The Watcher in the Garden (9 page)

It had been the greatest mistake to lie in bed so long, and she retrieved the situation by saying nothing about breakfast and quickly cutting some sandwiches. They went off with their lunch in his rucksack, and quite soon he had sufficiently recovered his temper to say, with a kind of rueful smile, “Your mother said you'd be much better at this sort of thing than your sister. Anyway, couldn't wait till she got back from work. But I was beginning to think I'd have done better to go off without you.”

She had been prepared to forgive all, but now she said quickly, “You wouldn't. It would have been a great mistake.”

He looked at her now with a wholehearted grin and said, “I know that. You were pretty good yesterday. I was just fed up at having to waste time.”

After that it turned out to be a splendid day. She had her own reasons for feeling unusually cheerful. And he was cheerful too, because he was able to tell her that he thought he had persuaded her father there was some future in his plans. In fact, the loan might be arranged.

“Rupert, you
are
clever,” she said very seriously.

“You think so?” He looked at her equally seriously.

“No one ever persuaded Father if he didn't want to be persuaded.”

“Then it must have been my lucky day.” He snatched her hand. “Come on. Let's run down this hill to the bottom.”

It was her lucky day too, she decided, and they arrived home late in the afternoon dirty, exhausted and very pleased with themselves. That evening it did not worry her that Diana again did all the talking. She sat quietly, letting the voices roll over her, thinking herself back into the previous few hours.

In the end he spent the whole week-end with them, but Sunday was not quite so successful, for they all went out in the car to show him places too distant for walking. All the same, she was considered to have specialized knowledge about the kind of things he wished to see, and even her father asked her advice once or twice. On Monday morning he caught the bus back to town. It left early and Catherine announced that she would get up, make his breakfast and escort him to the bus.

“There's no need,” he said. “I know the way now and could make myself a cup of coffee if Mrs. Hartley wouldn't mind.”

“I should like to,” said Catherine.

When the time came to leave Diana presented herself, a little dishevelled, but bright-eyed and full of enthusiasm, and said she was coming to the bus, too. For once Catherine did not feel her sister was taking a mean and damaging advantage. For once she felt secure.

So early in the morning the air was still cool and fresh, though the locusts in the trees were already drumming their message of a hot day to come. This time Diana did not monopolize the conversation. Rupert had questions that only Catherine could answer and they took up most of the period of the walk to the bus stop. They were a little early and they stood with a small group of people gazing down the road.

“Don't you have a car?” said Diana.

“Out of action at the moment,” said Rupert. “The bus is OK.”

“But slower,” said Diana. “You'd better come in your car next time. Much quicker for you.”

“If that's an invitation,” said Rupert, and at that moment the bus came rumbling towards them. It came to a stop, the air brakes sighing as the wheels ceased to turn. There was a surge to the opening door.

“Quick,” said Catherine in sudden agony lest he should get left behind.

He snatched up his rucksack and stepped forward. Even so he was the last to get on. At the step he turned. “I nearly forgot. Diana what about coming to my mother's big National Trust function at the Opera House next month? I'm expected to go and I want someone to go with.” When she nodded with great energy he said, “Great. Send you a ticket then.” Perhaps he would have said more. Perhaps he might even have remembered to say goodbye to Catherine, but the driver shouted in no friendly voice that the doors were closing and he'd better get out of the way. The doors shut, Rupert was imprisoned behind them and the bus, already in gear, slid off down the road.

For a few minutes Catherine and Diana stood side by side in silence, Diana gazing happily at the unromantic rear of the departing bus and Catherine with black clouds of despair settling on her spirit.

“Gotter go. Going to be sick,” Catherine said suddenly, and the choked sound that came from her was very convincing. Before Diana could gather her thoughts, which were becoming increasingly far away, Catherine had run off and disappeared down a side street and was sick as she had prophesied. She never knew where she walked that day. The hours passed and she was not aware of their passing. But at the end of the day her feet took her to the garden. Her mind, like the horns of an injured snail, withdrew and refused to function until she felt the grass beneath her and her body quiet beside the pool.

“Of course he would ask Diana,” her mother said afterwards. “What use would you be at a social thing like that, at your age?”

“You don't understand,” she said with desolation in her voice.

The two days that Diana had been away to attend the ball, Catherine had spent alone, away from the house. She walked many miles through the bush on those two days.

So far the week-end visit suggested by Diana had not taken place. Perhaps it never would. She had never asked about it again, and was glad when Rupert as a topic was dropped from the conversation.

Sometime later she visited the garden again for the purpose of talking to Mr. Lovett. She had lost her temper once again, had reduced her mother to tears and her father to a stony refusal to acknowledge her presence. Diana, after one startled look into her face, had left the house.

The weather was still cold. The deciduous trees were no more than baroque patterns against the sky. In this part of the country, where it was still possible to have wood fires, most of the chimneys of the houses flew streamers of blue smoke, which increased in volume as the day cooled into frosty evening. But the spring bulbs were under way, indomitable green spears pushing through the hard earth. This time her mood was less violent. She already regretted the outburst that had shattered the fragile family unity.

It was a Saturday morning, fine but windy, and she found Mr. Lovett sitting in the courtyard beside the pool. On top of the brick courtyard wall the bare wisteria tendrils thrashed, and beyond the walls the roaring of the wind in the trees was constant. But the pool was unruffled and Mr. Lovett's white hair was no more dishevelled than usual. Conrad jumped up and trotted towards her.

Mr. Lovett lifted his head as he felt the dog leave him. “It must be Catherine,” he said, and he even smiled. He put out his hand as he heard her footsteps approach. “I'm pleased to see you, Catherine. Pull up one of the chairs and come tell me what you've been doing. It's been quite a long time. I've missed you.”

She could find no reply to this remark. People seldom missed her. She pulled up the chair in silence, sat down and put her hand on his coat sleeve. “I'm here,” she said quietly.

He smiled again, this time whole-heartedly. “Now tell me why you've come. What's happened this time?”

She looked into his face and saw only kindness there. No sign of judgement. Perhaps that would come later. “I lost my temper again. Now they all hate me.”

“Who?”

“Mum and Dad and Diana. I don't care about Diana—” For a moment her voice held its harsh, defiant note. “But afterwards I was sorry Mum had to go and get so upset.”

“What were you angry about?” he asked after a pause.

“Some stupid thing—like always.”

“Well, tell me.” It was gentle, but it was pressure just the same.

For a moment the old resentment stirred. Then she remembered she had come of her own free will on purpose to tell him about it. He had the right to ask. “They said I had to go with them to watch Diana play in the tennis finals. Because she might win.” She swallowed. “I didn't see why I should. I don't care if she wins or not.”

“And no doubt you said so?” She could see nothing funny about it, but he was smiling again.

“Why not? It's true.”

“And so your father talked about family loyalty and behaving reasonably?”

“How did you know?” She peered into his face again but could not find the answer there.

This time he felt for her hand and when she gave it to him, put it on his knee and patted it. “Because that was the reason they wanted you to go. And to refuse was not very reasonable. Why couldn't you co-operate—for once?” She knew now why he had wanted her hand. It was to reassure her he was on her side.

“I didn't want to. Why should I give up Saturday afternoon just to watch Diana play tennis? I've seen her play tennis before.”

“Family loyalty and sweet reasonableness.”

This time she jumped up and would have snatched her hand away, but she found it held in a grip that surprised her. “Sit down,” he said as sharply as she had ever heard him speak. With her hand still firmly held she had no option. Slowly she sank back into the chair and she felt his grip on her loosen. “You see?” he said in a much kinder voice. “This is what you do all the time. This is the whole cause of your troubles. Why don't you try hanging on to that temper of yours? Or even try to tell yourself most things aren't important enough to justify losing it?”

“I can't,” she said. “Before I know, it happens. And they're not little things. To me they are important.”

To her surprise he said, “Do you love your sister?”

She gave the conventional answer at once. “Of course.”

“Really? Honestly?”

Faced with her genuine feelings she almost shouted, “No, I hate her.” But she stopped herself in time, and she knew, as a strange kind of revelation, that it would not be true. But still she could not say the words. Instead, and uncomfortably, she said, “Oh well—I suppose I don't actually hate her.”

He seemed satisfied with her answer, and simply nodded. Then he said, “I have a curious feeling about you—that somehow, somewhere something has been left out—perhaps when you were born. Catherine, do you ever feel it?”

She almost gasped. “Why do you say that?”

He shook his head and only said again, “Do you feel it?”

To give herself confidence she slid her hand into his dry old one and felt it close over hers. “I've always felt it,” she said very quietly. “I didn't think anyone would believe me. Mr. Lovett, how did you know?”

“I can't tell you because I don't know. But I can tell you this, Catherine; my garden knows, and I believe you are going to find the answer here. I have told you it is a very special garden. Have faith in it—and wait.” So that she should not be dismayed at what he said he closed her hand tighter before letting it go.

Because it was Mr. Lovett who had said it she was not dismayed. But the thoughts that now whirled in her mind made it impossible for her to say anything at all.

They sat in silence for some minutes after that and outside the courtyard the tops of the cedars moaned and swayed in the wind. Conrad, who had been giving the shrubs on the terrace a minute inspection, now returned through the gateway and came and sat down beside them.

“Tell me,” he said eventually, “what do you look like?”

It was a question difficult to answer, but it was a serious question, perhaps an important question, and he had the right to an honest reply. She began. “I'm five feet high, and thin. And I have long, straight hair—”

“What colour?”

“Sorty of browny-black. I can never keep it tidy and Mum wants me to cut it.”

“So you're determined to keep it long?”

She laughed suddenly. “Mr. Lovett, you're not fair.”

“But I'm right, aren't I?”

“I hadn't thought. I suppose so.” She went on quickly, “My face—I have a thin face. It's a sort of putty colour.”

She saw his lip twitch, and he said quickly, “And your eyes? What are your eyes like? What colour?”

“No special colour—sort of grey sploshed with green. And I haven't enough eyelashes, not like Diana. She has great sweeping eyelashes, like brooms, and her eyes are bright, bright blue.” She thought of Diana's eyes, one of her best features, actually, and she sighed.

“Would you mind if I just ran my fingers over your face? They're quite clean.”

She was taken aback for a moment, but then said, “Very well, if you want to,” and she held her face forward, screwing up her eyes tight. She felt his fingertips slide over the skin, over the screwed up eyes and round her jawbone.

Then he said, “You can open your eyes now. It's all over.” And she could tell he was amused.

“You see?” she said with a touch of her old aggression. “I haven't any looks at all.”

“You underrate yourself and you force yourself to be resentful because of it. I would say you're as different from your sister Diana as you could be. But you have good bones, I suspect you have the eyes of a creative person, you certainly have the skin of a sensitive person—as for the colour, you'd probably look funny with a peach blossom complexion, and your voice—your voice is full of light and shade and vitality. It's time you began taking some pride in yourself. And for goodness sake, forget your sister Diana. You are not like her, you never will be like her, and there is nothing wrong with you that I can see—” He stopped. “Well, feel, anyway. And jealousy is destructive and wasteful and you are a very silly girl to allow it to affect you the way you do.” His voice had risen and he sounded quite angry. He finished by saying, “You must pull yourself together, Catherine.”

It was what the teachers at school were always saying to her, and each time it infuriated her more, so that she did worse things than before. But this time the meaning of the words penetrated, and they were not said out of exasperation or dislike, but only from a wish to help her.