The Kissing Garden

by Charlotte Bingham

  ‘I enjoyed it. In fact, Louisa, I have to tell you that I think it is a wonderful piece of work,’ said Constance, who was sitting opposite. ‘It thoroughly deserves every word of praise which has been heaped upon it.’

  ‘By a lot of extremely radical freethinkers, Constance. I am hardly surprised that Bohemia likes it, that is only to be expected, but those of us on this side of the fence feel rather differently.’ Lady Dashwood gave a small shudder, as if the better to express her distaste.

  ‘Only natural, Louisa, you know,’ Clarence remarked. ‘Dismay at the younger generation is a concomitant of middle age, along with attending church and reading aloud from newspapers the opinions of those with whom we’re in firm agreement.’

  Lady Dashwood tapped her glass for more water before continuing.

  ‘It is a betrayal of class, Clarence. Writing a book such as this is flying in the face of family and heritage.’

  ‘Perhaps that’s precisely why it has so much power?’ Amelia suggested. ‘Why it’s having such a profound effect? Because it’s telling the truth about the war.’

  The controversy over George’s book had raged throughout most of the lunch, overtaking the initial debate about the social state of the country in light of the General Strike the month before which had been called off after only nine days. Naturally Lady Dashwood had set about her son over that topic as well, upbraiding him for not offering his help in keeping the country going as so many of his fellow officers and men had done. George had gently reminded his mother that not only was he no longer in the army but that he had, alas, every sympathy with the strikers. It was at this point that Amelia had been sure that her mother-in-law was about to up and leave the party very prematurely.

  ‘Heaven knows what this country is coming to,’ Lady Dashwood now continued. ‘Heaven knows what you all fought and your friends died for. The wretched trade unions are holding us to ransom with their strikes, which simply should not be allowed. We’ve had a Labour government, albeit a short-lived one, under that wretched man MacDonald who was, if you please, a pacifist during the war. Can one believe such a thing? That a country such as this could be governed by a man who was too cowardly to fight for it?’

  ‘If I may, Mother,’ George put in quietly from his end of the table. ‘I thought the whole purpose of the war was so that this country could remain what it has always been: a bastion of democracy and the home of free speech.’

  ‘Well said, George,’ Clarence agreed. ‘The war was fought for exactly that. So that windbags like me could sit around excellent tables such as yours expounding our usually absurd ideas about life. And so that people like yourself could be free to write and to publish whatever they please, regardless of who else they may please, or may not. All you are suffering from Louisa my dear,’ he remarked, turning his attention to George’s mother seated by his side, ‘is the usual embarrassment of families such as yours when one of the clan publishes something expounding views with which they happen not to agree.’

  ‘All I hope is that my son is not turning into one of those wretched communists,’ the general sighed from the opposite end of the table. ‘Just to cap it all.’

  ‘My husband is right to be concerned,’ Lady Dashwood assured the assembled company. ‘The country is fast becoming morally corrupt. One only has to look at the latest fashion to become aware of the fact. Skirts above the knee? I have never heard of such a thing.’

  ‘Or even seen such a thing,’ Clarence mused, straight-faced.

  ‘And as for women sitting drinking in pubs,’ Lady Dashwood concluded. ‘Whatever next?’

  ‘Women such as myself having the vote, probably,’ Amelia said, ‘instead of having to wait until we are thirty. As if all women are emotionally immature. I mean to say.’

  ‘Good heavens,’ her mother-in-law sighed without sympathy. ‘I suppose you’ll be chaining yourself to the railings any moment now, Amelia.’

  ‘If you do, darling, I shall chain myself with you,’ Constance promised. ‘I couldn’t agree more with what Mrs Pankhurst said. That the war was God’s vengeance on the people who held women in subjection.’

  ‘You surely do not believe any such thing, Constance?’ Lady Dashwood enquired, genuinely shocked. ‘It is simply a fact of life that our place, women’s place, is in the home.’

  ‘You may think so, Louisa, and no doubt many of your friends also,’ Constance returned. ‘But I’m afraid it’s all changed now. Particularly since the war. Come now, what woman who has served as a nurse at the front or at the bench in a munitions factory, or in offices or other situations formerly closed to them – which of those women is going to happily return to scrubbing their doorsteps on a Monday morning and pulling off their drunken husband’s boots every evening? And all for continued inequality? I don’t think so, Louisa. I’m afraid those days are well and truly over.’

  ‘The old order changeth. It always doth.’ Clarence helped himself to yet more wine. ‘Everything changes, that’s the nature of things. The only thing that doesn’t is the human spirit which, thank God, seems to be unquenchable.’

  ‘Like your thirst, Clarrie,’ Constance muttered, giving her husband a look.

  ‘George is a typical example,’ Clarence continued obliviously. ‘Brave in battle and equally courageous in peacetime too. Takes a lot of courage to try and earn your living by the pen. Tremendous courage. You may not like his book, Louisa, but you should admire your son’s courage for writing it.’

  ‘Thank you, Papa,’ Amelia said, with a smile to her father, who raised his glass to her in return. ‘I think we should drink a toast to George for exactly that. For his courage in starting a whole new life. And for the success of his book. I know – just as George does – that his novel has not met with all of your approval. But then what interesting or important work ever did?’

  ‘Quite right, Amelia,’ Clarence nodded. ‘Very few great poets have ever met with the approval of their contemporaries, let alone their families.’

  ‘That is hardly the point, Clarence,’ Lady Dashwood began, only to be stopped short by her own husband.

  ‘Leave the man be, Louisa!’ the general boomed suddenly, having been seemingly deaf to all that was going on around him. ‘Clarence has a point and a good one too, as it happens.’

  Amelia glanced down the table at her father-in-law. She had been as amazed as George when the old soldier had actually turned up for the celebration luncheon, since Lady Dashwood had given every indication that she would be travelling to Somerset alone. Yet at the last minute, for some reason no-one had dared to ask, General Dashwood had, it seemed, changed his mind.

  From the look on George’s face as he had seen the older man, as upright and white-moustached as ever, climbing out of the back seat of his immaculately polished car, his chauffeur standing at attention, his wife waiting with ill-concealed impatience for him to follow her up the steps of the house, Amelia had immediately known that her husband was as astonished as she was to see him arriving at The Priory, particularly since she knew from that morning’s post that George’s allowance still remained as it had been for five years – cut off.

  ‘Oh dear, how dull, I can’t remember where I was . . .’ Amelia laughed, her train of thought interrupted.

  ‘Encouraging us to raise our glasses to a great writer,’ Clarence told her, staring round the table as if to challenge anyone. ‘Which I am quite sure your husband is going to be.’

  ‘All I actually wanted to say and do is propose a toast to George,’ Amelia said, with a shy smile down the table to her husband. ‘I am very proud of him, and I am sure every one of us seated at this table will always have cause to be just as proud of him as I am.’

  The general cleared his throat and stared up at the ceiling, while Lady Dashwood’s mouth took an even more downward turn.

  ‘So – to George. To his continued success.’

  ‘To George—’ Amelia began.

  But stopped as she saw that her mother-in-law was quite obvio
usly not going to raise her glass of water in a toast and elected instead to stare right past George to the garden outside.

  ‘If you will kindly excuse me, Amelia,’ she said finally, about to rise from the table to leave the dining room.

  ‘Sit down, Louisa,’ the general ordered. ‘Whatever your feelings about George’s book, this is not your house.’

  Louisa Dashwood coloured at once and did as she was told, sitting back at the table, folding her hands in her lap and staring silently ahead of her.

  ‘To George,’ Amelia repeated, and in return everyone raised their glass, even – in response to another look from her husband – Lady Dashwood.

  * * *

  ‘George does look as though he’s had kittens,’ Constance said to Amelia as they were walking around the grounds of The Priory after lunch.

  ‘I think he has, Mama. Or as near as can be.’

  ‘Poor dear. The book doesn’t pull any punches, does it? If he had not already had his allowance cut off it would surely be for the chop now, good and proper!’

  Constance smiled at her daughter, pretending not to notice her inner anxieties, for if there was one thing on which Mrs Clarence Dennison was determined, it was that it was utterly useless to worry about anything, except perhaps where she had last put her spectacles.

  ‘George was more than a little afraid at first, I have to say. Even though he and his father were finally in agreement over his decision to leave the army. But then he said if he had had the courage of his convictions – I mean, enough to leave the army, for goodness’ sake – then it simply did not make sense not to turn that same courage to writing a book, and somehow trying to make sense of it all – of the war, of all his friends dying.

  ‘That was how he reasoned, and I think he was right, as it happens. I do. He had to write what he felt, for all those who could not. He had to put back! Even if it has made him unpopular with all the old generals and set his mother’s nerves on edge, being young is the time to try things. As a matter of fact I think we should always go on trying things, for ever and ever, or what is the point of anything?’

  ‘Even so, Amelia, poor General Whiskers hasn’t exactly had a good time of it since the war ended. With all those wretched politicians blaming all the generals for everything that went wrong, it has not been easy for anyone’s generation, you must see that.’

  ‘I know,’ Amelia sighed. ‘But then the generals have had a good go back at the politicians, so I suppose it’s even Stevens really. Now come along, I want to show you the rest of the garden.’

  ‘I can’t believe you have done what you have done in such a short space of time,’ Constance called after her, shaking her head. ‘Nor did I ever know you had such green fingers.’

  ‘It’s coming along.’ Amelia smiled back at her mother. ‘Give it another fifty years and a few thousand pounds, and it will be quite presentable.’

  ‘Talking of which, and I hate to ask this, but – but are you going to be able to manage to live on just George’s writings, darling?’

  ‘We don’t want any handouts, Mama, if that is what you are really asking. George and myself had this absolute understanding that if he was to go his own way, leave the army and so on, take up the uneasy business of writing, as George calls it – then we couldn’t possibly expect his family to finance us.’

  ‘Fair enough,’ Constance agreed, her maternal heart nevertheless sinking.

  ‘We’ll be fine, Mama. George has now proved that he is a very talented writer and since that is what he wanted to do, that is how we shall earn our keep.’

  ‘With two children growing up, keeping up this place, Clara and the gardening boys – things could be more than a little tight, darling.’

  Constance could have kicked herself for suddenly letting her anxiety for George and Amelia show, but it was like knowing your petticoat was showing: nothing to be done until you reached your bedroom.

  ‘Of course things will be tight, and we will have to cut it very fine to stay here, but that is how it is. We are both agreed that Peter and Gwendolyn are not going to be spoilt by anything except fresh air, home cooking, and plenty of love.’

  ‘Your father and I found it hard enough with just you, when your father was starting out.’

  ‘Poets and painters don’t earn as much as novelists, Mama. George has written a book that is being read by everyone, and taken up all over Europe.’

  ‘Yes, yes, of course – and when all is said and done, after all, we did manage, even if I had to learn to disguise rabbit to make it look like chicken, and make my own clothes for those first few years. Confidence is everything. If you think you will win, you will. By the way, I wonder what’s going to bring poor darling Louisa round to George’s point of view? I do so hate to see mothers falling out with their sons.’

  ‘I thought perhaps when Peter was born she’d unbend a bit, Mama. But she hasn’t. And as for Gwendolyn – well, she has no interest in girls at all, which coming from a military family is not so surprising, I suppose.’

  ‘Now you come to mention it, where is my granddaughter? And even more important, how is she?’

  Together they strolled back across the main lawns to find Clara, George and Amelia’s young nursemaid, and her charges, talking as they went about the health of the latest addition to the young Dashwood family, their beloved daughter born thirteen months previously.

  ‘Edward – Dr Lydford, you know,’ Amelia told her mother as they walked. ‘I told you he said her health was a little frail, because Gwen was premature, and that we must take special care of her – did I tell you that?’

  ‘You did, darling,’ her mother agreed. ‘But I still don’t quite understand why being early should affect the health of the child.’

  ‘He doesn’t think it will affect her permanently, just initially. He said in fact a premature birth can harm both the mother and the child. But I could not be more well, and Gwen really is getting better by the day. She is quite bonny, as you’ll see. At least for her.’

  ‘And what about this nursemaid of yours? This untrained nursemaid, Amelia?’

  ‘Clara is a first class nanny, Mama. Being the eldest of what – six? – she’s a natural nanny. She helped rear all her brothers and sisters. Besides which, she’s a very nice girl.’

  ‘You hear such awful things. Only the other day I was reading all about some young nursemaid or other who used to gas her charge each evening in order to get the baby to sleep, and the parents never knew anything about it, until she was found dead.’

  ‘Clara’s not like that, Mama. Clara’s only vice would be to read Peter too many bedtime stories. Believe me, our Clara has been sent from heaven. Just a minute. . .’ Amelia caught her mother by the arm as they were rounding the side of the house to the shelter of the walled vegetable garden where she knew Clara was sitting out with her two children. ‘Look.’

  Both women did not only look, they stared.

  Obviously imagining herself to be safely out of the sight of the rest of the family, Lady Dashwood was, it seemed, paying a secret visit to her grandchildren. Bent over the pram which contained Gwendolyn, she had her back to Amelia and Constance as they rounded the corner and could be seen tickling the baby’s tummy before gently taking hold of one of her tiny hands and kissing it. Straightening herself up with a devoted smile on her face, she then turned to Clara and took young Peter from his nurse quickly, hugging him to her.

  ‘I think, just at this minute, we’re needed in another part of the garden, Mama,’ Amelia whispered. ‘Don’t you?’

  * * *

  A week later, George received a letter from his father which, once he had read it, he showed to Amelia.

  Having read the letter most carefully Amelia gave it back to George. ‘Well,’ she said.

  ‘Well indeed, darling.’

  Amelia could see that George was upset, but she was determined not to show him that she had noticed. There was no point. It would not help anything.

  ‘What y
our father is saying, if I understand it, George, is that while he respects your point of view, to resume your allowance would be to lend approval to your opinions and that he cannot do, is that correct?’

  ‘Something like. The point is – I never asked him to resume my allowance. It did not occur to me to ask him. It hurts me that he thinks I might, that I am that sort of person. I know how he feels about the book, and about my leaving the army, but all I wanted was his respect, not his money.’

  ‘I hate to be too obvious, George, but I would say that your mother is behind this. She thinks you have let down not only the side, your class and your regiment, but the whole country!’

  ‘You may be right, but in the event it really doesn’t matter. I just wish he hadn’t written to me. Letters are somehow so cold, aren’t they? Never mind, eh?’ He turned back to Amelia, and she could see him almost physically kicking the hurt behind him as he smiled down at her. ‘We knew we were going to have to tighten the purse strings, cut our cloth and all that!’

  ‘We were not not counting on it, either!’

  ‘It’s all up to the muse now. Either that or starvation.’

  ‘In that case I’d better lock you back up in your study, Mr Genius.’

  ‘In that case yes – you better had.’

  In future years George would count that time as being among their most idyllic, for nothing made him happier than to be at home living and working. From his study he could watch Amelia at work in her gardens, and his growing children at play, while around him the builders put the finishing touches to the old house. But more than anything it was the unlooked for joy that the children brought him that added such lustre to each day. Peter was a handsome boy, now almost five years old, with his father’s blond hair and his mother’s dark brown eyes, a mix which for some reason gave him an unusually dreamy look, while Gwendolyn had Amelia’s dark hair and her father’s bright blue eyes.

  George and Amelia had often wondered at the strange genetic quirk that gave the children each other’s eyes, as Amelia put it, but this singularity would have distinguished them even had not their handsome good looks done so. Peter, belying his appearance, was not at all wont to dream except in very specific terms. Already obsessed with aeroplanes, he had informed his father in no uncertain terms that he was going to be a pilot when he was grown up.