The Forgotten Garden Part 12
But it was not fear of the Swindells that decided her. It wasn't even Mother's voice, loud within her memory, making her promise to sell the brooch only if the phantom man came threatening.
It was her own fear that the future held worse than the past. That there would be a time, lurking in the foggy years to come, when the brooch was the lone key to her survival.
She turned around without setting foot inside Mr. Picknick's house and hurried back to the rag and bottle shop, brooch burning a guilty hole in her pocket. And she told herself that Sammy would understand, that he had known as well as she did the cost of life on their river bend.
Then she folded his memory as gently as she could, wrapped it in the layers of emotion-joy, love, commitment-for which she no longer had need, and locked the whole deep inside her. Being empty of such memories and emotions felt right somehow. For with Sammy's death Eliza was half a person. Like a room robbed of candlelight, her soul was cold, dark and empty.
WHEN WAS it that the idea first came to her? Later, Eliza could never be sure. There was nothing different about the day in question. She opened her eyes in the dim of the tiny room as she did each morning and lay still, reentering her body after the harrowing stretch of night. it that the idea first came to her? Later, Eliza could never be sure. There was nothing different about the day in question. She opened her eyes in the dim of the tiny room as she did each morning and lay still, reentering her body after the harrowing stretch of night.
She pulled back her side of the blanket and sat up, placed bare feet on the floor. Her long plait fell over one shoulder. It was cold; autumn had surrendered to winter and morning was as dark as night. Eliza struck a match and held it to her candlewick, then looked up to where her pinafore was hanging on the back of the door.
What made her do it? What made her reach beyond the pinafore to the shirt and breeches that hung behind? Climb inside Sammy's clothing instead?
Eliza never knew, but it felt right, as if it were the only thing to do. The shirt smelled so familiar, like her own clothes and yet not, and when she pulled on the breeches, she savored the curious sensation of bare ankles, cool air on skin accustomed to stockings. She sat on the floor and laced up Sammy's scuffed boots, a perfect fit.
Then she stood in front of the small mirror and looked. Really looked as the candle flickered beside her. A pale face stared back. Long hair, golden red, blue eyes with pale brows. Without letting her gaze slip, Eliza picked up the pair of sewing scissors that sat in the laundry basket and held her plait out to the side. The rope of her hair was thick and she had to hack through. Finally it dropped into her hand. No longer bound, the hair on her head fell loose, s.h.a.ggy around her face. She continued to cut until it was the same length that Sammy's had been, then she pulled on his cloth cap.
They were twins, it was little surprise that they should look so similar, and yet Eliza drew breath. She smiled, very slightly, and Sammy smiled back at her. She reached out and touched the cold gla.s.s of the mirror, no longer alone.
Thump...thump...
Mrs. Swindell's broom end on the ceiling below, her daily call to start the laundering.
Eliza picked up her long red braid from the floor, unraveling at the top where it had been detached, and tied a piece of twine around its end. Later she would tuck it away with Mother's brooch. She didn't need it now; it was of the past.
SEVENTEEN.
LONDON, 2005.
Ca.s.sANDRA had known the buses would be red, of course, and double-decked, but to see them trundling by with destinations like Kensington High Street and Piccadilly Circus above their front windows was nonetheless startling. Like being dropped into a storybook from her childhood, or one of the many films she'd watched where black beetle-nosed taxis scurried down cobbled lanes, Edwardian terraces stood to attention on wide streets and the north wind stretched thin clouds across a low sky. had known the buses would be red, of course, and double-decked, but to see them trundling by with destinations like Kensington High Street and Piccadilly Circus above their front windows was nonetheless startling. Like being dropped into a storybook from her childhood, or one of the many films she'd watched where black beetle-nosed taxis scurried down cobbled lanes, Edwardian terraces stood to attention on wide streets and the north wind stretched thin clouds across a low sky.
She had been in this London of a thousand film sets, a thousand stories, for almost twenty-four hours now. When she'd finally woken from her jet-lagged slumber, she'd found herself alone in Ruby's tiny flat, the midday sun slanting between the curtains to cast a narrow ray across her face.
On the little stool beside the sofa bed, there was a note from Ruby.
Missed you at breakfast! Didn't want to wake you-help yourself to anything worth scavenging. Banana in the fruit bowl, leftover something in the fridge, though haven't checked lately-may be all too gruesome! Towels in the bathroom cupboard if you'd like to get clean. I'm at the V&A until 6. You must must drop by and see the exhibition I'm curating at the moment. Something v. v. drop by and see the exhibition I'm curating at the moment. Something v. v. exciting exciting to show you! Rx to show you! RxP.S. Come early afternoon. Wretched meetings all morning.
So it was, at 1 p.m., with her stomach growling, Ca.s.sandra found herself standing in the center of Cromwell Road, waiting for the traffic to stop its seemingly perpetual flow through the veins of the city so she could cross to the other side.
The Victoria and Albert Museum stood large and imposing before her, the cloak of afternoon shadow sliding rapidly across its stone front. A giant mausoleum of the past. Inside, she knew, were rooms and rooms, each one full of history. Thousands of items, out of time and place, reverberating quietly with the joys and traumas of forgotten lives.
Ca.s.sandra b.u.mped into Ruby directing a group of German tourists to the new V&A coffee shop. "Honestly," Ruby whispered loudly as they herded away, "I'm all for having a cafe in the building-I like a good coffee as much as the next person-but nothing gets my goat like people who breeze past my exhibition in search of the Holy Grail of sugarless m.u.f.fins and imported soft drinks!"
Ca.s.sandra smiled somewhat guiltily, hoping Ruby couldn't hear her own stomach grumbling at the delicious smells emanating from the cafe. She'd actually been heading there herself.
"I mean, how can they pa.s.s up the opportunity to stare the past in the face?" Ruby flapped a hand at the rows of treasure-stocked gla.s.s cabinets comprising her exhibition. "How can they?"
Ca.s.sandra shook her head and suppressed a rumble. "I don't know."
"Ah, well," Ruby sighed dramatically, "you're here now and the Philistines are but a distant memory. How're you feeling? Not too jetlagged?"
"I'm fine, thanks."
"You slept well?"
"The sofa bed was very comfy."
"No need to lie," Ruby said with a laugh, "though I appreciate the sentiment. At least the lumps and b.u.mps stopped you sleeping the day away. I would've had to ring and wake you up otherwise. No way I was going to let you miss this." She beamed. "I still can't believe Nathaniel Walker once lived on the same estate your cottage is on! He probably saw it, you know, drew inspiration from it. He may even have been inside." With her eyes bright and round, Ruby hooked an arm through Ca.s.sandra's and started down one of the aisles. "Come on, you're going to love this!"
With mild trepidation, Ca.s.sandra prepared herself to muster up a suitably enthusiastic reaction no matter what it was that Ruby was so keen to show her.
"There you are, then." Ruby pointed triumphantly at a row of sketches in the cabinet. "What do you think of those?"
Ca.s.sandra gasped, leaned forward to get a better look. There would be no need to pretend enthusiasm. The pictures on display both shocked and thrilled her. "But where did they...? How did you...?" Ca.s.sandra glanced sideways at Ruby, who clapped her hands together in obvious delight. "I had no idea these existed."
"n.o.body did," said Ruby gleefully. "n.o.body except the owner, and I can a.s.sure you she hadn't given them much thought in a very long time."
"How did you get them?"
"Purely by chance, darling. Purely by chance. When I first conceived the idea for the exhibition, I didn't just want to rearrange the same old Victoriana that people have been shuffling past for decades. So I ran a little cla.s.sified advert in all the specialist mags I could think of. Very simple, it just read: WANTED ON LOAN-ARTISTIC OBJECTS OF INTEREST FROM THE TURN OF THE NINETEENTH CENTURY. TO BE DISPLAYED WITH LOVING CARE IN LONDON MUSEUM EXHIBITION.
"Lo and behold, I started receiving phone calls the day the first advert appeared. Most of them were false alarms, of course, Great Aunt Mavis's paintings of the sky and the like, but there were pieces of gold among the rubble. You'd be surprised by the number of priceless items that have survived despite the slightest care."
It was the same with antiques, Ca.s.sandra thought: the best finds were always those that had been forgotten for decades, escaped the clutches of enthusiastic do-it-yourselfers.
Ruby looked again at the sketches. "These were among my most prized discoveries." She smiled at Ca.s.sandra. "Unfinished sketches by Nathaniel Walker, who'd have thought? I mean, we've got a small collection of his portraits upstairs, and there's some at Tate Britain, but as far as I knew, as far as anyone knew, that was all that had survived. The rest were thought to have-"
"Been destroyed. Yes, I know." Ca.s.sandra's cheeks were warm. "Nathaniel Walker was notorious for disposing of preparatory sketches, work he wasn't happy with."
"You can imagine, then, how I felt when the woman handed me these. I'd driven all the way out to Cornwall the day before and had been traipsing from one house to another politely declining various items that were entirely unsuitable. Honestly"-she rolled her eyes skywards-"the things people thought might fit the bill would amaze you. Suffice to say, when I arrived at the house I was just about ready to call it quits. It was one of those seaside cottages with the grey-slate roofs, and I was on the verge of giving up when Clara opened the door. She was a funny little thing, like a character out of Beatrix Potter, an ancient hen dressed in a hausfrau's ap.r.o.n. She ushered me into the tiniest, most cluttered sitting room I'd ever seen-made my place look like a mansion-and she insisted on making me a cuppa. I'd have preferred a whisky at that point, the day I'd had, but I sank down into the cushions and waited to see what utterly worthless object she was going to waste my time with."
"And she gave you these."
"I knew what they were immediately. They're not signed, but they've got his embossing stamp on them. See in the upper left-hand corner. I swear, I started to shake when I saw that. Nearly knocked my cup of tea all over them."
"But how did she get them?" Ca.s.sandra asked. "Where did she get them?"
"She said they were among her mother's things," said Ruby. "Her mother, Mary, moved in with Clara after she was widowed, and lived there until she died in the mid-1960s. They were both widows and I gather they were good company for one another. Certainly Clara was delighted to have a captive audience to regale with stories about mother dearest. Before I left she insisted on showing me up the most perilous flight of stairs to take a look at Mary's room." Ruby leaned closer to Ca.s.sandra. "What a surprise that was. Mary might have been dead for forty years, but that room looked as if she was about to arrive home at any moment. It was creepy, but in the most delicious way: a slim little single bed, still made up perfectly, a newspaper folded on the bedside table with a half-completed crossword on the upper sheet. And over beneath the window was a little locked chest-tantalizing!" She finger-combed her wild grey hair. "I tell you, it took every bit of restraint I could muster to resist tearing across the room and ripping the lock open with my bare hands."
"Did she open it? Did you see what was inside?"
"No such luck. I remained mercifully restrained and was ushered out a few moments later. I had to content myself with the Nathaniel Walker sketches and Clara's a.s.surances that there'd been no more like them among her mother's things."
"Was Mary an artist, too?" said Ca.s.sandra.
"Mary? No, she was a domestic. At least she was to begin with. During the First War she'd worked in a munitions factory and I think she must've left service after that. Well, she left service in a manner of speaking. She married a butcher and spent the rest of her days making black puddings and keeping the chopping boards clean. Not sure which I'd have liked least!"
"Either way," Ca.s.sandra said, frowning, "how on earth did she get her hands on these? Nathaniel Walker was famously secretive about his artwork and the sketches are so rare. He didn't give them to anyone, never signed contracts with publishers who wanted to retain copyright of the originals, and that was the finished artwork. I can't imagine what would have made him part with unfinished sketches like these."
Ruby shrugged. "Borrowed them? Bought them? Maybe she stole them. I don't know, and I must admit I don't much mind. I'm happy to chalk it up as one of life's beautiful mysteries. I just thank G.o.d she did did get her hands on them, and that she never realized their value, didn't find them worthy of display, and was thus able to preserve them so beautifully for us through the entire twentieth century." get her hands on them, and that she never realized their value, didn't find them worthy of display, and was thus able to preserve them so beautifully for us through the entire twentieth century."
Ca.s.sandra leaned closer to the pictures. Though she'd never seen them before, she recognized them. They were unmistakable: early drafts of the ill.u.s.trations in the fairy-tale book. Drawn more quickly, the lines scratched eagerly in an exploratory fashion, filled with the artist's early enthusiasm for the subject. Ca.s.sandra's breaths shortened as she remembered feeling that sensation herself when she began a drawing.
"It's incredible, having the chance to see a work in progress. It says so much more about the artist, I sometimes think, than the finished work ever could."
"Like the Michelangelo sculptures in Florence."
Ca.s.sandra looked sideways at her, pleased by Ruby's perspicacity. "I got goose b.u.mps the first time I saw a picture of that knee emerging from the marble. As if the figure had been trapped inside all along, just waiting for someone with enough skill to come and release him."
Ruby beamed. "Hey," she said, alight with a sudden idea, "it's your only night in London, let's go out to eat. I'm supposed to catch up with my friend, Grey, but he'll understand. Or I'll bring him, too, more the merrier, after all-"
"Excuse me, ma'am," came an American accent, "do you work here?"
A tall black-haired man had come to stand between them.
"I do," said Ruby. "How may I help?"
"My wife and I are mighty hungry and one of the guys upstairs said there was a coffee shop down here?"
Ruby rolled her eyes at Ca.s.sandra. "There's a new Carluccio's near the station. Seven o'clock. On me." Then she pressed her lips together and forced a thin smile. "Right this way, sir. I'll show you where it is."
WHEN SHE left the V&A, Ca.s.sandra went in search of a delayed lunch. She figured the last meal she'd eaten must have been the airplane supper, a handful of Ruby's Licorice Allsorts and a cup of tea: little wonder her stomach was shouting at her. Nell's notebook had a pocket map of central London glued inside the front cover and as far as Ca.s.sandra could tell, no matter which direction she took, she was bound to find something to eat and drink. As she peered at the map she noticed a faint cross written in pen, somewhere on the other side of the river, a street in Battersea. Excitement brushed like feathers on her skin. left the V&A, Ca.s.sandra went in search of a delayed lunch. She figured the last meal she'd eaten must have been the airplane supper, a handful of Ruby's Licorice Allsorts and a cup of tea: little wonder her stomach was shouting at her. Nell's notebook had a pocket map of central London glued inside the front cover and as far as Ca.s.sandra could tell, no matter which direction she took, she was bound to find something to eat and drink. As she peered at the map she noticed a faint cross written in pen, somewhere on the other side of the river, a street in Battersea. Excitement brushed like feathers on her skin. X X marked the spot, but which spot exactly? marked the spot, but which spot exactly?
Twenty minutes later, she bought a tuna sandwich and a bottle of water at a cafe on the Kings Road, then continued down Flood Street towards the river. On the other side, the four smokestacks of Battersea Power Station stood tall and bold. Ca.s.sandra felt an odd thrill as she traced Nell's footsteps.
The autumnal sun had come out from hiding and was tossing silver flecks along the surface of the river. The Thames. What a lot the river had seen: innumerable lives spent along its banks, countless deaths. And it was from this river that a boat had left, all those years ago, with little Nell on board. Taking her away from the life she'd known, towards an uncertain future. A future that was now past, a life that was over. And yet it still mattered, it had mattered to Nell and it mattered now to Ca.s.sandra. This puzzle was her inheritance. More than that, it was her responsibility.
EIGHTEEN.
LONDON, 1975.
NELL tilted her head to get a better view. She had hoped that by seeing the house in which Eliza had lived she might somehow recognize it, feel instinctively that it was important to her past, but she did not. The house at 35 Battersea Church Road was utterly unfamiliar. It was plain, and for the most part looked like every other house on the street: three stories, sash windows, thin drainpipes snaking up rough brick walls that time and grime were turning black. The only thing that set it apart was an odd addition at the top of the house. From the outside it appeared that part of the roof had been bricked in to create an extra room, though without seeing it from inside it was difficult to know. tilted her head to get a better view. She had hoped that by seeing the house in which Eliza had lived she might somehow recognize it, feel instinctively that it was important to her past, but she did not. The house at 35 Battersea Church Road was utterly unfamiliar. It was plain, and for the most part looked like every other house on the street: three stories, sash windows, thin drainpipes snaking up rough brick walls that time and grime were turning black. The only thing that set it apart was an odd addition at the top of the house. From the outside it appeared that part of the roof had been bricked in to create an extra room, though without seeing it from inside it was difficult to know.
The road itself ran parallel with the Thames. This dirty street with rubbish in its gutters and snotty children playing on its pavement certainly didn't seem the type of place to sp.a.w.n a writer of fairy tales. Silly, romantic notions, of course, but when Nell had imagined Eliza her thoughts had been fleshed out with images of J. M. Barrie's Kensington Gardens, the magical charm of Lewis Carroll's Oxford.
But this was the address listed in the book she'd bought from Mr. Snelgrove. This was the house where Eliza Makepeace had been born. Where she'd spent her early years.
Nell went closer. There didn't seem to be any activity inside the house, so she dared to lean right up against the front window. A tiny room, a brick fireplace and a poky kitchen. A narrow flight of stairs clung to the wall by the door.
Nell stepped back, almost tripping over a dead potted plant.
A face at the window next door made her jump, a pale face framed by a corona of frizzled white hair. Nell blinked, and when she looked back the face was gone. A ghost? She blinked again. She did not believe in ghosts, not the sort that went b.u.mp in the night.
Sure enough, the door to 37 Battersea Church Road swung open with mighty force. Standing on the other side was a miniature woman, about four foot tall with pipe-cleaner legs and a walking stick. From a raised mound on the left of her chin came one long silver hair. "Who're you, girlie?" she said in a muddy c.o.c.kney voice.
It had been forty years at least since anyone had called her girlie. "Nell Andrews," she said, stepping back from the wizened plant. "I'm just visiting. Just looking. Just trying to-" She held out her hand. "I'm Australian."
"Australian?" said the woman, pale lips drawing back at the sides in a gummy smile. "Why didn't you say so? My niece's husband is Australian. They live in Sydney. You might know of 'em, Desmond and Nancy Parker."
"Afraid not," said Nell.
The old woman's countenance began to sour.
"I don't live in Sydney."
"Ah, well," said the woman somewhat skeptically. "P'haps if you ever get there you'll run into them."
"Desmond and Nancy. I'll be sure to remember."
"He don't get in till late most times."
Nell frowned. The niece's husband in Sydney?
"Fellow what lives next door. Quiet for the most part." The woman dropped her voice to a stage whisper. "Might be a darkie, but he works hard." She shook her head. "Fancy that! An African man living here at number 35. Did I ever think I'd see the day? Ma'd roll in her grave if she knew there was blacks living in the old house."
Nell's interest was piqued. "Your mother lived here, too?"
"That she did," said the old woman proudly. "I was born here, that very house what you're so interested in, matter of fact."
"Born here?" Nell raised her eyebrows. There weren't many people who could say they'd lived their entire life in the one street. "What's that, sixty, seventy years ago?"
"Nearly seventy-eight, I'll have you know." The woman jutted her chin so that the silver hair caught the light. "Not a day less."
"Seventy-eight years," said Nell slowly. "And you've been here all that time. Since"-a quick calculation-"since 1897?"
"I 'ave, December 1897. Christmas baby, I was."
"Do you have many memories? From childhood, I mean?"
She cackled. "Sometimes I think they're the only memories I got."
"It must have been a different place back then."