Falling (26 page)

After that, he became Henry.

Later that week it was decided that they needed more plants for the garden, and he drove her to, not the nearest, he said, but the best nursery garden. He drove rather slowly and with a
concentrated attention that precluded talk. It was a hot day and she had asked him to put the roof down. It was wonderfully peaceful simply to watch the country at this stately pace, time to see
white cascades of flowering may, the buttercups, the hay meadows, the lilac and tulips in gardens, fields full of large lambs all bathed in soft golden sunlight that she could feel warm on her bare
arm. At some point during that drive she experienced the almost forgotten sense of pure happiness – a weightless, contented warmth that permeated her entire being so that there was no room
for anything else at all . . .

The nursery was nearly empty of customers. A weekday morning, Henry said, was always the best time. Except for one visit years ago with Jason to buy houseplants from a London nursery, she had
never been to one. At first she was disappointed. She had been expecting masses of plants flowering away rather than the rows and beds of plastic pots showing anything from a few sprigs of green to
almost nothing visible at all. The trees looked more interesting, and the shrubs certainly had more to show, which made her want them.

‘What are we looking for?’

‘It depends what you like. Tell me what you like, and we’ll find it.’

‘A blue flowering tree or shrub.’ She couldn’t think of what they could possibly be – it was rather a test to see how much he knew.

‘Ceratostigma willmottianum,’
he said instantly. ‘A wonderful blue shrub that flowers late summer well into the autumn.’

‘And a tree?’

‘Well, ceanothus is about the only one, but there are two good varieties, Gloire de Versailles and Trewithen Blue. They might have one of them.’

They found the ceratostigma, but the varieties of ceanothus were not to be had. He fetched a trolley and deflected her to herbaceous plants. She chose phlox in several colours, some white
lupins, a white Japanese anemone, some asters – or Michaelmas daisies, as she called them. She began to want everything she saw; his suggestion that they get some thyme and camomile to put
between the cracks of the new stone path led to a dozen plants; pratia, dianthus, rock roses, besides the several kinds of thyme. Herbs, she said, she must have herbs for cooking, so mint, dill,
sage, parsley, basil and tarragon were bought. But he pinched a leaf of the tarragon and said it was not the French variety and would be no good to her. ‘It looks the same,’ she
said.

‘I’ll grow you the proper sort from seed.’

‘Roses. We haven’t bought a single rose.’

‘I got you six when you were in America. You’ll see.’

But she had found a small standard, covered with pale green buds.

‘It’s only ten pounds. Do let’s get it.’

‘It is your garden,’ he answered, in tones of such amused benevolence that she turned to look at him. ‘I can’t help smiling,’ he said. ‘It is like
taking a very nice child to a toyshop.

‘I know you are not a child,’ he said, before she could, ‘and I love your excitement about the garden, I really do. We’ll make it the best garden in the county. Of course
it’s exciting. You can have no idea how exciting it is for
me
to have the prospect of making a good garden again – especially for someone as appreciative as yourself. Miss
Langrish,’ he added, as an afterthought.

She felt that this was a covert invitation to her to invite him to use her Christian name and sensed a shadow – the faintest warning signal. If she was not on her guard he would somehow
worm his way (why had she put it like that?) into an intimacy with her that she most certainly did not want.

She said that they had bought quite enough and that she wished to pay for the plants. ‘You can load up the car while I’m doing that.’

On the way home she played a tape of a Haydn quartet to preclude any conversation.

When they got back, he came round, opened the car door for her and handed her her stick. ‘I’m sure you’ve had enough for the day. Would it be satisfactory if I unload the
plants, put them on the beds where I think they will look best, and then you can walk round tomorrow and see whether you agree about where I’ve put them? I’ll give them a good watering,
so they’ll be perfectly all right.’

‘Yes, that will do nicely.’

She did feel tired, and her leg and her back ached.

‘I don’t know,’ he said; he seemed subdued. ‘I don’t want to interfere, but would it be a good thing if I made some tea and you put your feet up?’

She was about to say no, she could do it for herself, but then she thought that he must have a mug as well, in which case it would be easier if he made it and took his into the garden. So she
thanked him and went to lie on the sofa under the open window with a book, which would show that she did not want company.

He was good. He made the tea and brought it to her, drawing the low table within her reach.

‘I hope you’ve made yourself a mug to drink while you are dealing with the plants.’

‘Thank you. I will.’ She looked up and he was still standing there, looking down at her with an expression of such gentle anxiety that she felt touched.

‘I’m all right,’ she said.

‘I am so very sorry to have upset you.’

‘You haven’t upset me.’

‘It won’t happen again. I’ll let you know when I’ve finished with the plants in case there is anything you want before I go.’

She fell asleep on the sofa, and when she woke it was dark dusk. She was not cold: a blanket had been carefully laid over her and tucked in over her bare feet, and as she sat up and put on the
lamp she saw the piece of paper.

She read the note twice and was still unable to sort out the confusion of feeling that it induced. He was smitten by her (what a horrible way of putting it), he
was
being intrusive; he
was an acutely sensitive man with a long track record of being made unhappy and bereft. He was extraordinarily good at expressing himself on paper, although his conversation was unremarkable. The
short note was charged with feeling. He was getting old; he was clearly an incurable romantic. There seemed to have been little or nothing going for him (beyond the acrimonious ending of an
unsatisfactory marriage) before she came into his life – well, coming into his life was putting it far too strongly: he had turned up just when she needed some help, and because she had been
unexpectedly away for so long, communication had perforce been by letter. He was not your run-of-the-mill idea of an odd job man; he was not a run-of-the-mill man at
all,
come to that. She
read the last sentence again, ‘I am in awe of you for two of the best reasons in the world: your appearance and your work’, and could not resist the small frisson of vanity that
recurred. It was a long time since anyone had referred to her appearance; indeed, she had ceased to expect anything of the kind, and to have her work mentioned in the same breath was certainly a
boost for self-esteem. To be seen in these good lights made a change from her private nervous and usually deprecatory estimation – she was slipping into old age; she was nothing like the
writer she had hoped and dreamed she might be . . .

Goodness – how ridiculous this was! It was just as well there was nobody to witness these girlish ruminations – certainly unbecoming in a woman of over sixty. But what was it he had
said? ‘I have noticed as I have grown older that although my emotions remain as fresh and as deep as they have ever been, the outward signs of them fade.’ How true she was finding that
was! She could be quietly getting on with or through her life and then the simplest remark could hurtle her back to echoes of the confusion and excitement of being young.

Well, she would be calm about it. It was a small thing; an oldish man who was palpably lonely attempting to draw her towards him. Perfectly reasonable on his part, and even more reasonable that
she should quietly discourage him. If they talked at all, it should be about the garden and books, and if he pushed further, he should go.

When she got off the sofa, she saw that her shoes were neatly arranged at the end of it. The stick lay beside them. He must have put them there, she thought, as she went to the kitchen for
something to eat. She felt faintly irritated: echoes of Jess saying, ‘You want to be waited on hand and foot,’ triggered it. She did not the least want to be beholden to Henry Kent. She
made herself a large mug of hot chocolate and took it to bed where she rang Anna and they had a long cosy chat about the Brontës. After she had been enthusing about Gerin’s
Anne
Bronte,
Anna said, ‘Don’t you think you’re reading the wrong way round?’

‘How do you mean? Anne died first.’

‘I mean Gaskell and Shorter before you read Gerin?’

‘Oh. Yes, it might be better. The snag to that is that the London Library didn’t send Gaskell – said it was out. Do you think that means that someone else is doing
them?’

‘Not necessarily. The other books would probably have been out as well if they were. Anyway, it’s unlikely that anyone is wanting to write a play. I’ll see if I can find a copy
somewhere. Everything else all right with you?’

‘Fine. We went to a nursery garden this afternoon. I bought an enormous amount. It was fun.’

‘Is Mr Kent proving a good chauffeur? Et cetera?’

‘Oh, Anna! There you go – sniping at him. He’s quite harmless. And most considerate. I certainly couldn’t stay here without him anyway.’

‘You know, if you do decide to stay there, you’ll probably make friends with the natives.’

‘I don’t think I—’

‘Well, at least one chum or two. Somebody who likes gardening and that you can talk about books with.’

‘I’ll look out for them.’

‘One more thing. Don’t count on it at
all,
but there has been a faint flicker of interest in your Orpheus play. I’ll keep you posted.’

‘Who from?’

‘Wait until it’s a smouldering interest. Sleep well.’ Anna rang off.

As she fell asleep – or just before it, the thought occurred that Henry was somebody who liked gardening and who wanted to talk about books. But somehow she knew that Anna would not
consider him to be a suitable chum. Could Anna be a snob? And would
she,
in fact, think of Henry in the way she had been thinking of him, if she did not share this prejudice? Class, like
equal opportunities for women, was something it was generally pretended was on the wane, if not actually dissolved. For countless years the innumerable exceptions had been proving the rule. One
should take each person as one finds them, she thought – very sleepy now – and that is what I am going to do with Henry Kent.

In the morning, another brilliant day, she thanked him for putting the blanket over her, and for bringing her tea. ‘And for the note,’ she added, ‘which you need not have
written. But thanks all the same.’

This was while they were walking round the garden and he was explaining the position of the plants in order that she should agree to him planting them. She noticed that he took his tone from
her; was merely practical and made no attempt to talk of anything other than gardening.

She had decided to spend the rest of the day looking through the Orpheus play. Her scripts had all been arranged neatly on the bottom shelf of the long bookcase: they had been laid out on their
sides because the shelf was not high enough for them to be upright. Beside them, lying wedged between a box of typing paper and a box containing cartridges of ribbons and correcting tape, was a
rather dirty white envelope tied with white tape. She had not remembered packing it – knew that it contained letters – and as she pulled it out saw that her red leather diary had been
laid beneath it. When she picked that up, she saw that the frayed strap that had held the lock snap had finally broken. Henry Kent had unpacked these things: she had asked him to, but she had
entirely forgotten that she had packed the diary and the envelope. Now she examined them carefully, to see whether either had been tampered with. The envelope seemed intact: the tape, which had
faded at the point where the knot had been tied round it, was still tied in exactly the same way. But the diary – the strap was broken, and she could not remember when this had happened. It
could easily have occurred when she wedged it into the packing case. She picked it up, and as she opened it the thin piece of airmail paper slipped out. It fell from pages that were the same date
as the letter: she remembered putting it there because it had seemed too awful to her to be put with anything else. Even now, the sight of his writing caused pain. She put the letter back in the
diary, and carried it with the envelope upstairs where she put it in a drawer under some clothes. Doing this she knew was because she did not want Henry – or anyone else, come to that –
reading the contents. She tried to dismiss the uneasy feeling that he might already have done so, but although this seemed unlikely the unease persisted.

He disappeared at lunch-time, so she ate bread and cheese in the garden and read her play.

When he returned in the early evening to water – he had been putting out small plants he had grown from seed – she decided to test him. The sun had gone, it had become very grey and
still, and the air was sticky and warm and crowded with minute flies. She made tea and called him (it was now established that he got a cup of coffee in the mornings and tea if he was there later
in the day). He came in, she noticed, by the back or kitchen door. He looked very hot.