The Morning Gift

There was no need to finish the sentence. Girls of every shape and size had ridden through the gates of Bowmont on their thoroughbreds, climbed healthily up the turf path with their tennis rackets, smiled at Quin across dance floors in white organdie, in spangled tulle . . .

‘You don’t think he might be interested in someone who understood his work?’

‘Not a student!’ said Frances, horrified.

‘No . . . but . . . I don’t know; he’s so clever, isn’t he?’ said Lady Rothley, trying to be tolerant. ‘Only, I can’t see a decently brought up girl knowing about old bones, so I suppose it’s no good.’ She rose to her feet, re-knotted her scarf. ‘Anyway, give the dear boy my love – but tell him absolutely no more refugees!’

Left alone, Miss Somerville took her secateurs and her trug and went through to the West Terrace, to the sheltered side of the house away from the sea. For a moment, she paused to look at the orderly fields stretching away to the blue humpbacks of the Cheviots: the oats and barley, green and tall, the freshly shorn flock of Leicesters grazing in the Long Meadow. The new manager Quin had engaged was doing well.

Then she crossed the lawn, opened a door in the high wall – and entered a different world. The sun ceased to be merely brightness and became warmth; bumble bees blundered about on the lavender; the scent of stock and jasmine came to meet her – and a great quietness as the incessant surge of the sea became the gentlest of whispers.

‘I should hope so,’ said Frances firmly to a Tibetan poppy which two days ago had dared to look doubtful, but now unfurled its petals of heavenly blue.

It was Quin’s grandmother, the meek and silent Jane Somerville, who had made the garden. The daughter of a wealthy coal owner from County Durham, she brought the consolations of the Quaker faith to her enforced marriage with the Basher, and she needed them.

Jane had been two years at Bowmont when, to her own horror and amazement, she rose in the Meeting House at Berwick and found that she had been moved to speak.

‘I am going to make a garden,’ she said.

She never again spoke in Meeting, but the next day she gave orders for the field adjoining the West Lawn to be drained. She travelled to the other side of England to commandeer the old rose bricks of a recently demolished manor house; she planted windbreaks, built walls and brought in lorry loads of loam. The experts told her she was wasting her time; she was too far north, too close to the sea for the kind of garden she had in mind. The Basher, on leave from the navy, was furious. He made scenes; he queried every bill.

Jane, usually so gentle and acquiescent, took no notice. She sent roses and wisteria and clematis rioting up the walls; she brought in plants from places far colder and more inhospitable than Bowmont: camellias and magnolias from China, poppies and primulas from the Atlas mountains – and mixed them with the flowers the villagers grew in their cottage gardens. She set an oak bench against the south wall and flanked it with buddleias for the butterflies – and decades later, the Basher, who had fought her all the way, came there to die.

Miss Somerville knelt down by the Long Border, feeling the now familiar twinge of arthritis in her knee, and the robin flew down from the branches of the little almond tree to watch. But presently she dropped the trowel and made her way to the seat beside the sundial and closed her eyes.

What would happen to this garden if Quin really gave his house away? Hordes of people tramping through it, frightening away the robin, shrieking and swatting at the bees. There would be signposts everywhere – the lower classes never seemed to be able to find their way. And built against the far wall, where now the peaches ripened in the sun, two huts. No – one hut divided into two; she had seen it at Frampton. The lettering at one end would read Ladies, but the other end wouldn’t even spell Gentlemen. Made over entirely to vulgarity, the second notice would read Gents.

‘Oh, God,’ prayed Frances Somerville, addressing her Maker with unaccustomed humility, ‘please find her for me. She must be somewhere – the girl who can save this place!’

6

It had rained since daybreak: slanting, cold-looking sheets of rain. Down in the square, the bedraggled pigeons huddled against Maria Theresia’s verdigris skirts. Vienna, the occupied city, had turned its back on the spring.

Ruth had scarcely slept. Now she folded the blanket on the camp bed, washed as best she could under the cloakroom tap, brewed a cup of coffee.

‘This is my wedding day,’ she thought. ‘This is the day I shall remember when I lie dying –’ and felt panic seize her.