Walled Garden Read online

  Margaret, Bridgie and Mary stood tall in the back row, as inseparable as they were in Alice’s memory. Seated primly in the front row, gloved hands folded in her lap, was Ellen Smyth, a whizz at shorthand, and typing speeds of sixty words a minute; poor Ellie – she’d died of consumption within two years of leaving Miss Rutherford’s in a blaze of glory. She’d got the cream of the crop of jobs that year, too – straight into the Civil Service typing pool. The pearl buttons on her gloves were still distinguishable; Alice remembered those gloves well: envy sharpens the mind. They were pale lilac, a perfect wrinkle-free fit, expensive. Beside her sat Bernie O’Rourke, whose large capable hands seemed even larger, distorted by the angle of the lens. She’d gone off to Boston immediately after graduation, with her new husband. Alice could still see her, frozen for ever in memory, on the day she’d left Dublin. Her face shining, she’d held on tight to Dominic’s arm, gazing up at his handsome face, enraptured. Handsome is as handsome does, Alice thought grimly. Bernie had always been the innocent one. Alice moved along the rows, and could feel something stirring restlessly in the depths of old times, but nothing else surfaced. Reluctantly, she left the picture to one side, for now. She had learned that if she didn’t strain too much, the memory of a face or name would suddenly come to her, like a tiny light exploding, illuminating the dusty corners of her mind. She wanted more than just the five names; but she could wait, she could be patient.

  She pulled more photos from the bottom of the pile, tapping the sides of the unruly bundle into place, trying to even it up, to stop everything from sliding on to the floor. She recognized the first snap, straight away. Arthur Boyd and his wife, Millie. She was there, too, all three of them sitting on her rug, picnic bits spread out all around them. Alice had no memory of that particular day, although she tried hard to recall it. Its complete absence puzzled her. She could often date an occasion by whatever it was she was wearing: a handbag that Jack had given her for her twenty-first birthday, a particular hand-knitted cardigan with Swiss embroidery that dated from the first winter of her marriage, or the floral cotton skirts she had made on her mother’s sewing-machine, the same year that she had perfected the smocking on Elizabeth’s summer dresses. But there was nothing distinctive in this photo, just an ordinary home-made summer dress whose pattern was now indistinguishable.

  Alice pulled the magnifying glass back a little: Dollymount or Bray? It was impossible to tell: all she could see was sand, and a few surprised tufts of coarse grass. Bray had been Arthur’s favourite haunt, and Alice tried again, to see if she could recognize any landmarks, but there was nothing to help her. So who had taken the picture? It certainly hadn’t been Jack – his photographs were always crystal clear, without even the slightest suspicion of shake or blur. He always said it was the Leica, that he couldn’t go wrong. But Alice had often wondered. He should have been a painter – a real painter with oils and canvas – or maybe even a photographer. He had spent neither his money nor his talents wisely, Alice reflected. So much waste.

  She shook her head impatiently, brushing the thought away, and went back to examining the photograph. This was no time for bitterness. Maybe Arthur’s eldest had taken it, or a passer-by? Arthur had always had the happy knack of getting people to do things for him, even complete strangers. Charm the birds off the trees, she had once heard someone say of him, sourly. He was a good ten years older than Jack, had taken him under his wing within weeks of Jack’s joining his family firm. They had become great friends, and Alice had grown quickly fond of Millie, a gentle, shy-eyed woman who was content to be forever in her husband’s shadow. Already a mother of four when Alice met her, she’d been glad to have a younger, greener mother as a friend. She’d loved showing off her boys, who didn’t mind at all their mother’s public demonstrations of affection. The older ones had been kind to Elizabeth, too, and seemed to enjoy looking after her in the water when they were allowed to go swimming. The memory of all that shocked Alice now, and left her breathless. The day of that photo wasn’t important, of course it wasn’t. It was of no significance at all. It was later that mattered . . .

  She hadn’t thought about any of that in years. She’d never told anyone, not even James. Is this what had been prodding at her, nudging her, goading her in the direction of Elizabeth’s bedroom? She stood up for a moment, and moved towards the window, breathing deeply, trying to calm herself. She’d stopped wondering, years ago, whether she’d made the right decision. How come all of it was flooding back now, picking at her, hurting like a sore that wouldn’t heal? After all these years, Arthur’s face was still vivid; she could still see his bright, lively blue eyes, the instant lure of his crooked grin. She went back to the desk again, and started to rummage through the pile of photos.

  Something had suddenly become urgent inside her, as though her waking self were coming close to finding what her restlessness had been searching for. She now knew what she wanted from these photos heaped on the little desk. It should be easy to find: only a few of the photographs were studio ones, most of the others had been taken with Jack’s 1934 Leica, a gift from his father, and his pride and joy. Alice could still see how he’d handled the tan leather case with reverence, folding the camera away neatly into its soft depths, securing it with a satisfying snap of its sturdy fastener. She pulled out three of the larger pictures from close to the bottom of the pile, ignoring the ones that avalanched noisily to the floor. She was too impatient even to sit down.

  There it was: the standard family portrait. Arthur and Millie and their four boys. The photograph had been retouched: Millie’s lips and hair had an unnatural orange tinge, and the six pairs of eyes that now regarded Alice were a bright, startled blue. She walked towards the window, holding the photo away from her, leaning into where the light was better. It was the youngest, Colm’s, First Communion, and he sat in the centre of the frame, his parents on either side of him. Behind them, like gently graduated steps of stairs, stood the other three, hair slicked down, smiles wide and gap-toothed. Like all children then, they looked much older than their years, their jackets and short pants formal and ridiculous at the same time. Millie was smiling radiantly, looking right into Alice’s eyes. She felt her breathing quicken.

  She turned the photo over. In shaky, childish handwriting, she read: ‘May, 1958. To my godparents, Uncle Jack and Auntie Alice, a souvenir of my First Holy Communion. Love from Colm.’ She smiled. They weren’t a real aunt and uncle, of course, at least not if these things were decided by blood. But they had loved the boy, and his brothers. Alice looked closely at Millie’s face, trying to find some hint of the tragedy to come, some shadow in the eyes of the swift and brutal death less than a year after she’d smiled for the camera. Her baby, a little girl, hadn’t made it either, and Alice saw again Arthur’s body wracked by sobs as the four, suddenly smaller, figures stood beside him in the church, white and uncomprehending. She had held on tight to James and Elizabeth that day, while Jack, along with Arthur and his brothers, had heaved Millie’s coffin onto his shoulders and made slow, dignified progress down the centre aisle of the church. That day, Alice had felt not only grief, that was natural, but a cold, clammy premonition that had clutched at her, somewhere near her centre.

  No wonder she had put all of these away. There would be pictures of Jack here too, of their early days together. She’d have to take all of this very slowly. Alice sensed that something very strange was happening to her: she felt dislocated, no longer at the centre of her own life. The years seemed to be falling away all around her. The only reality was the one that faced her now, images captured by the camera in sepia and white-toned frozen moments. She felt disturbed by the intensity of the scenes that swam out at her from the grainy surfaces. Her chest began to tighten, and she could feel something like a sob forming just under her heart. She sat abruptly on Elizabeth’s bed, her hand at her throat, trying to still the uncomfortable, fluttery sensation which was growing there.

  ‘Stop it,’ she said aloud. ‘You’re getti
ng upset, and it’s all far too long ago.’

  She could feel her back hunching over, her shoulders collapsing forward. All of this was making her tired, very tired. Writing to James and Elizabeth was one thing, she had grown to look forward to that, but this onslaught of memory was quite another. In the last couple of weeks, whenever she’d sat quietly in the evenings to compose her letters, she’d felt in control. She could be careful of her own and her children’s feelings then, choosing moments of significance from their lives to reassure them that she had done her best, always, that she had loved them. It was almost like imagining the story of their lives, something make-believe, where she, and she alone, could determine the final outcome. It was almost like giving each of them a gift of their own happy ending. She was able to filter the past through the kinder lens of her present wisdom and old age. Although Alice kept reminding herself that these letters were directed to adults, the pictures in her head were of two red-haired children, one calmly older than his years, the other troubled and ill at ease, ready to fight with the devil. She found it strange that they were children of the same parents, that each had been brought up by the same rules. Maybe that was the problem, she reflected now as she lay down on Elizabeth’s bed, kicking off her shoes. Maybe the same rules didn’t work for different people. In her new carefulness, Alice had decided that she wasn’t being dishonest in what she wrote, just conscious of how her children might feel, reading her words after she was gone. The whole truth, as she had learned long ago, was not necessarily the best thing for children, at least not in its plain and unvarnished condition. Lying still on Elizabeth’s bed, trying to calm the beating of her heart, Alice felt that maybe it wasn’t the best thing, either, for forgetful old ladies well on their way to being eighty. She pulled the eiderdown over her, reacting to the sudden chill she felt in the bedroom air. She covered herself, right up to the chin, and closed her eyes.

  ‘I’ll just rest for a while,’ she told herself. ‘I’ll be right as rain in an hour or so.’

  But sleep would not come. Instead, she felt wakeful behind her closed eyes, surrounded by voices, presences, the ghosts of those she had locked away in her wardrobe all those years ago. It became difficult to distinguish whether the childish laughter she heard came from the back gardens outside her window, or from the air around her. And suddenly, there he was.

  Arthur was standing in her front porch, his favourite battered fedora held in front of him like a shield, just as it had been on the night he’d arrived, unannounced, on her doorstep. She could see herself, too, that other, younger Alice in a green woollen dress, opening the door to him, puzzled by the familiarity of the outline through the glass, yet unable to guess who it was.

  ‘Arthur!’ she said aloud, surprised. Just the same tone as she’d used nearly forty years before.

  ‘Hello, Alice,’ he said, quietly. It was as though he were speaking to her again here, now, the same words, the same expression in his eyes, the crooked grin just a little less sure of itself than before.

  She’d opened the door to him that evening, sensing unease in the way he handled his hat, and the way his back was so straight, suddenly upright. All the lazy stoop of comfort and familiarity was gone. His expression had confused her, too, that and the fact that he was on his own. No boys to soften his visit this time. She was aware of Mrs McGrath across the road, cutting her hedge just a little too diligently, clipping away with her shears at the same spot, over and over again. Her glasses glinted accusingly at Alice from over the immaculate privet, and with a flash of anger, Alice had opened the door even wider, almost pulling Arthur inside.

  ‘Nosey old bitch!’ she’d said. It was a useful anger; it covered the moment of surprise she’d felt when she opened the door to him, and the deeper, wordless instinct underneath. She felt certain she knew why he’d come.

  His expression was so alarmed that Alice had laughed, and ease was restored between them. She had laughed very little lately; the sound almost shocked her.

  ‘Tea?’ she asked, leading the way into the kitchen.

  ‘Lovely,’ he said, still holding on to his hat, following her.

  ‘How are the boys?’ she asked as she filled the kettle, keeping her back carefully to him.

  ‘Fine, fine. And your two?’

  ‘Grand. Peggy’s taken them to Bray. They took a picnic. It’s good for them to be with their cousins.’

  She stopped. She always explained too much when she was nervous. She became busy instead, pulling out cups and saucers, filling the milk jug, rummaging in the press for biscuits.

  ‘And you. How are you?’

  His tone was gentle; he never seemed to pose this as a question. It was more like a statement, an opening for her to fill in the blanks.

  ‘Oh, you know . . . some days are better than others. It’s not easy, but . . .’ and she shrugged. He should know, if anyone did, that it wasn’t easy. After eleven months, she could still feel Jack’s presence in the house. The suddenness of his death had left shattered pieces of him everywhere. There had been no time to prepare, to tidy up. He’d simply stopped breathing, sitting in the chair across from hers, the fire lighting between them. And although her mother had come at once, that same evening, and opened all the doors and windows, Alice felt that Jack’s spirit had never really left her. She still came across things of his almost daily: a pipe that had made its way deep underneath the sofa cushions, bits of paper with the addresses of jobs scribbled on them, even his clothes which she hadn’t been able to give away, although their empty presence hurt her. His old jacket still hung under the stairs, and sometimes the smell of pipe tobacco was so strong in their bedroom that she believed he really had come back to her.

  Arthur was still talking. His voice was soothing, the words familiar. They had been over this ground many times before. She had learned to expect what he would say next.

  ‘The first year is the worst – all the firsts are the worst. Once the anniversary is over, you should find things getting a bit easier.’

  He was looking directly at her now. There was something underneath his words, something implicit in his certainty that he knew how she should be feeling, and Alice felt suddenly on edge again. She wasn’t ready for this. She concentrated hard on pouring tea.

  ‘Alice?’

  She had to look up at him then. His large body was leaning over the table, inclining towards her. She noticed how odd his big hands looked, beside her delicate bone china cups. They were very different from Jack’s; no speckles of paint peppered his knuckles, the nails were scrubbed, trimmed.

  ‘I can make things easier for you, Alice.’

  She didn’t want him to go on. She put the teapot down carefully onto the table. Her hands were unsteady. She smoothed the skirt of her woollen dress, to have something to do other than meet his direct gaze.

  ‘Please, don’t say any more, Arthur. I don’t want you to say any more.’

  ‘You don’t have to decide right now. I’m very fond of you, Alice, you know that.’

  His words were slow, measured. There was none of the reckless charm that had made her cautious of him, when Millie was alive. His humour then had often been personal, jaunty, careless of wounding others, although he had always treated her and Jack with kindness. Jack had often spoken of his good fortune in finding, eventually, such a decent boss. Alice knew that he was sincere now, too: he had always been at ease in her company. But lately, she had been disturbed by his visits. He had helped her out after Jack’s heart attack, becoming almost like family. But she had no answer to give him now. She glanced over at him, seeing that his eyes were bluer than ever. Appalled at herself, she fought the urge to reach out and touch his face, to caress the strong wrists that were visible under the immaculate white cuffs of his shirt. She saw at last, with a little shock of revelation, that he had dressed up for her. Dark suit, gleaming white shirt, a sober tie. No wonder he’d looked awkward at first: he was not one to wear his heart lightly on his sleeve. She had a great rush o
f shame that she could feel so drawn to this man while her husband was still present to her in so many ways, all around her. But he’s dead, said a small voice inside her head. And you have two children.

  ‘You’re young, Alice. You deserve a second chance.’

  He put his cup down gently onto the fluted saucer, as though afraid it would shatter in his hands.

  ‘I’m asking you to marry me, Alice. Will you think about it?’

  She nodded.

  ‘Yes. I will think about it. But I don’t know when I’ll be able to give you an answer.’

  He smiled.

  ‘Don’t worry. I’ll wait until you’re ready.’

  Quietness filled the kitchen. Alice wished he would go. She needed to be on her own, to sort through the thoughts and feelings which had her as thoroughly tongue-tied as a young girl. She had known that this was coming, of course she had, but now that he had spoken, she felt thrown off balance, out of control, as giddy as a child. She could feel the silence between them beginning to grow dangerous. She could almost imagine herself blurting out Yes, yes I will marry you, just to break the tension between them. There was no young Colm or Elizabeth or James today to come in and out of the kitchen and break the spell, looking for food and reassurance, for knees to be bandaged or noses to be wiped. It was the first time they had ever been alone together, and the sudden charge of intimacy in the air was too much for her. She needed him to go, now. The visit was over. To her relief, he sensed too that it was time. He stood. She stood. Both pushed their chairs back awkwardly.

  ‘I’d better be going,’ he said, finally.

  She nodded and smoothed her dress, again. She wished she had something kind to say to him, anything, to respond to his generosity. But the words wouldn’t come until much later.