The Watcher in the Garden (2 page)

There was no wind at all. The evening sky was colourless, so that the town, which clung precariously to the ridges that divided deep and savage gorges, lay without character, shadowless and insignificant under the slow change into night. Facing the town and divided from the main part of it by one of the deepest of the gorges, the garden lay on the upper slope of the opposite ridge. For all its quietness it pulsed with life, rang out, even—a strong note in the fading diurnal harmony.

To the observer hovering in a helicopter over the gorge that divided town from garden, it would have been immediately apparent that the garden was the powerful element in the chaotic landscape. The town somehow clung to its ridges humbly, the roofs of the houses half-concealed beneath the trees about them, as if on sufferance. It was the garden that dominated. But no observer, aloof from both, could have said why. The sun, retreating to the rim of the black and distant hills, sucked away the last of the daytime blue. In exchange, it sent two spears of golden light across the gorge, aimed straight at the tops of the trees in the garden, so that for perhaps ten minutes the whole garden was lit up as if it were a stage where some cosmic drama was shortly to be played.

Then the sun withdrew for the night. The spears of light became pinkly anaemic and dissolved into the shadows that had for some time clung about the ground under the trees. The garden darkened, slowly merged with the surrounding bush and became indistinguishable from the rest of the hillside. But the twilight lingered and it was still possible to distinguish plant from plant, shrub from shrub and tree from tree. Wisteria bracts hung motionless from pillars, filling the air with scent. The last of the cherry blossoms here fell to the earth silently like snow. And the big eucalypts that encircled and protected the more tender parts of the garden stood sentinel against the clouds of night that rose up from the gorge below and would shortly engulf all. In one of these trees a magpie called, and another in a distant tree swooped through the sky to join it for the night. Nothing moved, and after the magpie there was no sound. All that remained of the day was the smell of growing plants and earth and the dampness of garden pools.

The night had not quite taken over when one of the multitude of shadows beneath the trees detached itself, and in the still evening a twig snapped. The small movement came from the boundary of the garden, not far from where a large notice said
TRESPASSERS PROSECUTED
. As the shadow moved it gained substance, paled and became a solid object. It slid through the trees in a straight line towards the boundary on the far side where, too, there was a notice that said
TRESPASSERS PROSECUTED
. Coming out into an open patch some distance from either boundary the object resolved itself into a human figure. It was, in fact, a girl. Her pale-coloured dress showed up the straight dark hair that fell down her back. In the middle of the open patch she stopped and her head turned slowly from side to side as if she were sizing up some obscure possibility. As she stood there, the tranquillity that had lain over the garden since the sun set began subtly to change. It was as if an electric current, small at first, but gaining strength, were charging the evening calm with something less peaceful, less secure. And a small breeze, sent up from the gorge by the cooling air, began to play among the hanging leaves so that they hissed and whispered among themselves, and the surface of the pools darkened as it passed. The breeze went on its way, but the leaves continued to hiss and whisper and, if there had been anyone there to see, he would have noticed that the surface of the shadowed pool below where the girl was standing remained ruffled for some time. The current, vague though it was, silenced the ordinary little sounds of evening. It originated, or seemed to originate, inside the skull of this fifteen-year-old girl. Her head, at this knife-edge moment, was tumultuous with thoughts wild, violent and black. Her heart, demurely concealed beneath the simple summer dress, pounded her ribs with the rage that consumed her. After a few minutes she moved on, and the trees on the far side of the clearing swallowed her up.

Before she could have had time to reach the far limits of the garden a dog barked. It barked once and stopped, and in the ringing silence that followed, it was as if the whole garden held its breath. No sound came from where the girl had disappeared and one could guess that she had halted and was holding her breath too. Then the dog barked again and continued barking until somewhere in the more opaque darkness in a higher part of the garden a light suddenly flowed out across a lawn and a human voice shouted an order. The barking stopped at once, the light vanished and silence hung in the air once more. To the girl, still holding her breath under the trees, the shock of suddenly knowing where the house was made less impact than finding that it showed no lights at all—only the one brief flood of illumination when the back door had been opened. It was common knowledge that the house was large—two-storeyed, in fact—and occupied. There is a certain texture in the darkness made by drawn curtains that indicates life behind them. Here, where the house was, the blackness of wall and window was blank and cold.

The small noises of the deepening night timidly began again—the croak of a frog, the whisper of the small breeze among the leaves, the creaking of the night insects. But currents of more than the night air still hung about and seemed to twine uneasily through the branches of the trees, disturb the hanging creepers and send tremors across the still water of the pools.

The girl, so still, so taut for so long, drew a long breath and started again to move towards the edge of the garden. She slipped out beneath the
TRESPASSERS PROSECUTED
notice and disappeared towards the town.

Little by little the garden sank into its normal nightly calm. The surface of the pools cleared and presented their usual glassy reflection of the night sky. What threads there had been of unease and even destruction that had shattered the normal tranquillity of the garden were being drawn from it as the girl, the trespasser, the law-breaker, moved farther and farther away. In the garden the leaves no longer whispered together. The surface of the pool was stilled and once again took on its leaden reflection of the evening sky. The danger, against which the garden had been silently arming itself, was past.

 

The day of the Red Cross Fair dawned warm and bright. At seven o'clock a female voice came faintly through the bedroom door.

“Kitty!”

It was quite easy to mistake it for something else—anything else, a noise in the street outside, a bird, even a moan among the springs of the mattress as she moved. The dark blob on the pillow that was Kitty's head grew smaller as it retreated beneath the blankets. After a tactful interval the bedroom door opened cautiously. Even under the blankets she heard the click of the latch and found it insupportable that her mother should find it necessary to come into her room so furtively.

“Kitty dear, are you awake? It's a lovely day and it's time to get up.”

Her head shot out from among the bedclothes. Mrs. Hartley noticed, sadly but without surprise, that her expression was not that of one just woken from a deep sleep. The hostility in the wide open eyes of her daughter was familiar, if daunting. Mrs. Hartley steeled herself and said, “It's the Red Cross today, you know. There's such a lot to be done.”

“I hoped it would be raining.”

“Yes, well—you did say you'd help, and Diana—”

“I suppose Diana has been up for hours, beavering away.” Suddenly the hostility drained away. She saw her mother's face, kind, concerned, baffled, as it so often was under her sudden attacks, and remorse made her fling back the bedclothes and spring out to clutch Mrs. Hartley painfully round the ribs. “Don't worry. I'll come.” A sudden thought made her release her mother so that she staggered back. “I don't have to wear a skirt, do I?”

Mrs. Hartley recovered her balance, and at the same time knew that another kind of balance might shortly be lost. She said carefully, “You've got some very nice dresses—”

“You know I didn't mean dresses. I don't see why—”

Almost too late Mrs. Hartley said hurriedly, “Oh well, I suppose as it's the vegetable stall—”

Over Kitty's glowering face the clouds dispersed. “After all, Mum, I'd look pretty silly handing out pumpkins in a dress, wouldn't I?”

Mrs. Hartley said, with a shade too much enthusiasm, “Oh, quite. It hadn't occurred to me. Yes, by all means. Jeans. A clean pair.”

For a moment there was silence. Mother and daughter looked sombrely at one another. Then Kitty smiled. Triumph? Remorse? Or perhaps amused affection. Mrs. Hartley never knew. She left the room, saying only, “Breakfast as soon as you're ready. I want to be there by nine if possible.” If there was a reply she was too far away to hear it.

At breakfast Kitty noticed that her elder sister was wearing a dress. As usual, it was a dress that enhanced her dazzling prettiness. She looked as if she found the prospect of a day behind a Red Cross stall both pleasing and stimulating. She gave Kitty, in her clean though threadbare jeans, one look, opened her mouth, glanced at Mrs. Hartley and shut it again. She took a breath. “Morning, Kitty,” she said.

“Morning.” Kitty found it unnecessary to look up from her plate. Too often she found Diana's existence offensive. In a way she regretted the jeans. Too late she realized they emphasized her youth. A dress would have made her look nearer seventeen than her fifteen and a bit. In jeans she could be any age, and the poise she lacked, compared with Diana's effortless assurance, would be put down to lack of years and not to the constant turmoil that she struggled always to keep screwed down inside her.

Mr. Hartley came in late, greeted his family absently, ate hurriedly and left, looking at his watch.

Breakfast over, Kitty said, “I'll wash up.”

Mrs. Hartley and Diana looked at her in surprise. “Oh, but I thought we'd—”

Diana interrupted Mrs. Hartley. “Good idea. You and I know what goes into the cartons. She doesn't. It'll save time.”

The weather was warming up for Christmas and the approach of the long Australian Christmas summer holidays, and the ladies on the charitable organizations like Mrs. Hartley's Red Cross group knew it was wise to fit in their stalls, fairs and functions before the holidays began.

It was just a quarter past nine when the Hartley car turned in at the hospital gates. In the hospital garden there was already activity. Some of the best places were already taken. The spot they eventually chose for the vegetable stall faced the lawn and backed on to the drive.

“Thank goodness,” said Mrs. Hartley. “We've got the cake stall under the trees. They always sell better when they're not steaming with heat.” Then she went off to inspect the numerous other sections that were her responsibility, and Diana and Kitty were left to erect the stall. Even before it was completed busy women in laden cars kept coming with offerings picked that morning from their own vegetable gardens.

“What a sensible place to have the stall,” said one. “Just beside the drive, so that we don't have to carry the things too far.” She dropped a bag of potatoes thankfully on the grass.

By eleven o'clock the stall was in business. Kitty sat behind it on an upturned box with the loose cash and a few notes on a tray beside her.

Diana looked at her, frowning. “Think you'll be all right if I go and see if I can help Mum? There won't be many buyers for a while yet.”

“What do you think is liable to happen to me? Murder, rape or somebody absconding with the petty cash?”

Diana sighed gently. “I just thought you might have trouble giving change. People do when they begin.”

“My math teacher says I have considerable ability and a clear mind. Buzz off for God's sake.”

But Diana was studying her with new interest. “Does she really? Do tell Dad. He'll be—” She stopped.

“Be what? Relieved that I'm normal in some respects?”

“Never mind. There's no dealing with you.” This time, without turning she heard Diana's brisk steps on the gravel of the drive and knew that she had offended again.

“God give me patience,” she said aloud, and found herself looking into the mildly astonished face of her first prospective buyer.

For perhaps an hour she was left to deal with the stall on her own. No frightful problems occurred and her temper had quite subsided by the time Mrs. Hartley returned, her mind by now full of other problems, other assistants. Seeing her younger daughter unexpectedly calm and even contented, she smiled, told her she was doing splendidly and hurried off.

The morning wore on and the hospital grounds began to fill up. In between her bouts of rather dour salesmanship Kitty sat back and watched the activity at the other stalls, of which there were now quite a number. Her own produce was diminishing rapidly enough, though there were still a few beans, quite large numbers of carrots and the usual big bunches of silver beet. Also there were a few late pumpkins and half the bag of potatoes. For some reason the pumpkins were the slowest of all to sell.