The Physic Garden (18 page)

I loved her dearly at that moment, and there is some part of me that has never stopped loving her. She was my first thought each morning when I awoke and my last thought each night before I fell asleep, however exhausted with the day’s efforts. I would have dreamed about her constantly if I could have manipulated my sleeping thoughts, and I did dream about her often. I was full of hope for our shared future. I believed that, with Thomas’s help, I had written so eloquently on my own behalf that my position as gardener would be safe. Jenny, ever the optimist, believed so too and Thomas declared that he was certain of a favourable outcome.

It was not to be. Only a little while after they had received the letter, I was informed that Dr Jeffray had renewed his complaints about me and, of course, he won in the end. My appointment was to be terminated, although, mercifully, I was to be allowed a full year to make other arrangements and was also allowed to remain in possession of the land during that time. This meant that I could sell the grass and whatever else I could grow. My family would not be entirely destitute.

I think I had Thomas to thank for my year’s reprieve. He had told Faculty in no uncertain terms that if they didn’t see fit to give me time to find a new place of work and a new home for my family, he would have to consider his own position in the university. I was touched that he would put his livelihood at risk for me. But in truth, there was small risk to him in such a stand and he knew that they would never let him go. Even Jeffray had not expected this and was appalled at the thought of having to resume his botanical lectures again, when he had so much else to occupy him, so he was forced to swallow his prejudice and make some kind of grudging representation to Faculty on my behalf. Or so Thomas told me, relating the events with a kind of glee, pleased with his own machinations on my behalf. The result was that I was given my year’s grace.

‘Don’t worry, William. We’ll think of something,’ said Thomas. ‘There’s plenty of work for a man of your skills and intelligence.’

‘But not here.’

‘No. Not here, that’s for sure.’

‘They’ve said that they will let my mother and the younger ones stay on in the house for a while if need be, even after the year is over, but I shall have to make some provision for them. I need work. Real work.’

‘And what will I do without you to collect specimens for me?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘If we can find you some gardening work in the town, perhaps you could continue, and I could pay you for whatever you provide.’

‘Perhaps so.’

But I could foresee only more hard work and a neglected garden all over again. He heard the reluctance in my voice.

‘You know I would like nothing better than to work for you, all day, every day,’ I continued.

‘And you must know that I would like nothing better than to work with you. But as yet I have no proper place of my own. This is a rented house with a small patch of garden and a few miserable apple trees with codling moth at the heart of all the fruit. As the younger son I am not a rich man.’

‘Nor a poor one, either.’

He frowned. ‘Well, as it happens, I do have an idea of sorts, but I am very unsure as to how you will receive it!’

‘Tell me. What idea? I’m desperate, Thomas, and will consider anything.’

‘Oh, this is a little better than a counsel of desperation, I think. You have often heard me speak of my uncle in Ayrshire?’

‘Aye, I have.’

‘He has a large estate there. Larger than he needs. His wife died some years ago. They rattle around that cold, old house, himself and his son.’

‘And the house has a garden?’

‘More than that. It has extensive grounds. A walled garden. A park. All you could wish for. I could have a word with him. I am something of a favourite with him. He is very cautious of his own health, although he is as robust as I am, but his son, my cousin, is very sickly, a little like your wee Rab, and I do the best I can for him whenever I am there. Would you perhaps think about travelling to Ayrshire? If I could get you a position there?’

‘Of course I would. But how could I desert my mother and the boys? And it would be a long way away from Jenny.’

‘I have already thought of that. There is a great deal of land, and you would not be head gardener or not yet a while, but you would certainly have a position of some seniority, William. Coming from the college, and on my recommendation too. You see, the head gardener is knowledgeable but old and rather frail. He needs help and my uncle knows it.’

‘I would certainly go wherever there was work to be had, if only I could make some arrangements for those who depend upon me.’

‘Well, perhaps there would be a house for your family. That is what I have been thinking. I know that there are cottages on the estate. And if none was suitable, one might be built. And I would be prepared to make the request on your behalf. Would your mother be willing to move, do you think?’

‘I think she would. Needs must. Although it would be hard for her to be so far from the girls, Bessie especially.’

Jean and Susanna were both in service now. But I knew that Bessie would keep an eye on them. The more I thought about it, the more I liked the idea.

‘Perhaps James could work in the gardens too. Or get work on a nearby farm maybe? Or is there a home farm, perhaps? He’s strong and willing. And the wee lads would surely find seasonal work in the country.’

‘I think they would. Do you want me to ask?’

‘I’d be grateful. And will you ever be there, Thomas?’ I asked, hesitantly.

He smiled at me. ‘Aye. To be sure I will. I ride down there from time to time. If you are there, my friend, I will have even more reason to go! And I would be glad to speak to my uncle for you. He’s very careful of his own health so he is always pleased to see me. There is aye something wrong with him, be it his head, his stomach or his legs. In reality he is as strong as myself, although I could not say the same about my cousin. But my uncle is fond of his garden. Almost as fond of his green and growing things as you are, William. Although if there is a fault with the estate it is that there are by no means enough trees. I think maybe we could persuade him to plant more. Broadleaves of all kinds, some native and perhaps some more exotic specimens.’

‘I think I should like that very much. And what of Jenny?’

‘Ah, Jenny,’ he said. He paused, gazing at me with a quizzical expression. Jenny was still visiting his house often, still doing her fine sewing for the family. ‘I suppose you have some thoughts of marrying your Jenny?’

‘Some day. But if I wait as long as I may have to, I’ll be too old to enjoy my wedding night!’

‘Oh, William, we can’t have that, can we?’

‘I’m powerless to remedy it.’

‘Well, it might be arranged.’

‘How? I would be an under-gardener with no resources and a family to support.’

‘You cannot waste your whole youth supporting your family, William. The sacrifice is too great. I won’t let you do it.’

‘I don’t see how you can prevent it!’

‘Listen to me. The older children are almost self sufficient. There is no reason why, once you are established in Ayrshire, you should not marry your Jenny – if her father will spare her – and bring her down to keep house for you. Your mother is fond of the lass.’

‘She is. But two women in charge of one house?’

‘Although you may not want to admit as much – forgive me – your mother is no longer young and will not always be there.
And who knows? Maybe we could persuade my uncle to find two cottages instead of one. In fact, I have in mind two wee houses that stand side by side, a little tumbledown and battered by the elements to be sure, but not beyond rescue by a strong young man such as yourself. And your brothers would help. There will be plenty of work at the big house for a young woman with Jenny’s talents. Although we will be very sorry to lose her here in Glasgow. Very sorry indeed. But of course the connection will not be broken. No, it will never be broken. For I am in the habit of visiting the house often.’

It all seemed possible when he outlined it to me. Not just possible, but desirable. Those big lowland estates were in the nature of villages. Even when the families who owned them were as small as was this one, consisting of a widowed man and his ailing son, they would offer shelter to a large household of servants, with a few poor relations thrown in for good measure. There were usually many cottages that had sprung up around the central house like so many mushrooms at the foot of some venerable tree. Tumbledown and damp and uncomfortable most of them were, to be sure, unless there was some enlightened landowner with an interest in building. But a deal of work would remedy matters and the house we had lived in for so many years was no palace either.

I began to feel that the future was looking quite rosy. Jenny and I had an understanding. Her father approved of me and thought that the college had treated me shabbily. Besides that, I knew that Jenny’s father was now openly courting his neighbour Nancy and had even tentatively spoken of marriage. It occurred to me that it might suit him well enough to have at least one of his daughters off his hands. Anna was on good terms with the potential new Mistress Caddas (after all, she had spent enough time in her house) and could stay at home until she too found herself a husband or began to work at the weaving in good earnest. I think she
was already a great help to her father and undertook much of the spinning that he had once put out to women in the village.

‘What’s for you won’t go by you,’ my mother always said, and I began to think that it might be true. I would miss Thomas if I did not see him almost every day, but even that ache would be tempered by the anticipation of seeing him whenever he came down to Ayrshire. He had intimated that we might be able to study together. That I would continue to have access to the library at the big house whenever I wished. Thomas’s uncle liked his outdoor pursuits, his hunting and fishing. He himself had small use for books, but Thomas had told me that the library was a fine one, much better than his own, full of historical curiosities and rare books, and he promised to beg permission for me to have the use of it whenever I wanted.

Even now, I sometimes find myself imagining that bright future as it might have been, wondering if I would have been as happy in the countryside as I had believed I could be. I think it might have been possible. Our dreams and plans were ambitious enough.

‘Maybe one day my uncle will give me full control over the gardens,’ said Thomas. ‘In which case, we could plant a great many new trees.’

‘An avenue of limes. Loud with bees. Can you picture it, Thomas?’

‘And bee boles in all the walls for your Jenny. She would keep the bees happy, would she not?’

‘So that the fruit trees and the grape vines would all bear fruit.’

‘We might even travel, you know. To the Americas, to Africa. To Asia and beyond.’

‘I don’t think Jenny would approve of that.’

‘Nor would Marion. But who can say what the future might hold? And if we must stay here in Scotland then we could at least make the best of a new garden.’

‘I think you once told me they grew pineapples there?’

‘Oh aye, they do. There is a big orangery which serves as well for pineapples. And an old walled garden which is very sheltered.
The climate is mild down there, milder than here.’

Then I’ll grow pineapples for you. In memory of my father. Oranges perhaps. Peaches too. And plums and cherries. With pears and apples layered against the walls.’

‘Blossoms in spring, fruit for winter. I fancy that one could even grow the tree fern there. And I have some idea of planting the Eucalypt if we can get it. Joseph Banks brought the first specimens back from Botany Bay. I have seen pictures only, but it seems to me that they grow like so many silver towers. If we can get them and nurture them, they will long outlast you and me. And you know that our wee Arran tree thrives there yet.’

‘Ah, Thomas, we could plant trees like weans and watch them grow.’

‘Trees like weans and watch them grow. Why not, William, why not?’

It was a fine plan. The thought of it, of all that we could have accomplished, still burns into me sometimes, a regret for all these unrealised schemes. He was such a hero to me at that time. But idols sometimes prove to have feet of clay. Oh men should not be worshipped, nor women either. They should be regarded only for what they are and trusted where trust is due. One should never expect too much. Expect no heroes, nor heroines. Life has taught me that truth, if nothing else. Love others. Do right by them as far as you possibly can. But never give all the heart recklessly. And never expect too much of any man.

I noticed nothing wrong at first. Afterwards, that fact caused me many sleepless nights. Jenny and I continued with our courting. We met, walked and talked. I remember, even now, the grasp of her strong fingers in my own and the roughness of our two hands pressed palm against palm, although since she had taken up the sewing in good earnest, hers had become softer and whiter. We fitted together well, our footsteps went well together. Sometimes, we would walk in the woods at the back of her house and, in the privacy of the thickets of willow, she would allow me to slide my arm around her waist and kiss her. I am sure that she must have kissed me back, because I saw nothing amiss, although I had little experience of such things. We were handfasted after all and would be married as soon as we could. But afterwards I saw that she would only permit me, that was all. She did not exactly encourage me. She allowed herself to be loved by me. I thought she was virtuous, but perhaps I was wrong. Oh she liked me fine, I am sure she did, but she was not overcome with any great passion. Experience has taught me that.

Marion had asked her to do more embroidery, some of it for garments and some of it for the household, and when I went to the library to read, I would often find her there, sitting over her sewing where it was warm and peaceful. I think they were all
mindful of her comfort at that time. There was a sewing room upstairs and it was there that she would cut out fabric, measure and arrange things, there that she would keep her shears, her silks and her needles.

While it was still chilly, before the advent of spring and even afterwards, well into summer, there was always a fire in the library and sometimes Marion would send her to sit there and sew. I think she was doing it as a kindness to me, throwing us together, and perhaps she fancied that she was giving us somewhere warm and comfortable to do our courting when we neither of us had much privacy at home. It certainly gave us time to be together. But I was often wanting to read, wanting to make the most of my limited hours in the library, and I’ll allow her presence distracted me. But then she was always busy, stitching away at her gardens in silk and singing and smiling to herself as she worked. At that time I would have said that she was absolutely contented with her lot.

Sometimes the three of us would be there together, Thomas, Jenny and myself. Then things would be very pleasant and friendly, because he would start to question her about this or that aspect of her life, about her father’s work and his beliefs, and the state of the weaving industry. He was a great one for finding things out. I don’t think he was ever bored in his life. He seemed remarkably knowledgeable about all manner of things, but anxious to know more, and it struck me that he was genuinely intrigued. It made me pleased for him and pleased for her as well, that he was taking such an interest in a country lassie and her family.

‘Tell me about the shawls,’ Thomas said. ‘Isn’t that what your father is making just now?’

There was a depression in the west of Scotland silk trade at the time but an Edinburgh manufacturer called Paterson was putting a lot of work in the way of the Glasgow and Paisley weavers. Sandy Caddas had told me all about it one evening when I had sat with him over his ale and his pipe, and I had mentioned it to Thomas.

Now, Jenny spoke to Thomas with easy familiarity. She had confessed to me that, although she had been shy of him at first, he
had quickly put her at her ease. ‘Why yes. He is weaving shawls for ladies, sir. Mr Paterson has been wanting copies of Turkish Shawls.’

‘And what are they?’

‘They have fantastic figures woven into them. They’re very beautiful but they are difficult to make and they take a lot of time and trouble. Father says he’s never paid enough for them.’

‘No working man ever thinks he is paid enough for what he does.’

‘And maybe that’s the truth,’ I said, lifting my head from my book.

‘Aye, maybe it is!’ he agreed, smiling at my ferocity. ‘So the Edinburgh ladies want Turkish designs do they, Jenny?’

‘Aye and lovely damask shawls with a black weft and a crimson warp.’

‘You wear one such yourself, don’t you?’

‘I do. My father made one for me.’

I observed that her face was alight with pleasure, although whether at the thought of the shawl, or with surprise that he should take an interest in such things, I couldn’t say.

‘Perhaps I’ll ask him to make one for Marion,’ said Thomas, smiling at her enthusiasm. ‘Do you think she would like one?’

‘For your wife? Oh yes.’ She started to laugh, although I could not see that he had said anything so very funny. ‘He has a few on hand and perhaps you could come one day and look at them and take your pick.’

‘A very good idea! I will have to take care and choose my time carefully. I think I should like to meet your father, Jenny. He sounds like an interesting man.’

‘Oh he is! Isn’t he, William?’

‘He’s a very clever man. And he’s been very kind to me.’

The weavers at that time were – as they are, even now – well educated, well read and thoughtful, but back then they were also to a great extent their own masters, prosperous and independent, and that has very much changed for the worse now, for all but the
favoured few who saw the way things might be going. They were skilled and ingenious and those that owned their own looms or even a small weaving shed with several looms and had some skill in designing, like Jenny’s father, could command high prices for their work, however much they might complain about costs.

Although he did not exactly broadcast the fact, I was well aware that Mr Caddas was a radical. This was something that had shocked my mother, but certainly would not have shocked my father, although he would perhaps not have gone so far as to voice his support. Events in France had made such a position precarious in the extreme. Along with his companions, Sandy Caddas had taken shares in the purchase of a weekly newspaper, so that he knew what was going on in the world outside the narrow interests of his trade. Such things, as he was fond of remarking, would sooner or later affect his trade, and he wanted to know about them before that happened. Like I myself, he had a strong sense of justice and of injustice too. He did not like the way the world was arranged and he was brave enough to say so. I admired him for that.

Besides that, he would cultivate his garden, growing kale and potatoes for the table, leaving the flowers and herbs to Jenny. But he was almost as interested in botany as I was. I think this was one of the things that fascinated Thomas, because he was always quizzing Jenny about her father, his beliefs, his habits, and within the space of a few short visits, he seemed to have found out much more about Sandy Caddas than I had discovered in the space of as many years.

There was one thing only that made me jealous, and it was a strange thing to be envious of, but I remember it all the same, remember my resentment. Thomas could always make Jenny laugh in a way I never did. He had that talent: a dry way of making an observation that you would suddenly realise was very funny. Jenny was quicker to see this than I. I would see her chuckling to herself and realise that he was making fun of me, mildly, and then I would start to laugh too and he would look from one to
the other of us with a pretence of surprise. ‘Have I said something amusing?’ he would ask innocently.

Once, he brought a box of sugar plums into the library, and we finished them between us, like greedy children. Another time he had a wooden crate of some foreign sweetmeat that had the scent of roses about it, a scent and taste that lingered on the tongue long after you had finished eating it. I was not so fond of this, but Jenny thought it was wonderful, and he gave her the rest of the box to take home with her so that her sister could have some as well. He told her it was as Turkish as the shawls her father was making and that was why he had bought it.

Sometimes I would walk her home but from time to time she would stay in Thomas’s house because she had promised Marion she would finish some piece of work or other. They would give her a bed betwixt and between the servants’ quarters and the family rooms, making her very comfortable, so she told me. And once or twice, she said that Thomas had actually taken her home on horseback, when her father was expecting her but it was too late or the weather too inconvenient for walking.

Then she would steal her hand into mine and say, ‘But I would rather have ridden up in front of you, William. You know that, don’t you? He’s a very kind gentleman to be sure, but I would rather have ridden up in front of you.’

Which was a strange thing to say, because not a horse did I possess, nor ever had possessed one, nor was ever likely to, so far as I could see.

My own Jenny, my grand-daughter, has just come into the room, bringing with her a posy of late flowers from a neighbour’s garden: mostly lavender, past its best, with the blooms whitening on the stem, a few tiny rosebuds and some ragged sweet peas and pinks.

‘I picked these for you, grandfather,’ she says.

She has brought over the brown and white pitcher from the new Bell’s pottery, which is a great fascination for the ladies. Her mother bought the pitcher only a week ago, very much the fashion she tells me, and Jenny is intent on filling it with water and stuffing flowers into it. I do not think her mother would be very pleased to see to what use she is putting this new and treasured possession. But who am I to disappoint her when she is so intent on the task? The flowers are already wilting from the heat of her starfish fingers, so it is as well that she is putting them in water. The smell of them is very sweet.

Jenny, my other Jenny, grew all of these in her garden. When I close my eyes and breathe in the scent of sweet peas, I am back there again, sitting with my arm around her waist. Sometimes, when there was dried lavender to be rubbed, to make into lavender bags for her linens, I would help her. The scent, astringent and heady, would stay on my hands for hours afterwards.

Even now, the scent of lavender always reminds me of those days and that peculiar, uncertain feeling when everything was in a state of flux. I knew that I would have to find other work, I knew that this would be my last year in the college garden, a garden that had meant so much to me, a place that had been my home since infancy, and yet I could not be unhappy. In fact, it was something of a relief to be leaving at last, and I was very excited about the future. With every month that passed, my problems seemed to be resolving themselves. Thomas had raised the matter as promised, and his uncle was quite amenable to the Ayrshire plan. There was a small problem of the cottages, which had to be made habitable, but he was confident that before our lease and my garden work ran out in Glasgow, we would all be able to go to Ayrshire and settle down there together. A little later, as soon as practicable, Jenny and I would have a country wedding in the village kirk and all would be well.

‘Leave it with me,’ he said.

And I trusted him.

I would be sorry to leave Glasgow and even more sorry that I
would not see Thomas so regularly as before, but I was confident that our friendship could and would continue. He was in the habit of visiting his cousin often. How much more frequently might he come when he could have a hand in laying out and improving these large grounds and gardens? I knew he had plans for us and thought that when I was working there too, his uncle, who was very lazy in such matters, and his cousin, who was a sickly soul, would give him a free hand. There might even be the possibility of the long dreamed-of expedition to collect plants, a small expedition perhaps, not to China, which would be a great and dangerous distance, but perhaps to France or Italy. And to me, who had not even seen very much of Scotland, and for whom the Isle of Arran had been a voyage of discovery, France or Italy might as well have been China, so exotic were the visions conjured by those names in my imagination.

The rest of the family was in a fair way to prospering. Bessie had moved out of the scullery and was now a housemaid and very proud of the fact. Moreover, she had the trust of the cook, who seemed to be teaching her all she knew. The younger girls were shaping up too. I thought that Susanna would never rise beyond her work as scullery maid. I worried about her because she was still clumsy and never seemed very happy, especially now that she was separated from her sister. But Jean had lately been taken on as lady’s maid to the younger daughter of the house where she had been in service. There was little between them in age and it was the girl’s own choice, I think. She wanted a maid she could confide in and, for all her shortcomings, Jean was a sweet-natured lass with a face that invited confidences. We all thought she would do very well in the household. As for my brother James, he was fast becoming a useful under-gardener, absorbing knowledge as a sponge absorbs water, stronger and more capable than myself.

Of all the boys, Johnnie was still hankering after ships, making plans for when he was old enough to go to sea. Although my mother disapproved, I was inclined to let him go when the time came and follow his heart. Once a man is smitten with that fever,
or so my uncle John had told us, there is nothing to be done about it, there is only salt water will cure it. Only Rab was still a sickly soul, nine years old and never thriving. Each winter we thought we would lose him and each winter – with Thomas’s help – he struggled through to see another spring. There was a dogged determination about him that seemed a useful substitute for health and he was an uncomplaining lad with great reserves of self-sufficiency for all that he was so often unwell. My mother cosseted him as much as she could. He was her baby and she loved him.

But since, apart from Rab, all my brothers and sisters seemed to be off our hands, or very nearly, Jenny and I could begin to look forward to our marriage. Her father had already declared his intention of settling a reasonable tocher on his daughter, should she find a ‘man she wished to marry’ as he would say, with a wink in my direction. In fact, the dreaded dismissal from the gardens was proving to be a blessing in disguise and I was looking forward with a certain amount of complacency to a happier future than I could ever have hoped for.