The September Garden

by Catherine Law

  Adele forced herself to walk the path and through the back gate which had been left carelessly open, swinging in the wind. She braced herself for the steep stairs of the stable attic.

  There she found the chaos of the children’s night: rumpled bedding; the basket containing bread and cheese crumbs, apple cores. The chamber pot was brimming.

  She pulled at a quilt, thinking that she must tidy up, make everything straight; to keep house, just as Madame Orlande requested.

  Edmund’s schoolbook fell out from within the quilt. As she picked it up, two sheets of paper fluttered to the floor: the children’s drawings. They were crude, innocent, their odd proportions familiarly pleasing. Estella had drawn her mother and father side by side, and written their names beneath their feet; her own name with a flourish in the corner. Edmund had drawn an outline of the stable. He imagined it with two figures lying asleep on the top floor, on the rough, broken lines of the floorboards. Beneath them stood two lanky horses: one white, one chestnut, chewing on golden hay.

  Surely, Adele thought, I am as culpable as the Kommandant, as Monsieur, as any one of the people of Montfleur who shut their doors and closed their shutters. Her realisation crept like disease through her bones; her association with the Resistance, with the radio transmissions, the coded messages, with the battle for France, all sealed her guilt.

  Adele held the drawings in her hand, dipped her head and wept.

  Nell

  The avenue off the hilltop high street under the shadow of the school and the ancient church was pretty, shaded by sycamore and untouched by bombs. Along the way, right at the end, was a red-brick villa with a chequerboard path littered with the husks and leaves of a sheltering horse chestnut. Rather impressive, the Blanford household, thought Nell; her father’s new home. It all looked very tasteful and stable and yet the broad, dusky maroon front door, with its stained glass panels of dancing medieval ladies, hinted at a certain artistic eccentricity.

  And her father had been right, when he wrote to her, that the view was good, if not as lovely as at Lednor. French windows in the back parlour offered a glimpse of the rambling garden and, beyond the brick wall, the school playing fields, which stretched a long way to the railway line, and the smudge of the London suburbs in the distance.

  She sat in the parlour, where a clock ticked comfortingly, while downstairs in the kitchen, the housemaid was making a pot of tea. She wondered how Mr and Mrs Blanford had kept her on, with most staff leaving to go to the factories; she also wanted to discover that her tea would not be as good as Mrs Bunting’s.

  She waited for her father, stupefied, in a dream. Pale sunlight rippled over the soft green of the Willow Bough wallpaper pattern, swirling it before her eyes until she felt as if she was immersed in water. Leaving Lednor behind did not absolve the shock that still had stiffened her body and made her want to weep. Somehow, being here in a new world, in this strange house of her father’s, made Sylvie’s news even more unbearable.

  ‘Nell, Nell,’ her father mumbled as he darted into the room and as his quick wiry embrace found her. ‘I’m so sorry. I should never have left it so long. You know how difficult things have been. I’ve left you out, neglected you. But look at you. So glad to see you. Are you well?’

  She sank back into the chair, despair ringing like a heavy bell in her head. ‘Dad, can I stay for a while?’

  ‘Of course you can. Diana will be so pleased. She is due back from work at six. Getting her hands dirty, she is, in munitions down in Wembley. Teaching’s out of the question, of course.’

  Nell looked up at her father. She had not seen him in over a year, and yet was astonished how much he was still himself, still Captain Garland standing before her. He was still the man who left her and her mother without looking back. Still the man who paints and birdwatches. He of inestimable talent. And yet his eyes were not so haunted as they had once been. They seemed to focus on her like they’d never done before.

  Under his scrutiny, she thought she’d better enquire politely about Diana’s parents, Mr and Mrs Blanford.

  ‘Gone to Norfolk for the duration. There’s some connection. An elderly aunt, a cottage by the sea. Sounds idyllic, doesn’t it? Left us to it here. A nice couple. I’d like you to meet them one day. Oh, you do look done in, my dear. Where is Marion with that tea?’

  Nell gathered her wits, trying for a normal conversation. ‘So you have a maid.’

  ‘You’re lucky to catch her. She comes in one day a week. Can’t you tell by the state of the place?’

  She glanced around at the dusty piles of books and papers, the film over the framed mirror above the mantel.

  ‘Once she gets to work,’ Marcus granted, ‘the house is in order, for about a day.’

  ‘Mrs B is spending more time at her sister’s these days,’ Nell told him. ‘We don’t use so many rooms. The house seems rather large – larger than ever before. And the September—’

  Her father dipped his head. ‘Tell me about it another time.’

  A painful silence stretched between them. Marcus walked to the window and pointed out the direction of the city on the horizon. Nell made a polite noise, choking back on her disappointment. She wanted to share the garden with him.

  The maid came in with a rattling tray, set it down and bobbed a curtsy before leaving.

  ‘That’s Marion. She’ll do,’ said Marcus, picking up the teapot.

  Nell saw that his hand was shaking. ‘Leave it to brew, Dad,’ she said.

  They sipped and crunched on some inferior home-made biscuits.

  Her father waved his half-heartedly in the air, scattering crumbs. ‘Diana’s.’

  ‘Dad …’ she blurted, ‘I’m in an awful fix.’

  He looked at her, and such was his intensity that she felt she’d never been the subject of his gaze before.

  ‘We’ll cope with it. After the year or so we’ve had, there’s nothing Diana and I can’t get through. Whatever’s the matter, we’ll get through it together.’

  He handed Nell his handkerchief and she wept while the tea grew cold.

  Diana came home with her hair still wrapped in a turban and a sparkle of happiness in her gimlet eyes. Nell was immediately reacquainted with her tiny pretty face, her plump manicured fingers and perfectly straight nose.

  ‘Welcome, Nell,’ she said. ‘I am so glad you have come to visit us. Has your father been looking after you? Well, of course he has. Marion has left us a hotpot in the oven, but before dinner we always like to have a glass of wine upstairs in the studio. Has he shown you his studio?’

  Nell thought the woman who had run off with her father possessed the confidence of someone who was truly content. It was as if the last year and a half did not matter: her loneliness, her mother’s grinding distress. But she realised then, with a jolt, as she watched Diana Blanford greet her father, that if she was to be restored to his life, then she must honour Diana’s part in it, too.

  ‘We were waiting for you to come home, Diana,’ Nell said, generously.

  After putting her suitcase in the guest bedroom, they all walked up the second flight of stairs to her father’s studio. He had converted the attic soon after he moved there and had builders in to add a huge arched window, facing south, to bathe it with light. Nell hesitated at the door, registering the same smell, the same atmosphere, the same dust as her father’s study back at home. Chunks of sunlight fell over the parquet, highlighting motes in the air and the sheen of grey over the familiar clutter of books, tubes of paint and stacks of curling paper.

  ‘Come and sit,’ her father indicated the group of armchairs near the window, ‘and we will partake.’

  He went over to a sideboard to pour some wine.

  Nell sat beside Diana. While watching her father with a glow of passion, Diana leant over and said quietly to her, ‘I know what you’re thinking, Nell. I am the woman who was capable of stealing a fur coat and also a husband, and a father. I know what I have done. I hope we can be friends, you and I. W
e are happy, but, believe me, our happiness is sometimes soured.’

  Not knowing how to answer her, Nell turned to look through the arched window. The school playing fields and park swept away from the foot of the hill to the suburban streets beyond. A Metropolitan Railway train, appearing to her as small as a toy, caught a flash of the setting sun as it trundled along the line sweeping on its curve through Wembley. A murky smudge hung in the air over the city in the distance.

  ‘Has there been a recent air raid, Dad?’ she asked. ‘I can see a pall of smoke.’

  ‘Yes, one or two nights back. We get a good look at the fireworks from up here. Good show some nights. We feel somewhat removed. Sometimes you think it’s not quite happening.’

  Nell took the glass of wine from him, thinking of the cellar below the mews, thinking of Alex. She felt, for a moment, the sheer terror, and the realisation that love transformed her that night.

  ‘I so wish the view was clearer now,’ she muttered, close to tears.

  Her father was busy stoppering the bottle and didn’t notice. But Diana laid her hand on her arm.

  ‘Tell us when you are ready, my dear.’

  Furtively wiping her eyes on the back of her hand, Nell spotted the half-finished watercolour of the dog rose, now framed and tacked to the wall by the window. She got up to look at it, to distract herself. Peering closely, she saw its singed edges.

  ‘I didn’t realise you had this,’ she said.

  ‘What? Oh that,’ Marcus said. ‘Your mother sent it on to me. A sort of peace offering, I suppose. Rescued from the bonfire. Anyway, I always liked the dog rose. Always liked the fact it was unfinished. And saved.’

  ‘Quite a nice gesture from Mollie, really,’ Diana observed, kindly.

  Nell tried to smile but was prevented by the constant drizzle of sadness, like a perpetual dripping tap, inside her.

  ‘How is she, anyway?’ asked Marcus.

  Nell glanced at him, confused.

  ‘Your mother, dear,’ he smiled.

  ‘Poor and sad,’ she answered him succinctly. ‘Mrs B looks after her.’

  Her father did not appear to hear her.

  ‘Sit there and drink your wine with us,’ he said. ‘Sit right there in the window. That’s it. With the last of the light on your face.’

  He reached for a large sheet of cartridge paper and pinned it to his easel. He picked up a chip of charcoal and began to sketch. Then he stopped and walked over to the gramophone.

  ‘Oh please, no, Dad!’ cried Nell. ‘If that’s “Clair de Lune”, I can’t stand it.’

  ‘Yes. Sorry. Right you are.’ He returned to his easel and settled himself on his stool.

  ‘Shall we talk about it, then?’ he asked, not looking at her but frowning at his work.

  Struck by the thought that she’d never sat for her father before, she couldn’t answer him. She listened to the scratching of charcoal on paper, and watched through the window as a girl and a dog ambled across the playing field way, way below, followed by two long, faithful shadows. Alex again walked into her mind. Despite herself, the remembered sound of his voice, suddenly, inexplicably, consoled her. She wished, with all her might, that she was that carefree girl with her dog out there in the park. It could easily be her and Kit.

  ‘Your father tells me that you have fallen in love,’ ventured Diana. ‘With a birdwatching flight lieutenant.’

  Nell glanced at her in surprise, suddenly very afraid at the absurdity of her situation.

  ‘I have,’ she managed, her shame beginning to bind her words. ‘But I have since learnt that he is committed to someone else.’

  ‘Oh hell,’ uttered Diana.

  Nell’s voice rose a pitch in bitterness. ‘And he is gone, anyway. Gone on some dreadfully dangerous mission. Unlikely to come back alive, so I believe. I haven’t heard from him. He could be dead already. So there was never any hope. Not really. I don’t know why I ever thought it. How would such luck come to me? I lose everything.’

  Her anger faded in an instant, like a snuffed-out flame, to be replaced by the familiar slow-burning sense of betrayal, the misery that had woven its web around her since the day Sylvie had telephoned.

  Marcus continued to sketch, a frown deepening between his eyebrows.

  ‘I blame this damn war. Puts the mockers on so many things,’ Diana said.

  Her flippancy annoyed Nell.

  ‘Well it’s not just the war that puts the mockers on, Diana,’ she snapped. ‘Not when I am expecting his child.’

  Diana’s eyes rounded in surprise. She looked, after a fashion, almost pleased.

  ‘Oh, my dear.’ She slipped her cool hand, pale and plump, into Nell’s and held it.

  ‘Ah, now,’ said Marcus, after some moments passed. ‘No tears, please. You’ll spoil it.’

  He turned the easel towards Nell and she stared at his work. The portrait could have been Mollie, at a much younger age.

  ‘Do you like it?’ asked Marcus.

  ‘I didn’t realise how much I look like Mother,’ Nell whispered. ‘I always thought I looked like you.’

  Sylvie

  The doctor removed the cold instrument with a rather hard tug. Sylvie winced, wishing that, as in every other walk of life these days, from firefighting to welding, there were more women in this profession. She dressed behind the curtain while he washed his hands over the basin and buttoned the cuffs of his shirt. A fresh drop of her blood had landed on the lino floor by the examination couch.

  ‘Do come and sit down, Miss Orlande,’ he said, indicating the chair by his sleekly polished desk.

  He took out his fountain pen and began to write laboriously.

  Sylvie sat and waited, feeling ruffled and peculiarly vacant, watching sunlight glimmer on his bald head.

  ‘It seems to me, miss, that you have been suffering from amenorrhea for some time. Now, no need to worry. This is often brought on by shock and distress. And perfectly understandable, under the circumstances, don’t you think? Try to keep calm, and continue as normal. Should be right as rain in no time.’

  Sylvie laughed with relief. ‘Do you mean I should just keep my tin hat on and my head down?’

  ‘That’s the spirit. I suggest you are fitted with a Dutch cap in the meantime. Keep babies at bay, I would.’

  She walked down the russet-brick steps of the Harley Street practice on rather shaky legs, to see Henri waiting for her, leaning against the railings.

  ‘Have you had the all-clear, ma chérie?’ he asked.

  ‘Just some female silliness.’ She linked his arm, feeling frivolous. ‘I need a drink. It’s time for champagne at the Ritz, Henri, my boy. Let’s take a cab.’

  The doorman held the door for them and they entered the hushed, gilded reception. An enormous vase of lilies exuded a heady perfume, making Sylvie think of births, brides and death. Her heels sank into the carpet; she should not breathe or she would break the tranquil spell, crack the elegant vacuum of the hotel’s interior. She walked across the salon and up the steps into the Palm Court and all eyes – behind newspapers, spectacles, false lashes – turned and followed her. Henri often teased her that she had the looks of a film star and a figure that men would kill each other for. She wanted, desperately, to giggle.

  ‘I can’t tell you how relieved I am. It must be for the best. Bombs and babies don’t go together very well,’ she confided in Henri as the waiter topped up the champagne flutes and twisted the bottle deep into the ice bucket.

  ‘And what of Alex Hammond?’ Henri asked.

  Sylvie lowered her eyes, concentrated on the bubbles in her glass. The light feeling that had followed her from the surgery turned a sharp corner into sadness.

  ‘I have no idea.’

  ‘You know that fellow has a short life expectancy. Special Operations are our best men, but they are generally doomed.’

  Sylvie leant forward, cigarette between her lips, while he offered her his lighted match.

  ‘There’s been no word,’ she
agreed. ‘But then why should there be? I’m not his next of kin.’

  Henri was watching her. ‘You really have the most exquisite retroussé nose.’

  ‘Stop it, Henri,’ Sylvie bristled. ‘I’m thinking about Nell.’

  ‘Cousin Nell?’

  ‘She took herself off to her father’s place in Harrow before I could get down to Lednor last month. Left me to spend three whole days on my own with Auntie Moll. Didn’t see her at all.’

  ‘She must be cross with you.’

  ‘She liked Alex Hammond, you see.’

  Henri sucked hard on his cigarette. ‘He’s out there in the field, expecting to marry you, expecting to be a father. I hope he keeps his mind on the job.’

  ‘Dear God, so do I.’

  ‘Forget him.’

  Sylvie drained her glass and held it out for more. ‘He was mine, you know. For a short while. He still could be.’

  ‘Don’t talk rot.’

  His words stung her as if he’d slapped her cheek. She had known many men, had known many lovers, including Henri. But Alex Hammond had such a fascinating potency that it made her want to kick up her heels and call off the search. But, then, was that just what he was like with every lady? Was that why Nell had fallen for him, too? Right now, there may be another girl somewhere out there, succumbing to his distinguished allure, to his deft touch. Truth was, he was different to all the other fellows, because she had cared.

  Henri looked grumpy. He waved his hand in front of her face. ‘Sylvie, my dear, you were miles away. There is nothing more to it, we should do this for La France more than anything else.’

  He’d interrupted her thoughts just as she was uncovering a truth, admitting to herself the depth of her feelings. How irritating he was.

  ‘Do what for La France? What are you talking about?’ she snapped.

  ‘Marry me.’

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous, Henri. I’m going to wait for Alex.’

  Part Four

  1942