The Kissing Garden

by Charlotte Bingham

  He snapped his fingers lightly, and perhaps by coincidence, but certainly on time, Grimes appeared as he always did, to pour the whisky.

  ‘Would you have fought, Papa? If you’d been allowed?’

  ‘If my health had permitted? Of course I would have fought. Bad enough to be here and not be able enough, but to be able, and not be there, that would have been intolerable. Conscience does indeed make cowards of us all, Amelia. Could not have lived with myself.’

  ‘Yet your new poem is so dreadfully anti – it’s practically conshie!’ Amelia exclaimed, frowning.

  ‘A great many poets fought,’ her father replied abruptly, replacing the notebook on the desk. ‘A great many poets died.’

  George found himself awake, sitting up in his bed drenched in the sweat of a night terror, shaking uncontrollably, and awakened by his own terrible, primal noise, a sound born of utter despair.

  Along the corridor, two rooms away from his own, his mother heard it too. The dreadful sound woke her from sleep. She sat up, and after a few seconds started to pull back the bedclothes and search for her slippers, determined on going to see her son, but the General’s voice came across the room, commanding and stern.

  ‘No, Louisa, leave him be. He’ll come to his senses soon. We all do.’

  In his room George stared into the darkness, remembering how, as a child, he had suffered endlessly from nightmares, the product of an over stimulated imagination, he was always being told. He remembered too how he had once or twice called out for his mother, but, eventually, since she had never seemed to hear him, had somehow composed himself for sleep again. In those far off, safe and distant days he had, in his imagination, counted the stars in the Sussex night sky. He had pretended to himself that he was among them, that he had a robe of darkest blue, and every inch of it was a star. More than that, he had pretended that he could look down upon their old tile-hung Sussex farmhouse and thrown those same stars so that they fell to earth as his parents cheered. Now no such thoughts brought comfort. Only Amelia, her bright smile, her dark hair, her anxiety for him, that brought solace, until at last, he was asleep once more.

  She was so busy making arrangements for her party that Amelia hardly saw George during the next fortnight. One of the rare occasions when they did find themselves enjoying each other’s company was when in the midst of shopping one day in Midhurst she saw him coming out of Dr Minter’s house in the High Street.

  ‘George?’ she called, hurrying after him since he had obviously not seen her. ‘George?’

  He stopped as soon as he heard her call, hesitated for a moment, then turned to wave at the pretty little figure hurrying along the pavement towards him.

  ‘How are you, George?’ Amelia asked breathlessly once she had caught him up. ‘I’ve hardly seen you . . .’

  ‘I’ve hardly seen you, Amelia. Dashing about the place like the White Rabbit.’

  ‘I know, I know. But there’s so much to do. And there’s this awful shortage of staff. Are you all right?’

  ‘What? Because I’ve just been to the doctor’s, you mean?’ George glanced over his shoulder at the front door of the white-painted Queen Anne house behind him as if to underline his point. ‘I’m fine. I’ve been having the odd headache, that’s all. Rather predictable and nothing to worry about, I assure you.’

  ‘You’re going to be well enough to come to my party, I hope.’

  ‘I should come on a stretcher if I had to, Amelia, you know that. What are you doing in town?’

  ‘Shopping with Hermione. She’s buying some shoes at the moment and being a little too long.’

  ‘How are you doing for young men? For your dance, I hasten to add.’

  ‘We’ve rounded up a few more from here, and Hermione’s importing some of her brother’s friends from Haslemere. So we should be up to scratch. Trouble is they’re all a bit on the young side. Mostly sixteen and seventeen-year-olds.’

  ‘We’ll keep them in order, don’t worry. I’ll borrow my father’s uniform. Which way are you going? I have an appointment at the bank in a few minutes, so if you’re walking that way?’

  ‘Oh yes, of course. I have to dig Hermione out of Chapman’s anyway.’

  George offered her an arm as they turned back along the High Street, and so, Amelia happily locking her arm to his by linking her two hands together, they continued to discuss the arrangements for her party and dance.

  ‘I’ve forgotten how old you’re going to be,’ George teased, widening his blue eyes. ‘Remind me.’

  ‘If you’ve forgotten that, George Dashwood, then you must have forgotten your own age.’

  ‘Imagine you being twenty, Amelia. Did you ever think when you were small that you’d ever be that old?’

  ‘Did you?’

  ‘I thought sixteen was old. When I was a little boy, I could never think beyond that. I used to think in terms of when I’m grown up – but being grown up seemed to stop at sixteen.’

  ‘Me too. Eighteen was old, and I mean twenty--’

  ‘Twenty was ancient.’

  ‘Ancient.’

  George stopped them in front of a bookshop and looked in the window. ‘Which reminds me, I must get you a present.’

  ‘How To Grow Old Gracefully?’

  ‘I prefer How To Grow Old Disgracefully. Won’t be a minute.’

  George smiled at her, gently unpicked her arm from his, and disappeared into the shop, leaving Amelia staring at the display in the window.

  ‘Hello?’ Hermione’s voice said behind her. ‘Didn’t I just see George?’

  ‘He’s inside, buying me a birthday present,’ Amelia replied.

  ‘Beware. Men only buy girls books that they want to read.’

  ‘Now you’ve spoiled the surprise. No shoes?’

  ‘Not one pair I really liked. I mean honestly.’ Hermione pulled a despairing face, then, taking Amelia’s arm, tugged her away from the bookshop window.

  ‘Guess who I saw in Chapman’s? Which was really the reason I was so long. Fiona Staveacre. And guess what?’

  ‘What? What?’

  ‘She’s only called off the engagement.’

  ‘To Martin?’ Amelia asked in amazement. ‘But they’re like George and me. They’ve practically known each other since the cradle.’

  ‘Martin’s gone a bit funny, apparently,’ Hermione went on, dropping her voice. ‘He’s only just got back, you know – like George. And spends the whole time babbling in French. And calling Fiona Claudette.’

  ‘That’s why she isn’t going to go ahead and marry him? I mean, what a blow for Martin. If he’s only just got back--’ Amelia glanced into the bookshop behind her, as if thinking of George.

  ‘It’s not just that,’ Hermione continued with a dramatic sigh. ‘He’s drinking fit to beat the band as well. He hasn’t had his hand off a bottle since he got off the train, it seems. Or fell off, rather.’

  ‘Yes, but surely given time--’

  ‘I think she’s mad, I agree.’ Hermione shrugged. ‘I mean Fiona is going to be lucky to catch anyone else. With that awful laugh of hers. Sssh – here’s George.’

  As always when she saw George Hermione smiled her best smile and opened her green eyes a little bit wider, but George it seemed barely noticed her, other than doffing his hat and nodding politely. He was swinging a brown paper parcel by its string in one hand and appeared to be in good spirits as he walked the two girls down the High Street before stopping outside his bank. Learning that his appointment promised to be a long one, Amelia wished him goodbye, standing on tiptoe to kiss him on one cheek while holding onto her hat against the gusting summer breeze. George smiled at her, doffed his hat once more to Hermione and was gone.

  ‘He has to be positively the dishiest man ever born,’ Hermione sighed. ‘Whatever did you do to deserve him, Amelia Dennison?’

  ‘I wish I knew. Sometimes I think it’s all just too good to be true.’

  ‘Supposing George doesn’t propose to you at the party. Wha
t would you do?’

  ‘What a funny thing to ask, Hermione. Why shouldn’t George propose?’

  ‘I was just thinking, that’s all. Everyone I meet who fought – well. It’s just that things aren’t quite the same, now the war is over.’

  ‘Oh, George is quite the same, quite his old self. George is quite what he was.’

  ‘You think.’

  ‘No, Hermione. I know.’

  ‘How can you be so certain?’

  ‘Because I know George. I have known George for most of my life. I know him better than I know myself.’

  But Amelia knew that neither of them believed her which was probably why she suddenly fell silent.

  Amelia had her own private worry about George and his intended proposal, for of course since the outbreak of the war, young as she was she had seen how foolish it was to take anything for granted. She knew that there was every possibility that George might change his mind at the last moment, and she also knew that if that was what he wished, she would not try to hold him to his word. She was just not that sort of person. She therefore put the matter out of her mind, and busied herself instead making ready for the party, which was to be held at her family house in the pretty little village of Passmore at the foot of the Downs. Originally the plan had been to hold just a small dinner dance for family and close friends, but now that it was generally assumed by those in the know – which included everyone of any note within the neighbourhood – that those gathered might be celebrating not only Amelia’s birthday but the announcement of her engagement to one of their gallant young war heroes, the list of guests had grown from thirty to over one hundred and twenty, transforming the intended intimate party into practically a full scale ball. Normally Amelia enjoyed such social occasions to the full, both in anticipation and in reality, but now the closer she got to celebrating what she privately hoped would be the most important birthday of her life she found herself becoming increasingly apprehensive. Luckily, however, the closer the great day came, the more numerous the distractions.

  ‘I absolutely refuse – and I am quite sure that you do as well, Amelia,’ her mother had announced on one of their earlier visits to their dressmaker, ‘I simply refuse to wear the quite frightful sort of gown that Lady Dashwood favours – and expects everyone else to favour also. Those perfectly awful satin and lace things. With those dreadful bifurcated trains which make a woman look like an unmade bed. They really are extremely dull, and I’m quite sure – aren’t you? – that after all this fighting and misery the very last thing we all want to look is dull. We should be celebrating what is after all our victory, I would have thought.’

  ‘The trouble is there are still fabric shortages, Mama. I gathered from Mrs Fulton the other day, that we’re to be rationed to four and a half yards of material per dress or coat.’

  ‘What sheer nonsense. Wool is short, certainly, but we’re not looking for wool. We want silk, and Papa’s cousin assures me that there is no shortage of silk, not even in France. Lyon apparently is still making the very best quality silk in the latest designs, war or no war – and so silk it is to be. Particularly with what I have in mind for you. That oriental dinner gown in embroidered brocade I showed you? Remember?’

  ‘The one worn over a pearl grey charmeuse under dress?’

  ‘And a matching small turban. Very chic and quite, quite stunning. And I am also going to dress un-dull. A flesh-coloured satin bodice and a silver lace skirt strung with pearls, with a headband in the same-coloured satin as the bodice.’

  Now as they stood in all their finished finery in the tiny backroom of Mrs James’s town house, both Amelia and her mother were delighted with their dressmaker’s handiwork. The end results were both refined and artistic.

  ‘Excellent!’ Constance exclaimed as she turned herself in front of the mirrors. ‘Oh yes! The fight is over – the battle won! And the light of victory is well and truly in our eyes!’

  ‘You don’t think that perhaps this is a little too – well – bohemic?’ Amelia wondered nervously, as she too examined her image in a looking-glass.

  ‘My dear young lady,’ Mrs James said through a mouthful of pins. ‘Bohemic? This is Paris, France come to Sussex, England. Bohemic indeed. Whatever that may mean.’

  ‘It means everyone else will be in conventional ball gowns with probably much, much more to them, Mrs James. While my mother and I--’

  ‘Will be les belles du bal !’ Mrs James assured her, adjusting the angle of Amelia’s turban. ‘Believe you me.’

  ‘I look like something out of a play. This really is very theatrical.’

  ‘And why not?’ Constance demanded. ‘The world is all a stage – it’s true. And if so then we must decorate it as best we may. Would you not say, Mrs James?’

  ‘I would say, Mrs Dennison, that lucky the man who chooses this beautiful girl. That’s what I would say.’

  On the return drive home, conducted at a snail’s pace thanks to Grimes’s morbid fear of speed, while her mother began reading her newly purchased copy of Lytton Strachey’s Eminent Victorians, Amelia watched the summer clouds scudding high above the Downs and reflected on her present situation. She felt more than a little ashamed about her remark in the dressmaker’s since she knew that whether she liked it or not she had once been just as bohemic as her parents, and was probably still more than a little so inclined. Being an only child meant that not only had she enjoyed the undivided attention of both her parents but she had been allowed to grow up without any of the more conventional social restraints. Not that she was spoilt – indeed, far from it. Her father might be a poet and a painter but his own family had been a military one and he had not altogether discarded the book of rules. Clarence Dennison had certainly not spoiled his only daughter, instilling in her a proper sense of both duty and honesty at the same time as allowing her much more mental freedom than that enjoyed by her friends from more orthodox families. By the same token her mother had dressed her in a variety of hand-embroidered smocks and loose, flowing dresses while at the same time letting her run about without any stockings in summer, things which were then still considered very avant-garde, although now after the end of a war which had changed the nature as well as the shape of the world they were becoming much more commonplace.

  Even so, Amelia saw her remark about her possibly bohemic appearance as a sort of small treachery, since before she had actually realized she had fallen in love with George she had never split ranks, as her father called it. Now, worried in case George had for some reason changed his mind about proposing, Amelia wondered whether she might perhaps be trying to blame his change of heart on the difference between her parents’ artistic background and his own rather more orthodox military one.

  ‘I do hope that’s not what it is,’ she said, suddenly voicing her thoughts out loud. ‘You don’t think we aren’t quite enough them for George’s family? The Dashwoods are so military, and it seems always have been. While as a family we have always been – what is it Papa calls it? So hopelessly artistic.’

  ‘If you’re talking about us not being them enough for the wretched Dashers, then you’re talking nonsense,’ her mother replied, glancing up from her book. ‘Think about it. The Dashers could well not be them enough for us.’

  ‘Hardly, Mama. The Dashers are – well. They’re It. You can’t be much more It than the Dashwoods.’

  ‘You’re not getting cold feet, are you, Amelia darling? Not that I’d blame you? The thought of getting engaged often does that to people. And I can’t say I blame them. Particularly marrying into a family as stuck-up as the Dashers.’

  ‘The Dashers aren’t stuck-up, Mama!’ Amelia protested in some shock. ‘A bit grand certainly, but hardly stuck-up.’

  ‘Of course they’re stuck-up, Amelia! Lady D in particular. I adore old General Whiskers but dear darling Louisa is sometimes too toffee-faced for words. Comme toute la haute bourgeoisie. Is that what’s making you anxious? Because you don’t think you’re Them enough?’ Consta
nce laughed and took her daughter’s hand. ‘Do stop looking like Mopper before she has kittens. Artists have pedigrees too, you know. And yours is a long and illustrious one – so it’s them who should be worrying about whether they’re Them enough for you, darling girl.’

  ‘I couldn’t bear it if George doesn’t want to marry me after all,’ Amelia blurted out. ‘Really, I don’t think I could. I thought I could but now – I don’t think I can.’

  ‘You could bear it more than being married to a man who didn’t love you, darling girl,’ Constance replied. ‘Now stop being so childish and do stop fretting so – really you must. As it happens I am quite sure George will propose to you. He has said he will, and George being a gentleman is a man of his word.’

  Constance squeezed her daughter’s hand and returned to her book, while Amelia returned to staring out at the view, hoping the sun would come back out. But the clouds had now been joined by a host of others, the sky darkened, and it rained all the way home and non-stop for the next week.

  Meanwhile George was having a set of second thoughts all of his own.

  Three

  ‘Come on along!’ the young man called to everyone he passed in the corridor. ‘Come on along – and listen to Alexander’s Ragtime Band!’

  Hermione caught Amelia going the other way and, taking hold of her arm, turned her round to drag her off in the direction of Clarence Dennison’s study.

  ‘I’m looking for George!’ Amelia protested above the noise of the party. ‘You haven’t seen him, I suppose?’

  ‘If I had, you’d be the last to know!’ Hermione laughed, keeping a firm hold on Amelia.

  ‘Seriously, Hermione! He’s completely disappeared!’

  ‘Probably down on his knees somewhere! Rehearsing his proposal in a corner! Come on!’

  ‘Come on along!’ the young man picked up, singing the words now rather than calling. ‘Come on along – come on along – let me take you by the hand!’

  ‘What is all this anyway?’ Amelia wondered, watching the string of young people doing a conga down the passageway. ‘Is that Ferdy making all the noise?’