The Gossamer Cord (17 page)

“Jack, can you take cuttings of these things?”

“Well, Miss, course you can. Trouble is they don’t always take root. This ’un…well…’er likes it here. Perhaps her fancies a bit of breeze now and then, and there’s the salt in the air. You’ll get some as flourishes by the sea and there’s others can’t abide it.”

“I met someone who was asking about that rose. Is it possible to take a cutting that I could give her?”

“Well, Miss, I don’t see why not.”

“Would you do that for me?”

“Course I would, Miss. Don’t guarantee it’ll take.”

“She’s a good gardener and would try very hard.”

“Someone round here then?”

“Someone I got into conversation with. She mentioned the rose, you see…”

“Oh, aye. Right you are, Miss. When would you want it?”

“Tomorrow?”

“You come to me, Miss, and I’ll do it then.”

“Oh, thank you, Jack. She’ll be delighted.”

“I just hope it takes, that’s all.”

I smiled. I did not care greatly whether it “took” or not. I was obsessed at the moment about having a talk with the mother of Dermot’s first wife.

The following morning I took the cutting to Cliff Cottage. The transformation was amazing. She stared at it and a smile of pleasure crossed her face. I could not believe that she often looked like that. It changed her completely.

“You got it then?” she said.

“It was no problem. I just asked the gardener. I think he was pleased that someone had admired it.”

“I can’t tell you…” She took it from me almost reverently, and started to walk into the house. I followed her.

“He said it might not take.”

“I know that. It happens now and then.”

“If it doesn’t, you must let me know and I will get you another.”

We were in a hall, shining with polish, and then went into an equally immaculate kitchen. I knew I was being bold and perhaps brazen, but I had not made this effort for nothing, and she would have to be polite to me since I had brought her such a prize.

I do believe she was truly grateful.

She said: “It was good of you.”

She was doing something to the cutting. She stood it in a glass of water and turned to me.

“Perhaps you’d like a cup of coffee…or some tea?”

I said I should like a cup of coffee.

“I’ll put you in the sitting room while I make it.”

“Thank you.”

I was seated there. It was just what I had expected. I could smell the furniture polish. The wooden floor, with its rugs, looked slightly dangerous. I was careful not to slip.

Almost immediately I saw the photograph in a silver frame on a small table. The girl was plump and as unlike Mrs. Pardell as any girl could be. She was smiling and there was a hint of mischief in the smile. She had a retroussé nose and a wide smile. Her blouse was low-cut, revealing the beginnings of an ample bosom.

Annette, I thought. And what had Mrs. Pardell’s reaction been to her daughter’s working as a barmaid at the Sailor’s Rest? It was an incongruous occupation for the daughter of such a woman.

She came in with two cups of coffee on a tray, and the words “That is your daughter, I suppose?” came to my lips, but I restrained myself in time from uttering them. I must act with care, or I should never be invited here again.

“This is kind of you,” I said instead.

“Least I could do.”

She made it sound as though it were a necessary payment for my efforts; and I knew that I must be very cautious.

My eyes kept straying to the picture of the girl, and it occurred to me that, as she must be aware of my interest, it would seem odd if I said nothing.

“What an attractive girl!” I said.

“Think so?” Her lips tightened.

“Is she your daughter?”

She nodded. “Was. She’s gone now…she died.”

“Oh, I am sorry.”

She was cautious. I sensed that, cutting or no cutting, she would have no prying.

I changed the subject.

“You come from the North, I believe?”

“Yes. Came here with my husband. He got a bad chest at his work and, as was right and proper, they gave him a sum of money. Well, we came here. Climate was better for him, they said.”

“And you like it here?”

“Some ways do, some ways don’t.”

“Well,” I said philosophically, “that’s life, isn’t it?”

“It’s good growing grounds.”

So, I thought, we are back to the garden. I must be very careful not to reveal my ignorance and a certain lack of enthusiasm for the subject.

I said: “This coffee is good. It is so kind of you.”

She frowned. I could see she was thinking, Southern claptrap…saying what they don’t mean. The coffee’s all right and after all, as I had procured the cutting, she naturally had to make a show of hospitality. That was all it was…so why pretend?

She said: “In the North you know where you are. Here, well, there’s a lot of soft talk. Blah-blah, I call it. Me dear this and me dear that, and when you turn your back they’re tearing you to pieces.”

“People are more forthright in the North, I am sure. So you live alone?”

“Yes, now.”

I was on dangerous ground again. If I were not careful, I, should not be asked again.

Gratitude for the cutting, however, lingered on, and I did want to hear her account of her daughter’s death.

She said suddenly: “You on holiday here?”

“Yes…at Tregarland’s.”

“Yes. I know. You got the cutting from the gardens there.”

She was holding her head high and nodding a little. Her lips were tightly drawn together.

I said: “You probably know it is my sister who has married into the family.”

She nodded. It was not a good recommendation: the sister of the wife who had taken the place of her daughter.

I said hastily: “I shall not be there long. My mother and I are going home in a few days.”

She nodded again. I think that made her feel a little more kindly toward me.

I realized she was not going to share any confidences with me. I was wasting my time. But I was not going to give up yet.

I said, putting the cup down close to Annette’s picture: “Well, thank you. That was very nice. I do hope the cutting takes.”

“We’ll have to see about that.”

“I wonder…if you’d mind…?”

She looked at me intently and I went on boldly: “I wonder, on my next visit, if I might call so that you could show me how it thrived?”

Her face changed. The gardener was a different woman from the bereaved mother.

“Of course, you must come. I’ll be glad to show you. And I’ll tell you this: It’s going to be happy in my garden. You’ll see. When you next come, it will be settled in a treat.”

I came out of Cliff Cottage smiling.

Not exactly a successful enterprise, but it was not completely closed.

I started on my way down to the little town, thinking of Mrs. Pardell and wondering if I should ever succeed in getting her to talk to me as I wanted her to. It was a challenge, and I could not help feeling proud of myself for thinking of such an astute move in taking the cutting. She was forthright in the extreme. She would pride herself on calling a spade a spade. She would not tolerate deception as she would call the diplomatic but not quite sincere methods of the Southerners in making life comfortable with a few white lies. I knew her type well. For her the bare truth must stand, however disagreeable.

There was a slight breeze bringing with it the smell of seaweed. The path along the cliff was uneven. One went downhill and then up again. Tom Smart, the groom, had said: “ ’Tis a bony road along they cliff paths,” and I knew what he meant. In places the path was narrow—not safe for children—and in parts there was a direct drop to the sea. Farther along, I knew, there was a section where the path was particularly narrow and the drop exceptionally steep. A fence had been erected there since, Matilda had told me, one day an elderly man had slipped on an icy surface and plunged over the cliff to his death.

I stood still for a moment to fill my lungs with the invigorating air.

Few people used this part of the cliff. It was very rugged and particularly beautiful. I supposed I should get to know it very well in time, for Dorabella and I would never tolerate being apart for long, and I supposed I should be here often.

I watched a greedy gull snatch a tidbit from the mouth of another. He swooped triumphantly while the victim screeched in anger.

Then I heard footsteps coming along the path. I started to move and came to the narrow spot with the fence. It certainly did not look very strong. Above the path rose the cliff face and below it the steep drop to the sea.

“Violetta,” said a voice. I swung round. Gordon Lewyth was coming toward me.

“Oh,” I said. “It’s you.”

“I saw you coming out of Cliff Cottage.”

“Did you? I didn’t see you.”

“Visiting Mrs. Pardell?”

“Oh, yes.”

“How did you manage that? She is not known for her hospitality.”

“No,” I replied. “But she is a very keen gardener, too.”

“A common interest? So you are a keen gardener, too?”

“Well, not exactly.”

He was standing very near to me. I did not know what to think of him. I never had. He was a very secret person, and I felt it would be very hard to understand what was in his mind. His height, his broadness, seemed to dwarf me so that I felt a certain vulnerability. I had the sudden feeling that he could be very ruthless, and I seemed very much alone and unprotected.

I heard myself explaining: “I looked at her garden when I was passing, and she came out and talked and told me about some plant she had seen in the gardens at Tregarland’s, and I got a cutting for her from Jack. I took it to her and she asked me in for a cup of coffee.”

“That was a great concession. She is not very friendly with us at the house.”

“I have heard of the connection.”

He nodded. “And did you have an interesting chat?”

“Well, no…it was about gardens, of which I know very little.”

“Oh,” he said, and put his hand on the fence. “People don’t use this road very much,” he went on.

“There are lots of ups and downs,” I said.

“There is the higher road above…” He nodded upwards. “But it is a long way round. Wet weather, frost, could be a hazard on this road.”

He seemed to be watching me intently, and again I felt a twinge of uneasiness.

“The fence is not very strong,” he said, gripping it and shaking it a little. “If someone fell against it…Well, it wouldn’t stand up to much, would it? It should be repaired. They don’t move very fast about that sort of thing in these parts.”

I wondered why we were standing here, but he seemed to be barring my way. I felt a sudden relief when I heard a footstep. Someone was coming along the path.

I moved forward and he could only walk beside me. I was glad when we had passed the fence, and it was comforting to hear the voices of people coming along behind us. They were visitors to the place, most likely, as Gordon did not know them.

We walked in single file when the path narrowed and then again we were side by side.

He told me he had business in the town and talked a little about the place.

“The river mouth makes a nice little harbor,” he said. “The town owes its prosperity to that. The fishing is good here. And how is your father?”

I said he was well.

“I hope he will come with you next time.”

“I don’t know. He is always so busy on the estate.”

“I can understand that.”

We were descending rapidly and he held out a hand to steady me when the ground grew rougher. Then he apologized for the gesture.

He was a strange man. I could not help feeling that he was someone quite different from the person he appeared to be. I was not sure whether I was repulsed or drawn to him.

He said suddenly: “Do you propose to call on Mrs. Pardell again?”

“We are not really on visiting terms. In due course I might be allowed to see if the plant is flourishing. That is all.”

A slight smile touched his lips.

“If you go,” he said, “be careful on that path. The way round the top road is much longer and you’d have a steep descent to reach the cottage.”

“Thanks. I think I’ll risk the path. But I shall have to wait until the plant has taken root, or whatever it has to do.”

He smiled. “You certainly don’t sound like the dedicated gardener.”

“No, I am not.”

He was looking at me with a quizzical expression. I knew he was asking himself how I had managed to insinuate myself into Cliff Cottage. It must seem like a very calculated operation to him, and he must be wondering why I should take so much trouble merely to talk to Mrs. Pardell.

He said: “I shall have to leave you here.” He looked at his watch. “I have to meet someone in five minutes.”

“Goodbye,” I said.

As I walked back, I thought it seemed rather a strange encounter, but I had spoken to him more during it than I had all the time I had known him.

That afternoon I met Jowan Jermyn in the field at the spot where the tree had fallen.

It was clear that he was delighted to see me.

Dorabella had been feeling very tired and was resting, otherwise it would not have been easy to get away. I had been out all the morning.

I did not tell her about my adventure with Mrs. Pardell. I was not sure how she felt about that first marriage of Dermot’s, and I did not want to upset her in the slightest way.

She did not protest when I went off. I think she was content because my mother and I were there and if she wanted us, one of us would be at hand.

She would be amused when I told her about my meeting with Jowan Jermyn, for she was already taking an interest in him and was intrigued by the manner in which we had met.

He had been waiting for me.

“Right on time,” he said. “I do like punctual ladies.”

“I am always punctual, unless, of course, something unforeseen happens to prevent it. We were brought up to believe that it was the height of rudeness not to be. My mother used to say that to be late implied that you were not very eager to come.”

“What an excellent doctrine! And your sister…she is the same?”