The Mermaid Garden (25 page)

flat shoes, so her small feet were clad in tailor-made wedge espadrilles, which gave her a little more height and a great deal more comfort. “It’s beautiful,” she exclaimed, gesticulating with all the grace of her art at the pictures of birds and butterflies on the walls. “Even more beautiful than I remember. And the bed.” She gasped. “Oh, the bed. So high

I have to take a running leap.” She jumped lithely onto the mattress

and laughed with girlish delight.

“At least you
can
leap,” said Grace. “If I leap, I’ll break. My bones are so brittle.”

“It’s a proper bed,” Pat interjected approvingly. “Nothing worse than

staying somewhere where they don’t understand about beds.”

“I like high ones,” said Jane meekly. “And these are very high.”

“Let me show you to yours,” said Marina, stepping back out into the

narrow hall.

“I like to imagine what this place was like as a private house,” said

Grace. “I suspect my ancestors lived in a mansion like this.”

“This was not the duke and duchess’s main home,” Marina reminded

her as she walked down the corridor to the next room. “This was their

holiday house, where they came to spend the summer.”

“How very grand,” said Grace.

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“The sea air was good for the duchess’s asthma,” Marina continued,

putting the key in the lock of number 11.

“The sea air is good for everything,” said Pat. “Unless you’re a piece

of furniture, of course.”

Jane smiled at the sight of her room and took a deep breath, pleased

that she had come. She went over to the French doors that gave onto

a small stone balcony. She opened them wide and stepped out into the

sunshine, gazing over the navy sea to the misty horizon beyond. Then

she looked down to the front lawn, where Rafa was busy painting with

the brigadier. She caught the brigadier’s eye as he took his attention

off the cedar tree for a moment. He lifted his hat and nodded politely.

Jane was a little surprised and waved her fingers shyly, retreating into the safety of her room.

“I see your artist is at work,” she said.

“Yes, he’s teaching the brigadier.”

“Is that who he is. I can’t see with my bad eyesight.”

“You would have met him last year,” said Marina. “He comes up

every morning for breakfast. Rafa has managed to persuade him to do

a little painting. I think he’s rather enjoying himself.”

Once she was on her own, Jane opened her suitcase and pulled out a

picture of her husband in a shiny silver frame. She placed it carefully on her bedside table, then sat on the bed to look at it.

Pat strode into number 12. “Jolly nice,” she said heartily, tossing her sensible brown handbag onto the quilt. Pat would have been happy

anywhere, for she was unspoiled and practical, and abhorred people

who made a fuss. She tolerated Grace only because they had known

each other for so long and because Grace was funny, though her humor

ran out pretty quickly if she was uncomfortable.

English boarding schools had trained Pat to accept what she was

given and never to complain, however uncomfortable she was. Hard-

ship was character building, after all, and Pat rather relished challenge, and being the only one in the group who rose up like a rhinoceros in

the face of adversity. In her youth she had climbed the south face of the Eiger and would have sailed the whole way around the world had her

boat not appealed to a great white shark off the coast of Australia, forcing her to radio for help and abandon it altogether.

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Now in her eighties, Pat’s life ran on a more predictable track. She

had handed her torch to her youngest grandson, who was now in his

thirties and halfway up Kilimanjaro. She walked over to the window

and admired the view. The sea always stirred in her a deep longing to

set sail.

Marina had left the best for last and showed Mrs. Delennor to the

duchess’s suite at the other end of the corridor. Grace was suitably enchanted to find herself upgraded. Now, not only did she have a view of

the garden and the sea, but a hand-carved four-poster bed—the duch-

ess’s very own bed—crafted in 1814 and handed down the generations,

until it was eventually sold along with the house and its memories.

Marina knew how difficult Mrs. Delennor could be and had made a

special effort to please her. On reflection, Mrs. Meister should have had it because of what she’d been through, but Mrs. Delennor was the most

likely to complain and Marina wanted to avoid that at all costs. “
Très
jolie
,” said Grace without even trying to put on a French accent. “I shall enjoy staying in here very much.”

“I’m so pleased you like it. It’s very special.”

Grace draped her cashmere coat over the back of the chair. “The

others are going to be wildly jealous. Except Pat, of course, who doesn’t have a jealous bone in her body—only the strong bones of a very sturdy

animal.” She laughed at the mental picture. “It’s a mighty fine room.

Thank you.”

It wasn’t long before the women appeared on the lawn to meet the

artist. The brigadier had been enjoying the peace and the progress of

his painting, and was unamused at the invasion. He watched the old

women flap about the Argentine like moths, and grumbled as he was

forced to stand and greet them out of politeness. He had a vague rec-

ollection of seeing them at breakfast the year before, which had been

perfectly fine as they had kept their distance. Now they were mounting

an assault, he was none too pleased.

Rafa was charming, turning his smile and laughing eyes onto each

woman as if she were young and beautiful. The women sparkled with

pleasure, even Pat, who considered it very silly to be seduced by flattery.

“Sue McCain would appreciate
him
,” she hissed to Veronica.

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“He’s very attractive,” Veronica agreed. “He makes me want to be

twenty again. Really, at times like this my old body feels very alien, as if I shouldn’t have put it on. It doesn’t go with how I feel inside. Do you know what I mean, Pat?”

“Oh, I do, Veronica. My head tells me I can still do all the things

I used to do, but then I get out of breath climbing the stairs. Still, one mustn’t complain. I’ve had my fun and there’s still a lot I can do, like a good route march along the cliff. Yes, I shall enjoy that very much.”

“I can’t wait to put my brush onto paper again. I haven’t painted a

stroke since last year.”

“And you’re very talented.”

“There’s always something else to do, don’t you find? It’s hard to get

down to it.”

“One has to
make
time. It’s all about prioritizing.”

“Well, we have seven whole glorious days here without any distrac-

tions.” She grinned at the artist. “Apart from our teacher.”

Jane Meister always felt on the periphery of things. She hovered a

little away from the rest of the group, listening to their conversations but not really taking part. She was happier like that, letting the other women take center stage. Veronica was a born performer, used to being

watched and applauded, and even though she was old she still retained

the enthusiasm and light steps of her youth. Pat thought she was head

girl and captain of the lacrosse team even now. She had the confidence

of her class, years of Pony Club camp, and debutante parties, which she professed to have found very silly. Nothing fazed her—neither a buck-ing horse nor a roomful of people. Pat took everything in her stride and confronted every challenge with a vigorous snort.

Grace expected everyone to admire her, and if they didn’t she just

brushed them aside with a dismissive wave of her elegant hand. She

had grown up in the highest echelons of American East Coast society,

and what she hadn’t been able to acquire by way of her charm, she had

simply bought with her vast wealth. It was hard to tell by which means

she had won her three husbands.

Jane was an officer’s daughter. She had grown up in a close-knit

army community in Germany, met Henrik, and married at eighteen. If

it hadn’t been for a random painting class her daughter had encouraged

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her to join in Knightsbridge eight years before, their paths would never have crossed.

Jane observed the artist. He was indeed very handsome and pleas-

ant. She watched him laugh at Grace’s jokes and knew that they would

all have an enjoyable time in his company. She wasn’t so sure about the brigadier. He looked rather gruff. It wasn’t that he lacked politeness—

on the contrary, he was the very epitome of politeness—it was just that behind his good manners he didn’t look very happy to meet them. Unlike the artist, whose smile was broad and genuine, the brigadier didn’t smile at all. Jane decided she would make sure that she was sitting as far away from him as possible.

Grace wasted no time and invited Rafa to join them for lunch. The

brigadier went home, leaving his painting in order to continue the fol-

lowing day. He didn’t like the idea of sharing his teacher, and would

normally have put his paints away for good, but he was enjoying the

tree and the memories it evoked. It was like sinking into another world when he painted. As if his past was there, submerged beneath the

branches, just waiting to be rediscovered.

Grace, Pat, Veronica, and Jane sat outside on the terrace, beneath a

green umbrella. Grace was wrapped in a pale pink pashmina, although

the sun was strong and the breeze light and warm. Rafa was pleased to

join them.

Jake watched him sit down and noticed the ripple effect he had on

the whole terrace. It was by no means full, but the guests who were

there stopped whatever they were doing to look at him. It was as if he

glowed brighter than everyone else, and even Jake’s gaze was drawn to

him, quite against his will. The artist had to endure his stepmother and sister buzzing about him like a pair of dizzy bees. The attention would go to his head, and he’d become unbearable. Jake was sure he wasn’t so

magnetic in his own country.

That afternoon more easels were set up on the lawn, and the four

women looked at the tree as they were instructed. Grace found it quite

hard to concentrate on anything but Rafa. However, after a while, with

a little encouragement, she lost herself in the thick green pine needles and branches. The tree made her feel insecure, and a knot tightened in

the pit of her belly. She feared poverty more than she feared anything

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else. The more she looked, the more the tree pulled her into a dark

world where she had nothing but the skin on her body. And the skin

was as old and wrinkled as the bark.

Pat stared at the tree. She had no difficulty concentrating on it. It

reminded her of her childhood, for she had loved climbing the big cop-

per beech in her garden in Hampshire, where her father had built her

a playhouse out of wood. It made her feel young again, as if she could

jump off her chair with the agility of a child and scale the cedar right to the top.

Veronica gazed at the tree with delight. The color green was so dark

and alluring, the branches so magical and mysterious, she wondered

where they led. She imagined she was a bird, perched high up, observ-

ing the world with merry detachment. She would spread her wings and

fly a swooping dance, and the music in her head inspired her to hum a

tune.

Jane saw the regeneration of life in the branches of the tree that had

stood for hundreds of years, watching the generations come and go

in the grand cycle of life. Having felt so lost without her dear Henrik, she began to feel a little more positive. Wasn’t it true that nature was reborn, season after season? Why would it not be so for human beings?

Perhaps Henrik had been reborn in Heaven and was now among those

branches, watching her. The tree gave her hope. The way it grew up

from the ground, its roots deep in the earth, the highest branch soaring towards God. It made her think of Henrik’s body in the earth and his

spirit up there beyond her senses. She smiled wistfully as the hope in

her heart gave way to a sweet melancholy.

Rafa watched them watch the tree. He observed their expressions as

they lost themselves in its branches. He saw the fear in Grace’s eyes, and the hope in Jane’s. He saw the joy in Pat’s and the awe in Veronica’s,

and when he decided they had all been inspired to feel something, he

told them to pick up their brushes and paint. For once, none of them

said a word.

Bertha stood at the window of Rafa’s bedroom. As Marina hadn’t got

round to talking to Jake she had decided to have a private word herself.

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Jake had been only too happy to put her in charge of the artist’s bed-

room.

“You’re the right person for the job,” he had said with a smirk, pat-