Walled Garden Read online

  She’d never learned to get on with Alice; she’d made a mess of things with Tony, and she’d been far too terrified to try again, in any serious way, with anyone else. Laura was her last hope for anything approaching a proper relationship. Mixed up with all these emotions was the growing ache of tenderness she now felt towards the young Alice as she imagined her sending her hopeful lover away. She had a moment of intense, searing loneliness as she realized the full impact of that decision on the rest of her mother’s life. She had never imagined that Alice could have loved any other man after Jack died: had never even thought about it. Children everywhere, she supposed, thought of their parents as just that – parents; that is, if they thought about them at all. All through Beth’s adolescence, Alice had been the mother who fought her, who tried to change her, who reminded her of everything that had been done for her. Beth used to rage silently against the whole notion of her mother’s life being given up on her behalf. I didn’t ask to be born. She had hated it whenever her mother reminded her of how fortunate she was. And now she was saddened by the enormity of the one, probably unnecessary, sacrifice which her mother had made and never mentioned – until now. Beth wondered how different all their lives might have been if Alice had married Arthur. She couldn’t help being haunted by the phrase: Don’t give yourself something to regret when you’re eighty.

  Last night, she had been startled to realize the similarities between her and Alice’s lives. She, who had fought for so long to maintain and exaggerate their differences, had been forced to acknowledge the extent of their common ground. They had both been the same age giving birth to their daughters, and five years later, each of them had been on her own. Another ten years on and she, like Alice, was struggling along as a single parent. Her struggles were very different from her mother’s, of course: her solitude was the result of choice, not of the blind, destructive hand of chance. Tony was a good father, a loving one, but it wasn’t quite the same thing as family, as all of them living within the same four walls. Beth’s recollection of her own father was clear, etched brightly against the dark background of his early death. Idly, she wondered what he had been like as a husband. She and James had simply accepted his absence, or so it seemed to her now – but then, they had had each other. Laura probably had the worst of both worlds: no constant fatherly presence, and no brother or sister to share that loss. For the first time in several years, Beth felt an overwhelming sorrow that she had driven Tony away. There was suddenly too much to feel guilty about, too much to make her sad. She had had no Arthur to offer her a second chance. Would she have taken it, anyway, even if she had?

  She closed her eyes and allowed her mind to drift. She tried to let go of the sudden, powerful sense of mourning which had her in its grip. Instead, she wanted to concentrate on the comfort offered by warm water and silence. It was good to feel suspended like this, cherished by her surroundings, safe from the eyes of others. It was good to feel freed, just for a little while, from her own debt of vigilance. She wanted whatever was pulling at her memory to float to the surface. Almost immediately, she saw Granny Mac, standing at the door of Abbotsford, waving to the three of them as they approached her down the long gravel driveway. Even at that distance, Beth’s young self could tell that she was smiling. It was early May, bright and clear, as all her memories were of being – what, eleven, twelve? – when bright blue skies seemed to last all summer long. The two red setters, Amber and Prince, came charging down towards the gates, Prince bounding along in his ridiculous sideways fashion, the way he always did when excited. The dogs’ coats were gleaming, burnished in the sunshine. She was wearing her Confirmation clothes: patent-leather T-bar sandals, home-made blue coat, grey pleated dress and a pillbox hat. She’d slept all the previous night with rags in her hair, and now her head felt heavy with sausage-shaped ringlets, some held hotly, cruelly in place with hair-clips. She hated her hair: it was that insistent shade of red that went with pale skin and flat, dark freckles. She wanted to brush out all the stupid curls, and fling her sweaty hat high up into the clouds of circling, raucous rooks. Instead, she had to look downwards: she was terrified of scuffing the shiny surface of her new shoes on the unruly gravel.

  Beth shifted her position in the bath, easing out her shoulder blades. She smiled to herself, eyes still closed.

  ‘Jesus, Mother,’ she said aloud, ‘how did you ever let me out looking like that?’

  She remembered walking carefully, wanting to pet the dogs, to throw the ball for them as she always did, and hug them as they returned to her, grinning their insane doggy smiles. She wanted to bury her face in the long warmth of their gleaming coats, but on that day, she’d been too terrified to move. She knew, that with the smallest sign of encouragement, they would jump up on her, snagging their long claws in the worsted wool coat her mother had spent many tense hours making, hunched over the Singer, her mouth even fuller of pins than usual. Beth could still feel the prickly sensation of the wool collar on her hot neck, as they all finally came to the end of the long, sweaty walk from the bus stop.

  ‘Hello there!’ called Granny Mac. ‘Elizabeth, you look wonderful! James, you’ve grown at least another inch!’

  Kisses all round as they reached the front door. By this time, Granny Mac had a firm hold of Prince’s collar. Amber, as usual, was meekly back by her mistress’s side, her long pink tongue dripping.

  ‘Hello, love,’ this to Alice, and a strong, one-armed hug. Beth could still see Granny Mac’s sharp, inquisitive glances, rapid reconaissances from face to face, her eyes well versed in the tactics of family warfare. Then, ‘Hello, James, Elizabeth,’ a quick peck on each grandchild’s cheek, and they were inside. Immediately, both dogs were banished to the back yard.

  ‘Now, let me have a proper look at you!’

  Granny Mac washed her hands quickly at the sink, and dried them on the blue towel hanging on a rail inside the back door. There was a faint doggy smell in the cramped scullery, but Granny Mac was, as ever, all brisk country elegance. She wore her good pearls, the ones she always said would be Beth’s one day, and a mauve twinset of some light, deliciously fluffy wool. Her dark tweed skirt was sensible – but that would be changed for a nicer one if they went down to the village later for tea. Her green wellies stood just inside the back door, and she wore her favourite, gleaming lace-up shoes. She hugged Beth first, then held her away from her, at arm’s length, admiring her hot and red-faced granddaughter. Beth remembered how cool the skin of her face and hands had felt, balm to an over-dressed, over-heated eleven-year-old on the day of her Confirmation. Granny Mac’s dark eyes had danced with mischief.

  ‘James, I’m sure you want no part of this fashion parade. Take the key to your grandad’s study – it’s on the shelf there. We’ll be in the garden if you want to join us for ice cream. Otherwise, we’ll give you a shout at tea-time.’

  His eyes had lit up. It was a privilege to be allowed to choose from his grandad’s bookcase, and bury himself in the over-sized green armchair, locked away from all distractions, surrounded by the old smells of pipe-smoke and soft leather. Now that he was sixteen years of age, it was a privilege granted to him more and more often.

  ‘Thanks, Gran.’

  He had taken the key and fled. The older woman then turned her attention back to Beth again.

  ‘Don’t you look grown up! Take off your coat, now, and show me this dress I’ve heard so much about!’

  Beth unbuttoned the solid blue coat. The relief had been enormous. Granny Mac had taken it from her at once.

  ‘I’ll hang it under the stairs for you until you go home. It’s got very warm all of a sudden.’

  She smoothed the fabric as she folded the coat over her arm.

  ‘Lovely material, Alice, you made a great job of it.’

  Beth remembered glancing nervously at her mother. This coat had been a massive undertaking, and she wasn’t even sure if it was proper to take it off. But Alice had smiled at her, a rare, warm smile that seemed to take in
all three of them, standing in the damp, slightly chilly scullery of her old home. With a little shock of recognition, Beth realized that she had known, even as a child, that her mother had been really happy that day.

  Granny Mac had returned from the cloakroom and bent down to test the quality of the fabric in Beth’s grey pleats. She measured its fineness between thumb and forefinger, rubbing the soft material gently.

  ‘Give us a twirl, there’s a girl.’

  Beth had obliged, feeling the slightly tickly material breeze out from her legs and settle back again to just below her knees.

  ‘Perfect – it really suits you. That little touch of red braid at the cuffs and the waist cheers up the grey no end. Turn around again.’

  Beth did as she was told.

  ‘I think it’s the best you’ve ever done, Alice. Elizabeth, you must be very proud of your mother.’

  Beth remembered catching her mother’s delighted smile and she’d been slightly puzzled by it. Why should she care what Granny Mac thought? Her mother was a grown-up. She was allowed to do as she liked, to make whatever she wanted. She didn’t need anyone telling her she had done well.

  Whether it was the relief of being rid of the coat, or the welcome thought of ice cream and lemonade in the shade of the garden, or perhaps simply Granny Mac’s infectious generosity, Beth could still recall being filled with gratitude, a warm, real feeling of love and appreciation towards her mother.

  ‘I am,’ she’d said, feeling suddenly shy, feeling the usual blush creep up her cheeks.

  There had been a tinge of sadness to her pride too, she remembered now, a child’s pity for her mother and the suddenly realized harshness of her life. She had felt sorry that day for the prematurely grey head always bent over the sewing-machine, the rapid, high-pitched taka-taka-taka audible well into the night.

  ‘Now.’

  Granny Mac had paused for a moment, her expression that of someone musing over a complicated equation. She had had a habit of doing that; it never failed to get everyone’s full attention.

  ‘If we’re going to go out into the garden, I’ll have to let Prince and Amber loose, otherwise they’ll drive us mad with their barking.’

  She looked over at Alice, her sharp, pointy face full of concern.

  ‘I don’t want Elizabeth’s outfit to come to any harm. Don’t you think she should change out of it for a while?’

  Alice had already started to fill the kettle. She turned to her mother, her face back to its permanent worried look. Beth remembered wishing she would smile again, remembered praying silently that she would say yes.

  ‘Sure – but I didn’t bring anything else with me.’

  ‘You just leave that to us. Elizabeth, come with me.’

  Alice had nodded over at her daughter, smiling.

  ‘Go on; off you go with Granny.’

  Beth had followed her grandmother up the wide, gentle staircase, her feet now beginning to hurt in her new shoes. She felt a small flutter of excitement at the ghost of conspiracy which Granny Mac had conjured up between the two of them – she knew that she was up to something. They went into her bedroom, a large, airy room at the front of the house, and Beth had held her breath as her grandmother pulled open the heavy doors of her old wardrobe. As a child, she had always liked the feel of the cool cut-glass handles that adorned the dark mahogany doors.

  ‘Try this for size.’

  Smiling broadly, Granny Mac handed her a cotton dress of a deep, rich green, with tiny sprigs of vivid yellow flowers crowding its smooth background. Beth had recognized its shape instantly.

  ‘Oh!’ she gasped. ‘It’s a tent-dress!’

  Quickly, she slipped out of her grey wool and pulled the cool cotton over her head. It slid gratefully over the satiny surface of her new slip. She felt transformed. A little uncertainly, she looked at her grandmother.

  ‘Is this really for me?’

  Granny Mac stooped and hugged her.

  ‘Just for you,’ she whispered. ‘I made it last week when your cousin Clare told me they were all the rage. This shade is just beautiful with your hair. I thought you’d like it for the summer.’

  Beth hugged her back.

  ‘I love it! Thanks, Granny Mac. Can I wear it now – are you sure?’

  ‘Yes, you can. I’d hate you to get your new clothes dirty.’

  She had stroked Beth’s hair, and seemed about to say something. Instead, she kissed her granddaughter on the forehead rather briskly and straightened up. She became suddenly busy, her back turned. She began fussing over the Confirmation dress, hanging it up on a special padded hanger, smoothing the pleats of the skirt into place.

  ‘Now, off you go downstairs. I’ll be with you in a minute.’

  Beth ran all the way back down to the hallway, full of excitement. Just before she opened the scullery door, she stopped for a moment, running her hands over the yards and yards of light cotton. Some instinct had quieted her happiness and stopped her from bursting into the room to show off her new dress. Instead, she entered the scullery silently. Her mother’s back was to the door. She was standing at the window, unmoving, and she seemed to be looking out into the orchard, at something invisible among the neat rows of apple and pear trees, heavy with blossoms.

  ‘Mam?’ she said, suddenly scared. Her mother had never been one to stand still.

  But as she turned around, Alice’s face had lit up with pleasure.

  ‘Oh, Elizabeth! What a lovely dress! You look much cooler!’

  It had seemed the natural thing to do, and Beth remembered moving towards her mother without even thinking about it. She had wound both arms around her neck and, surprised by sudden, guilty tears, had said:

  ‘But I love my Confirmation dress, too.’

  She wondered now if that had been the last spontaneous hug on her part for several years. She had been just on the threshold of adolescence then, just before all the shit between them really began in earnest.

  Her mother had hugged her back, and laughed.

  ‘I know you do, you silly goose! You can change back into it again before we go home. That’s much more sensible for the garden.’

  ‘Now, then.’

  They both turned around.

  Granny Mac was already sweeping through the scullery into the big old kitchen which she used very little, even in those days. That the house was now much too big for an old lady on her own was a familiar topic of conversation whenever they came to visit.

  ‘Come on, let’s go and sit outside.’

  She began opening presses, pulling out bowls, spoons, glasses.

  ‘We’ll bring out lemonade and ice cream, and I’ll make some tea for us, Alice – that all right with you?’

  Of course, Beth remembered that she hadn’t actually sat in the garden, not for a minute, unless you count the time it takes to shovel down two bowls of ice cream and three glasses of cream soda. James had mysteriously reappeared at the same time as the ice cream emerged from Granny Mac’s proud new fridge, and if Beth’s memory served her right, he’d stayed with her for most of the afternoon, playing with the dogs. The sticks and balls they threw were retrieved tirelessly, the two dogs panting and barking, competing with each other madly. Eventually, Granny Mac had sent both her grandchildren off to fill the dogs’ bowls with water from the huge, green pump that dominated the back yard.

  ‘You do it, Sis. I’m going back to Grandad’s study.’

  Before she could protest, James had disappeared through the back door and she was left standing on her own in the cool, mossy shadows. Right in front of her, carpeted here and there by dank green growth, was the trough her grandad used to fill with water to clean the potatoes. Bucket after bucketful, clay-lumped and earth-smelling, just dug from the field beyond the orchard, he would pour them into the clear water, watching as they splashed and tumbled to the bottom. Beth used to look on in fascination as the water became immediately cloudy, grainy with dirt, as Grandad scrubbed the watery mound of potatoes with a lar
ge, stiffly bristled yard-brush. No other potatoes since had ever tasted as good, she thought now. Small as marbles, big as sods of turf – she could see them still, and the way Grandad had scrubbed vigorously until their skins were a delicate fawn colour, peeling back sometimes to show the bone-whiteness underneath. The young Beth had known by its greeny, mossy interior that no one had filled the trough with water in a long time. She shivered; she missed Grandad and it was suddenly cold where she stood. Granny Mac said that the sun never got to that bit of the garden. That’s why she had planted ivy and hosta and grasses everywhere, great big urns filled with them. Even the dogs knew not to go near them. Beth had filled the two cracked bowls with water from the giant pump, and then she’d followed James into the house, pulling the back door quickly closed behind her, hoping Prince and Amber wouldn’t start barking. She was curious as to the attractions of her grandad’s study. James spent hours in there, whenever they came to visit. While she had never really minded before, she’d felt a little excluded that day. After all, Confirmation day was supposed to be something special.

  She’d stretched out her hand to the wooden door handle, a solid carved piece, comfortable inside your fingers; its swirly design always reminded her of a bowl of freshly poured custard. She was just about to turn it when she heard a loud, rasping laugh from outside. She stopped for a moment, puzzled, and listened.

  Beth reflected now that she seemed to have acquired a lifetime habit of opening doors at inopportune moments. She topped up the bath-water, goose-pimples beginning to rise on her arms; the skin on her fingers was beginning to wrinkle. She’d have to get out soon.

  Her mother’s laugh had been such an unaccustomed sound that she had felt doubly curious. What could she be laughing at? Granny Mac seemed to be silent. She made her way cautiously towards the front of the house, ducking into the large, high-ceilinged front room which had been used as a dining room when Grandad was alive. But shortly after his death, it was used only to store boxes and old furniture that Granny Mac no longer had any need for. Her heart thumping, she moved silently to the big sash window, standing just behind the faded red velvet curtain. She could see that its furry surface had acted as a trap for a thin coating of whitish dust. Granny Mac’s passion for airing the house meant that the window was raised just enough from the sill to make audible the conversation of the two women sitting together in the front garden.