‘I think you’re wrong.’
‘Of course you do, George, while I, naturally, think I am right.’
‘Archie must have a book on astronomy in that amazing library of his,’ George told her, frowning. ‘I will go and find one, and we can clear this up in no time.’
While he was away Amelia spent her time trying to work out the exact position of the strange celestial body. Once she had her bearings she fixed it as being five degrees to the south and east of the house, but since she had only the vaguest knowledge of the locality they were now in she went to join George in the library where she soon found a detailed book of maps, and together they returned to their bedroom and the window seat.
‘This is quite an up to date book of the sky,’ George said, turning over the pages of a large tome. ‘Drawn in 1910, so unless that is a bright new sun that has suddenly arrived in the firmament we should be able to identify it.’
‘It seems to be in a line above this little town here,’ Amelia muttered, the map book open in her hand. ‘A small Saxon town called – Bruton.’
George put the book of the stars on the floor by the open bedroom window and began to identify the major constellations.
‘Right,’ he said, after he and Amelia had consulted both the sky and the book several times. ‘It’s directly under the third star in the handle of the Plough – so that should give us a definite fix. How are you doing?’
‘Not very well. You see, all there is where there should be my wayward star is just space on the astrological chart. Look!’
George looked. Every star was noted and identified except for Amelia’s so-called ‘wayward’ one.
‘Has to be new then,’ George concluded. ‘And since we’re no astrologers, either of us, it’s not for us to say whether that is the case or not. Perhaps Archie might know some expert or other in the neighbourhood--’
‘George?’ Amelia stopped him. ‘George, it seems to be moving. Look.’
George watched with her for a moment then shook his head. ‘I can’t see it moving, Amelia. But then stars are very deceptive.’
‘It definitely moved, George. Downwards.’
‘It could still be a shooter, as we thought up in Scotland,’ George said doubtfully.
‘That’s no shooting star, George!’ Amelia insisted. ‘And it definitely moved.’
‘Well it’s not moving now,’ George insisted. ‘Yes it is!’
Again they stared at the brightly shining star as it definitely seemed to drop lower in the sky, almost as if it was hovering over something.
‘Or somewhere,’ Amelia said when they had discussed their mutual feelings. ‘See here on the map? It seems to be somewhere directly over here – somewhere in the vicinity of this town. Because do you see this tower marked here?’
‘Yes. It’s some ancient monument or other. I would say. Definitely.’
Amelia got up and pointed out of the window. ‘That’s the tower – over there. You can see it silhouetted quite clearly on the top of that hill – so that would make the place the star is shining over about here . . .’
Now she was back at the map, tapping an area of green on the sheet spread before her on the floor.
‘So?’
‘So let’s take a drive tomorrow morning and go and see,’ Amelia suggested. She pulled George’s sleeve in excitement. ‘Oh, do let’s, George. Papa’s poetry reading isn’t until evening, so we’ve got all day to explore.’
‘And what do you think we’re going to find?’
‘Who knows?’ Amelia laughed. ‘A crock of gold perhaps?’
What they found was an area of countryside where it seemed time had stood still. Having borrowed his father-in-law’s Hillman, George drove Amelia round all the lanes in the area that she had chosen for their search only to get hopelessly lost.
‘Don’t get cross,’ Amelia begged, as she unfolded the driving map. ‘This is fun.’
‘I’m not cross. Not even remotely. I am utterly happy. And serene, if you really want to know, as if something marvellous is going to happen, but I don’t know quite what.’
‘My father always gets terribly cross if he ends up lost thanks to my mother. And I don’t have a clue where we are.’
‘Somewhere in the Dark Ages, to judge by some of the farms we’ve passed. Compared to Sussex, these places are positively Neanderthal. I mean, look at that one.’ George pointed to the tall, handsome medieval house outside which he had stopped the car. Its windows were hung with sacking. ‘Even their livestock looks antediluvian.’
‘I’m never quite sure what that word means exactly, George.’
‘Before the flood, I think. I’m sure those pigs never made it on board.’
Three men appeared at the gate of the unkempt yard where George had pulled up. They stared at the car and its occupants, three entirely different-looking men, one ginger-haired, one dark and one fair. The fair-headed one had the brightest blue eyes Amelia thought she had ever seen on a man, as well as the sweetest countenance. He was looking shyly at her, half smiling and twisting the cap which was still on his head round and round without stopping.
‘You folk lorss?’ the darkest-headed farmer enquired. ‘’Corse if ‘ee are, then ‘ee goner get e’en more lorss. If ’ee keeps drivin’ up ’ere.’
‘We’re just touring,’ George said, hoping to explain, although to judge from the frowns with which this pronouncement was met he had failed to clear the air.
‘We’re just driving around,’ Amelia added, sensing confusion. ‘Having a look at the countryside.’
‘Ooh yar,’ the fair-headed one said, sticking his tongue in one cheek. ‘We got a lot of that roun’ ‘ere.’
‘You wan’ sum eggs or summing?’ the ginger one suddenly wondered. ‘Kill a pig if ’ee wan’ ’im.’
‘No thanks. We really are just looking.’
‘Oh yar,’ the fair-headed one said, shaking his head. ‘Carn’ see much poin’ in ’at. Not if ’ee’s not buyin’.’
‘Thank you anyway,’ Amelia said, with a smile which made the fair-headed one twist his cap round his head even more frantically. ‘Goodbye then.’
The farmers watched them intently as they drove away. Noting this, Amelia turned and waved to them as if they had been their guests, but not one of the three waved back.
‘I wonder if they fought. . .’
Amelia turned and stared at George and began to laugh. ‘Oh, George! I shouldn’t think they even know there’s been a war!’
‘Maybe not,’ George agreed, grinning suddenly. ‘Lucky devils! They certainly don’t look the type to read newspapers.’
‘Absolutely. And look – there isn’t another building anywhere in sight.’
They had stopped at the top of the hill which led away from the farm. Down below they could see the old house and its land which stood surrounded by thick woodland and then a ring of hills.
‘Look, George,’ Amelia urged him. ‘Look at this wonderful countryside. On an Indian summer’s day like this, where else in the world would you rather be than here? In England.’
‘The two most beautiful words in the English language.’ George slowed the car to a halt once again. ‘England and countryside.’
‘Yes.’ Amelia sighed and moved nearer to him so she could rest her head on his shoulder. ‘I think you’re absolutely right.’
‘And you, Amelia, are absolutely – wonderful.’
George put his arm round her shoulders, and as he did so Amelia found that she had never experienced emotion such as she felt now. It was like a surge within her, a sensation so profound she could find no words with which to express it. For a moment she thought she might cry, so acute was her sense of joy. Instead, what she did to express the inexpressible depth of her emotion was to take the hand which rested on her shoulder and kiss it.
George said nothing, and when Amelia turned to look at him she saw that once again he was frowning that troubled, worried frown she had seen all too often; and always, it se
emed, when they were intimate. Obviously, for him, there was no surge of joy, nothing but disquiet.
‘Something’s troubling you, George.’
‘How do you know?’
‘Because I can feel the moment when you suddenly become unhappy without you having to say anything. What is wrong? Can’t you tell me?’
‘I will, soon,’ George said, turning away to look across the bold sweep of countryside. ‘Be patient.’
‘I am being patient.’
‘I know. I know you are. Just be patient a little longer.’
Fortunately the day was too beautiful to be spoilt by the sudden dip in mood, as was the surrounding countryside. Neither of them was encouraged to be introspective for too long, and once George had managed to get the Hillman motoring again Amelia was able to forget that they had any problems and gaze out over the beautiful landscape that unfolded before them.
‘This is a wonderful part of the world,’ she said, as George drove slowly through the narrow streets of the pretty little Saxon town of Bruton. ‘This is how England always was and always should be, glorious, peaceful and somehow – deep.’
‘Deep?’ George turned to look at her in surprise as he swung the Hillman up the narrow road which led across lush green valleys towards Evercreech. ‘I don’t see how a countryside can be deep?’
‘Well it can, George Dashwood. It’s deep because it feels as if it’s always been here. As if this is England as it always was. As if it existed first, before any other part of England was here.’
‘That isn’t possible,’ George laughed, not derisively but because he was still unsure of Amelia’s exact meaning. ‘How can something such as a mass of land--’
‘I’m being poetic, George,’ Amelia interrupted, putting a hand on his knee and smiling at him to show she wasn’t taking herself too seriously. ‘It’s just that whenever I’ve come down to this part of the country with my parents, I’ve always had this sense of belonging. As if being English meant being here, in this part of England. And why that should be I have no idea, because the Dennisons certainly don’t come from here.’
‘It is a very ancient part of the country apparently,’ George admitted. ‘A place steeped in legend. As far as I can gather a lot of people think that the western tribes were the earliest settlers. I think I remember being taught at school that the kings of Wessex considered themselves the proper rulers of the country, even though they had no real idea of the size or shape of their supposed kingdom.’
‘It’s something more than that,’ Amelia went on. ‘It’s as if this was a magic place. A place where the heart of England is and has always been. I suppose that’s what I mean by deep, George. Its soul is very ancient, and its sense of history is very profound.’
‘I don’t know this part of the country at all,’ George said, looking at the land around him. ‘Yet I know what you mean. It has a very special . . . resonance.’
‘Yes. It has a very special resonance. It’s almost as if this is where we are meant to be.’
George looked at her. ‘Do you think that’s what your famous star was telling you?’
‘I don’t know if the star was telling me, George. I just know that is what I feel.’
There was a very good audience for Clarence Dennison’s poetry reading that night in the ruins of Glastonbury Abbey, thanks not only to the fame of the poet and the vogue for war poems, but no doubt also to the fact that they were to be read in the main by Archibald Hanley, whose current popularity seemed to be immeasurable.
Seen in action George found that he was astonished by the man’s artistry, particularly since he only knew the actor vaguely by repute, and until the moment he appeared on the rostrum in the ruined abbey had only seen him in the context of scandalously funny anecdotes told over champagne cocktails and fresh salmon sandwiches. His public persona was altogether different. Gone was the impish gleam in the eye and the waspish turn to the tongue and in their place instead was the famous mesmerizing look and the equally renowned sonorous baritone. To the last man and woman the audience was enthralled by the wonderful performance, whose climax was made even more dramatic by a sudden dry electrical storm which broke out almost overhead as Archie was reading the last poem, ‘The Stranger on the Landscape’. But by the time he reached the last verse, and Amelia turned to look at George, she discovered that her husband was gone, overcome perhaps by the combination of the poetry, the thunder and the sheet lightning which, Amelia suddenly realized, must have all proved too reminiscent of recent events for him.
Her first instinct was to go after him, but she chose instead to remain in her place, knowing by now that if and whenever George wanted her he told her so. Whatever was troubling him, she knew he needed to be alone at such moments so that he could either overcome these hauntings or at the very least give himself enough time to recover.
She saw him later, leaning on a broken fragment of wall lighting a cigarette, his handsome face illuminated by a match. She went to his side and slipped her hand into his.
‘Don’t you want to come and say well done to Archie?’
‘I’m not quite sure I know what to say. To him or to your father.’
‘They’ll expect you to say something. Particularly Archie. Actors always expect you to say something.’
‘Even though they’re saying someone else’s words? And even though those words are only a reflection of someone else’s deeds?’
‘Does that bother you, George? I would have thought it was a mark of respect – if not honour. To have someone write verses about your deeds. And to have a great actor recite and give them meaning.’
‘Yes,’ George agreed, after giving the matter thought. ‘Yes, you’re quite right. I’m being churlish. Simply because I was so affected by it.’
‘I don’t see anything wrong in that.’
‘Just a bit indulgent, allowing myself to be so moved by your father’s verse. And by Archie’s performance. For a moment I thought I might have been escaping from the reality, in fact I thought there was a danger that we all might be. Here in this magical setting, seduced by art – I mean even the thunderstorm.’
He looked to a horizon still lit by distant lightning.
‘I’m not sure what this sort of thing proves,’ he continued. ‘Or even what it means. Isn’t there a very real danger that because of the fineness and subtlety of great art what we all went through – the war – will become something to be enjoyed? I don’t think it should be, you see. I think we should only be appalled and sickened by what has just happened.’
‘I think that’s a very good point,’ Amelia agreed, sitting down on part of the broken wall next to him. ‘In fact I think you should argue that with Papa over dinner. And with Mr Hanley.’
‘No.’ George shook his head and drew on his cigarette. ‘No, I don’t think it’s something we should argue about. This is just me. I’m just trying to get my bearings, really. Trying to sort out everything that’s going on in my head. Don’t worry. I’m not going mad.’
Finally of course he was pulled into a discussion over dinner, a dinner which had turned into a splendid impromptu party thanks to the generosity and warmth of Archie and Mae who insisted that at least a dozen of their acquaintances who had attended the reading should come back to The Manor.
It was a very informal occasion, and since the storm had now completely cleared, leaving a fine and warm autumn night behind, everyone ate at long tables set out on the terrace underneath a pergola covered in honeysuckle and deeply scented roses. As always at the Hanleys’ table the wine flowed freely, as subsequently did the conversation, so that before long George forgot his introspection and found himself in a passionate debate about the role of the artist in a post-war society.
‘Soldiers are not the only ones who make sacrifices, my dear young hero,’ Archie informed him, clapping a hand on his forearm. ‘This may sound like heresy to you, but artists also sacrifice themselves. We are like bees. We sting and we die.’
‘It�
��s only a cosmetic death, surely.’
‘Art is a living death, sweet boy! We suffer so that the rest of you may see!’
‘Hanley here is right, but only up to a point,’ Clarence said, peeling a ripe peach with great precision. ‘We artists have been described as being full of imaginings – which after we have told of them, everyone then sees.’
‘It was a German who said that, isn’t that so, Clarrie?’ Archie thundered. ‘That damnable know-it-all Goethe.’
‘So what if it was, Archie? He it was who also said there is no patriotic art – nor any patriotic science. The two things cross all frontiers. As the true artist does.’
‘So your poems, Mr Dennison,’ George wondered, turning to Clarence. ‘Your poems are not just in homage to English soldiers? They’re meant for German ears too?’
‘Of course!’ Archie insisted, banging a fist on the table. ‘But of course!’
‘I can answer that for myself, thank you, Archibald, you old ham,’ Clarence reproved his host. ‘And yes, George, of course I would hope my poems were not chauvinistic elegies, but rather that they reflected the universal pain and suffering of war. Have you read any of Wilfred Owen’s work? “Strange Meeting” for instance?’
‘No, sir, I haven’t. Should I?’
‘Most certainly. No-one has put it better – what we’re talking about now. I am the enemy you killed, my friend. I knew you in this dark. I’ll give it to you to read when we get home.’
‘My hands were loath and cold,’ Archie continued, his eyes widening with the wonder of the words, his voice beginning to boom. ‘Let us sleep now.’
‘Yes. But the point of art, that is what I am after.’
To a person the whole table seemed to be staring at George.
‘The point of art?’ a painter called Henry Hick echoed. ‘The point of art, young man?’
‘If the point of an army is to win battles, sir, then what is the point of art?’
‘To do battle, I’d say,’ Hick replied, pouring wine. ‘To do battle with conscience. Art doesn’t answer any questions, you see. It asks them.’
The Kissing Garden Page 13
