,’ I said. ‘You’re spitting.’

  ‘Spitting! How can you tell if I’m spitting or not, you stupid girl? What about this foreigner? Is he paying for his daughter, I’d like to know.’

  I told her that he knew nothing about his daughter. She’d been born months after he left the country. As for money, we were managing very well and didn’t need any. I was even saving.

  There was silence for a moment and I could almost hear mother making an effort, then, ‘I must come and see this grandchild of mine. I’ll let you know when. Oh, and what kind of foreigner is the child’s father? Where does he come from?’

  I hesitated, then said, ‘Brazilian.’ I knew there were a lot of very dark people in Brazil.

  I hated lies and now I’d been forced to tell them two days running. When I tell lies I can feel my eyes flicking like a hen’s. It does not matter on the telephone, but it is a tiresome habit when one is face to face with a friend who would be happier not knowing the truth. Flicking eyes immediately make them suspicious. I can look them in the face when I lie but it’s the flicking eyes that give me away.

  The first few days of June were very hot and the white petals from the
chestnut trees on the Green fell to the grass like melting snow. At lunchtime young men lay on the grass without shirts as if it were a beach and mothers with young children in striped pushchairs sat under the trees while the elderly stiffly arranged themselves on the benches. All day the dedicated dog-lovers circled round, attached to their dogs by leads. Sometimes they were set free and a ball was thrown for their entertainment. At one end of the Green there was a much-used cricket pavilion and at the other a less-used public convenience – a good one people said – catering for men, women and invalids.

  I watched these things from the shop window. It faced south and the sun came shimmering in, robbing the antiques of their mystery. In the harsh light every blemish was accentuated, the life went from the paintings, carved gilt looked tawdry and the antique furniture was heavily scored with cracks and marks and appeared more secondhand than antique. Recently I had cleaned the glass domes with some patent stuff to make them sparkle; but now I could see they were all marked with greasy streaks and the shop window was the same. I spent most of the day polishing. Fortunately there were few customers and I was able to work in peace – until a bright blue MG drew up on the other side of the road and out stepped Stephen and a long-legged girl, rather a beautiful golden girl. I watched them darting through the heavy traffic. At certain times it was controlled by a lollipop man, but this wasn’t one of them. They came into the shop with happy smiles on their handsome faces and there were introductions. Miss Longlegs was an American actress called Brit Bonner who had a small part in a new musical, so Stephen said. They had met at a publicity party only seven days ago and had seen each other every day since, so they were like old friends in a way. They chattered like excited birds, laughing and contradicting each other. I’d never seen Stephen so gay, more like a boy than a rather mean man of thirty years.

  I closed the shop and we had tea in the garden, an early tea because Brit had to appear at the theatre. She told me that it was the first time she had acted in the West End or in any large theatre. Stephen said, ‘Show Bella your cuttings, pet,’ and out of her large handbag she produced some crumpled reviews of shows she had appeared in at small theatres in the States with favourable mentions of herself: ‘Miss Bonner is a bombshell’ or ‘Brit Bonner is an interesting newcomer’, and the more exciting ‘Beautiful Brit Bonner cracks the whip’.

  I went through the motions of being impressed but as she returned the cuttings to her handbag she said wistfully, ‘I really want to be a serious actress, but have to take the parts I’m offered. I began by being the maid or even worse, the ASM.’ She asked to be shown over the cottage and Stephen rushed her round as if the place belonged to him and she was saying, ‘Fantastic, fantastic,’ all the time. Wherever she went she left a faint but haunting scent. In the garden I’d hoped it was my flowers but when I followed Brit into the house I knew it was her smelling so expensive. When they left the smell still lingered.

  Chapter Ten

  One morning when I was returning from taking Tommy to the nursery I could hear the telephone ringing away from the other side of the road, so I dived in between the streaming cars, to the great annoyance of the lollipop man, who was waving his pole at me. By the time I had opened the shop door and seized the instrument it was giving a feeble last ring; but I’d caught it in time and Gertrude’s voice floated down the line. She wanted to tell me about a strange dream she had had; she seemed quite obsessed by it. In the dream she was walking on marble floors among tall pillars. Sometimes she was walking under a roof and at other times there was only the intense blue sky above, but always the pillars and in the distance white buildings. She was wearing simple, rather roughly-made sandals on her feet, but her dress was a kind of robe made of finely woven material, very pleasant to touch. She could still remember the feel of it between her fingers. She said she was searching for someone. It could have been Bernard, but at the time she had thought it unlikely because the dream was taking place two thousand years ago. I asked how she knew. Did she have a calendar?

  ‘No, nothing like that,’ she said vaguely. ‘But I just knew it was two thousand years ago. There was no sign of the 1980s anywhere. I sat on a marble bench that had been warmed by the sun and watched a little figure in the distance walking towards me and growing larger and larger and then I saw he had a large scroll under his arm that could have been a rolled painting and I thought that after all it really was Bernard I was searching for. I cried, “Bernard!” very loud and he answered, “Gertrude, hush,” and we were in our bed at home together.’

  I said, ‘Yes, it was a strange dream, but rather lovely.’

  ‘Lovely in a way but extraordinary too. You see, Bernard was dreaming almost the same dream at the same time. He was the figure in the distance carrying the scroll, which was quite heavy, and he never got close to me although he could see me sitting amongst the pillars in the distance. I asked him if he was wearing robes or an ordinary suit. “Oh, robes, of course,” he said. Actually he’d thought he must be Julias Caesar until he saw me sitting on my marble bench. Then his one idea was to reach me, but however hard he walked, we were always apart. It was as if the ground were slipping beneath his feet, almost a nightmare really. What do you think it means? Have you ever heard of people sharing a dream like that?’

  ‘Well,’ I said thoughtfully, ‘I don’t think I have. But you and Bernard are so close, much closer than most married people. You may have had another life together two thousand years ago.’

  She was quiet for almost a minute, then said, ‘Yes, you could be right. Bernard and I may have lived together two thousand years ago and even at other times too. It is certainly very weird. The dream was beautiful in a way and I’ll never forget it, but I wouldn’t like to share dreams every night. Would you?’

  ‘No,’ I said, ‘but it couldn’t happen to me. I’ve no one to share my dreams with.’

  I replaced the receiver because someone was entering the shop. Then I saw it was Miss Murray, all dressed for summer in a pure silk dress with a matching cape to hide her curved back. She was carrying a basket containing slightly damaged china she thought I might care to buy cheaply. ‘I can put up with the rivets, it’s cracks I can’t stand – and as for chips, they really disgust me. Look at this Rockingham poodle with a nasty little chip on his blue cushion and this Minton jug quite ruined by a chip on its lip, and as for cracks, look at that,’ and she held out a Crown Derby dish. It had a minute crack on its rim and some of the gold had been washed away – with strong detergents most likely. ‘You can have that for nothing. I can’t bear the sight of it.’

  She emptied her basket and asked if I’d seen anything of the Forbeses lately. It was some time since they had visited her shop and she had some heavy gilt frames that might interest them. I told her about their shared dream, but she was sceptical and put it down to pregnant fancies. ‘Women get very strange at these times, you know. They are not normal at all.’

  I said I supposed so, although I didn’t agree. I was convinced that Gertrude and Bernard’s dream was something very special that could only happen to people who were as close as they were. All the day their dream kept creeping into my mind and it was as if I’d shared in it as well.

  Now July had come I’d sit in my walled garden listening to cricket being played on the Green – the crack of the ball being hit and sometimes a gentle clapping – and, when the stream of heavy traffic thinned, pigeons could be heard cooing. I was usually alone after Tommy went to bed. Stephen seldom came to see us now he had Brit and, when he did, he talked about nothing but her and his fear that the musical was coming to an end, already empty seats were casting shadows on his happiness. He’d ask me what he was to do if Brit returned to America. He had already asked her to marry him but she couldn’t make up her mind. Not that she didn’t love him, only for the time being she felt she must put her career first; later on, when she was more established, things would be different, and so on. I’d say more or less what he wanted me to say, agreeing that she was beaut
iful and tremendously talented, that she obviously loved him very much and that it was likely she would be offered good parts in West End theatres, although I knew little about the theatre world and had only met Brit once. At least I did know she was beautiful and seemed to be in love with Stephen, so I could talk convincingly about that. I really liked what I’d seen of the girl, but it was boring sitting out there in the dusk talking about her non-stop. The tobacco plants were smelling so lovely too. I didn’t really care for Stephen any more. All the same we were friends and I would have liked him to take a little interest in me and my life as he did before Brit came. It wasn’t quite so boring when he brought wine.

  Saturdays were more of a problem than they used to be because Tommy wasn’t content to play with odds and ends in the shop. She fretted to be in the garden and wanted to drag all her toys out of the toy box. One afternoon there was a fearful acid smell of burning coming from the kitchen and I remembered I’d left a pie in the oven. I left a trusted customer in charge of the shop and hurried to the kitchen to save my pie only it wasn’t a pie burning in the oven but a plastic toy piano and ten little men Tommy must have put there. I took them out and held them under the running tap although the piano would never play again and the men looked as if they had been hit by an atom bomb, their faces all warped and their limbs twisted.

  I think it was the same Saturday Tommy roasted her toy piano that Mother at last appeared to inspect her grand-child. I remember that as soon as she opened the shop door she shouted above the ring of the bell, ‘What a strange smell! I don’t like it at all.’ There stood mother with her darting eyes and Mr Crimony, with a nervous half-smile on his face, standing behind her.

  I was serving a rather valued customer at the time, but she said she would come again and melted away like a snowflake leaving me there with my hands filled with Victorian door handles all decorated with hand-painted flowers. I awkwardly held them out to mother and said, ‘Pretty, aren’t they?’