The Child Garden

by Geoff Ryman

  Rose Ella’s mother worked in what had once been the School of African and Oriental Studies. The east side of the building was a foundry and glass works. The windows were open wide, but it was still hot. Milena felt the heat on her face. Almost as if she could feel her pores open, sweat welling out of her forehead. The furnaces were lined up along the back wall. One of them was working, its door hooked open. Inside the furnace, there was an even, unvarying orange light. A row of Restorers stood in front of it with long metal poles. Metal! Milena looked in wonder at the metal poles, hoping to see a marvel, but metal did not look all that different from dirty resin, except that it didn’t melt.

  Rose Ella introduced Milena to her mother. Rose Ella’s mother was very small and slim with grey steady eyes and a perfect smile. The eyes had a fixed light in them that Milena found difficult to warm to.

  ‘Mala,’ said Rose Ella, calling her mother by her first name. ‘This is my friend, Milena.’

  My friend, thought Milena, she called me her friends. She was too pleased to remember to speak.

  ‘Hello, Milena,’ said Rose Ella’s mother, pleased to meet her. There was something in the smile that would have been pleased to meet anybody. ‘I’m making a pitcher. Do you want to watch?’

  Rose Ella left it to Milena to say yes. They stood well back. Rose Ella’s mother dipped the long metal pole into the orange light. A bubble of glass came out attached to the pole. Around the edges glowed orange, where the glass was thickest. Rose Ella’s mother put the pole to her lips and blew, just a little, and looked, and blew again. She wore no gloves, no apron. She picked up a kind of scoop with a long black handle, and rolled the glass on it. The glass went rounder as it was rolled and it began to glow green as it cooled. Then Mala turned it on its base, flattening it against what looked like a small raised stool. ‘That’s it,’ she said.

  Rose Ella jumped forward and took the pole with an easy flip of the hand, and Milena stepped back in fear and admiration. Rose Ella fixed the pole in a vice, and turned it. She took a triangle of wood, ordinary wood dipped in water, and as the glass blob turned, she ran the wet wood around the lip of the pitcher’s neck. The wood flared into flame. Striding quickly, lightly, Rose Ella tucked the pole into another oven, twisted it once, and pulled it out again. The glass was gone.

  ‘Where did it go?’ Milena asked.

  ‘It’s in the oven now. Eighty degrees. It will harden there,’ said Rose Ella, with a grunt. She took her black metal pole and dipped it in a bucket. There was a bubbling and a puttering of steam. ‘Stand back,’ said Rose Ella. She chopped away at a crust of crystal left clinging to the mouth of the pipe.

  ‘I’m doing a net too, if you want to stay and watch,’ said Mala.

  ‘Ach! Oh, that’s special, Milena. You’re in luck!’

  Her smile still sharp and steady, Mala sat in front of a little table. ‘The order came in just today,’ she said. ‘It’s for a house being done up out in Uxbridge.’

  ‘She waves with glass,’ said Rose Ella, and in her excitement gave Milena’s hand a little squeeze.

  It really was the most beautiful thing. The glass was teased into strands like toffee. Mala used chopsticks to stretch and catch and weave the strands over and under each other. The strands would sag and droop, and each time Mala would seem to catch them only just in time, lifting one strand up to nip another strand underneath.

  Like wool, the glass was knitted. The criss-cross pattern rested as it grew on a gently warm shoulder of metal. Very suddenly, Mala was cutting the strands with a pair of scissors, which were passed to Rose Ella, to be dipped into water and bashed clean. New strands were drawn up, and red hot tongs were used to stroke them, cajole them into melting with the previous strands.

  ‘This…glass,’ said Mala, distracted by her work, ‘is for…decorative panels. Screens really. Between beautiful wooden benches.’ Milena realised that Mala was talking to her.

  Mala looked up, straight at her. ‘They’re beautiful when they catch the light.’ Milena smiled back at her, lost for a reply. ‘They’ll be about a metre square each when I’m done.’

  Rose suddenly dipped in front of her mother, as if curtseying. From under the shoulder of metal, she pulled out another shoulder, to support new sections of the net. The clear putty of the glass slithered up and over itself as if alive; the chopsticks clicked like frightened insects. ‘Ah!’ sighed Mala with satisfaction. Suddenly it was time for lunch.

  They all went to Russell Square together. The lawns were full of people photosynthesising. Mala bought each of them a drink, and a communal cup full of fried squid. They sat on the grass and protected their fried squid from the sniffing market dogs.

  ‘It’s not like they tell you,’ said Milena, mustering her words.

  ‘What do you mean, Milena?’ asked Mala, as if from a respectful distance. She was still smiling.

  ‘Restoring. There’s nothing of the Golden Stream about it. It’s all about moving glass.’ Milena had found the whole experience deeply reassuring. She had found some grounds for hope. Life would be more practical than she had thought. Life was not about memory.

  Mala’s smile shifted, finally. It grew more broad and took a slightly rueful slant. ‘We don’t sit around talking, no. The only way to learn this stuff is to do it. They can give a virus, and you can know all about it here.’ She pointed to her kerchiefed head delicately, with a circle of squid. ‘But your hands still won’t do the right thing. You’ve just got to learn it.’ Mala’s hands held the squid with a perfect grace.

  Milena was so pleased she had to look away. She had to look down.

  ‘Well,’ said Rose Ella. ‘I’m a Nurse, not a glass blower. I’ve got to get back.’

  They all stood up, and Rose Ella and her mother kissed each other on both cheeks, a curiously formal gesture. Mala’s hand rested slightly on her daughter’s shoulder. Then, to Milena’s surprise, Mala kissed her as well.

  ‘See you later,’ Mala said. ‘Supper at six.’ Then, without a backward glance, Mala walked away. Even the way Mala walked was perfect, one foot placed exactly in front of the other. Everything was so simple.

  ‘Isn’t she lovely?’ asked Rose Ella.

  Milena said yes, but only because she thought Rose Ella was. Together they walked back to the Medicine.

  All that afternoon, as some of the children practised music, as others set up imaginary stalls selling saws or soap, Milena smiled. As older children came and went on real business, selling roasted corn to the Tarty grandees parading up Tottenham Court Road, or sweeping the streets of others Estates for money, Milena sat, legs folded on the floor of the courtyard and didn’t move. Parents murmured to Nurses about possible lines of Development. It was said the Estate needed chemists—was any work being done in chemistry? How many Places were there, just in general, for statistical work?

  As all the easy chatter came and went like the sound of wind in trees, Milena smiled. She smiled as she stitched a leather purse, pushing the needle and heavy thread without really looking at it. Life might be possible after all. She had a friend. She had a friend.

  When the Medicine closed at four, she ran back to the Gardens. She ran up the stairs, and tore off her grey jumpsuit. She hobble barefoot into the blessedly empty bathroom, and turned on the shower and lathered soap all over herself. She set the tartar bugs loose on her teeth and felt them feasting all along the borders of her gums. Quite a banquet, eh lads? She brushed her teeth to get rid of them—otherwise they died and began to smell—and she ran her tongue over her teeth. Her teeth felt new and polished like the smoothest, coldest resin. She brushed her hair, and peered into the mirror, and saw that some of her pores were enlarged with little plugs of dirt. She popped them out, and washed her face again. She threw herself onto her bed, and pulled on her best wooden clogs. They would clatter as she danced.

  Suze and Hanna were out. She could hear them talking below, in the Gardens, in their group. They would talk there until sunset and then go in and eat. Us
ually the sound of their talk would make Milena feel forlorn, deserted. Now, in the quiet room, she thought: I have a place to go. I am going to eat with a family and all of you are going to eat in a Child Garden. Some of the Tykes will probably have another horrible food fight, wormy old stir-fry thrown all over everyone. You’ll have to wash, and then you’ll sit in each other’s bedrooms playing cards, or trying to make a few deals. You’ll trade toys or reed mats or whatever scraps you can and it will make you feel adult.

  Me, tonight, I will eat with adults, and there is going to be music.

  Milena savoured the feeling for just one moment more. Then she turned and ran down the steps, her clogs making a sound like a winnowing machines.

  The Row was an old square of mostly eighteenth century houses. The old brick sagged and the whitewashed windows were not square, but the ancient buildings stood up proudly by themselves. In the middle of the square, encircled by wrought iron, was another garden. Livestock was kept between the huge old trees. Sheep and goats were tethered to stakes, each of them keeping a circle of grass trim. There was a great structure made entirely of bales of hay, resin sheeting covering the sloping roof.

  Milena found No. 40. On the door was a brass knocker in the shape of a dolphin. Its head knocked against brass waves. As soon as Milena knocked, the door was opened by Rose Ella. She must have been waiting, Milena thought, waiting just inside the doorway. She was kissed on both cheeks again, and told how nice it was to see her. On each side of the hallway there was a row of small brass cannons. ‘They were for firing salutes,’ explained Rose Ella.

  The walls were lined with old, yellowing paintings. Rose Ella didn’t know who they were. Milena stopped to stare at their faces. Area of the paintings had been cleaned, as if the people in them had wiped a dusty windowpane to see out. There was an old chair, with a back made out of wood, carve to look like a harp. Some of the wooden strings were broken. There was a huge rug thrown over bare, worn wooden floors. The colours were faded, all the warp worn through. A large china dog sat waiting faithfully, the top of its nose broken.

  ‘What a wonderful place!’ said Milena. ‘All of these things.’

  ‘Secret,’ said Rose Ella. ‘We take our time repairing them, so they can stay with us.’

  ‘Really!’ whispered Milena. It was a wicked world indeed.

  Rose Ella chuckled. ‘Come on, I’ll show you where we live!’ She ran up a great booming uncarpeted staircase. Milena followed in her clogs. Someone higher up shouted down at them to be still.

  On the first landing, there were old TV sets, cables folded over their heads, and rows of frozen painted Chinese Buddhas. There was a bust of Benjamin Britten, and another old chair, one of its legs replace by a prop of bamboo, its embroidered upholstery as worn as the rug downstairs. The chair had padded shoulders, as if it were a jacket.

  Rose Ella’s family lived in a huge parlour room, with vast front windows made of wobbly glass. The glass made all the square outside look as if it was wavering with heat. There were wooden candlesticks, and decanters of clear water with glasses over the top to keep out the dust. There were portraits, photographs of dead monarchs, and French engravings of mountain or harbour scenes. ‘Le Calme’, said one. Rose Ella’s sister, Maureen, sat at a polished mahogany table. More kissing of cheeks. Milena saw that the table’s legs were carvings of naked women. She started to blush. On the table were plastic tiger lilies. Maureen was injecting them with colour.

  ‘They never die, these flowers,’ said Maureen. ‘They’re always bright.’

  Milena was enchanted with the idea. She thought the thick waxy petals, red and orange and black were beautiful. There was an hibachi in the corner. It made the room too hot but a kettle had been left on it, so that Rose Ella was able to make them both a cup of tea. A boy ran in and asked for Johnny. ‘He’s out in the square, somewhere,’ said Rose Ella, and the boy ran off again. Rose Ella’s father came in, carrying books. He was huge, the biggest man Milena could recall seeing, with a face that might have been cruel. It had a small mouth, a long nose that had been broken, a black beard, and a very receding hairline. Then he spoke and his voice was high and gentle. ‘Is it your mother?’ he asked.

  He was asking if it was his wife’s turn to cook, meaning he hoped it was not his own. ‘Yes, Ta, yes,’ said his daughter, shaking her head.

  ‘Oh good, that’s good,’ he said looking at Milena. ‘My daughter tells me you’re a reader of books. Well, come, come, come and see mine!’

  He held out a paw, with hair on the back of it, took Milena’s hand and led her clumping down the stairs again in her clogs. ‘You’ve got hooves to wake the dead!’ he exclaimed. ‘Here, now, careful!’

  They ducked down into a darkened corridor. The back of the house had no windows. He lit a candle, and held it up and there was a wall of books, on high shelves.

  ‘Look at these, look at all of these, my beauties. None of these are in the viruses. None of them.’

  It was a wall of unknown books. Milena, the one who remembered, saw them all again, in memory, clearer than a dream:

  Before Scotland Yard

  Castle Rackment—the Absentee

  Tom Burke of ‘Ours’ by Lever

  Wild Tales by George Burrow

  The Professor by Currer Bell

  Old books in leather, others in cloth, some with faded, painted paper covers.

  Nunwell Symphony by C. Aspinal Ogladender, Hogarth Press—with painted skies over great houses.

  In Tune with the Infinite by Trine—gold lettering on a blue cloth cover.

  ‘Why does the Consensus forget them all?’ asked Milena, dismayed at the waste.

  The great burly man shrugged. ‘They had their day,’ he said. ‘They were read and loved, and other books grew up in their places. Like people. Only some people are remembered. It’s the same with books. Here, look at this one.’ He pulled out one loose book. Its leather cover was torn; padding leaked out of it as from a sofa. He opened it up for her. There was a photograph, in black and white, obviously retouched by pencil in places. A woman in a white nightdress gazed in wonder at another woman. The other woman wore a garment of leaves. Elaborate scrolls were drawn around the photographs, and elaborate lettering said ‘Scenes from Peter Pan, an enchantment for children.’

  He turned page after page. There were misty backdrops of country cottages with bowers of roses, and women in linen flounces that left their stockinged ankles bare. Light was in pools of shadow all around them.

  ‘It’s theatre,’ whispered Milena, in awe. Rose Ella’s father must have been briefed as well.

  ‘And none of those productions are in the viruses either.’

  Love and yearning made Milena draw in her lower lip. Rose Ella’s father ruffled her hair. ‘Yes, you can borrow the book.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Milena, very quietly, as if the gift were made of china so fine it could shatter.

  They went into the dining hall. Rose Ella had gone for a shower and returned, looking even fresher, prettier. Milena grinned to see her. ‘Look!’ she said, and held open her book.

  ‘Oh, Ta, Tatty!’ she exclaimed, and kissed her father for doing her, Rose Ella, a favour.

  The three of them went into the dining room. It was large, with many tables. The boys sat together, looking rough as boys anywhere will, making Milena feel threatened and shy. She vaguely knew all the boys from Medicine. She had hoped to find only adults here. Again she wondered: how is it that children grow up to be such nice adults? Parents came in, men and women bearing trays of food. Mala came in, smiling. She looked up smiling at Milena, and she left still smiling. Milena hugged her book and felt her cheeks going hot. She had nothing to say again. She turned and looked at a huge black piece of furniture behind her. The back rose up in carved black branches like the stone that holds stained glass windows. Along the pediment there were clumsy carvings of very fat children. Two played lutes and one played a drum. The drumsticks were broken. A fourth child played the pan pipe
s.

  Rose Ella’s father knelt down beside her. He spoke to her softly, conspiratorially.

  ‘The backs were made in 1700, but the fronts, well, the fronts were made in 1400. The wood is Spanish sweet chestnut. That’s why it’s so dark. Not horsechestnut. Spanish sweet. Look, there’s its brother over there.’

  Milena turned and saw that, across the room, was another, nearly identical dresser. But the fat angels had become medieval adults, lean and austere.

  Rose Ella’s father crouched down and pulled out from the lower shelf, an old helmet. The leather had gone black, and its braid and its chin strap. Its black copper badge said ‘Irish Lifeguards.’ He pulled it down low over his eyes.

  Some of the other men laughed, and called things that Milena couldn’t understand.

  ‘Oh, Tarty, take it off,’ said Rose Ella, embarrassed. They all sat together at one of the long tables. Food was heaped up on plates: stir-fried vegetables, all crisp, and a kind of paprika stew of cauliflower, and huge GE prawns that were carved up and served like roast chickens.

  Talk spilled back and forth across the table. The Stone and Timber Estates were playing up and charging too much. It would soon be cheaper to go cut your own and drag it back. Why not? said Rose Ella’s mighty father. Eh? I’d fancy a quest to the outreaches, out to the woods, even out to the hills.

  ‘William,’ said Mala, ‘Don’t talk out your fantasies. It would take months to haul your way up to Cumbria and back, it’s nearly to Scotland.’

  But the men and boys were growing excited by the idea. There were great plans to be made. Seconds were served, and the candles lit, and the tables were pulled back. Rose Ella’s great beefy father opened up the Spanish sweet dresser, the one with the musical children. He took out bagpipes. Whistles came out as well, and drums, flutes and harps and oboes.

  A little piping ditty began, with a drone of pipes in the background. Elegant fiddles joined in, stately, calm, one of them played by Mala. The harp made a sound like stars, isolated and clear, and a muffled drum began to beat, and the Estate of the Restores lined up, to dance, two at a time in the centre of the room.