by Jane Jackson
Rosy and breathless she waved him away, the empty velvet bag crushed in her free hand. ‘Go on then, and hurry. I’ll see you on Saturday.’
He had reached the station just in time.
Roused from his thoughts by the whistle’s shrill blast Henry glanced at his watch. Returning it to his waistcoat pocket, he straightened in his seat. Had he thanked her? He couldn’t remember actually saying the words. Not that it mattered. His reaction must have shown her how much the money meant to him. Fancy her doing that. He shook his head. They would make a good partnership. Giving her a child would fulfil his end of the bargain. Reliving the quick kiss he tried to imagine her hair tumbling around her rosy face, her body naked under something long and silky. Desire throbbed and he shifted on the padded seat. All things considered he had done even better for himself than he’d hoped.
To pass the time on the journey home he would write to Dorcas and tell her about all the changes he was planning. No need to mention where the money was coming from. Not yet anyway. He could say he had raised it from the sale of her cottage and the other small parcels of land he had quietly disposed of. But she might ask questions. He couldn’t be doing with that now. Besides, that money had long gone. When she received the letter she would realise how busy he had been, and still was.
Another shrill blast announced their arrival at Hayle station.
Reluctantly, Grace pulled the small wheelbarrow out of the whitewashed outhouse near the back door. Lifting down a hoe, a pair of shears and a small fork, she laid them in the barrow and re-latched the door. Tall leafy limes provided dappled shade as she wheeled the barrow round the side of the house. When she left their protection the sun’s heat scorched through her cotton shirt-blouse. Beneath her wide-brimmed straw hat her hair was sticking to her temples and scalp. As she pushed the barrow along the path towards the chain garden her head began to ache.
She didn’t want to be here. It was her Uncle John’s idea.
‘Just an hour a day,’ he had coaxed. ‘You’ll be out in the sunshine and fresh air. It will give you an interest and help rebuild your strength.’
What about cycling to the village? Playing games with the children at school? Cleaning the chapel? How much more fresh air and exercise did one person need? She had plenty of interests. She certainly didn’t need anyone else telling her how she should occupy herself.
But he was a doctor and had her welfare at heart. Brought up never to argue she didn’t feel strong enough to start now. So trying to ignore the conflict that knotted her stomach and tightened the band around her skull she complied.
Setting down the barrow she looked along the linked beds, vivid with summer colour. She loathed this garden. Its surface beauty was deceiving. It flaunted its secrets, mocking those who couldn’t read them.
Today was the first time she had come here since calling on Dorcas. A visit begun as a favour to Mrs Williams had ended by irrevocably destroying her image of her parents. It had finally crushed her blind, desperate hope that the circles of colourful flowers had been chosen simply for their beauty, that despite her mother’s illness and her father’s financial problems, their marriage had been based on love and trust and strength in adversity.
Dorcas’s outburst had blown that hope apart and confirmed her worst fears. It had all been illusion, a facade. The reality was thirty years of secrecy, lies and deceit.
She hated Dorcas for showing her the truth. Her gaze flew to the bed between her mother’s and her own, the one that had always puzzled her. Now she knew. It was Hal’s.
What she found hardest to accept was that the choice of plants and flowers meant her mother had known about Hal. If she knew about him she must also have known about Dorcas. That explained why her father’s link had been planted with flowers that proclaimed his infidelity, his betrayal.
Yet Grace could not recall even a hint of bitterness or blame. How had her mother achieved that? Had she derived sufficient satisfaction, sufficient revenge from this silent declaration to enable her to carry on as if everything was as it should be? Had her father been aware that her mother knew the truth?
The chain garden laid bare facets of her mother’s character Grace could not understand. Now it was too late. It would never be explained. Fury seethed. She felt cheated, terrified. What was real? What was true? What could she trust? Who else knew?
Her whirling thoughts were echoed in her churning stomach as she looked down the beds, each one enclosed within and linked by a low narrow box hedge. Ever since she had read the book explaining the meaning and significance of different flowers, the chain garden had made her uneasy. Now she hated it. She didn’t want to tend it any more.
Immediately she felt guilty. If she didn’t, who would? Busy with preparations for the wedding Mary didn’t have time. Nor did Jack or Ben or Arthur, not with the fruit and vegetable gardens in full production. Everyone in the family saw it as her mother’s memorial. But they didn’t know its secrets.
It looked beautiful. In reality it was poisonous. The links were supposed to indicate continuity. But chains imprisoned people; denied them freedom. She shifted from foot to foot wiping her palms down the sides of her skirt.
For as long as she could remember she had shouldered responsibility, put everyone else’s needs before her own. It had been expected of her because she was the eldest daughter. She had writhed with guilt at feeling trapped and unhappy. Then after her collapse Mary had stepped in, and everyone’s lives had carried on just the same.
All those years of believing it was her duty to organise, manage and take care of. All those years of anxiety, fear and self-denial, of standing on the fringes watching everyone else enjoying themselves. Never joining in because within hours, days or weeks her mother would be ill again, and it would be her job to take over as nurse while keeping the household running smoothly.
All those years. Yet her absence had made no difference at all. If she wasn’t missed then what had it all been for? She was not valued. She counted for nothing. That was the truth.
Her agitation increasing, Grace walked the length of the chain and back again. The heat was oppressive, searing through her clothes, burning through her hat, heavy on her skull. Her heart thudded loud and painful against her ribs. She gasped, sucking heat into her straining lungs.
Her father and mother: her father and Dorcas: her father and Mary. Where did she fit in? Everything she had believed was a lie. How could she pretend everything was normal? How could she blot out what she now knew? If she couldn’t, how could she stay here? Yet where else could she go?
Perspiration pricked her forehead and upper lip. It beaded her skin so that her blouse clung. Her petticoat was hot and uncomfortable. Everyone expected her to continue tending this floral display of anguish and bitterness; this proclamation that her father was an adulterer and had sired a bastard son. Hal was her half-brother and she had never known.
As she stared at the linked beds she felt the weight of the chain dragging her down, crushing her into the soft earth until she suffocated.
Seizing the shears she began chopping at the red, gold and purple blooms. Nurture her dead mother’s secrets and her father’s lies and deceit? No! Not now, not ever again.
After laying waste to her father’s bed she ran, panting, to her mother’s. She loved them and hated them. How could they? She had sympathised, admired. It had all been lies. They had betrayed her. Her shame – that she had been so blind, so ignorant and naïve, so stupid – was annihilating.
She snapped the blades, slashing what she couldn’t cut, racked by sobs that hurt her chest. Blinded by scalding tears she jerked her head so they spilled and fell. The muscles in her arms and shoulders screamed. But the flowers had to be destroyed. They knew. They stood there so bright and proud. They were laughing at her. She could hear their mockery, see their sneers.
The garden was a furnace: the sun a relentless hammer. Her breath burned in her throat and her head swam. She mustn’t stop. The pain in her arms was alm
ost unbearable. But she could not – must not – stop. Her slippery hands were so weak and shook so badly it was hard even to hold the shears. She staggered on, flailing at the flowers with the closed blades, trampling the bruised petals and broken stems, jarring her heels and back as she stamped the pulpy mess into the earth.
Trembling violently, her head pounding, she stumbled through box onto gravel. She swayed, bewildered. Then saw the folly looming in front of her. It was done, finished. The shears slid from her agonisingly cramped hands and clattered onto the gravel. Every muscle in her body was on fire. But it was the pain inside she couldn’t bear. Unable to straighten up she folded her aching arms across her body, convulsed by sobs that stabbed her chest and tore at her throat. She heard shouts. Black spots danced in front of her eyes. The shouting was closer. A soft rushing sound filled her head and darkness rushed forward and enveloped her.
Chapter Nineteen
Voices: distant: a woman’s and a man’s.
‘But why?’ The tone was hushed, shocked and anxious. ‘I don’t understand. Grace was devoted to her mother. Louise adored that garden.’
‘An emotional breakdown can have all kinds of causes. Louise’s ill health placed the entire family under considerable strain. As her mother’s devoted carer Grace bore the brunt of it. Grief is often accompanied by guilt at having been unable to prevent the death. This can show itself as anger directed against the loved one for leaving.’
‘I understand. Yet I never expected, never imagined – not Grace. Such violence… ‘
Though both were speaking softly, she knew who they were. She tried to open her eyes. They were so swollen that the lids barely cracked apart. She was in her room lying on her bed. Someone had removed her shoes. But the dampness and the smell told her she was still wearing her sweat-soaked, earth-stained clothes.
She drew a deep breath and felt it catch in her chest. Her hands were burning and stinging. She lifted one to find out why. Every muscle in her arm protested. Burst blisters had left her palm raw and bloody. That explained it. She felt quite detached. Her body was a mass of different hurts but it didn’t seem to matter.
‘Feeling better now?’ Her uncle’s face appeared, his expression reflecting sympathy and concern. She was aware of her eyes filling and hot tears slid down her temples and into her hair. Mary’s face swam into view. Grace felt her temples gently mopped with a cambric handkerchief.
‘Violet is running you a nice warm bath.’ Mary’s smile was calm and reassuring.
Grace swallowed, moistened dry lips. ‘Thank you.’ She wanted to tell them that what she had done was necessary. But she hadn’t the strength to make such an effort. She heard her uncle’s voice.
‘Send someone up to the lodge in half an hour. I’ll prepare arnica ointment for the strained muscles and a balm for her hands. Make sure she keeps them bandaged for at least three days.’
‘Is there anything else I can do?’
‘After she’s had a bath, give her hot sweet tea and something to eat. Then let her sleep.’
As they moved towards the door Mary spoke too softly for Grace to catch the words. But her uncle’s reply was clear.
‘No, leave it to me. I’ll tell Henry.’
Grace closed her eyes.
Edwin turned his pen between his fingers staring blindly at the half-written page, his thoughts with Grace. He knew exactly how many hours had passed since he had last seen her. He knew she would have expected him to call in at the chapel as he had done in the past when she was working there. He knew she would have been disappointed that he hadn’t, and was probably wondering why. She would never know what it had cost him to stay away.
But that night at Angwin’s farm, reliving the horror that had brought him here, had forced him to face the truth. Marriage to Grace was an impossible dream. She was gentle, kind-hearted and hard-working; everything he could ask for in a wife. And he was totally unworthy of her. Trying to put her out of his mind he had altered his routine; avoiding places their paths might cross.
As days passed without a glimpse of her he desperately hoped his memories would lessen and fade. Instead they became stronger, more insistent. He would start some task and moments later was forced to wrench his attention back to whatever he was doing because he had remembered something she said. Not simply remembered the words but heard her voice saying them, saw the expression on her face, the way she lowered her head, her cheeks flushed and glowing because she was self-conscious. The images were as clear and real as if she were in front of him. It was exquisite torture.
Where was she? What was she doing at this moment?
A rap on the door made him start. Without waiting for a response his housekeeper opened it and poked her head around.
‘Doctor’s here,’ Flora hissed. ‘I’ve put’n in the front parlour. You never said you was feeling bad,’ she accused.
‘I’m not.’ Suppressing impatience Edwin forced a smile. ‘I’m perfectly well. Thank you, Miss Bowden. Would you show him in here please?’
Flora’s head withdrew and he heard her footsteps cross the tiled passage. Putting down his pen, Edwin pushed back his chair and rose to greet his visitor.
‘Dr Ainsley, good afternoon.’
‘Good afternoon, Mr Philpotts. I hope this isn’t an inconvenient time? Only as I was in the village anyway –’
‘Not at all,’ Edwin interrupted, aware of the housekeeper’s curiosity as her gaze swivelled between them. ‘Thank you, Miss Bowden.’
Closing the door gently he turned and gestured toward the comfortable armchair at one side of the fireplace where his housekeeper had placed an embroidered screen in front of the empty grate. ‘Do sit down. Is it old Mr Doble? When I called in to see him earlier in the week he seemed to have rallied.’
‘To the best of my knowledge he’s still hanging on. I saw him two days ago and I’ve heard nothing further from the family. He’s determined to live long enough to see young Kate married. No, I wanted to talk to you about Grace.’
Hearing her name Edwin flinched, disguising his reaction by returning to his chair in front of the desk. Biting his tongue hard he resumed his seat. If he spoke he would betray himself. What about Grace? He waited.
Since his arrival in the village he had begun to understand what made a good minister. Strangely, it had little to do with finding the right words of spiritual consolation. When he visited the sick or dying, after he had greeted them he rarely needed to say anything else. They didn’t want him to talk. They wanted someone to listen: someone to whom they could pour out all their fears, anger and regrets. Someone who wasn’t family so wouldn’t be hurt. Someone they could trust, knowing that what they said would never be repeated.
Drawing a chair up close to the bed he would let them talk. Occasionally, if there was great distress, he might briefly touch an arm or hold a hand. Having purged their anger or grief or guilt they would tell him how much better they felt, and how grateful they were. Then he would leave, having done for someone else what he craved for himself.
Edwin watched John Ainsley rub the back of his neck in a gesture that betrayed both concern and uncertainty.
‘Two days ago Grace had some kind of –’ he gestured helplessly. ‘I don’t know what to call it: breakdown, brainstorm. You’ve visited the house. Have you seen the chain garden?’ Edwin nodded. ‘When Louise – Grace’s mother – was well she spent every moment she possibly could out there. In winter, or if the weather turned cold or wet, she would go to the folly instead. Violet or Grace would make sure a fire was lit for her and she’d spend hours planning her planting schemes for the following year.’ He paused.
Seething with impatience Edwin stayed silent. Questions clamoured: dammed up behind his clenched teeth. His jaw ached.
John shook his head, clearly bemused. ‘That garden was Louise’s passion. Grace – Grace attacked it with a pair of shears. She destroyed it all. She didn’t just cut down every plant and flower, she stamped on them, ground them into the soil
.’
Edwin’s in-drawn breath hissed between his teeth. Grace? What could have driven gentle, caring Grace to such behaviour? He realised John was still talking.
‘Such devastation – I’ve never seen anything like it. Grace, of all people.’ He shook his head again.
Edwin ran his tongue over dry lips. Now he could ask. ‘How is she?’
‘I imagine she’s in severe discomfort from muscle strain.’
‘You imagine?’
‘She hasn’t complained. In fact that’s one of the reasons I’m here. She won’t talk. One can see she’s in pain. She can hardly move. Her hands are mess with burst blisters and so on. Apart from that there doesn’t appear to be anything else physically wrong with her. She’s aware of her surroundings. She’ll accept drinks. She allows Violet to bathe her, apply arnica salve to her back and arms, and change the dressings on her hands. But she won’t eat. Rose Trott has tried to tempt her with light and tasty dishes. Violet and Mary Prideaux have both done their best. Grace simply closes her eyes. I’ve rarely seen such complete withdrawal.’ He sighed. ‘At first I assumed it was delayed reaction to losing her mother. Now I wonder if there might be more to it than that.’
Edwin stood up so quickly he almost knocked his chair over and quickly caught the back as it tipped. ‘I’ll go at once.’
‘No.’ The doctor rose to his feet. ‘I appreciate the thought. Indeed I’m reasonably sure that whatever’s wrong falls within your sphere of expertise rather than mine. But from a medical point of view she needs a few more days’ complete rest before she’ll be strong enough to face and deal with whatever precipitated her action.’
Wait a few more days? While his beloved Grace lay suffering and trapped in some hell? How could he wait? Because he must. To rush round there now might answer his need, but if it harmed her…
