Sky Garden

by Jenny Schwartz

  “That’s so romantic,” Lanie breathed.

  Mrs. Smith glanced at her sharply, startled.

  “Well, it is,” Lanie insisted. “He shared his very secret self with you. He trusted you so much.”

  Mrs. Smith burrowed in a pocket, produced a handkerchief and blew her nose.

  “You’re a good girl. I keep forgetting how clever you are. Yes, it was romantic. I wouldn’t have believed him if he’d tried to tell me that he loved me as he’d loved Margaret. She was his angel. But he did trust me, and he needed me.” She paused. “Some might think that I was Horry’s second-best, but I never was. I had the best of him, the full grown man who had loved and suffered and knew how to value me.”

  She fell silent, gazing out the window. “We never had children. I couldn’t, we discovered. I think Horry was always a bit relieved. That part of his life had closed with Mary-Ann’s death. We had a good life.”

  The ginger cat’s loud purr filled the ongoing silence.

  Lanie waited, content to allow Mrs. Smith to find her own way back to the present.

  She was resilient, and in only a few minutes her attention returned to Lanie. Her mouth, with its rim of icing sugar, compressed. She was a private woman, despite her friendliness and concern for others. “I don’t know why I bored you with my life story.”

  “Because I listen,” Lanie said simply. So few people did, and of those who made the effort, vanishingly few had her training. She doubted psychologists were even as consciously aware, as she was, of how people gave away their thoughts in body language, tone of voice and eye movements.

  But she was also aware of how, confession complete, people often felt a reflexive regret at having confided in her. Keeping things low key tended to dissipate that remorse.

  The tension at the corners of Mrs. Smith’s mouth relaxed. “So you do. I have sixty years on you, and sometimes I think you’re sharper about life than I am.”

  Lanie was perceptive enough not to mistake the words for a complaint or an empty compliment. She braced for Mrs. Smith’s next words.

  Mrs. Smith had not only recovered, she had advice to dispense. Plain spoken advice.

  “My Horry dressed up and played house to escape the overwhelming pressures of his life. What started in grief and pain, became his safety valve. But his pretense was a fleeting thing, a few stolen hours in the week, while you have made your escape into another era a way of life. I understand that this world has hurt you, but you need to live, not hide.”

  The words cut at Lanie. She wanted to defend herself, to explain. The words pierced because they were true—yet it was the one bit of information that Mrs. Smith didn’t have, and that Lanie would never share with her, that made it impossible for Lanie to accept the well-meant advice. Maybe, in a couple of years, if the situation didn’t change, then she’d have to step out of hiding. Maybe then, she could risk it. But at the moment…no.

  She reached for a second baklava. “The 1950s clothes suit me.”

  Mrs. Smith sniffed at the evasion, but let it stand. “You have the figure for them. I was always dumpy.”

  The doorman at Mrs. Smith’s apartment block arranged a cab home for Lanie. She would have caught the Tube, but Mrs. Smith wouldn’t hear of it. “Not at this time of night.”

  It wasn’t so late.

  Lanie watched London unroll past the window; colors and blurring impressions of buildings, traffic, people.

  Not since childhood had she lived so long in one place. Eight months. Eight months of isolation and the nagging worry that all this was for nothing. Yet, every day, she scanned the political news, checking the faces.

  What did she think she’d see? She inhaled the stale, dirty aroma of the cab. Monsters didn’t advertise their evil. Even she couldn’t see their hearts. All she could note was their behavior, add it up and spot the discrepancies that pointed to hidden, vile agendas. And to do that, she needed more than fleeting media appearances.

  She tucked the neck of her frockcoat raincoat tighter around her throat, protecting herself, hunching her shoulders inward and observing that her ankles were already crossed and locked together. The muscles of her calves were cramped and cold.

  Fear was exhausting.

  She was aware of the irony that Mrs. Smith had alluded to. Where her Horry had lived in the 1950s and escaped to the Edwardian era, Lanie lived in the twenty first century and escaped to the 1950s.

  It was all about fantasy. Neither the 1950s nor the Edwardian era had been safe, but separated by decades from the present, it was possible to re-imagine the past into an impossible golden age. It could be endlessly reshaped, according to a person’s demons and dreams.

  Lanie needed the courage of the mid-twentieth century.

  In the 1950s Britain had been scarred by the war it’d fought, and the wars it still fought. It had suffered through austerity and the loss of empire. Its empire had been founded and held with violence and injustice, but also with courage and hope. Good people had struggled with changed circumstances. All people had lived with the new and terrifying threat of nuclear warfare.

  Yet the fashions of the 1950s had been bold and feminine, a celebration of women’s beauty and strength in surviving the hard times. They had been part of the promise of better times, and people’s commitment to working towards them.

  The spirit of those times resonated with Lanie. Yes, she was hiding in her costumes and even in the museum. But she wasn’t scared in the way Mrs. Smith feared she was. She wasn’t hiding from life. She was waiting.

  In her lap, her hands curled into fists. Terror wouldn’t stop her. She would fight—once she’d found her antagonist.

  Away to her left, out of sight, the lights of the Houses of Parliament glowed golden into the night.

  Chapter 5

  It didn’t take long to empty and clean the back bedroom at the museum. Fortunately, the heaviest items of furniture, the iron bedstead and massive oak wardrobe, were staying. Rupa said that she’d included them in her plan.

  Her plan for the Raj Room was detailed, pages long and included grid paper.

  Rupa’s enthusiasm was almost enough to distract Lanie from the annoyance of the roof garden. Almost.

  Unfortunately, Nick, too, was making plans.

  After taking detailed measurements and a number of photos, he’d vanished. But his experts trooped in relentlessly. It wasn’t simply that advice was needed on drainage, plumbing and structural issues. There was also the matter of getting estimates for the work.

  Lanie found tradespeople ringing the museum’s bell well before and after opening hours for access to the roof. She did offer, in a curt and cross text to Nick, to leave the outside staircase unlocked in daylight hours, but apparently tradespeople would be unlikely to quote on the job if they had to climb “that death-trap”.

  So she had to be on duty from seven in the morning till seven at night.

  “The roof garden won’t be any trouble. You might even enjoy it,” she mimicked scathingly, bolting the museum’s front door behind a plumber who’d assessed the roof space, grunted and departed in search of dinner at the pub. She knew where he was going because he’d invited her to join him. “Huh.”

  She caught the elevator back up to the roof and an evening of studying political blogs, and looked at the roof’s bare expanse. It wasn’t that she was truly alone up here. People from other, higher buildings could see the roof; although she’d learned where to position a chair outside to cut both the wind and observation. The thing was that she liked the blankness of the space.

  So much in life was busy. Especially in London, things and people crowded in on you. But up here, it was an empty stage set. Here, she had no role to play. She could simply be.

  But all of that was changing. Filming of the roof garden’s construction was to begin, tomorrow. Before shots of the roof were required, as well as Nick talking to the camera, describing the project.

  Nick had at least been meticulous in giving her warning of his sche
dule.

  She stood in the center of the open space in front of her flat and wondered what he would create. She couldn’t imagine an Edwardian garden on the rooftop. The area was too small and harsh, buffeted by the weather that hurled itself against the windows of her flat all too often. She’d probably be left to endure something impractical and fussy.

  Except, that didn’t seem Nick’s style.

  Annoyed at her own treacherous curiosity, she turned her back on the roof and entered her flat, slamming the door behind her.

  Lanie turned off her alarm clock before it could brrring. Then she glared at the ceiling, not appreciating the swirl of anticipatory butterflies in her tummy.

  After dinner last night, Nick had messaged that he’d be on the roof at half past seven.

  She wasn’t sure if her appreciation of his concern not to frighten her outweighed her annoyance that he thought (rightly) that she’d be scared at odd noises on “her” roof. Either way, she wanted to be dressed and ready to roll before he arrived.

  Unfortunately, a school group was scheduled for today, so she couldn’t wear one of her 1950s costumes. A shame because she had the perfect outfit: a severe black suit with a nipped-in waist and pencil skirt that she’d have teamed with the highest, spikiest heels she owned.

  However, a school group meant practical clothes—jeans, shirt and sneakers—so that she had a fighting chance of herding the kids through the museum and keeping up with their various side excursions. Too many teachers seemed relieved to hand over complete responsibility for their charges to her.

  She liked kids, but they were a tough audience.

  Actually, she could understand why teachers were so eager to hand them over.

  Grinning, she pushed back the bed covers and got out. A shower, hair in a ponytail and minimal make-up, she braced herself to face the world in dark indigo jeans and a check print shirt in tones of cream and red. Her feet were still bare, though, when someone knocked at the door.

  She stared at her pale pink toenail polish. Should have made coffee first.

  “Just letting you know I’m here,” Nick called through the door.

  She opened her mouth to answer, closed it, and opened the door instead. She caught him in the act of turning away.

  He looked back at her over his shoulder, then swung fully around. “Good morning.”

  The early morning air was cool and he wore a navy blue fleece jacket above khaki trousers with cargo pockets, and serious work boots. He’d also had his hair cut. There was barely a hint of curl. Bright-eyed, alert and clean-shaven, he radiated energy.

  He also held a cup of takeaway coffee in one hand and the smell drifted to her.

  She inhaled and sighed.

  “Ah. Sorry. I should have thought to bring you one.”

  “Morning. That’s okay.” She twisted one bare foot around the other ankle, embarrassed. “I have a machine.” She waved vaguely in the direction of the kitchen. “I should…”

  He nodded. “Don’t let me keep you from caffeine.”

  He had a great grin.

  She backed away and closed the door. It wasn’t just the scent of coffee that she’d inhaled. For an instant, she’d been completely absorbed in all that was Nick.

  He played it low-key, but he had charisma.

  Her family argued about charisma occasionally. For theatre people, identifying the “magic” that riveted people’s attention was crucial. Selwyn, her brother, held that charisma wasn’t an aspect of personality, but a by-product of a person aligning their life behind an idea. Authenticity: where passion and purpose joined

  Nick had that quality. If the camera could capture it, his television program would succeed.

  She poured herself that first, vital cup of coffee for the day and stayed in the kitchen, where she couldn’t see Nick, to drink it. Then she poured a second coffee into a travel mug, shrugged on a long cream cardigan and remembered her bare feet.

  No doubt about it. She was rattled.

  Sneakers on, she locked the flat behind her and unlocked the cage to the elevator. She was aware that Nick watched her from the front of the roof space. “I’ll let in your friends when they arrive.”

  “Thanks.”

  Descending into the museum was a relief. Here, she still had control of her life. True, her preferred routine of an hour in her office catching up via the internet with family and friends, and with the news, would have to be skipped. But she had the security codes to the museum, she would let in the television crew, and then, she would return to the museum’s comfortable weekday rhythm.

  The television crew arrived soon after eight o’clock, and instantly, the producer claimed center stage.

  Nelson Horatio was Nick’s age with an accent that varied from posh public school to…“I’m Nigerian, transplanted to bloody freezing England.” He was loud, cheerful and bossy to Nick’s quiet determination. Together, they were probably unstoppable.

  The other two members of the small team nodded and smiled politely, but were clearly uninterested in her. They asked directions to the elevator and carried their equipment to it with single-minded purpose.

  Not so, Nelson. Broadly muscled though he was, he gave an impression of darting movement. He poked his head into the dining room and drawing room, investigated the library and spent some time in the music room, tucked beyond the library.

  He made Lanie nervous, and she remained in the hall, wary and mistrustful.

  She was right to worry.

  “I have a brilliant idea.”

  No. She folded her arms. The dusting cloth she’d picked up to clean the dining room dangled from one hand.

  “Your museum is charming. It must feature in our program.”

  “It is. Nick’s on the roof.”

  “It would make sense to feature an element of the house, itself. The drawing room, I think.”

  “No!”

  Nelson smiled and whipped out his phone. “I’ll call Mrs. Smith.”

  Lanie eyed him inimically. The man hid his bullying better than Nick, but it was just as real. They both knew that Mrs. Smith would be delighted to have the interior of the museum featured on the television program as well as its roof garden. “If you film, today, you’ll disrupt the tour schedule. We have a school group through at ten o’clock.”

  “Then we’ll film in here this afternoon.” He advanced into the drawing room.

  She was left scowling at his back. The truth was, she had no power to deny him, and that rankled. “If you must.”

  Nelson put away his phone and returned to the hall. He beamed down at her. “I’ll just go up and see how Nick’s getting along.”

  Lanie glared after him, annoyed that he ignored her.

  There he stood, humming to himself, bouncing a bit on his toes. The elevator doors opened and he gave her a huge, triumphant grin before entering.

  “I hope the damn elevator stops on you.” She snapped the dust rag in sheer disgust before stuffing it into the back pocket of her jeans.

  She stalked into the drawing room and sighed. Well, maybe it was more of a grumpy harrumph that encapsulated both resignation and sneaking pride. The truth was, she saw why Nelson wanted to film the room. One of the first things she’d done on entering the museum that morning was to tie back the gorgeous peacock blue and yellow curtains. Now, sunlight poured in the front windows and revealed the charm of the house’s main reception room.

  The sewing cabinet in the far corner, with its artlessly abandoned embroidery hoop, looked as if the lady of the house had just stepped out. The room was alive with a sense of welcome. The pair of swans in the painting on the wall opposite the windows glided with serene assurance in their green world, and the small dog figurines lined up on the shelf above the fireplace appeared ready to leap down and frolic.

  And her own impulsive action that morning hadn’t helped her cause. She’d set out a game of patience on the Queen Anne style table with its four matching chairs, adding to the appealing lived-in look.
She’d have preferred to set out the mah-jongg set she’d found in the markets, but too many visitors might be tempted to take a souvenir tile. Playing cards were safer, infinitely cheaper and easily replaced—and today’s school group could be challenged to try and complete the patience.

  The grandfather clock chimed the quarter hour.

  Lanie stopped fidgeting with the layout of the cards and surrendered to the inevitable. The drawing room would be filmed, today, and her pride in the museum meant that she wanted the room to shine. She’d use her few spare minutes giving the room the sort of mother-in-law’s-arriving clean that would help it sparkle onscreen.

  The irrational feeling that she’d been invaded added energy to her cleaning. She felt trampled and defeated; not in a lie-down and take it kind of door-mat way, but in a stubborn resistance kind of way. She rubbed angrily at a brass fireguard.

  “Apparently, we’ll be filming in here.”

  She looked up from where she knelt by the fireplace, recognizing the low voice. Nick stood in the doorway. “So Nelson informed me.”

  “It wasn’t my idea.”

  “Huh.”

  “Nelson’s concept,” the word was evidently a direct quotation, “is that the drawing room meets people’s hazy notion of the Edwardian era, all faded glamour and luxury, and that’ll prime them to expect something romantic in the roof garden.”

  Lanie rested back on her heels. “Are you planning a romantic garden?” Her own irritated mood detected fellow-feeling. There’d been something repelled and indignant in his voice.

  “No.” Definite disgust. “I’ve been researching. The Edwardians had practical gardens. We get some of our cottage garden inspiration from them, but they were careful to include herbs and vegetables, and space for games. I want to show how their gardens became extensions of their homes. Not some romantic idyll. Not a fantasy.”