The Chain Garden (8 page)

While he worked he searched desperately for a way out of the prison to which he had returned.

What if he hadn’t fallen ill with fever while he and Tarun were on a week-long trip to the edge of the glacier? What if – within arm’s reach of death – he hadn’t experienced a man’s tenderness and physical affection for the first time?

Tarun’s touch had been sweet water to the arid desert of his soul. Would life have been easier if none of it had happened? He would not now ache and grieve. Nor would he have known a love that had brought him incomparable joy.

Though others might call it depraved, for the first time in his life he had felt at peace with himself. Doubt, shame, the fear that he alone in the world was out of step, had dissolved like mist in the clean mountain air.

Until Tarun he had never known gentleness from anyone except Grace. His mother’s ill health had forced her children to keep their distance. The closest his father had ever come to demonstrating physical affection was a firm handshake.

For as long as he could remember,
manliness
had been held up as the ultimate goal, the achievement for which a boy should strive. Terrified that he was different, not normal, he had hurled himself into activities that would prove to himself and his father that he was indeed a real man.

It was a bitter irony that he had succeeded so well. He could hunt, shoot, fish and wrestle with the best. Yet the greater his father’s pride, the greater his fear of being found out. Since his return the strain – worse now because he had lived a different life, had loved and been loved – had grown so bad he had even begun to wonder if living with the truth might not be easier.

Easier for whom?
His father? Whose cherished illusions and pride in his son would explode in his face? Who would be mocked and pitied, gossip-fodder for people not fit to lick his boots? What of the effect on his mother’s already precarious health: the future prospects of Richard, Grace and Zoe? Which family would want to marry into the Damerels once their son’s depravity became known? What if the taint could be inherited? Who would want to risk having such children?

How he envied his twin. Richard knew who he was. Despite their father’s irritation and embarrassment at his artistic talent, Richard was totally secure in himself. Adoring Sophie who loved him in return, he could openly talk of her, go about with her and begin building a lifetime of shared memories.

He could do none of that. To protect his family he must deny Tarun’s love, deny his own true nature, live a lie. As he contemplated a bleak future of intolerable loneliness, he set each cutting carefully, firming it in with hands that trembled.

The door at the far end of the glasshouse opened. Bryce swallowed hard and the lump in his throat moved down to lie heavy in his chest. Expecting Richard or Percy, when Alice called his name his heart sank.

‘I was just wondering which plants Sophie and I could take to sell at the Summer Fair.’

Her voice had a nervous brightness that set his teeth on edge. He continued to set the cuttings. ‘You’d better ask Percy.’

‘I would, but he’s so possessive.’ She pouted. ‘He never wants to part with any of them. I’m sure you must know which varieties you have plenty of. We only want half a dozen.’ She stood beside him, fiddling with a wooden spill on which Bryce had pencilled the name of the species.

Dusting soil off his hands he gently took the spill from her fingers and stuck it in the tray of cuttings. ‘I’m sorry, Alice, but it really would be better if you ask Percy. He’s at the top end of the shrubbery.’ Avoiding her eyes, willing her to leave, he put the tray on the broad shelf just above the pipes. Reaching for another empty tray he moved towards the huge wooden bins to fill it with a mixture of sand and peat. Alice followed.

‘Bryce?’

‘Yes?’ Straightening, he carried the tray back to the rest of the cuttings lying on the bench.
Don’t say it, whatever it is.

‘Are you quite well?’

‘Yes.’ He made an effort. ‘I’m still rather tired though.’

‘Only – I – Have I offended you in some way?’

At this he looked up. Her cheeks were crimson, her eyes brimming. Pity and anger churned in him.

‘Come on, Alice. You could never offend me. Haven’t we been friends for years? I’m just tired that’s all.’

Her mouth widened in a tremulous smile. ‘Friends. Yes, we are, aren’t we?’

Despite her visible relief he knew this wasn’t what she wanted. But it was all he could give.

The day of the Summer Fair dawned dull and overcast. But by mid-morning the grey blanket had dissolved and the sun shone in a sky the colour of forget-me-nots.

In a field bordering the river Edwin watched groups of villagers set up stalls with displays of plants, toys, books, china and glassware and home-made fancy-goods. A vast brown canvas tent had been pitched at the far end of the field. It was here, with the cake stall alongside, that teas were served.

The committee had deliberately chosen this site, reasoning that few villagers would be able to walk the length of the field without being persuaded to buy something. Then after visiting the stalls they would be ready for a cup of tea and a plateful of home cooking.

Opposite the stalls various games and amusements were being organised. A group of farm labourers were erecting two tall posts with a moveable crossbar. During the afternoon each would demonstrate his strength and skill at tossing a sheaf of straw over the bar that would then be raised. With a barrel of beer for the winner competition would be fierce.

There was a coconut shy and a pitch for tossing horseshoes marked out with tape and an iron peg. With the village band providing music, the children would show off the country-dances they had been practising in school.

As Edwin moved slowly down the field stopping to lend a hand or offer a word of encouragement and appreciation his gaze continually strayed to Grace Damerel. No sooner had she finished assisting with preparations at one stall than she was busy at another. Most of the girls and women worked in pairs or groups. Grace remained alone, separate. Though clearly popular and welcome she was still the mine-owner’s daughter.

His heart went out to her for he knew what it was like always to be slightly apart. They day they were introduced he had felt a tug of awareness, of recognition. Since that day he had been waging a continuous battle.

Being pleasant and courteous to ladies involved in the various chapel activities presented no problems whatever. Only with Grace Damerel did he flounder, tongue-tied. He found himself looking forward to her turn for a particular duty. As a newcomer he had plenty of reasons to ask her advice or seek her opinion. Experienced in the way things were done and the foibles of the other ladies her suggestions invariably smoothed his path.

Yet she would not meet his eye. When she had answered his questions and he was racking his brain for a remark that wouldn’t sound inane or patronising, she would excuse herself and hurry away leaving him angry and frustrated at his awkwardness.

She had moved away from the stalls and was hammering pegs into the grass to secure a small blue and white awning. Reaching for one of two easels clearly borrowed from the school she opened it and set it at an angle under the awning. Watching as she placed a chair in front of the easel, a wave of grief engulfed him. She was kind and generous, and to see her laugh was like watching the sunrise.

This morning she had come dressed for work in a plain dark skirt, a simple white blouse and black lace-up shoes. Her thick hair was tucked up beneath a wide straw hat. She was everything he could desire in a wife. But all the regrets in the world could not change the past. He might watch Grace Damerel and yearn. But there could never be more, not for him.

Chapter Eight

Moving the chair back under the awning and out of the sun Grace opened the second easel. Turning it to face the field she looked round. Had someone called her?

Her gaze ranged over the stalls where women were pinning decorative ribbons and coloured paper streamers to the front of long trestle tables. At one side of the raised platform from which the fair would be declared open, members of the ladies’ circle were laying small boughs of greenery around the edge.

This was considered a wise precaution after Mrs Williams had taken a nasty fall six years ago. As the platform was barely three feet above the grass the only injury Mrs Williams had suffered was to her dignity. Being a good-natured soul she had laughed it off. However, as Mr Williams owned and loaned the field, as well as supplying a sheep for the ram roast, it was imperative such a thing never happened again.

Her glance fell on Edwin Philpotts who was looking directly at her. Heat rushed to her face as she tensed, smoothing her skirt with unsteady hands. How long had he been watching her? Would he come over? She must not appear forward. Her heart was beating so fast it made her feel dizzy.

The chairman of the parish council hurried through the gate clutching a wad of printed programmes. Spotting the minister he called out and waved. As Edwin turned away Grace swallowed her disappointment and tucked a loose strand of hair up under her hat.

She unwrapped the notice Richard had painted for her on a two-feet-square piece of white board. Vivid crimson lettering invited one and all to have their likeness sketched by a well-known local artist. Setting the board on the smaller easel Grace took a few steps back to observe the effect.

‘What a splendid idea.’

She jumped, her heart leaping into her throat.

‘I’m sorry,’ Edwin said quickly. ‘I didn’t mean to startle you.’

‘It’s all right,’ Grace could feel her face burning. ‘I didn’t realise – I didn’t hear –’ She bit her lip to stop herself babbling.

‘Did you make the notice?’

She shook her head, staring blindly at the bright lettering. ‘My brother Richard did.’ She pressed folded arms against her stomach. She could feel herself trembling and hoped fervently that he wouldn’t notice.

‘It’s exactly what’s needed to attract people’s attention. Will he be our artist in residence for the afternoon?’

‘No. He doesn’t do portraits. But I did persuade him to donate one of his flower paintings for the raffle.’

He smiled. ‘It would take a hard heart to refuse you anything, Miss Damerel. So if not your brother, who –’

‘Mrs Renowden.’ Grace moistened dry lips with the tip of her tongue. The drumbeat of her pulse was deafening. ‘She’s quite famous. Perhaps you’ve heard of her? Dorcas Renowden?’ At his rueful shrug she hurried on. ‘You’ve not been here long. And she doesn’t come to chapel.’

‘Then it’s most generous of her to volunteer her time and her talent.’

‘It is a good cause,’ Grace reminded quickly. ‘The village has lost a lot of good men. Their widows and children need all the help we can give.’ The strand of hair had come loose again and was tickling her hot cheek. As she pushed it back she looked up at him. ‘This is the least I can do.’

His fleeting frown was replaced by a smile. ‘You were telling me about Mrs Renowden?’

Relief loosened Grace’s tongue. ‘She usually paints land and seascapes. I’ve seen her pictures and they are beautiful. But she thought people might prefer to have a likeness of themselves.’

‘I’m sure she’s right. Your brother’s notice will certainly attract attention. You will need a volunteer. Someone must be first, so people will know what they have to do and can see what they are getting.’

Grace’s hand flew to her mouth. ‘I hadn’t thought of that. You’re right of course. It’s very good of you to offer. I’m sure –’

‘Not me. I’m part of the platform party. Which I’m told means I have to accompany Mrs Williams on a tour of the stalls. In any case, while people might be amused to watch me having my likeness drawn, the result is not likely to encourage anyone else. No, I think the villagers would much prefer to see
you
, Miss Damerel.’

Grace shook her head. ‘I couldn’t.’

‘If you won’t, how will we persuade anyone else? We cannot allow poor Mrs Renowden to sit idle all afternoon. Besides, I thought the purpose of her coming was to raise money?’

‘It is. But –’

‘Then let us make a pact.’ He cleared his throat and Grace noticed a flush along his cheekbones. ‘If you will sit for Mrs Renowden, I will start the collection with two shillings.’

Grace gasped. ‘Two shillings? You can’t. I mean –’

‘Indeed I can, especially for such a worthwhile cause. Do we have an agreement?’

Flustered, Grace nodded. ‘You’re too generous.’ She glanced at the watch pinned to her blouse. ‘Goodness, I had no idea – The time –’ She back away. ‘Please excuse me.’ Turning she hurried towards the gate where her bicycle leaned against the hedge.

It was almost two o’clock, time for the official opening. Glad of the awning’s shade Dorcas untied the thin ribbons that held closed a large folder. Lifting out a sheet of heavy creamy paper she pinned it to the smooth board resting on the easel pegs. Opening a rectangular wooden box she took out several pencils with thick soft leads and placed them on the narrow shelf. She was ready.

Making herself comfortable on the chair she looked towards the gate. People were streaming onto the field like an incoming tide. Many of the women carrying baskets or cloth-covered trays headed straight for the tea tent.

From experience of past fairs Dorcas knew that long tables spread with crisp white cloths would soon be covered with plates of sandwiches and sausage rolls, trays of pasties, sponge cakes, saffron buns, yeast buns,
hevva
cake and fruit pies. Pairs of women would take turns to split dozens of freshly baked scones, spread them with jam, and top them with a spoonful of thick clotted cream.

Scores of thick white china cups and saucers would be set out together with a basin of sugar and a bowl containing tin spoons. Five large brown enamel teapots awaited water now boiling in the copper.

An hour earlier she had stood in front of her open closet wondering what to wear. She was attending as an artist and the villagers would expect her to dress like one. With a smile she had selected a white muslin gypsy blouse with full sleeves and a deeply frilled neckline, a maroon taffeta skirt with a broad flounce around the bottom and, a paisley shawl patterned in maroon, emerald and gold. A wide-brimmed straw hat adorned with crimson and emerald ribbons completed her ensemble.

When Grace arrived to collect her in a brougham driven by Will Treneer, Dorcas knew she had never seen Henry’s daughter look so pretty. It wasn’t just her clothes, though high-necked white lace over apple green tulle looked cool and elegant. Silk stockings, white kid shoes with a bar and button fastening and a low curved heel and a hat of white straw trimmed with holly green ribbon and white flowers completed her outfit. Beneath the brim Grace’s normally pale face was rose pink.

‘My dear, you look absolutely charming.’

‘Do I?’ Grace’s colour deepened. ‘Th-thank you.’

Will halted the carriage beside the field entrance. Grace alighted first and took the folder and box of pencils while Dorcas stepped down. Shaking out her skirts Dorcas smiled to herself, aware she was being scrutinised by Cyril Dunstan and his forty-year-old bachelor son, Horace.

Side by side on wooden chairs in the shade of an oak tree they were collecting the entrance money. In front of them a green baize card table held a stack of programmes, books of pink, blue, white and green raffle tickets and an enamel plate on which a few silver sixpences glittered among the pennies. Despite the June warmth both wore their Sunday-best black suits with waistcoats and stiff white collars. They were freshly shaved and had slicked their hair down with water.

‘Aft’noon, Mizz Renowden.’ Horace’s polite grin revealed blackened broken teeth. His father, clutching a gnarled pipe in a weathered arthritic hand, simply nodded. Cyril’s brown seamed face, eyes like blackcurrants, and a scrawny neck around which his collar hung loose all reminded Dorcas of an elderly tortoise.

She smiled. ‘Good afternoon.’

‘Will this be all right for you?’ Grace asked anxiously as they reached the awning.

At a right angle to the platform, it was set back slightly from the stalls that ran the full length of the field.

‘It’s perfect,’ Dorcas assured her.

‘You won’t be bored?’

‘My dear Grace,’ Dorcas touched her hand lightly. ‘Don’t worry so. I find watching people a fascinating pastime. This is a rare opportunity for me.’

‘Thank heaven for the glorious weather.’ Grace clasped her hands. ‘Everyone has worked so hard. I’ve never seen the stalls so full.’

‘It must be almost time for the official opening,’ Dorcas reminded gently. ‘You’d better go and take your seat.’

‘If you’re sure there’s nothing else?’

‘I’m positive. Go on, now. I think your mother is wondering where you are.’

Chairs had been set out below the platform and Dorcas watched the Damerel family take their places at the front. Colonel Hawkins was performing the opening ceremony and was already on the platform. Next to him Mrs Hawkins was resplendent in jonquil and cream lace, and a hat trimmed with matching ostrich plumes. On her other side sat the chairman of the parish council and next to him the Reverend Barton Penwarne whose parish encompassed three villages.

As Edwin Philpotts escorted Mrs Williams onto the platform Dorcas saw Louise Damerel murmur to Grace whose hat hid her face.

The vicar, a plump unctuous man, intoned a prayer. The chairman thanked Mr Williams for the loan of his field then introduced Colonel Hawkins. Mercifully brief, the colonel thanked everyone for their hard work, reminded them of the worthiness of the cause, told everyone to enjoy themselves, and declared the fair open. During the applause Mrs Hawkins and Mrs Williams were presented with bouquets. Formalities complete, the crowd scattered across the field.

As Dorcas pinned the first sheet of paper to the board she looked up to see the minister with Mrs Williams on one side of him and grace on the other.

‘Mrs Renowden,’ Grace was blushing furiously. ‘May I introduce Mrs Williams?’

‘How do you do?’ Dorcas extended her hand.

‘I’ve heard of you,’ Mrs Williams nodded, her fingers limp. ‘I used to dabble a bit myself. It’s such a relaxing hobby. But once grandchildren come along it’s so hard to find the time.’

‘Indeed,’ Dorcas murmured politely. She switched her gaze enquiringly to the tall figure in dark suit and clerical collar.

Grace cleared her throat. ‘This is our new minister, Mr Philpotts.’

Dorcas offered her hand again. ‘Good afternoon, Mr Philpotts.’ His handshake was brief but firm. She observed dark brown eyes, fair straight brows, and sallow skin that hinted at illness or severe strain.

‘Miss Damerel has volunteered to be your first sitter, Mrs Renowden’

Dorcas glanced in surprise from the minister, now slightly flushed, to Grace. ‘That’s splendid.’ Henry always spoke of Grace as shy.

‘I didn’t vol –I mean it wasn’t exactly my idea,’ Grace stammered, her colour darkening. ‘But we thought it would be dreadful if you were sitting here with no one to draw. Mr Philpotts said that if I would go first so people could see how it was done, he would put two shillings in the bowl.’ She glanced down at the bare grass. ‘Oh my goodness, I forgot – I’d better go and –’

‘No, Miss Damerel.’ Edwin Philpotts’s voice echoed the firmness of his handshake. ‘We have an agreement, remember? I will go and borrow a saucer from the tea tent.’

‘Now, Reverend,’ Mrs Williams smiled archly, ‘I hope you haven’t forgotten you’re supposed to be taking me round the stalls. I’m sure Mrs Renowden and Grace would like it better if we leave them get on. When I used to do a bit of drawing I could never abide anyone watching. Better to wait until it’s finished. Anyhow, seeing you’ve paid for it you’ll have plenty of time to look at it later. Don’t worry,’ she said over her shoulder. ‘We’ll send someone back with a dish.’

As the minister was borne away Dorcas turned to Grace. ‘Do sit down, my dear.’ She waited, reminded of a butterfly alighting briefly on blossom. ‘Would you humour me and remove your hat? It’s very pretty, but if I am to draw your likeness I do need to see your face.’

‘Oh.’ Grace bit her lip.

‘I know. You feel horribly self-conscious. Turn your chair away a little. Now forget about me. Watch the crowd. People are so interesting, especially when they don’t realise they are being observed. I expect you’ve been rushing about all morning so think of this as a well-earned rest.’

While she was speaking Dorcas had begun to draw. Her pencil strokes quickly captured the shy tilt of Grace’s head, the softness of her mouth. As she brought the curves and hollows of Grace’s face alive on the paper a couple stopped to watch. They were joined by several more. Some moved to look over Dorcas’s shoulder and watch the portrait take shape. Mostly they stood silent as if afraid to disturb either artist or sitter. When Dorcas sat back there was a collective sigh.

‘Dear life, that’s ‘andsome,’ announced Mrs Rawling, the butcher’s wife, her hands folded under her pillowy bosom. ‘How much are you charging?’

A boy clutching a china plate wriggled through the watchers. ‘Minister said I was to give you this.’ As Grace took the plate he opened his other hand and dropped three silver sixpences and six pennies into it. Errand discharged he turned and ran.

Dorcas saw Grace’s blush as she set the plate on the grass, picked up her hat, and rose to her feet.

‘Mrs Renowden is only charging sixpence.’ Above the rustle of whispers she continued. ‘This is a rare opportunity, and for such a good cause.’

Dorcas unpinned the portrait and handed it to Grace whose face registered shock, then pleasure and uncertainty.

‘Oh, it’s … it’s …’

‘It’s you,’ Dorcas said simply.

‘It’s wonderful,’ Grace breathed. ‘I had no idea I looked like –’

‘Caught you just right she did,’ Mrs Rawling said with the confidence of a connoisseur. ‘I’m next.’ She settled herself on the chair. ‘Better than any photograph this is. But I won’t be taking my hat off if it’s all the same to you. I’ll never get ‘n on straight again, not without a looking glass. Don’t mind, do you?’