by Jane Jackson
This morning he had woken knowing he could wait no longer. Today he would – must – go and see Grace. But by the time he had dealt with a succession of unexpected callers it was almost one and Flora was complaining about his lunch getting cold.
Telling her he would be out for the remainder of the afternoon and reminding her to write down any messages, he closed the door before she could ask where he was going and set off up the village. After the previous week’s violent storm, sultry heat had given way to gentle sunshine and invigorating fresh air. Ice-cream clouds were driven by a cool north-westerly breeze across a clear blue sky.
Edwin walked fast hoping that brisk exercise would dissolve the tension making his heart race and his hands shake. He was oblivious to the sights and sounds of an almost completed harvest, the honeysuckle and fat blackberries entangled in the hedgerows, the branches of elder bowed under the weight of glossy black clusters the size of tea plates. While he walked he prayed for guidance and help in alleviating her distress. Then he prayed for the strength to resist his own yearning.
As he approached the house along the avenue of lime trees he saw her on the portico that sheltered the front door behind massive columns rising to roof height. She was dressed and lying on a tartan blanket that covered the slats of a folding wooden chair. Propped up on cushions, her head tipped to one side, she appeared to be asleep. Then as his shoes crunched on the gravel he saw her look up. Her hands flew to her mouth.
His heartbeat was loud in his ears, painful against his ribs. He kept walking. Pleasure at seeing her again made him smile. As he reached the steps she sat up. She was visibly thinner and her cheeks were wet with tears. She fumbled for a handkerchief. Finding a square of lace-edged cambric she pressed it to her face as she struggled for control. Watching her try to swallow sobs as her shoulders heaved he sensed her isolation, her belief that what she had done disgusted him. He couldn’t allow her to think that was why he’d stayed away.
‘I wanted to come sooner.’
At his words her gaze flicked up to meet his. In her tear-washed eyes he read hope and a desperate wish to believe him. He felt his resolve slipping.
‘Your uncle – Doctor Ainsley – came to see me five days ago. He told me what had happened. I wanted to come immediately. He asked me not to. In fact he forbade me. He said you needed complete rest.’
She watched him, still silent.
Fighting the overwhelming urge to take her in his arms and hold her close he glanced around, looking for another seat. The porch was empty. To remain standing would be intimidating and convince her he was poised to leave at any moment. Her chair, made of teak, was sturdy and wide.
‘May I?’ he smiled indicating the area near her feet. ‘That is if you feel up to having company for a while?’
Shyly she moved her legs to one side and he perched on the lower corner of the chair, resting his weight on one hand.
‘I thought –’ Her voice sounded strained and husky, as if speech was an enormous effort. ‘I didn’t want – I was hoping –’ Words tumbled incoherently as she fretted with the damp crushed cambric. His heart was wrenched by her effort to smile. ‘Would you like some lemonade? Or tea? I can ring –’
‘No, please don’t.’
Her gaze slid away. ‘They think I’m mad.’
‘Do you think you’re mad?’
She sank back against the cushions. ‘I think I was, for a while. You see I’d found out – and I couldn’t tell anyone –’ Her breath caught on a sob. ‘But what I did was so wicked. Those flowers – It wasn’t their fault. I can’t believe I –’ She covered her trembling mouth with her fingers, her eyes huge and haunted.
Pulling a clean handkerchief from his pocket he shook the folds from the crisply ironed cotton and pressed it gently into her fingers.
‘Thank you,’ she mumbled, wiping her eyes and nose again. Then she shuddered violently. ‘My head aches with it all – I can’t stop thinking. I didn’t want to believe – but I know it’s true.’ She looked up at him, beseeching. ‘I don’t know what to do.’
‘Talk to me,’ he coaxed quietly. ‘There’s no one here but us. As a minister I am bound never to reveal a confidence. As a friend I give you my solemn oath that I will never, as long as I live, repeat anything you tell me.’
Her eyes filled again and he sensed the battle raging inside her. He leaned forward, linking his fingers, elbows propped on his parted knees.
‘Trust me, Grace. Please. I want to help.’
Her face crumpled like a child’s. As she covered it with the handkerchief, her body shaking with sobs she was trying valiantly to suppress, he gripped his clasped hands painfully tight so he would not reach for her.
She took a deep jerky breath. ‘I never liked it – the chain garden.’ Her voice was almost a whisper. Leaning forward so as not to miss anything he caught a faint waft of her fragrant soap. He flinched, tried to disguise it with an encouraging nod, and looked down at his hands, swallowing hard. God help him.
‘Could you tell me why?’
She shrugged helplessly. ‘It was just a feeling. Then I bought a book at one of the chapel sales. I didn’t – If I’d known –’ She rubbed her forehead. ‘I’m sorry I’m not making much sense, am I?’
‘It’s all right,’ he said gently. ‘Take as long as you need.’
Slowly she began to explain about her mother’s planting schemes, about the flowers and their meanings, her mother, her father, Mary, Dorcas, and Hal. Now the dam of silence had been breached words poured from her in a torrent.
As he listened Edwin struggled with complex emotions, the strongest of which was compassion. Who knew better than he that under intense emotional stress people did things or behaved in ways they would not have believed themselves capable of. Not me, I would never…I’m not that kind of person. But everyone was, given the right circumstances.
Eventually the flood slowed to a trickle then stopped. Grace lay with her eyes closed. While her confession had taken a visible toll it had also freed her from quivering tension. Though she was pale and looked exhausted she seemed calmer.
He didn’t rush into speech. He sat quietly thinking about what she had said, allowing her time to recover. After a few minutes she opened her eyes, watching him, waiting and growing anxious.
‘It seems to me,’ he said, ‘that the chain garden may have been your mother’s way of dealing with a situation she could not fight, and over which she had no power. When she died everyone’s life changed. Yours changed most of all. It was right for you to cut the ties that bound you to the past, especially if they were not of your choosing. Though you were driven by impulse, what you did took great courage.’
Grace stared at him, her eyes wide with shock. He could see the effort it was costing her to adjust. She would have been expecting censure, disapproval, and condemnation. Even from him.
‘Courage?’ She tested the word but could not accept it. ‘Oh no.’ Her head moved against the dark green velvet cushion. ‘I wasn’t brave. I was angry. I’ve never – such rage. It was terrifying.’
Edwin nodded. ‘Perhaps your mother had similar feelings and used the chain garden to express her anger and pain. But in doing so she also created something that was superficially very beautiful.’
Grace’s eyes filled again. ‘I destroyed it.’
‘I said superficially,’ he reminded her gently. ‘What you destroyed were reflections of unhappiness. No one else in the family would have dared suggest changing the chain garden. It was too closely associated with your mother. Now it’s – it’s a blank canvas. The beds can be planted with –’ he spread his hands, ‘what about pink roses? They will fill the garden with beauty and perfume. Their only significance is love.’
It was only when he saw soft colour creep into her pale cheeks that he realised the deeper, more personal significance of what he had said. Glimpsing sudden leaping hope in her eyes he looked down at his hands.
He had to tell her. If he did, she might never
want to see or speak to him again. She had trusted him, bared her soul. Integrity demanded he return that trust. He loved her. Instinct and her reaction told him that she felt the same about him. He wanted to marry her, have children with her and spend the rest of his life with her.
But he could not propose, not until she knew the full truth. Only then would she be in a position to decide whether she could commit her life and future into his care. He had to tell her.
Something of his agony must have shown in his face. For when he looked up she caught her breath.
‘What is it? What’s wrong?’
He gripped his hands more tightly, deliberately digging his thumbnails into his palms. ‘Grace, we’ve talked about what you did, about your reasons, and how guilty you felt afterwards. I hope I’ve helped you to see it differently now?’
She nodded. ‘Yes.’
His mouth was so dry he had to swallow before he could speak. ‘I must tell you that I have a stain on my soul far greater than any you could aspire to, or even imagine.’
Then without once allowing his gaze to drop from hers he described the nightmare events that had resulted in his departure from India.
As he talked her expression vividly reflected her horror at Lewis’s betrayal of all that the mission stood for, and her grief for Akhil’s suffering. When at last he stopped her mouth was trembling. Leaning forward she laid a tentative hand over his white knuckles.
‘What Mr Preston did was a terrible, terrible thing, all the worse because he was in a position of trust. I’m sure there must be a special place in hell for people who harm children.’
Edwin steeled himself. ‘The thing is… Grace, I will never know for certain if Lewis’s death was truly an accident.’
Bewilderment deepened her frown. ‘I don’t understand. I thought – Didn’t you say Mr Preston grabbed the dagger? That you were fighting him off when – when he – was stabbed?’
Nodding, Edwin moistened his lips. ‘Yes. But for an instant, in my heart, I wanted to kill him. I didn’t think he deserved to live after the dreadful damage he had done, to Akhil, and all the other children I never knew about. As a minister of God I preach forgiveness and redemption. Yet I wanted to take the life of another human being.’
Seeing that she didn’t know how to respond he stood up. ‘I’ll leave you now. You must be very tired.’ The sound of hooves made him look over his shoulder. ‘You have another visitor. I think it’s the doctor.’
John Ainsley had dismounted and was walking briskly towards the steps.
‘Thank you.’ Grace spoke quickly in a low tone. ‘For everything.’
Teeth clenched, Edwin nodded. Though he wished they’d had longer, he knew she would need days rather than hours to fully absorb what he had told her and all its implications.
‘Good afternoon to you both.’ John Ainsley’s smile held relief as his gaze slid past Edwin to Grace. ‘How are you feeling, my dear?’
Watching Grace’s wan face Edwin’s emotions were in turmoil. He shouldn’t have told her. She had been through enough. Yet having asked for and been given her total trust, how could he have remained silent? What would happen now that she knew?
Her tear-swollen gaze caught his, the contact too brief for him to read. Then she looked at her uncle and tried to smile.
‘Better, thank you.’
As Edwin turned to leave, John patted his arm and murmured, ‘Well done.’
Edwin nodded grimly and walked away. She needed time: time to recover and time to think. All he could do was wait. Purgatory could not be worse than this.
Bryce turned so that the lowering sun was at his back and raised his camera. Beyond the moored schooners and brigs, quay punts and fishing boats, two six-oar gigs knifed through the dancing water, their muscular crews practising tactics. Tremorvah regatta, the last of the season, would take place the following week, and competition between the boats was fierce.
Though golden light and lengthening shadows warned him he was unlikely to get optimum results from his new purchase, he didn’t want to leave the quay just yet. There was a camera club meeting at the Polytechnic Gallery. He wouldn’t attend.
He had tried to picture himself turning up as usual. But when he thought about the effort of pretending everything was fine, that he hadn’t a care in the world, he knew he couldn’t do it. Half the members had no idea about what had happened. The others – those who knew only too well – would be watching him. He had not breathed a word. Surely they realised that he wouldn’t? He could only expose them by admitting his own involvement. The repercussions for his family were too appalling for him even to consider such a move.
He hadn’t been able to face staying at home. Grace was showing signs of recovery, but she was vague and self-absorbed, not hearing when spoken to, going off by herself for short walks. When he had asked if anything was bothering her, hoping for a chance to re-establish their former closeness, she had shaken her head, claiming she was still tired.
He couldn’t – didn’t – blame her for not wanting to talk to him. In recent weeks when she had tried, he had almost bitten her head off. Now he wanted to build bridges and needed a confidante he could trust, she was preoccupied.
Granny Hester seemed to be in a permanent state of nervous collapse. At least she was keeping to her room so they were spared her constant carping and self-pity.
As for his father – though bereavement and problems at the mine offered some excuse – his unpredictable swings from jocular to irascible made him difficult company. Not that he was around much. The business trips he was making almost daily demanded an early start whether he was travelling by train, on horseback, or in his light carriage. He rarely returned before dark.
Bryce found his father’s absence a relief. Often there was only Richard, Grace and himself at dinner. Conversation was usually about their work at Polwellan. When Grace asked where they had first found a particular species of rhododendron Richard would tell her stories about the people they had met in the borderlands and Tibet. These tales provoked agony and delight as Bryce thought of Tarun and dared not trust his voice.
The soft breeze ruffling his hair carried the scents of tarred rope and fish, coal-dust, smoke and seaweed, wet wood and frying onions. In Calcutta those familiar smells had been laced with exotic spices, incense and cow dung. Hot, humid, colourful, noisy, dirty Calcutta.
Shutting off memory before it could overwhelm him he lowered the camera. Winding on the film he pressed the button to retract the bellows, raised the front plate that would protect the lens and snapped it shut.
In the shop he had looked at a Sanderson folding camera that had offered a symmetrical lens and three double slides. But this Thornton Pickard used daylight loading spool film. The moment he picked it up it had felt right in his hands. The fact that it had been four shillings cheaper was an additional bonus. Had it been the more expensive he would still have bought it.
The setting sun turned the water to liquid bronze and flamed windows of the houses lining the waterfront across the river at Flushing. Then it sank behind the hill. He remained where he was watching the light change and the clouds turn from pink and gold to lilac and purple.
The sky grew pale then began to darken as dusk crept across the water. Warm day had given way to cool evening. Turning from a view he never tired of, Bryce walked along the quay and up the slope to the street that ran parallel to the wharves fronting the river. He looked at his watch then back along the street. Had tempers cooled? Should he wait and offer to buy Marcus a drink?
It was beginning to get dark and he had a four-mile ride home. He set off along the street. He should have started back after buying the camera. Why had he stayed? There was nothing for him here. But nor was he comfortable at home. He didn’t belong anywhere any more.
Most of the shops had closed but the street was still busy. The lamp lighter and his boy were lighting the gas lamps. Seamen from ships moored in the harbour or docked for repairs strolled in pairs and group
s looking for a favourite inn or alehouse. Whores with painted smiles, hennaed hair and low-cut dresses beckoned from shadowed doorways.
The light was almost gone, shut out by tall buildings on both sides of the road. As he approached the steeply sloping side street that offered a shortcut up to the livery stable Bryce saw, but took little notice of the two men and a small boy coming towards him. The men were talking in low voices and laughing.
‘Hey, da! That’s ‘im. That’s the man.’
Bryce glanced up at the boy’s excited shout. His breath caught and his stomach clenched as he recognised the angelic-looking child from the camera club. The boy Marcus had called Albie.
Should he keep walking? Turn back?
The men didn’t pause. They moved in close, one either side. Gripping his arms just above the elbow they hustled him into the side street. It had taken no more than seconds. In the glow from the gas lamp by the entrance Bryce saw the cobbled gutters were shiny wet and smeared with filth. The sour stench caught in his throat.
‘You wait by the lamp,’ Albie’s father growled at the boy.
Skipping past Bryce, Albie stuck out his tongue.
‘Wait,’ Bryce began then his breath exploded in a grunt as Albie’s father punched him just below the breastbone. He doubled over, winded and wheezing as the men dragged him up the alley deeper into the shadows.
‘You broke the rules,’ Albie’s father hissed. The other man punched him low on the right side of his back.
Bryce staggered, gasping as pain knifed through him. The camera flew from his hand and bounced on the cobbles. ‘No …’
‘We don’t like trouble-makers.’ Another vicious punch sent Bryce crashing to the ground, every nerve end screaming. He hunched forward, arms across his stomach, bringing his knees up to protect himself. A boot made vicious contact with his shoulder and agony radiated outward. Through red-hot waves of pain Bryce heard scampering feet then Albie’s urgent whisper.
‘Da, someone’s coming.’
He tried to shout for help, but could only manage a hoarse groan. He heard a crunch as a heavy boot stamped on something. There was another crunch and a sharp crack. His new camera.
