The Kissing Garden

by Charlotte Bingham

  ‘Couldn’t agree more, old boy,’ Edward replied. ‘But of course this series of tests they’re going to run in Bath should clear up any doubts once and for all.’

  Naturally Amelia had been apprehensive about subjecting Gwendolyn to any more tests. She was nervous in case they showed Gwendolyn’s apparent recovery to be a false dawn, and that George’s expressed anxiety about periods of remission followed by renewed attacks had been justified.

  Yet they knew the tests must be run, for without them they would all be living on hope rather than hard fact, so on the appointed day they took the little girl into Bath. They had assured Gwendolyn that the only reason the doctors were going to take samples of her blood was so that they could compare it with Mummy and Daddy’s, but luckily Gwendolyn was not in the least bit interested either in the reasons or in the tests themselves, which were nowhere near as stringent as the ones she had been made to suffer previously. Amelia had suggested that Gwendolyn should take her teddy bear to the hospital with her so that the doctors could take a sample of his blood as well, a diversion which proved enormously successful.

  The afternoon’s outing ended with the three of them having tea and cakes in the Pump Rooms much earlier than they had hoped, and a week later Edward arrived at The Priory with the result of the tests.

  ‘I am delighted to tell you, everyone,’ Edward beamed, holding the letter out before him, ‘that Miss Gwendolyn Dashwood has been declared to be one hundred per cent free of any disorder of the blood. In fact, the doctor in charge of the examination is delighted to add that he has rarely seen not only such a pretty young patient but such a perfectly healthy one.’ He turned away suddenly, shaking his head, and there was a small pause before he added, ‘It’s days like this that make it all worthwhile.’

  * * *

  ‘I feel like getting quite drunk,’ George confessed to Amelia after Edward had left them to continue his rounds.

  ‘Then do,’ Amelia laughed. ‘I shall most probably join you. I don’t think I’ve ever been so happy or so relieved.’

  George poured them both a drink, and for a moment they stood in silence.

  ‘So either it was a misdiagnosis, or else Edward’s diet did the magic.’

  ‘That’s right,’ Amelia agreed. ‘Although I’m more inclined to go for the latter, because to my mind there’s no doubt at all that Gwennie was seriously ill.’

  ‘You think it was Edward’s treatment, then?’

  ‘I think something did the magic.’

  ‘You’re not making sense. Either Edward’s treatment did or it didn’t.’

  Amelia shrugged and shook her head. ‘I don’t know, George. I can’t explain. I just don’t think anything is as simple as that.’ She finished her drink. ‘Let’s put on our coats and go to visit the Kissing Garden.’

  ‘It’s a bit cold for that, isn’t it?’

  ‘Have you forgotten, George? It’s never cold in the Kissing Garden.’

  George laughed. It was true.

  What if she should remember, sir?’ Longbeard asked. ‘Once back, she might remember, might she not?’

  ‘Mortals do not remember,’ the Noble One replied smiling, well pleased at the result of the beetle magick. ‘Now since we find ourselves in their time we must have time to spare. Amuse me.’

  ‘I could tell you something which might not amuse you, sir,’ Longbeard replied. ‘Naturally, it could be of no note, or it may simply have been a time reflection or a star flash, but it might interest you to hear it, and it might be important for you to know, sir.’

  ‘Tell me then, if you must,’ his companion sighed, watching the birth of a minor galaxy. ‘There are an infinite number of deeds to do other than idle in chatter.’

  ‘The one who was your friend,’ Longbeard said, ‘The one who loved your wife in your time. . .’

  ‘Yes? What of him?’ For the first time in many centuries the face of the Noble One in the violet robe grew dark as he held the forearm of the old man in an iron grip. ‘What of him?’ he repeated, ‘What of him?’

  ‘As I said, sir, it might have been a dazzle. But methought I saw him here, here in this very moment where we are, sir. I thought I saw his image behind us in the dark water. Again I saw it, this time beside us in a glass you held, sir. While you examined your own image on the near side of the glass, the far side contained none other than his own. Thus were two men one. The two men who loved her, each a reflection of the other.’

  ‘Enough!’ cried his companion, releasing his grip. ‘We have a task to do! He must not come here! Never! If you should see him again, wizard, I command you to turn him to some small creature of the night, a toad, a bat, but never allow him to show his face here again! Not ever!’

  Part Three

  1931

  ‘Anything more than the truth would be too much.’

  Robert Frost

  Sixteen

  ‘How old are you now, Peter?’ Lady Dashwood asked her grandson, smiling as he pulled on the bright red crêpe paper crown he found in his cracker.

  ‘Ten, Grandmother. Why?’

  ‘I am absolutely useless at remembering the age of my grandchildren, Peter, that is why.’

  ‘You only have two, Mama,’ George reminded her, unravelling a motto from his own cracker.

  ‘I can barely remember my own age, George,’ Lady Dashwood replied. ‘Let alone the age of these two little people.’

  Gwendolyn gave a small sigh and widened her big eyes patiently. ‘Peter is ten next birthday, Grandmother, and I shall be seven next May.’

  ‘You have grown, Gwendolyn,’ her grandmother said almost suspiciously. ‘In fact she has shot up, has she not, Amelia?’

  ‘She’s going to be much taller than I am.’

  ‘All in favour of tall gels meself,’ the general grunted, holding his motto at arm’s length so as to read it better. ‘Now then – someone tell me, right? Which king of Spain wore the biggest shoes?’

  ‘The one with the biggest feet, Grandfather,’ Gwendolyn told him, with another sigh.

  ‘My word,’ the General exclaimed. ‘Not only are you going to be tall, young lady, you’re going to be one of those – what do they call ’em? One of those blue-stockings. That’s what you’re going to be, young lady.’

  ‘What’s a blue-stocking?’

  ‘Someone very clever.’

  ‘I’m not – I just knew the answer! We had it last Christmas!’

  ‘Still say you’re clever meself,’ the General insisted. ‘Dashed if I can remember jokes.’

  ‘If you are going to grow up to be clever, Gwendolyn,’ Lady Dashwood added, ‘be careful not to show that you are in front of the opposite sex. Men run a mile from a clever woman, most especially an English one.’

  ‘With some notable exceptions,’ George said with a look to Amelia.

  ‘Now then, young man.’ Lady Dashwood turned her attention to her grandson. ‘And what do you intend to do when you are grown up?’

  ‘I’m going to fly aeroplanes, Grandmother.’

  ‘I am, not I’m, please, young man. So you intend to fly aeroplanes. I trust this does not mean you intend to join the Flying Corps?’ Lady Dashwood raised her eyebrows to stare wide-eyed at her grandson. ‘This is a military family, Peter. Gentlemen join the army. Gentlemen do not join the Royal Flying Corps.’

  Constance Dennison, who had been unusually silent till now exchanged a look with her daughter and was about to say something when Amelia frowned and shook her head.

  ‘Have you decided on schools yet, George?’ Lady Dashwood continued, turning to her son. ‘It surely is high time this young man was away at school, being taught the sorts of things boys of his age should be taught, instead of being at home all the time, listening to all sorts of bohemic nonsense.’

  ‘Is that how you think of our family chatter?’

  ‘Certainly not the stuff for a growing boy.’

  ‘George and I enjoy having Peter at home. And as far as his education goes it certai
nly is not being neglected.’

  ‘He certainly is not being taught the king’s English.’ Lady Dashwood sniffed. ‘George? I trust you have the matter in hand?’

  ‘Give me senseless Bohemia any day, Louisa,’ Clarence sighed, ‘rather than foolish Mars.’

  Sensing another possible confrontation between George and his mother, Amelia invited Louisa, Constance and the children to withdraw, leaving the gentlemen alone to enjoy their port and cigars.

  This was the first Christmas the three families had actually spent together at The Priory, and so far – perhaps to everyone’s private surprise – it had proved to be a remarkably happy occasion, with even George’s mother managing to come off it, as Amelia put it to George, joining in the fun and games her son and daughter-in-law had organized, although whenever the opportunity arose she still managed to either criticize her son for his present literary activities, or demean his past ones. Amelia had hoped George might not mind his mother’s criticism, which always came masquerading as wit, but it seemed he did. He was very good about not getting into arguments, either ignoring his mother’s remarks or seeming to take them only light-heartedly, but behind the closed doors of their bedroom it was a different matter.

  Here George made it perfectly plain to Amelia that he much regretted his mother’s all-pervasive disapproval, not to mention her inability to show anyone any real affection. The sad thing was that until the moment he had resigned his commission George had always enjoyed a good relationship with his mother. They looked upon and treated each other as friends, and although Louisa’s outlook on life had been invariably critical, nevertheless she had, until that moment, seemed to have a deep and genuine affection for her only son – not because he was a hero but because he seemed to personify everything she and in fact most women would wish for in a son: courage, resolution, honesty and good looks.

  Resigning his commission had, however, proved too much for her to take, and, although somewhat surprisingly his father had managed to come to terms with his son’s decision, it seemed that his mother would never do so. Nor was she was able to find it in her heart to forgive him, still less when George’s books became a dramatic talking point in Society, polarizing opinion between those who thought the author little more than a traitor to his country and those who considered him to be one of the bravest and brightest of the new literary talents to emerge since the war’s end. Predictably enough Louisa Dashwood had pitched her tent in the former camp, believing her son had let down his entire side.

  ‘As if it is not bad enough for one’s son to resign his commission,’ she would often remark to friends at luncheon, ‘imagine what it must be like to have one who does so and writes books.’

  So although it was in the hope of reconciliation that Amelia had suggested the three families should spend Christmas together at The Priory, realistically it was also with a feeling of trepidation. Until this year George and Amelia had spent Christmas staying with one set of parents or the other, and while this had provided some happy times, nevertheless the young Dashwoods had badly missed spending the holiday with their two children in their own home. Because their parents fortunately were good friends, there was at least no danger of any argument arising between the four of them, other than the usual banter at the card table or the ongoing but friendly dispute between Clarence and the General over the merits, or not, of the present Poet Laureate.

  The only real danger of controversy lay between George and his mother, which meant that Amelia was constantly on her guard to defuse any possible confrontation, knowing as she did from experience that when her mother-in-law chose to argue with someone the outcome invariably cast a pall over the celebrations no matter what the result, such was the power of her formidable character.

  So while the three men settled themselves down to enjoy their port and cigars, and Peter and Gwendolyn to play with their Christmas presents, Amelia diverted her mother-in-law’s attention away from the quarrel that she had just been about to pick with her son, to talk about such safe subjects as Dodie Smith’s runaway success in the West End with Autumn Crocus, which Clarence and Constance had taken the young Dashwoods to see when they had been staying with them at the beginning of the month.

  Meanwhile in the dining room the talk had turned away from the current universal economic depression to the growth of the Nazi party in Germany.

  ‘Violet Bonham-Carter was right,’ Clarence said. ‘She warned everyone of the consequences of the French action in the Ruhr back in 1923, but no-one listened to her. The Liberals were in chaos, and now the League of Nations, which was our best hope, so now that hope’s gone as well.’

  ‘I’m not altogether sure, Clarence,’ the General said, ‘how well informed this Bonham-Carter woman was, do you know. People had some pretty derelict ideas then.’

  ‘If you’re worried because as you soldiers would have it she’s a mere woman, Michael, think again,’ Clarence replied. ‘The feminine point of view is often the most sanguine, the most practical and the most commonsensical. She said we must help Germany prosper or rue the day. Or words to that effect. And here we are, ruing the day.’

  ‘Of course, we have to keep our eye on Germany,’ the General said, tapping an inch of his cigar carefully into an ashtray. ‘This Hitler fellow appears to have Hindenberg dancing to his tune, rather than t’other way round. Which is not what the wiseacres have been predicting.’

  ‘I’ve just read Mein Kampf. The book he wrote in gaol. Have you read it, Clarence? Because if not, you should. I don’t think we should underestimate Mr Hitler.’

  ‘I don’t know, George. I was dining with some members of the Cabinet recently, God forgive me.’ Clarence paused to blow a perfect smoke ring and watched with satisfaction as it rose unbroken to the ceiling. ‘Anyway, there was a lot of talk about Germany and her future, but the most interesting rabbit was that a lot of people, including the ones that matter in Germany, think Hitler is mostly hot air, a characterless little man, all sound and fury. And that for all his rantings he will easily be controlled by German big business.’

  ‘Don’t count on it, Clarrie.’ The General looked up suddenly and stared across the table at his friend, and George noticed again how very large his father’s brown eyes were, and how kind. ‘Personally I don’t like what’s going on over there one bit. Country’s bankrupt – they had to close all their banks this year, that’s how bad it’s got – they have a growing population that needs to be fed and clothed, they have massive unemployment and totally weak leadership. Absolute blueprint for some sort of revolution, I’d say.’

  ‘Like Russia, do you mean, Father?’

  ‘Not entirely, my boy. Although there are plenty of Bolsheviks in Germany, I’ll be bound. No. No, I think the danger is going to come from the right in this case. Which is why we have to keep our eye on this Hitler fellow.’

  ‘I heard from some friends who’ve just returned from Germany that Hitler was being bankrolled by some of the German fat cats,’ George said. ‘Some millionaire called Hugenberg? And two or three others have followed suit.’

  ‘That’s what they were saying about big business controlling him.’ Clarence nodded and stared at the tip of his now too-hot cigar. ‘Three other millionaires have pledged their support to the Nazi party.’

  ‘He who holds the purse strings doesn’t always call the tune, Clarrie,’ the General sighed. ‘This fellow Hitler is working class. When they come from that side they have nothing to lose, know what I mean? They’re takers. Particularly from business. Particularly from the rich boys.’

  ‘Meanwhile we’re raising some home-grown Nazis all of our very own,’ Clarence said, pouring some more port as the decanter passed to him. ‘Oswald Mosley? Yes? Left the Labour Party now, I gather, to form his very own Fascist party. Make what you can of that, gentlemen?’

  ‘I was at school with him,’ George leaned forward, relighting his cigar by using the candle near to him. ‘He was full of odd ideas then. In fact I think by now he’s t
ried practically every political bed there is bar communism. He’s been a Conservative, an Independent, a Socialist – and now he’s gone back to the right.’

  ‘Where did the word Fascist come from?’ Clarence wondered, leaning back in his chair. ‘Mussolini coined it, I know – but I’m never altogether sure what it means.’

  ‘It comes from Ancient Rome, as a matter of fact. The fasces were a bundle of sticks tied to an ox, and they represented civil unity, as well as the power of the State to punish wrongdoers.’

  ‘One thing I do know is that Mussolini began his political life as a Marxist. They don’t half bed-hop, these politicians.’

  ‘He’s certainly no Marxist now.’

  ‘So, Fascism is total subordination to the State?’ asked the general.

  ‘And unquestioning allegiance to the leader,’ George added.

  ‘A recipe for mayhem if ever I heard one,’ the general opined. ‘And one absolutely tailor-made for present day Germany.’

  ‘And a Happy Christmas to all my readers,’ Clarence concluded, suddenly looking and feeling far from festive.

  Their mood soon lightened when they had joined the rest of the party in the drawing room. Once the family games were under way all talk of politics was soon forgotten, as it nearly always is when children have to be entertained.

  On Boxing Day George took his father out for a morning’s hunting up on the Downs with the South and West Wilts, while Amelia showed the two older women around the priory grounds, explaining what had been done and what she still intended to do as they walked through the gardens on an unseasonably fine and mild December day. Despite the season the estate still looked beautiful, reflecting all the hard work Amelia, Jethro and Robbie had put into its creation. Louisa was visibly impressed by what Amelia had achieved even during the past year.