The Juniper Tree

by Barbara Comyns

  Bernard came to collect us on Saturday evening and said he could hardly bear to go home with that woman in the house. ‘She’s got this small dog called Fizz that jumps about and quivers all the time. You can hardly tell the difference between them, they both have curly blue-grey hair. I hope you have eaten well today because you won’t in my house. You’ll be lucky if you get some watered-down tinned soup, followed by a broken poached egg, followed by a cup of weak tea or even cocoa.’

  We didn’t drive off immediately, but sat in the car watching the cricket until Tommy said in a bored little voice, ‘When are we going to see the jumping dog?’

  Bernard groaned: ‘Oh dear, she is going to be a Fizz fan.’ But he was smiling when we drove away.

  As soon as Tommy reached the Forbeses house and became Marline, she ignored her friend the carved bear and ran into the house to find the jumping dog and unearthed him in the kitchen, where Miss Webb was preparing the evening meal. For once he was lying under the table as Petra used to lie, but as soon as he heard our voices he leapt out from under the table with a burst ball in his mouth and raced round the room with Marline in pursuit. Bernard introduced me to Joan Webb, who said: ‘Do call me Joan, or Gay as my friends call me – they say I’m not in the least like a Joan. What do you think?’ I said I thought both names were nice, then went upstairs to see Johnny who gave me a loving welcome. He was sitting in his high chair being fed by Catalina, who opened her mouth each time she put the spoon in Johnny’s. Bernard took the spoon from Catalina and tried feeding the baby himself; but it wasn’t a great success and he handed back the spoon and stood looking down at his son with an expression of great love and pride on his handsome face, an expression I had often seen when he was watching Gertrude.

  We sat in the drawing-room waiting for dinner, Charlotte looking every now and then at her engagement ring and bringing her lover’s name into the conversation whenever possible. She was obviously longing to return to Germany to join her Hermann. I was wondering if I ought to offer to help in the kitchen when Joan Webb came tripping in to announce dinner, with Fizz darting behind with the burst red ball protruding from his lips like an overgrown tongue. We trooped into the dining-room and were served with semolina cooked in a milky cheese sauce, followed by trifle smothered in a custard powder sauce and decorated with hundreds and thousands. We sat quietly eating our baby-food while Joan tried to make polite conversation: ‘Oh! Mr Forbes, I only heard today that you are partial to steaks. I thought you were more or less a vegetarian, but tomorrow you shall have your steak. Oh dear! Tomorrow is Sunday and the shops will be closed and I’d planned minced chicken. Never mind. Monday will be a steak day and even Fizz will have a tiny slice.’ And Fizz, who had settled down, started leaping and quivering round the table with a fearful alert look in his eyes.

  On Sunday morning when Bernard had shut himself in his study with the Sunday Times and Charlotte was sitting on the lawn reading The Observer and Catalina had taken the children to the park, I went into the kitchen to help Miss Webb in any way I could. Although she was unsuitable I felt sorry for the poor little woman. Charlotte appeared to have left her to her own devices without any helpful advice or guidance. I managed to gain her confidence as we washed up the breakfast things together and it was obvious she was far from happy. I went through the larder and kitchen cupboards with her and could find no Forbes-like food lurking there. There was an anaemic-looking chicken already cooked and waiting to be minced, a heartless lettuce, dark green cabbage, a floppy pink blancmange, many packets of soup, dried vegetables and mashed potato and, of course, tins of gooseberries. The pink blancmange was obviously the pride of the collection and I had to be cruel and dismiss it as ‘perhaps something the children will eat’. In its place I suggested a fresh fruit salad and whipped cream.

  Her face crumpled: ‘They don’t like blancmange! I can hardly believe it. My mother enjoyed it until the day she died, (poor soul, she was ninety) and all the ladies I have worked for have been devoted to it. I’m afraid the trouble is I’ve only cooked for the elderly and never for a man.’ I left her slicing onions with tears streaming down her powdered cheeks. I hoped they were caused by the onions.

  I hurried to the nearest Indian shop that was open and bought peppers, red and green, a shining dark aubergine and some peaches, oranges and bananas and a large carton of cream. When I returned I put the chicken, peppers and aubergine into a casserole and, to Joan Webb’s horror, added some of the dried mushrooms and garlic hanging from the ceiling, also a glass of sherry (Bernard’s best). We prepared the fresh fruit salad together and beat the cream and I stopped her little hand reaching out for a packet of dehydrated mashed potato and suggested rice instead. Then we had a late cup of coffee together and she opened up her heart. She told me how she had refused two proposals of marriage and stayed at home to look after her mother who had a pension and a comfortable annuity so money had been no problem. Indeed, ‘mummy’ had insisted on her only daughter dressing well. She liked to see her in pretty clothes, blue for preference, to match her blue eyes. And until the last few years she had encouraged her to go out with her friends, though of course this changed when ‘mummy’ became almost helpless.

  ‘When she died, it was a shock about the money. It all stopped – pension, annuity, all of it. There was about £700 in the bank, but the funeral cost much more than I expected. I sold the furniture, but it didn’t fetch much, although mummy had such good taste. Then there was Fizz to look after. Mummy’s dear dog. I couldn’t have him put down. It was a close friend, our lawyer, who suggested I took a post as cook-housekeeper to an elderly lady. You see I’d had so much experience with mummy all those years, it was the only thing I could do. It worked beautifully. I was very happy with my old ladies. One was a bit of a tartar, she even tried to bite my hand when I was feeding her and eventually had to be placed in a home: but the others were dears except that they were inclined to die. I lost three of them in four years. That’s why I answered Mr Forbeses advertisement – a widower with a baby son sounded so hopeful. Of course, I’d no idea how large the house was, and situated on a steep hill too. There’s no one to advise me about my work either. Miss Charlotte only cares about returning to Germany and her coming marriage and Mr Forbes hardly speaks to me if he can help it, although I do try and make a little cheerful conversation.’ She put down her coffee cup and said in a low voice. ‘Another thing that worries me is the money.’

  Surprised, I exclaimed: ‘Don’t they give you enough?’

  She shook her head thoughtfully. ‘I don’t know. You see Miss Charlotte gave me two hundred pounds, to pay for the food, she said; but she didn’t say how long it had to last and already I’ve spent thirty pounds in two weeks. The milk comes to quite a lot and the Spanish nanny has a large appetite, always munching French loaves filled with sausage, tomatoes and onions. I couldn’t do it myself, but she’s a hard-working girl and needs it, she says. I have tried to talk to Mr Forbes, but he’s a difficult man to talk to, isn’t he?’

  I told her I’d speak to him and she wasn’t to worry because she certainly hadn’t spent too much money, in fact, she’d spent too little.

  We could hear Bernard calling for me so I said, ‘Take care you don’t over-cook the rice, the grains should stay separate,’ and skimmed away to him. He wanted to show me some yellow poppies he’d recently found growing in Gertrude’s thicket under an apple tree among a tangle of long grass. Neither of us had seen them before, although they looked well established, and it was as if they were a message of hope from Gertrude. We both felt this.

  Bernard said, ‘I wouldn’t be surprised if they were gone tomorrow, they don’t seem real somehow.’

  They were fragile flowers, but real enough and I thought it likely that they’d still be there tomorrow. We carefully searched the thicket but found no more yellow poppies.

  After lunch, when we were sitting in the drawing-room drinking our coffee, Charlotte said: ‘That was a very good meal Joan gave us. I sai
d she would turn out to be a treasure, it’s just a matter of settling down.’ Bernard looked thoughtful, then asked me where I’d been most of the morning. Had I been hiding in the kitchen by any chance? I thought it a good time to tell them exactly what had been going on in the kitchen, the pathetic money problem and lack of guidance and instructions, Joan’s sad little history, not tragic, but really sad. Her old ladies dying one by one, three lost in four years, and her cooking based on the needs of the impoverished and elderly.

  Charlotte said crossly: ‘How was I supposed to know all that. She said she was an experienced cook and I left her to get on with it. After all, I shan’t be here much longer so it’s no good her depending on me. She did say something about the money and I told her to ask Bernard. The two hundred was supposed to cover her salary for a month and the shopping, perhaps I didn’t make it clear. Now I come to think of it, I don’t know what her salary is, do you, Bernard?’

  ‘No,’ he said crossly. ‘You made all the arrangements. You’ve been thoroughly irresponsible,’ and he banged down his coffee cup and left the room.

  Charlotte turned to me and said, ‘Now look what you have done. I asked you to help, not interfere.’

  Chapter Twenty

  Joan Webb, or Gay, as she wished to be called, stayed on for nearly three more weeks, then left to look after an ancient lady who had a flat in nearby Ham. Her cooking did improve a little, with help from Charlotte, but she found the house too large and the hill too steep, Johnny too heavy and Bernard disconcerting. Altogether she found the Forbeses house a very frightening place. She was to get a much smaller salary in this new job but she said she didn’t mind. It was a home she wanted and her pension would start in a few months. She had been so looking forward to her pension, she said, quite forgetting she was supposed to be fifty-five, not fifty-nine.

  Bernard gradually grew less hostile to her, particularly when he knew she was leaving, but he never took to poor Fizz, who continued to leap on to the backs of sofas, sometimes landing on Bernard’s head. He pranced and quivered, barked and whined, and had this fearfully eager expression. One of his eyes had a queer blue-green glint which made him look as if he were wearing a monocle.

  Bernard drove the dog and his mistress to their new home, Fizz sitting on the luggage in the back of the Volvo, barking all the way. ‘I was glad to see the last of them,’ Bernard said later as he sat in his chair in the room behind the shop. ‘The poor old lady did improve a little but she was always so skittish with me, right until the end; nerves, I suppose. She used to bring out those bright little observations like slightly soiled visiting cards. She had one for every occasion. Did you know Charlotte has relented about the señoritas and one is coming from an agency next week? There will be none of that nonsense of having meals together. The two girls will eat in the kitchen at a time that suits them and live on Spanish food for all I care. I rather like it myself but don’t want it every day.’

  He left his chair and stood beside me and I hoped he’d touch me, but he didn’t immediately, he went on talking about domestic things. ‘Charlotte is giving this new girl a week, then she’s off. This engagement seems to have upset her and she acts quite out of character. I’ll be glad when I’ve settled down with Johnny and the two señoritas and things are more or less normal, as normal as they will ever be.’ Then he put his arms around me and said, ‘You know, you are the dearest girl. I don’t know how I would manage without you.’

  We stayed like that, close together, for some time and I wished it could have been for ever. When he was leaving, I asked, ‘Are the yellow poppies still there?’

  Surprised, he exclaimed, ‘Good Lord! I haven’t looked. I’d forgotten all about them.’ Then he went away. I didn’t see him out of the house as I usually did, but stood quite still, thinking. Was Bernard very slightly forgetting Gertrude?

  When August came I closed the shop for a fortnight, as I had the previous year. I spent the first week at Richmond, partly for my daughter’s sake and partly to help Charlotte, who was returning to Germany in a matter of days and was entangled in a tremendous amount of shopping and packing. We were friends again, although I didn’t really care for her much. She was far too bossy and self-centred. The Spanish cook-housekeeper was now installed and the house was more noisy than it used to be, with the two girls shouting to each other up and down the stairs and harsh voices and laughter coming from the kitchen. The new girl was called Isabel and she was several years older than Catalina and had a Spanish novio – a waiter. The two girls worked well together and Isabel was always ready to give a helping hand with Johnny and looked after him completely on Catalina’s day off. Charlotte and I wrote out a list of suitable meals to serve to Bernard and hung it up in the kitchen and it seemed to work out quite well, although he occasionally complained that too much frying was going on.

  It was very different to last year’s visit, when Gertrude and I had been so happy together sitting under the juniper tree and eating delicious picnics in our Burning Bush Restaurant, with the magpies overhead watching us with their clever eyes and the cock bird sometimes coming down and helping himself to the most unexpected morsels of food, smoked salmon and ham or, to our dismay, chicken if he got the chance, which seemed like cannibalism to us. Now I used to sit there by myself, just to be quiet, really. There were still a few yellow poppies under the apple tree and I’d identified them from one of Gertrude’s botany books and learnt that they were called meconopsis Cambrica and were natives of the mountains of western Europe, but sometimes found in valleys.

  I spent the second week’s holiday at home with Tommy. I redecorated the shop with Mary Meadow’s help and so enjoyed her company. We took Tommy to Chessington Zoo and she fell in love with an orang-outan with a most compelling personality and a look of great wisdom. Mary said, ‘He reminds me of Bernard,’ which slightly annoyed me because I could see what she meant. On fine days I sometimes took Tommy for bicycle rides sitting in her little seat behind me. We had picnics in the local parks and a favourite place – Teddington Lock.

  I used to look forward to Stephen’s letters from New York; but now I put them on the mantelshelf and forgot them for several days. I was thinking of Bernard all the time. I loved him so much, but was content as long as I saw him two or three times a week and we sometimes touched each other or sat very close. Of course, he didn’t feel like this about me, but he was fond of me and my presence seemed to give him some sort of comfort: also he felt that I was partly his creation, that he had moulded me. This was true, he and Gertrude had both moulded me, Gertrude unconsciously. In a book of D. H. Lawrence’s poems they had given me I came on these lines:

  ‘And how I am not all except a flame that mounts off you

  Where I touch you, I flame into being: but is it me or you?’

  That is how I felt for Bernard, as if he were a flame. But I wasn’t a flame to him.

  It was a long time since I’d seen my mother and our only communication had been the harsh telephone conversations we sometimes had. Then she arrived in her red Rover one Saturday afternoon towards the end of summer. She was accompanied by her shadow, Mr Crimony, carrying parcels that could be presents. Tommy ran to the shop window crying, ‘Mister Chimney is coming with lots of presents, quick, open the door!’ I was wrapping up some Crown Derby plates a customer had just bought, so I told Tommy to open the door herself. She flung her arms round Mr Crimony’s legs, ignoring my mother, which upset her and put a strain on the visit which took a little time to wear off.

  The presents consisted of a large fluffy cream cake, a large fluffy toy dog for Tommy and a fuchsia in a pot for me. Tommy was delighted with the rather vulgar toy and said it was exactly like Fizz and that was to be his name.

  Mother snapped, ‘That’s a silly name for a silly dog. I can’t think why you waste your money on such rubbish, Charlie.’ Then, half way through tea, when we were all sticky from the sweet cream cake, she produced an envelope from her bag and gave it to Tommy.

 
She tore it open, then said sadly, ‘But it’s only a little book without pictures,’ and handed me a small blue post office savings book. There was only one entry but it was for a hundred pounds, a handsome sum for a child to start a savings account with. I repeatedly thanked my mother, but Tommy wasn’t impressed and much preferred the fluffy dog, which pleased Mr Crimony.

  After tea we sat in the garden because it was inclined to be dark in the room behind the shop and there seemed to be too many people in it. This year I’d planted a lot of snap dragons I’d grown from seed and the roses had done well, particularly a climbing white one that smelt very sweet, but all mother could see was the buses dashing past, only the tops of them over the tall gate, and they made a wooshing sound like sea waves and the lorries a sound like lions roaring – I’d grown used to the noise. Mother still had her job in the travel agency and offered to arrange a cheap off-season holiday for me; but I had already had my holiday and didn’t want another.

  Mr Crimony and Tommy took fluffy Fizz for a walk on the Green, frequently stopping by trees so that he could lift his leg as she had seen the real Fizz do. When we were alone mother immediately started to ask questions about Bernard. I told her about Joan Webb because I thought it would amuse her; but she was quite shocked to hear that he was now living alone with two señoritas. ‘Good-looking girls, you say. Catholics, I suppose, so at least he won’t be able to marry one of them without a lot of trouble. Do you see him often? However much he loved his wife, I don’t think he will stay a widower for long. Such a handsome man, and wealthy too. Oh, you say he is coming this evening? Why didn’t you tell me before?’