by Ann Purser
Ivy watched them walking slowly along the street, stopping to read the stone tablet on the school commemorating its benefactor, the Hon. Charles William Standing. Reverend Brooks is a lovely man, she thought, hoping Mother wasn't listening, but her ghostly parent was never far away. Be your age, Ivy, the voice said, that wife of his is a very attractive woman. Ivy looked at the hand that had been shaken so warmly, and reflected that it was the first time anybody had touched her since Mother died, apart from Robert's quick peck on the cheek.
Be your age, do, repeated the voice, and there was a tinge of unkind amusement.
Ivy slammed the tray of glasses down on the draining-board and turned on the tap until the water ran violently into the bowl, splashing up round the sink and on to her skirt.
Why don't you just leave me alone, Mother, she said, just leave me alone and go away! She swished the glasses through the water and stood them to drain, then went to fetch a drying-up cloth from the range. Halfway across the kitchen she stood still, frowning, her mouth pursed. She sat down suddenly on a chair by the table, bowed her head, and cried bitterly into a white handkerchief with exquisite drawn thread work that had been her mother's.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Open Gardens Sunday was the one day of the year when the whole village prayed for fine weather. Eight gardens were to be opened to a well-behaved, meandering crowd who came from the ends of the county to praise and criticise, to make notes of interesting plants, and to have a surreptitious snoop into open windows of houses which they wouldn't otherwise have reason to visit.
From steady, thorough hard work throughout the winter and spring, clearing and trimming, sowing and planting, the nervous owners of gardens on the list reached a frenzy of last minute clipping and tweaking as the Open Day dawned.
Fred Mills was up at six thirty in Macmillan Gardens, pulling scarcely visible weeds out of his immaculate circular flower bed, positioned exactly in the centre of a smooth, knife-edge trimmed lawn of velvety green grass.
At the Hall, Bill Turner had a last conference with Mr Richard about how to route the crowds round the rose gardens and the shrubbery, so that they would get the full impact of the lavender walk down to the exquisite stone shepherd boy, eternally merry as he blew on his silent pipes.
Bill's garden was to be open, too, by special request from the Parish Council. Everyone knew that the Turners' flowers and vegetables were well-nigh perfect, and in spite of all the spring rain, Bill had a display of dahlias and snapdragons, asters and delphiniums, golden rod and montbretia, rivalling the grandest garden in the district. His orderly rows of vegetables, and rich, shiny clusters of red and yellow tomatoes, were a delight to the eye as well as the stomach. But he never put his name forward, and everyone knew that it was because of Joyce.
'Don't you dare let all those bloody strangers in our garden!' she had screamed, when he tentatively mentioned the idea. But in the pub one night Tom Price had persuaded him over a couple of pints to add his garden to the list. 'She'll never know, boy,' Tom had said, 'with all them curtains constantly drawn. And if she does peep out, it'll be too late for her to do anything about it.'
'I shall pay for it later, though,' Bill had said gloomily, but he allowed his garden to be listed nevertheless. He was proud of it, knew it was worth seeing, and he still had just enough fight left in him to risk a confrontation with Joyce.
'Best get back now, Mr Richard,' he said, 'make sure everything's tidy for the visitors.'
'Well done, Turner,' said Mr Richard, 'and best of luck.' Mr Ross, in his neo-Tudor house up the Bagley Road, nervously tied up a stray rambler and called to his wife to set up the card-table at the gate. Each open garden had its entry manned by one or two locals, who checked tickets and handed out the sheets of closely typed script giving histories and details of the gardens.
For many years, in his geometrically arranged garden, Mr Ross had mown and edged, and planted French marigolds, salvia and alyssum at exact intervals, all in quiet isolation from the rest of the village. But now he had neighbours, the new development in Walnuts Farm Close, and although he and his wife had hated the thought of their privacy being disturbed, Mr Ross had gradually become a friend and adviser to the young couples starting their gardens from patches of builders' rubble. One of his protégés had joined the list of open gardens, and Mr Ross felt a glow of pride.
Pat and Colin Osman had inherited a tightly controlled garden from their predecessors at Casa Pera, and had maintained it in much the same way. Planting had been organised for colour all the year round, and fruit trees were bullied into tortuous shapes, taking up the minimum space but producing the maximum harvest. Beyond their garden, in sharp contrast, was the Hall parkland, widely spreading and free from constraint. But, as Colin had pointed out knowledgeably to his wife, the park itself had been just as artificially designed in the first place. Only time had given it the illusion of Nature wild and free.
Colin Osman was a member of the Gardens Committee which organised the event, and had tackled it with customary enthusiasm. He was up at the crack of dawn, sorting and stacking leaflets, and telephoning people who had not yet stirred from their beds.
Refreshments were being served at Doreen Price's farm, and she and fellow WI members had spent a whole day scrubbing out an old stable, setting up an attractive tea-shop with red and white gingham cloths and posies of flowers on each table. Doreen's green and generous garden was open to visitors, too, and Tom had grumbled that she'd have no time left to collect eggs or feed the chickens in the top field. Doreen had just smiled and blown him a kiss as she passed by with a box full of crockery from the Village Hall.
'Looks like we're going to be lucky with the weather,' she said. 'There's not a cloud in the sky.'
At two o'clock precisely, Ivy Beasley stepped out of her front door and locked it carefully behind her. She walked up towards Macmillan Gardens, and joined Doris Ashbourne who was waiting for her on the corner.
'Where's Ellen Biggs, then?' she said, looking back across the Green. 'Late as usual, the old slug.'
'Don't you ever stop to think what you say, Ivy?' said Doris. 'Ellen could be ill, or held up for a good reason.'
'Not her,' said Ivy, 'strong as an ox, that one. There she is, look, just coming over the bridge, and taking her time about it.'
They watched Ellen silently, and the old woman quickened her pace, shouting a greeting to Don Cutt in the pub yard, and finally catching up, her chest heaving with the effort of hurrying.
'Where shall we go first, then?' she said, hoarsely, but with a cheerful smile. Gardens Open Day was a treat for Ellen, as she was incurably nosy, and the influx of strangers was a welcome source of novelty and speculation. She had dressed appropriately, in a full-skirted white cotton dress, printed with tiny sprays of forget-me-nots, and unashamedly feminine with big puff-sleeves and a heart-shaped neckline. The white ankle socks and large men's plimsolls rather spoiled the effect, but Ellen had sacrificed looks for comfort.
'I remember Doreen Price's daughter in that dress,' said Ivy. 'She was about sixteen at the time, and just the right age for such a garment. You do look a right fool, Ellen, but there's no telling you, is there?'
'Now, now, that's enough,' said Doris quickly. 'I suggest we go to Fred's garden first, and Standings' last, and the others in between.'
The gardens had been open since eleven o'clock in the morning, and cars were parked nose to nose around the Green. Local people mixed with visitors from Tresham and around, and there was a pleasant hum of conversation as the three women approached Fred Mills's house in Macmillan Gardens. Fred was in his element, his pipe tucked in the pocket of a grubby linen jacket that could have done with a visit to the cleaners. He lived with his old, bed-ridden sister, and they did well enough. But niceties like taking clothes to the cleaners had been given up long since.
Fred hadn't stopped talking since the first visitor arrived, and his rheumy eyes shone behind a pair of spectacles as he read aloud the details of his own
garden from the dog-eared sheet he kept firmly clenched in his hand.
'Noted for a fine collection of brassicas,' he read, peering over the top of the sheet at Ivy, Ellen and Doris.
'Don't be such an old fool,' said Ivy, 'we know you've got some decent cabbages coming on. You don't have to put on a show for us.'
'Nasty Black Spot on them roses, Fred,' said Ellen, pulling off a disfigured leaf.
'It's everywhere this year,' said Fred defensively, leaving the trio to get on with it, and going back to the gate to welcome strangers who were hovering uncertainly on his concrete path, and could be trusted not to make snide remarks. 'It is nice and neat, though,' said Doris. 'Considering his age, old Fred does very well.'
'No better than mine,' said Ivy, 'and I've nobody to help with the heavy work.'
'Better ask your beloved Robert to do some digging this autumn,' said Ellen. 'If he can spare the time, that is, from courtin' his Mandy.'
A ripple of excitement passed through all three women as they approached Bill Turner's garden on the opposite side of Macmillan Gardens. It being Bill's first year, curiosity had drawn most of the village to file through the narrow passage by the house and marvel at the rich productiveness of Bill's garden. The shed, they noticed, was shut firmly, and its windows were whitewashed, blind and forbidding.
'That's where 'e kept them rabbits,' whispered Ellen, 'them what Joyce ... you know, Doris.'
'I do know,' said Doris, 'and so does everybody else. It's a wonder Bill didn't do for her right there and ...' Her voice tailed away as she turned to look back at the house, and at the same moment a silence fell on the sunlit garden.
At the front gate, Bill was trying to persuade a reluctant Peggy to come in.
'I'll pick you some parsley, gel,' he said, 'you said yours was no good.' She followed him nervously through the passage and round to the patch of lush green herbs by the water-butt, aware that nobody was talking and convinced that they were all looking at her. Bill bent down, and was beginning to pick the parsley when he heard Peggy gasp.
He straightened up and was rooted to the spot, staring with her and every other visitor at the bedroom window over looking the garden.
'Oh my God,' he said. 'Oh, dear God, she's done it now.' Joyce had drawn back the curtains, and those who saw her do it reported a mad theatricality in the act. There she stood, posed like Botticelli's vision of the birth of Venus, except that there were no long tresses to hide her nakedness, and confinement and lack of exercise had loosened her body so that it sagged and bulged in a way that would have disgraced the goddess of love.
She looked down at where Bill stood beside Peggy, and her face was full so full of hate that Peggy winced.
'Bill,' she said quietly, 'Bill, dear, you'd better go in and sort her out. I'll see you later.'
In the shocked stillness in the garden, Bill made his way to the back door, his head bent and his face scarlet. He disappeared inside, and seconds later could be seen pushing his way in front of Joyce and drawing the curtains once more.
'Show's over,' said Peggy in a cracked voice, and turned to leave. As she passed Ivy Beasley, the spinster put out a hand, barring Peggy's way.
'Satisfied, are we, Mrs Palmer?' she said. 'A person can be driven only so far, you know. But no doubt you think you know best.'
Ivy turned on her heel, and proceeded past the lettuces and marrow bed, and on down to the compost heap at the bottom of the garden. She stayed there, looking out over the quiet fields, until Ellen and Doris joined her, and then without speaking they continued on their way.
Peggy fumbled with her back-door key and almost fell into the kitchen. She collapsed on to a chair and thumped at her temples with clenched fists.
'What the bloody hell are you doing to that woman?' she yelled, and Gilbert shot out of her basket and through the cat flap in alarm.
A long time went by and Peggy did not move. The kitchen was silent and still, and then Gilbert-returned, rubbing against Peggy's leg and meowing softly for her supper. At last Peggy stood up and went wearily to the fridge, taking out a half-full tin of cat food and spooning the strong-smelling meat into a yellow plastic dish.
'It's no good,' said Peggy. 'What I'm doing is wicked, and there are no excuses. I shall have to explain to Bill, and he'll have to accept it.' She shivered. I have to get out of here, she thought, get some fresh air. I feel dirty.
She pulled on a cardigan and went out of the back door again, latching the side gate and setting off in the direction of the church. It was after closing time for the gardens, but a few people still lingered, sitting on the bench on the Green in the evening sunlight, and strolling in groups by the river.
One by one the cars drove off, people staring out at Peggy as she crossed the road without looking, causing a big grey Mercedes to stop with a jolt and hoot angrily.
She came to the bridge and for once did not stop to look at the water. Her mind was blank, and her eyes saw only the road beneath her.
Finally she stopped, and realised where she was. There was the headstone, so sadly new and clean. 'FRANK ARTHUR PALMER - Died 6.12.1992. aged 53 years. Beloved husband of MARGARET. "Tomorrow to fresh woods, and pastures new." Peggy stood looking at it for several minutes, and then sat down on the warm grass by the gentle mound. 'It's a mess, Frank,' she said. 'You would be ashamed of me. Come to that, I'm ashamed of myself. But I'm so afraid that I can't stop it. Bill means too much to me now, and he is so unhappy, always will be unhappy with that woman, whatever I do or say. It isn't fair, Frank, it isn't fair at all.
A blackbird sitting high above her on the church roof began his liquid, magical evening song, and she looked up. The sky was pale and limpid, and the breeze too slight to stir the heavy black yews. She looked down at Frank's grave, and put her hands on the short grass, digging her nails into the turf, deeper and deeper. 'Frank,' she said, and repeated his name desperately as her fingers grew black with earth and became entangled in the mat of roots.
'Don't do that, Peggy,' said a woman's voice, 'you'll do yourself no good, my dear. Come away now, come away.'
It was Doreen Price, large and comforting, and Peggy allowed herself to be led out of the churchyard to where
Doreen had parked her car.
'Hop in,' Doreen said. 'We'll go back to the farm and have a nice cup of tea.'
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
She's had one husband and lost him, and now she's well on the way to snatching somebody else's, said Ivy Beasley to her empty front room. For once there was no answering voice in her head, and Ivy felt a moment of panic.
Mother? I said Pushy Peg's driving that poor Joyce round the bend...Nothing. No sharp rejoinder, no goad to urge her on.
Ivy walked into the kitchen and began to fill the kettle. After the drama at the Turners', she and Doris and Ellen had continued round the other gardens, their enthusiasm dampened by Bill's humiliation. Even old Ellen was subdued, and after they had walked round the Hall terraces and gravel paths, she had said she was tired and disappeared into her Lodge without suggesting a cup of tea. Doris, too, had gone straight home, saying she had some jobs to see to, and left Ivy standing at her gate. There's a funny feeling in the village, Ivy thought, looking round, seeing nothing amiss, everything as usual, but able to sense intangible shock waves.
Now the sky was pink with the setting sun, and long shadows stretched across Ivy's garden, like pointing fingers. She banged her hand on the window and a flock of sharp-suited starlings flew off. As she watched, Gilbert sauntered through the fence and began to dig a hole in Ivy's vegetable patch. She knocked on the window again, and the cat looked up, startled. Ivy went to the back door and called, 'Here, kitty, here .. .'
She had been feeding the little cat for months, hoping it would prefer her quiet home and leave the haphazard life of the shop next door. But Gilbert knew when she was on to a good thing, and lived in both camps, growing fat and glossy, distributing her favours equally.
'Hello, Tiddles,' she said, picking u
p the tabby and stroking the soft fur. 'You mustn't dig holes in my garden, you know, best to do that next door.'
She sat down on a kitchen chair, the cat curled comfortably in her lap. 'Do you know, pussy,' Ivy said, 'I think Mother's gone and left me.' Her voice trembled as she realised the enormity of this, the possibility of freedom at last.
Gilbert mewed and dug her claws into the thick material of Ivy's skirt.
'Shall we have something to eat?' said Ivy. 'There's a bit of fish for you, and a nice chop for me.'
Ivy got up, the cat jumping down and settling on the mat in front of the old range. Taking a saucepan from the cupboard, Ivy put the fish to stew in milk, and placed her chop in a pan, sprinkling it with thyme and salt and sliding the dish carefully into the oven.
'There we are, won't be long,' she said.
Ivy reached for a book, neatly covered in brown paper, from the mantelshelf, and opened it where a bookmark of brown leather, embossed with the Tresham town crest, marked her place. She sat back in the spindle-back kitchen chair and began to read. It was very peaceful, and Ivy at last had a feeling of complete solitude, of being alone without observation or comment. She adjusted a cushion in the small of her back, rested her feet in their sensible brown shoes on the brass fender, and began to read.
The brown paper cover concealed a picture of a young woman with nut-brown hair and blue eyes gazing raptly up at a stone pulpit, where a handsome cleric in surplice and dog collar directed his lop-sided smile at the congregation, but his eyes were for the girl in the front pew.
'"You see how difficult it is for me, Amanda,"' Ivy read. "My poor invalid wife never stirs from her chair, but I am bound to her with my vows before God, and ..." '
A sizzling on the stove and the rank smell of burning fishy milk brought Ivy to her feet in alarm. She was full of the usual fear of criticism and reprimand, but in her head there was silence. Are you there, Mother, are you watching? No answer. Then it's of no account, thought Ivy. I can let the milk boil over and the chop sizzle to a bit of old leather, and there's only me to care. She began to hum in her cracked, tuneless voice, as she mopped up the spilt milk. The little cat looked up at her in surprise.
