Consider the Lily (11 page)

I look at my arms with their slackening flesh and I cannot imagine that it was these, brown and muscled in those days, that clutched the handlebars of the Harley-Davidson as I roared up the drive of Hinton Dysart, dressed head to foot in leather, to tell my parents that I had been suspended from Oxford for climbing into college after hours once too often.

(That, my friends, was a long time ago, and a long journey ago and I don’t feel the experience was wasted. I went off to France instead and learnt about life.)

There is an old Chinese curse: may your dreams come true. In their way mine have, but I don’t feel cursed. I feel complete, absorbed in the work I like best.

For example, I have conducted a little survey of the most popular plants in the nursery and the results are interesting. Top – of course – is lavender, and why not? Second is
Euonymus,
‘Emerald ‘n Gold’, perfect ground cover, weed-smothering and eye catching. Third is the choisya ‘Sundance’ with its bright yellow leaves and scented blossoms. Fourth is
Potentilla
‘Red Ace’. Fifth
Spirea
‘Goldflame’. Sixth is a newcomer.
Lavatera
‘Barnsley’.

Beautiful, heat-loving candy pink flowers designed by nature to sway in the summer breeze...

Talking of summer, I have been delighted by the results of my latest experiment. Last year I pirated a dry, south-facing bed outside the walled garden and set about re-creating the
maquis
in Hinton Dysart. It is an awkward, dry, scrubby place and I don’t think the guardians minded too much. I planted lavenders and Jerusalem sage, the autumn flowering snowdrop,
Galanthus corcyrensis
which likes to bake in the summer, drought-loving irises and my much loved grey and white
Convolvulus cneorum.
A word of warning,
maquis
plants grow leggy in a soft, damp climate and require hard pruning in the spring, but that is small outlay of effort for such rewards.

On warm evenings I wander up to inspect the bed and smell the thyme – and I am reminded of my youth, of my time in Provence and, of course, Thomas, who I met there.

A last thought. Gardeners are a strange breed – and there are a lot of them – garrulous, obsessive, as competitive as industrial warlords and always have been. Like the gardener in Shakespeare’s
Richard II,
they perceive the world in terms of the garden. The Alpha and the Omega. I know I do. So did my mother. Here we are — young, middle-aged, plump, bony, badly dressed, overdressed, rich and poor, clever or not – circled together in the communality of a shared passion which excludes others.

From my position at the till, I watch visitors walk the grounds: through the wisteria tunnel, across the circular lawn down to the special garden where they linger, only to be drawn back to the walled rose garden. Quivering with delight, snoopy, inquisitive, acquisitive, eager to learn, some with concealed plastic bags. Only this morning I watched an old lady in a Burberry mackintosh and green Wellingtons help herself to a cutting from the
Ceanothus
‘Trewithen Blue’. Yet another with diamond rings flashing on her fingers pulled up a shoot from the herbaceous border. Later I went to inspect the wound: Diamond Rings had plundered the
Tradescantia virginiana,
the spiderwort or Trinity flower – Mother taught me all the names. Or, she said as she showed me the components of the plant and parted its angled leaves, Moses-in-the-Bulrushes. See, my darling, where they hid the baby until he was found.

By late afternoon of that same day the arrangements had been made. The Dysarts and Matty were scheduled to leave for Nice after lunch the following day and to catch the night train to Paris, a journey of a day and a half.

The telephone was kept occupied and so was Kit, dashing in and out of Antibes. There was a fuss at the lack of first-class sleeping compartments, relief when the railway officials were made to appreciate the unthinkableness of second class. Train timetables were consulted, dinner arrangements debated, the hapless Adèle was ordered to count and recount the luggage – trunks, hat boxes, crocodile dressing cases, golf bags and tennis rackets heaped in triplicate. All day the business of departure raged in the Villa Lafayette, masking the other drama.

As a rule, when plans went wrong Susan took out her irritation on Matty, and now she launched a full-scale campaign. ‘It will be a relief not to have you moping around the place,’ she informed her over afternoon tea. ‘You look dreadful, too. All... all blotchy.’

Matty bit her full lower lip. ‘I’m sorry, Aunt Susan.’

‘As usual you’re perfectly dreary company. Have you no conversation at all, Matilda? I can never understand how so much money can be spent on you to so little effect.’

Matty knew better than to defend herself and thus she endured the lecture which mixed accusations of not appreciating French governesses, trips to Mainbocher’s salon, silk underwear and the best medical care (which neither of her cousins were privileged to enjoy)
and
the good home in which Matty had been the interloper for twenty years. For her part, Matty thought that Marcus could not have cared less about any of the above and, far from watching from the sidelines, Daisy had always shared in the benefits of Matty’s French governesses and silk underwear. In fact, Daisy spoke French far better than any of them.

Smoking furiously, Susan paced up and down the white drawing room like a gilded reptile, giving vent. Matty listened to her with one ear, and with the other to a voice in her head which adjured her to take no notice: Susan could not really hurt her.

Untrue. Her aunt did hurt, frequently. And, in one important respect, she was right. Matty was an interloper – an orphaned ugly duckling dropped into a nest already occupied by a bird of paradise.

Matty could think of nothing to say, so she held up an arm to inspect a mosquito bite on her wrist. It looked pink and spongy, but was hard and hot to touch.

‘And another thing, Matilda, please stop scratching those awful bites. They are quite disgusting.’

‘Leave her alone, Mother.’ Daisy, who had come in from a solitary walk on the beach, sat down on the sofa and lit a cigarette which she smoked in jerks. ‘Don’t pick on her.’

Matty was not sure she liked Daisy’s kindness any better than her impatience. Still, being kicked in the shins was marginally preferable to being kicked in the stomach. She stole a look at her cousin and, because her own feelings for Kit had sensitized her, found herself in the novel position of feeling sorry for Daisy. Daisy was skilled at looking as if she did not have a care in the world but today a tell-tale whiteness at the corners of her mouth told Matty a lot about Daisy’s private turmoil. She tried to make light of the situation. ‘I’m sure Aunt Susan didn’t mean it.’

Daisy shrugged a bare shoulder and changed the subject. ‘The weather’s changing. A wind’s blowing up.’

It was true. The sky was light violet, and the leaves fluttered in the trees.

‘Goodness me, it’s getting late.’ Matty stood up. ‘I will come and say goodbye later. Unless you would like me to say goodbye now.’

‘You won’t be a nuisance to the Dysarts, will you, Matilda? No sponging on their good will.’ Susan was not sure why she was bothering to issue the edict as she did not care much what happened to any of them. Habit, she supposed.

‘No, Aunt Susan.’ Eyes fixed on the rug, Matty shook her head. ‘I’ll see you in London. Is there anything you want me to do before you get back?’

Daisy finally snapped. ‘Oh, go away, Matty,’ she said. ‘Hurry up and go.’

‘Now who’s being unkind?’ said Susan as the door closed behind Matty.

‘I am,’ her daughter replied as she let herself out through the french windows into the garden.

Kit discovered her sitting on the stone bench by the swimming pool. The
mistral
was gathering force and she was watching the branches of the fig tree dance to its tune.

He stood in front of her and looked down at her huddled figure.

‘Hallo, Daisy.’

She clenched her hands in her lap. ‘Hallo, Kit.’

‘I’ve been trying to speak to you all day, but I had to go into Antibes to make arrangements.’

Daisy examined her fingers and noted that the knuckles showed white through the tan. ‘I was here.’

‘My father has asked for me to go home. As soon as possible.’

‘I would be both blind and deaf not to realize that.’ Daisy managed a smile. ‘Adèle is hysterical.’

He dropped onto the bench beside her. ‘Daisy, we talked about money the other night, do you remember?’ She nodded. ‘My father has a financial crisis on his hands and my presence is required.’ He reached over and pried open the knot made by her hands and twined his fingers into hers. ‘Daisy, this is important. I can’t make any decisions at the moment. About us, I mean.’

‘I wish I’d never brought up the subject of money.’ Daisy had been so sure that Kit would brush aside her objections voiced in the
boîte,
and a greater part of the day had been spent convincing herself that he would take no notice of a financial crisis, and that her mother would be proved wrong. Surely Kit would see the
necessity
of committing himself to her there and then, of seeking her out and saying – metaphorically, of course – come with me, the rest doesn’t matter.

Kit had not sought her out, and her vision of a knight on a white charger (or in Kit’s case a camel) faded. In its place stood Susan, a told-you-so smile curving her hard mouth, and Kit busying himself with
Bradshaw’s
and luggage labels.

‘I thought it wouldn’t—’ Impatient with herself for being impatient, and hurt that he did not share her feelings, Daisy pulled her hands away. ‘It’s funny, Kit. I thought we knew each other better than we do.’

Perhaps Kit did not love her? Really love her. Otherwise he would wish to settle things. Wouldn’t he? Daisy had been so sure. The doubt planted when Kit confessed about the boy which she had thought did not matter, now began to, and Daisy found she was more shocked and frightened by the episode than she had supposed. Kit was staring at her, desirous and tender, but he also wore an air of distraction. Hair ruffled in the wind, his finger tapping at the passport in his jacket pocket, Kit, Daisy divined with a chill, had already moved on.

Idylls were temporary by their nature – and the one at the Villa Lafayette had dissolved at the ring of a telephone. Kit was called back and, it seemed to Daisy, was returning willingly into the world of telegrams and anger. Under the beat of Daisy’s yearning, pulsed a disappointment that he was both safer and more conventional than she had imagined.

No. Daisy checked herself. Perhaps she was wrong and it was nothing to do with safety. Was her disappointment, asked the honest bit of her, owing to Kit not having put her first?

The
mistral
blew coldly between them. She dropped her head into her hands. ‘Have you got something to read on the journey?’

‘Yes.’

‘If Matty gets breathless, her drops are in her crocodile travelling case.’ She got to her feet and dusted down her skirt. ‘I thought I’d better warn you.’

‘Daisy, don’t go like this.’

‘I thought I would make it easy. You’re saying that, after all, you don’t wish to marry me. You’re saying we had a nice time, but it’s over.’

Kit was so taken aback that he laughed. ‘Daisy. No. That’s not what I mean,’ he protested.

warning stop chudleighs don’t have a bloody penny stop rupert

Across his mind flashed an image of Hinton Dysart on a spring morning, set in tangled green and serenaded by ring doves. It was followed by the darker image that always made him want to run away... as far and as fast as he could. He hovered on the edge of anger. ‘Be patient, Daisy.’

He’s been warned off.
As sharp as a razor, Susan’s words cut into Daisy.

‘Daisy.’ Kit slid his arms around her and held her tight. Dust blew in from the road and the wind whipped around them. Daisy shivered inside the prison made by his body.

‘Luggage labels, Kit, and telephone calls. That’s what it boils down to. I think we should end this conversation. There isn’t any point in it.’

Kit took Daisy by the shoulders and forced her to face him. ‘But you do understand?’

Wild with hurt, and with despair because it had all gone wrong, she lost her temper. ‘What is there to understand?’ she blazed.

In the fading stormy light, her face turned pale, foxlike and unreadable. Her eyes narrowed in rage, and her hair lost its brightness. For a moment, her beauty and sureness were gone, and she seemed out of her depth.

As quickly as it had erupted, Daisy’s anger died. ‘Kit, I’m sorry. That was unforgivable.’

‘I have to go home to Hinton Dysart,’ he repeated, teaching her the fact as if to a child. ‘I cannot abandon it or my father, and I have nothing to offer a wife at the moment except a mountain of debt.’

It was on the tip of her tongue to ask, ‘Since when did a huge house and garden constitute nothing?’ Instead she said, ‘And I have nothing to offer you?’

‘Please. Don’t.’

She stood by the carved stone pot and deadheaded the geraniums. As she watched the faded petals yield to the
mistral,
she contemplated the wounds of a love affair – its humiliations, its quicksands, and spoilt promise. ‘I thought it would be different, Kit,’ she said miserably. ‘I thought we would make it.’

Her mother was right. Kit had been warned off.

‘Daisy!’ All rivers, however clear, flow over mud, and mixed into Kit’s passion for Daisy was a sediment – and a wariness – that stemmed from a long time back. ‘I wish I could make you understand, my darling Daisy. Everything’s all right. Truly.’

‘Oh, Kit.’ With one of her graceful, unpredictable gestures, Daisy turned to Kit, and her arms snaked up his chest and around his neck. ‘Are you sure?’ She pressed her body into his and willed him to say: Come with me.

Tempted to say ‘to hell with it’, aching from the contact, Kit hesitated – and thirty seconds passed that were to colour the rest of his life.

With a waft of bruised geranium, Daisy released him, turned and made her way across the lawn to the terrace. ‘I’ll see you in London,’ she called.