The White Garden: A Novel of Virginia Woolf (34 page)

She was standing as she had for sixty years, face almost obscured by the weeping pear.

Jo stopped short, gazing at the dull gray figure. Peter studied the Virgin for a second, then reached out and touched the gunmetal skin. “This wasn’t always here, is that correct?”

“Has been since the making of the White Garden,” Imogen returned, “the bones of which were laid in ’49 and ’50, on the site of the old Priest’s House garden. The roses that used to be
here were moved up to what was
the first
kitchen garden, near the Yew Rondel—it’s called the Rose Garden now. If you’re asking where the statue was before all that—”

“We know,” Peter said. “Virginia told us. It was just to the north, outside this bit’s hedge. But you couldn’t see her legs from the path because of a drop in elevation. I understand why Vita moved it; the Virgin ought to be surrounded by white.”

Imogen scowled at him. “This whole scheme was worked years after that Woolf woman died. It’s got nothing to do with her, nor the statue neither.”

“How wrong you are,” Margaux said sweetly.

“What do you lot think to find?”

“Something that was hidden before the statue was moved,” Jo said, “in a place only a gardener would know. It’s a hollow lead casting, right?”

“If it were solid, nobody’d ever budge the thing. Terence,” Imogen said, “I gather these fools want you to tip the lady over. Can you do it without breaking her neck?”

Peter helped the undergardener shift the Little Virgin gently toward the slate path. The lead was slippery with rain and the slim figure heavy. Imogen swore audibly as the statue descended earthward, but in a matter of minutes it rested facedown on top of the hessian bundle, cushioned by the season’s last cuttings.

“Here.” Peter tossed Jo his penlight. She knelt near the statue’s base and flicked on the beam.

The interior of the statue was narrower than she expected, and fluidly formed; a cleft in a manmade rock. At first she saw only lead, convoluted as it hardened in the mold so long ago; and then she noticed, far up in the torso of the figure, what looked like pillow stuffing. She reached her hand inside the aperture and pulled a bit of it out.

“What’s this?” she asked, handing it off behind her.

“Wool,” Margaux said. “Vita kept sheep, you know; she used to send knitting yarn to Virginia.”

“Stinks to high heaven,” Imogen observed. “Wonder how long it’s been in there?”

Peter was watching Jo. He had noticed that she was pulling more of the stuff out of the Little Virgin, the penlight abandoned by her knees. “What’s behind it?” he asked.

“A bundle of some kind,” she said. “A wallet, maybe. Or, no—”

She withdrew her hand. She was clutching a roll of brown leather, tied with twine.

Wordlessly, Imogen pulled her shears from the pouch at her waist.

Jo cut the bundle free. It dropped at her feet like a severed hand.

“A garden glove?” Peter crouched beside her.

“There’s something inside,” Jo said.

IT WAS A ROLL OF PAPER, TIED WITH MORE TWINE. Fingers shaking, Jo slipped the string from the roll.

“Careful,” Margaux said sharply over her shoulder. “There’ll be damp.”

There was damp. The pages—each no bigger than the palm of Jo’s hand—were closely scrawled in lead pencil that had faded over the years. She played the penlight’s beam over them—it was now quite dark—and said, “It looks like Jock’s handwriting.”

“Let’s go inside,” Imogen said brusquely. “You can’t read that out here. Ter, take care of the Virgin, will you?”

Peter helped right the statue before they left the White Garden. Jo waited; it did not seem fair, after their long hunt, to steal a march on Peter. She kept the bundle of paper swaddled
in the ancient glove as they trekked back to the Powys Wall.

Terence parted from them at Imogen’s office. “If there’s nothing else, I’ll be off.…”

“Go on, then,” Imogen ordered.

Jo reached for him impulsively and hugged him. “If you ever give up your dream of L.A., I’d be happy to see you in Delaware. And thanks, Ter. For all your help.”

“S’nothing. Come by the pub later and we’ll pull a pint.” He grinned at them and disappeared in the direction of the greenhouses.

Jo set the garden glove carefully on the staff table. Peter peered at the bundle.

“Cigarette papers. Can you believe it? Must’ve been the only paper he had. Did your grandfather smoke?”

“Not to my knowledge.”

“Everybody rolled their own during the war years. Even Vita,” Margaux observed. Then her expression changed. “My God—I bet those
are
Vita’s cigarette papers.”

“—The habit of stealing being one that runs in the Bellamy family,” Imogen said dryly. “But don’t admit it too loudly. You’d have to hand over that packet to the Trust.”

Peter glanced at Jo. “You can decipher the script. Why don’t you read this aloud?”

“I’ll make tea,” Imogen suggested. “It’s downright cold now we’ve turned the corner to November. Sorry I’ve nothing stronger.” It was a peace offering; and she seemed remarkably unconcerned about setting limits on their access, now they’d actually found something in the Little Virgin.

Jo drew out a chair and took the first small sheet between her fingers.

2 April 1941

The worse bit about living on your own is that there’s nobody to talk to. If it were home, I’d say, Da the Lady’s come and asked me to keep something for her, and he’d say, Give it here, then, Jock, there’s a good lad, and that’d be an end to it. Or Mum would say, Poor old dear, she’s a bit wanting in the upstairs, isn’t she? You’d best tell Miss Vita. And so I’d go and do that. But there’s no one. I could write to Mum and ask but I’d never write to Da; he’d be that put out at me acting foolish. When you’re man enough to work and live on your own among the gentry, you’re man enough to know what to do with the puzzles they put in your hands
.

Besides, I like the Lady. She’s daft, right enough, and she looks like a walking skeleton when you see her across the garden, but there’s a look in her eyes when she talks that makes you listen. I was asleep when she came to the barn door tonight but I got up and pulled my trousers on because it seemed like she needed help. That’s the other reason I don’t like to write to Mum—she’d call it indecent, the Lady looking for me like that, after the Family’d gone to bed. If I can’t write to Mum I might as well write to myself, so says I. Maybe then I’ll sort it out
.

Jock, she says, standing at the foot of the hayloft stairs with her hair all wild and her fur coat on, will you drive me to the station?

At this hour, ma’am? I says. It’s gone past ten, and there’ll be no trains till morning
.

She looked around her then like all the demons of hell were after her, and ran out of the stable. That’s when I pulled on my clothes and went after
.

She was hurrying down the drive to the road. I’d no
business telling the gentry what to do, but I didn’t like the look of her, nor her being all alone in such a state, and I reckoned Miss Vita would be angry if I said I’d seen the Lady go and lifted not a finger to stop her. I caught her up and said, Now, ma’am, can’t it wait till morning, and she said I’ll be lucky if they don’t find me before then. I said, Who? But she didn’t answer, just turned round wild-like and clutched my jacket with her hands. Jock, she says, Don’t ever trust the men of Westminster, no matter what they offer. Westminster men lie
.

Do they now, I says, as though she’s talking how deep to plant bulbs before the first frost. I’ll be sure to keep that in mind. But it’s five mile and more to Staplehurst, and a long enough wait for the first train. Do you stay warm inside, ma’am, and I’ll come find you at first light. You’ll be much more comfortable in the pony trap, or Miss Vita’s car
.

Why do you call her that? she asked. Not Mrs. Nicolson, but Miss Vita?

It’s what we all called her at Knole, I says. I’m a Knole lad, born and bred
.

She’s not to know, the Lady said, nearly in tears. She’s not to know. It was a terrible mistake to tell Harold. I’ve written it all down
.

She tapped something she had under her arm, and I saw it was a copybook, like we used in school
.

That’s all right then, I told her, like she was a little child. If you’ve wrote it all down. That’ll keep till morning
.

I made so bold as to take her by the arm, and turned her towards the house, thinking that if I talked to her gentle-like she might come back the right way so I could settle her and get Miss Vita to call Doctor. But she dug in her heels and shook her head and said I can’t stay in this place, I’d be a fool to stay here now Harold’s gone
.

What, I says, with me and Hayter and Miss Vita what can handle a gun, and that Home Guard fellow posted in the tower? You’re safe as houses, ma’am
.

Don’t lie to me, Jock, she says too quiet
.

I put my hand on her arm again. If you go I shall have to rouse Miss Vita. It’s as much as my place is worth, you leaving and me saying no word
.

She seemed to fall in like a wilted flower at that, her shoulders hunching and her head drooping on her thin neck, and I was afraid she’d started to cry. I asked if she was all right and she said in a kind of whisper My head aches so, it’s the voices clamouring, every hour, they never stop no matter how much I plead
.

That sent a chill up my spine and I said, I’ll get Miss Vita. But the Lady swayed where she stood and I had to reach for her, sure enough, before she swooned. Come along, I said, trying to keep the scared out of my voice. You have a liedown and we’ll set you to rights
.

A slow walk back to South Cottage, me holding her upright and her breathing hard. I looked at her face once and it was dead pale, shining like a ghost in the night, though there was no moon. When we reached the door I rapped on it, hard, and rapped on it again
.

Jock, she says faintly, I’m not well. Take the book, Jock. Keep it safe
.

She fainted then right enough. But it was Miss Vita who put the Lady to bed, and Miss Vita who kept the book, sending me about my business once I’d helped her carry the Lady upstairs
.

I’m not easy in my mind. Not liking to fail her
.

Miss Vita gave me a shilling, and said as how I was a good lad and to say nothing more about it
.

She threw the deadbolt on the cottage door as I left
.

4 April 1941

I fetched Mr. Harold from Staplehurst this afternoon, him coming down as usual for the Saturday and Sunday. Very absent-minded he was, and Is the Lady still unwell? he asks, as soon as I’ve seen his traps into the cart. He’d had a letter from Miss Vita, seemingly, them being the sort to write to each other every day. I told him I hadn’t seen the Lady since Wednesday night when she’d had her fit, me being that busy with turning the kitchen garden, but I hoped as she was on the mend. He called me good lad as he stepped down from the box, but when I carried in his things I heard him talk low to Miss Vita. Quite out of her head, Miss Vita said, and it’s clearly a return of the old trouble; do you think we should write to Leonard?

I’ve written to Maynard, he says. That should settle her
.

When they saw me they fell quiet and I hurried with the bags, not liking to put my nose where it wasn’t wanted
.

I hope they have her book put by safe. Maybe it’s fretting after it that’s driven her out of her senses
.

5 April 1941

I was up with the light this morning, knowing full well how Mr. Harold is when he’s down for his two days, wanting to dig in his bit of garden. He was before me, all the same, smoking his pipe on the steps of the Tower, which is sandbagged and barricaded by the Home Guard and even Miss Vita barred entry. Very natural Mr. Harold looked, a proper gentleman in his old tweed jacket and flannel bags, and the smoke curling about his head. He bid me good morning, and said something about the beds in the Lime Walk, and I made
to move on, me hoping to thin the peas, when he said, You did well to come to Mrs. Nicolson the other night. If anything like that should happen again, be a good lad and do the same, won’t you? And I said as how I hoped the Lady was faring better. He said I am sure we shall have her on her feet in no time. And then—for the life of me I couldn’t say why, or what moved me to do it—I says, very bold like, I hope as her book is kept safe. She was that worried about it
.