The Chain Garden

by Jane Jackson

  The room was simply furnished, functional rather than welcoming, walls and ceiling painted a flat cream. The deep window was hung with dark green curtains. A plain fawn rug covered the polished wood floor between the bed and wardrobe. A white woven coverlet shrouded the bed. Beside it on a cane stool stood an oil lamp and a box of matches. The only other furniture was a plain table that would double as a writing desk, and a straight-backed chair.

  After unpacking his soap and razor, hairbrush, nightshirt and towel, Edwin placed the empty bag beside the wardrobe and sat down on the edge of the bed to wait. Some time later a knock on the door roused him from the numb state of non-thinking the doctor had told him was the aftermath of shock. Lacking the will or energy to move he simply called, ‘Come in.’

  The man who entered was short, plump and balding. Peering over pince-nez clinging halfway down his snub nose, his eyes were as bright and sharp as a bird’s. He wore a black suit, a stiff white collar, a black tie, and a warm smile that released something in Edwin’s chest.

  ‘Good afternoon, Mr Philpotts. My name is Drew. I will be speaking on your behalf at the forthcoming enquiry.’

  Edwin watched dumbly as he crossed to the table, opened his leather case, took out a pen and several sheets of paper, then pulled the chair forward and sat down.

  ‘I’d like you, if you will, to describe exactly what happened the night Mr Preston died.’

  Edwin noticed he said died. Not was killed. Or worse, was murdered. He swallowed and took a shaky breath. He wished he didn’t have to go through it again. A tide of shame engulfed him. He should not complain. It could all have been so very much worse. He had expected the police to be involved. But the doctor had said it was an internal matter that did not concern the Indian authorities and would be dealt with by the Mission Board. Weak from shock and fever Edwin had accepted this.

  He forced himself to think back, to relive scenes and events he would have given everything he possessed to be free of. After a halting start he was once again caught up in the horror of that night. Words poured from him. Drew made notes, interrupting occasionally to ask a question.

  Eventually Edwin stopped, his head in his hands.

  ‘Thank you, Mr Philpotts. That is most satisfactory.’

  It took a moment to penetrate. Then Edwin’s head jerked up.

  Drew had recapped his pen, gathered up his notes and was on his feet, hand extended. Edwin rose and shook it.

  Reaching the door, Drew looked over his shoulder. ‘The hearing will take place tomorrow morning at eleven. Naturally you will attend but you will not be required to speak. Indeed should you find yourself moved to do so I strongly urge you to resist.’ He flashed a brief smile. ‘That is my job.’

  Edwin stared at the closed door. Most satisfactory? What had he meant?

  Following a night of very little sleep Edwin bathed, dressed, forced down half a cup of tea, and followed an Indian servant down the sweeping staircase and across the wide hallway into a lofty room.

  They were seated behind a mahogany table: five black-suited sombre-faced men who would determine his future.

  Drew repeated in broad outline what he had been told the previous afternoon. There was nothing Edwin could argue with, certainly nothing untrue. And yet…

  The Board asked no questions. They did not even retire. Their deliberations consisted of low-voiced murmurs, nodding heads. Edwin realised then that discussions had already taken place: that the purpose of the hearing was simply to observe proper procedure. He should have been shocked, or at least surprised. He was beyond both.

  A few moments later he heard the soul-shattering events neatly disposed of as a tragic accident. Then he was asked to stand as the most senior member of the Board had addressed him.

  ‘Mr Philpotts, we do not hold you responsible in any way for the unfortunate happenings that have been disclosed at this hearing. Nor is there any question mark over your standards of work or behaviour.’

  Relief at the Chairman’s exoneration made Edwin’s heart lurch. His eyes burned and he swallowed repeatedly. He had been terrified they would think he had been aware of what Lewis was doing. That he had deliberately kept silent. He could not have borne it if they thought that. Yet how would he ever have convinced them otherwise?

  ‘However … ‘

  He should have expected it. There was bound to be a However.

  ‘However, we have a duty and responsibility to look beyond the immediate. We have to consider and circumvent any potential repercussions. You will appreciate that it has taken years of committed effort by a large number of very dedicated people for the mission and its work to be accepted by the Indian authorities. You will also understand how vital it is that nothing should undermine our good name. We cannot afford even a whisper of scandal’

  Edwin’s relief turned to uncertainty, and uncertainty to dread.

  ‘So I’m afraid it will not be possible for you to remain at the mission.’

  He flinched as if he’d been struck. He should have foreseen this. They could not possibly afford to have him around, a constant reminder of something best forgotten.

  ‘Having read the doctor’s report on your recent health problems, the Board believes it would be best if you returned to England and a less physically demanding ministry.’

  At least they weren’t forcing him to leave the church. Relief swung to resentment. How could they? He had done nothing wrong. Then realisation stopped his breath. He had killed a man.

  Unpleasant duty done, the chairman smiled and rubbed his hands. ‘I daresay you’ll be glad to go home again, eh?’

  Edwin had stared at him, beyond speech. Home? His home was here. Apart from his schooling, he had lived in India all his life. He opened his mouth, then closed it again. The decision had been made. No amount of pleading would change it. He was an embarrassment. His efforts counted for nothing against the past, present and future work of the mission. Of course he had to go. But he wanted – needed – to go to somewhere familiar.

  ‘S –s-sir? M-m-ay I ask one f-favour?’

  The chairman’s smile grew wary. ‘What is it?’

  ‘Could a place be found for me in Cornwall? It’s where my family came from and where I went to school.’

  He sensed their relief. He wasn’t going to make a fuss.

  After more shared glances and nods the chairman said, ‘I don’t see why not. I’m sure the fresh air and milder climate will soon restore you to good health. I will ask Mr Drew to draft the relevant letters.’

  Edwin was not permitted to return to the mission. He never found out what happened to Akhil. Within days, dazed at the speed with which everything had been arranged, he was on a ship back to England.

  Grace lifted an apricot negligee from the drift of silks, gauze, and lace piled on the white satin counterpane. She recalled her mother wearing it the morning the letter arrived announcing the twins’ homecoming. It seemed such a short time ago.

  Folding the frilled chiffon she laid it gently in the tissue-lined trunk standing on the floor beside the bed. She wiped her eyes and nose, tucked the damp handkerchief into the waistband of her skirt and picked up another bedgown. This one was white gauze trimmed with pink ribbons. She could hear her mother saying that knowing she looked attractive speeded her recovery and she owed it to her visitors to make an effort.

  Grace fumbled for the handkerchief again. She wasn’t ready for this erasure of her mother’s presence. It was too soon. She didn’t understand her father’s urgency.

  They had met in the hall the previous evening. She had been on her way to bed.

  ‘Grace, I want you to sort out your mother’s bedroom; her clothes and so on, as soon as possible. Start tomorrow.’

  Her shock must have shown on her face for his expression immediately hardened. ‘Look, nothing will bring her back. So it can’t make any difference whether you do it now or in six months’ time.’

  Except to her, whose grief and guilt were still raw.

 
‘I’ve neither the time, nor the…’ he gestured helplessly. ‘It’s a woman’s job. You’re her eldest daughter so …’

  It’s your duty. Automatically Grace completed the sentence. Heard first in childhood when she was too young to fully understand what it meant, that phrase had formed her character, shaped her life. Now bereft as she was of love or comfort, it kept her functioning.

  ‘You were close to her. You will know what todo with everything, how best to dispose of… I want it all gone, Grace. No reminders.’ He took a breath as if he were about to add something. Instead he turned away. She saw a muscle twitch in his rigid jaw as he ran a hand over his cropped head.

  Their paths had rarely crossed since the funeral. She had been – she recoiled from the shameful memory of her uncharacteristic behaviour – unwell. He had spent his days away from home visiting various engineering works.

  Overhearing Thomas Coachman tell Violet that master had been all over Cornwall looking at new equipment for the mine Grace had been surprised. She had understood the mine to be in financial difficulty. Either she had misunderstood or the problems had been resolved.

  She gazed at her father. How often she had wished his tongue might be less quick, less scathing. It was rare to see him lost for words. He had never been an easy man to know.

  But not showing his feelings didn’t mean he had none, or that they weren’t as painful as hers. He had lost his life-partner, the mother of his children. How would she feel in such circumstances? She couldn’t even begin to imagine. So though what he was asking appalled her, how could she refuse?

  Blinking back ever-present tears she had tentatively touched his arm. ‘Of course I’ll do it, Papa.’

  The faint fragrance of lavender swelled the lump in her throat. So many clothes. So many memories. She wished Violet were with her. Violet’s practical common sense would have made the task more bearable and two of them could have done it in half the time. But her grandmother had been adamant.

  ‘No. You can’t have Violet. If you’re so anxious to turn out your dear mother’s closets and her hardly cold in her grave, you must do it alone. I’m not well. I need Violet here with me. Now go away. I can’t bear the sight of you. Heartless, you are, cruel and heartless. Oh, I wish Zoe was here. She would understand. She’s such a comfort to me. Not like some.’ Closing her eyes, she had turned her head away.

  Each bitter recrimination another hammer-blow on her bruised spirit and too tired to explain, Grace had gone.

  Folding the last of the frothy garments she laid it gently on top of the others. Her mother’s jewellery had been taken care of by the will. She and Zoe had each inherited various pieces. Some were family heirlooms some were gifts from her father. The twins had received other items for when they married.

  She straightened up. Her swollen eyes were gritty and sore. Her head throbbed. She felt utterly wretched. Crossing to the wardrobe she hesitated for an instant then opened the double doors. Her mother’s perfume wafted out, piercing her like a blade. Tears welled, blurring her vision then spilling down her cheeks as she drew a trembling hand across a rainbow of silk or satin-lined lace gowns, finely embroidered cotton blouses, skirts and jackets of taffeta and velvet.

  Clutching handfuls of the rich materials she buried her face in them, convulsed with grief. She was so lonely. Suddenly a wave of anger engulfed her, so powerful, so violent, she almost blacked out.

  Bathed in perspiration she staggered backwards, sank onto the bed and gripped the carved post, her hands slippery on the polished wood. She must not faint. Breathe. As the roaring in her head receded she was aware of someone knocking. She forced her head up. The door opened and Mary’s head appeared.

  ‘Ah, Grace, Kate said I’d find you – my dear, are you all right?’ Quickly closing the door, she hurried forward. ‘Of course you’re not. How could you be? Oh, my sweet girl, this must be dreadfully hard for you. I had hoped – But no, this isn’t the time. I’ll come back another…’

  ‘No, please don’t go.’ Fumbling for her handkerchief, Grace pressed it to her temples and upper lip. ‘I’d rather you stayed, honestly. I’d be glad of your company.’

  ‘Well, if you’re sure.’

  ‘I’m fine now. It was just –’

  Mary nodded. ‘I know. I remember after my parents died. I had to deal with all their personal effects. Though they were ill and tired, and death was a release, it was still difficult. In fact it was terrible. And they were far older than your mother.’ She paused. ‘Grace, all this,’ she gestured, ‘her clothes, her personal bits and pieces, they’re only things. You don’t need those to remember her. You have a lifetime of memories to enjoy whenever and wherever you choose.’

  What memories? Her mother’s frequent illnesses? Constant anxiety? Trying to keep the twins occupied and quiet? Zoe complaining, or running to Granny Hester and winning comfort and treats by telling tales?

  She caught her breath, shocked and horrified at the thoughts cannoning around the inside of her head.

  ‘Grace? Is something wrong?’

  ‘No. I’m – It’s –’ With enormous effort, Grace pulled herself together. ‘Would you like some tea?’

  Mary’s frown of concern softened into a shy smile. ‘Maybe later, meanwhile I’m glad to find you alone. There’s something – I have some news. I – that is, we – wanted you to be the first to know.’ She stopped. Then seating herself beside Grace on the bed she folded her hands in her lap. ‘Your father has asked me to marry him.’

  It seemed to Grace that time slowed. She was aware of turning, seeing Mary’s brows pucker in her anxiety to explain, to be understood, Mary’s voice coming from a long way off.

  ‘I know it seems very – hasty. I would have preferred –but there are reasons – financial reasons – why it would be neither wise nor desirable for your father to wait.’ She swallowed.

  Grace had always considered Mary to be a confident woman, self-contained rather than diffident.

  ‘I will be honest with you, Grace. I was very fond of your mother. Through her I was privileged to get to know you all. Being accepted – welcomed –as a family friend has meant more to me than you will ever know. Had your mother lived that is what I would have remained, a loyal friend. However –’ she paused. ‘Grace, your father has proposed to me and I have accepted. I know I am asking a great deal of you. But I would like – it would mean so much to me if you could –’

  ‘Give you my blessing?’ Was that what she was asking? Grace felt disoriented. This on top of everything else was too much.

  The anxiety that had tightened Mary’s features dissolved into a radiant smile than made her look ten years younger. Seizing Grace’s hand, she pressed it between both of hers. ‘Oh, I hoped so much that you would understand. I do not expect to be so fortunate with Mrs Chenoweth.’

  Grace’s stomach clenched painfully as she pictured Granny Hester’s reaction.

  ‘You are not to worry,’ Mary said. ‘I will tell her. And should it come to a battle of wills I shall win. As to the house, I want it to remain a welcoming home for all the family.’

  Doubt wormed through Grace’s mind. Was Mary speaking for her father as well? Grace didn’t think so.

  ‘Of course the chain garden must stay just as it is. It was Louise’s pride and joy and a beautiful memorial. I know you will want to continue her work.’

  No I don’t. I won’t. I hate it. As denial and rejection swelled her chest and climbed her throat she fastened her teeth on her lower lip and bent her head, gripping the bedpost so hard that pain cramped her fingers.

  While Mary’s relief and happiness bubbled over in a request for help with her bride clothes, Grace gazed unseeing at the floor. Duty and responsibility settled their crushing weight on her shoulders.

  ‘In fact, I would be very surprised if you do not receive a proposal yourself very shortly.’

  Grace looked up. ‘What?’ She felt slow and stupid.

  Mary raised her brows, her smile fond. ‘From
Edwin Philpotts, of course.’

  Pins and needles pierced every nerve in Grace’s body. ‘No, you’re wrong. He doesn’t… Do you really think? But surely he would have. Soaring from disbelief to hope she plunged into despair. ‘No.’

  ‘My dear, believe me it’s only a matter of time.’ Mary’s tone carried total conviction. ‘The way he looks at you, it’s as plain as a pikestaff.’

  Grace shook her head. ‘He’s never said anything.’

  ‘No, and do you know why? It’s simple. Someone in Mr Philpotts’ position has to consider most carefully before proposing marriage. His job requires his wife to be a very special person. Not only must she support him in his ministry; she will also be expected, while raising her family, to involve herself in many of the chapel activities. Then every three years she must be prepared to move and start all over again on a new circuit. Your devotion to your mother and the rest of the family, and their dependence on you, might have made him wary. And remember, he has been in the village only a few months.’

  ‘But –’

  ‘But now so much has changed.’

  ‘Everything,’ Grace whispered.

  Mary pressed her hand. ‘Indeed. Who will be more aware of this than he? Being a thoughtful man he’s probably allowing you time to come to terms with all that’s happened before he declares himself.’

  Grace searched Mary’s face. ‘Do you really think so?’

  Mary nodded. ‘I do.’

  Grace lowered her eyes, desperate to believe but terrified Mary might be wrong.

  Dorcas rinsed the brush in the jar of murky water and wiped it on a rag. Her glasses lay on the grass by her chair. On her right stood the low table holding her paints, palette, rags, and pot of brushes. A broad-brimmed hat of soft straw shaded her eyes from the sun.

  She had spent two days at her easel painting a memory: walking with Zander in the craggy hills between St Ives and Zennor on a fine October day.

  It surprised her how often during recent weeks Zander had appeared in her thoughts.

  On that particular autumn afternoon she had been in the middle of saying something to him as they rounded a curve in the steep hillside. Halting in mid-stride and mid-sentence she had gazed at the view below then at Zander who smiled.