Authors: Linda Gillard
THE BEECH WOOD
We bore witness at the beginning. We stood, as we have always stood, observing merely, while she watered our roots with her tears.
Her body shuddered with sobs as she rested her dark head on her arms. Her fine clothes absorbed moisture from the soil and the cool evening air. Finally she slept, her limbs awry, her body twisted, like one who lay dead.
When he came upon her in the clearing, he stood still, fearful until he saw she breathed. He looked back the way he had come, then stood guard at a distance, his strong, rough hands in his pockets, watching her.
As soon as she opened her eyes, she saw him and got to her feet, alarmed, shaking out her long skirts. She reached out and placed a hand on one of us to steady herself while she gathered the strength to run. He stepped back, his palms raised towards her in a gesture of submission. As he removed his hat, she recognised him and said his name. He inclined his head, trying not to stare as she lifted a hand to an errant strand of hair and tucked it behind her ear.
She was dressed in green, tall, slender, like a young sapling, bending easily at the waist to brush leaves from the soiled hem of her skirt. He noted the silky brown of her hair, like horse chestnuts, the hazel of her unhappy eyes. She seemed to him the very spirit of this dark, green place.
His heart was full and he wanted to touch her. Instead, he sought a way to help. He had his reward. When she smiled, her long, troubled face was transfigured. It was as if the sun’s rays had suddenly penetrated the woodland gloom. He could not prevent himself from smiling in answer.
Thus it began.
WILLIAM
June 15
th
, 1914
When William Hatherwick returned home to Garden Lodge his sister, Violet set aside the sock she was darning and chided him for missing supper. As he cut himself a thick slice of bread, she set a bowl of soup before him.
‘Eat it before it gets cold.’
‘It was such a fine evening, I went for a walk. I forgot the time.’ He swallowed some soup, then said, ‘Do we have any brown paper and string?’
Violet went to the wooden dresser and pulled open a drawer. She withdrew several pieces of used string and a creased sheet of brown paper, smoothed flat and neatly folded. ‘Are you sending a parcel then?’ As she deposited the paper and string on the table, she bent and whispered in his ear, ‘Who’s the lucky lady then?’
William ignored his sister’s nudge and said, ‘Would you deliver a book to Beechgrave for me? I’m lending it.’
‘I didn’t think Mr Mordaunt took much interest in the garden,’ Violet said as she settled down again in her chair. ‘Doesn’t he leave everything up to Father?’
‘Yes, he does. The book isn’t for him. It’s for Miss Mordaunt. She’s interested in horticulture. Unlike her father.’
Violet looked up from her mending, wide-eyed. ‘You’ve spoken to Miss Mordaunt?’
Scraping up the last of the soup from his bowl, William avoided her eye. ‘We discussed plant collecting. I was able to satisfy her curiosity on a point and suggested she should read one of my books. I propose to lend it to her. It’s very informative,’ William added, finishing the last of his bread and butter. ‘And entertaining. I think she’ll enjoy it. So would you take the parcel up to the house for me? Tomorrow. Miss Mordaunt’s expecting it.’
‘Very well, if you’ve promised it to her. But William—’
‘And I don’t see any need to mention this to Father. The book’s mine. There’s no harm in lending it to an interested party, is there?’
‘I suppose not,’ Violet answered cautiously.
He rose from the table and said, ‘The soup was very good, Vi. Thank you.’
‘I baked jam tarts. Strawberry. Your favourite. Will you have one with a cup of tea?’
‘Not now. I’m going upstairs to read.’
‘You’ll wear out your eyes with all your studying! On a fine night like this a young man should be walking out with his sweetheart.’
The criticism was familiar, but William knew his sister spoke with affection. She was also expressing her own frustrations. Since the death of their mother, Violet had had little opportunity for leisure.
‘As you’re well aware, Vi, I cannot marry until I’m appointed to the position of Head Gardener. The path to advancement is study and the increase of scientific knowledge. I must make my own way in the world. No one else can do it for me. Goodnight.’
~
In the spartan seclusion of his room, William gazed out of the window towards the beech wood. There was not enough light to read, but he postponed the lighting of his candle by taking a volume from his bookcase, which he proceeded to wrap. He made a neat parcel, taking care with the corners, then tied it up with string. He took a pencil and wrote
Miss H. Mordaunt
Beechgrave
Setting the book aside, he lit his candle and placed it on the table. Overwhelmed suddenly with exhaustion – his twelve-hour working day had started at six in the morning – William yawned, then dragged a callused hand through his thick dark hair, greasy now with sweat. He opened the window wide, leaned out and inhaled the scents rising from the garden below: lilac, honeysuckle and night-scented stocks. He closed his eyes and almost reeled. A man could get drunk on their perfume.
As he removed his waistcoat and shirt, he looked again at the dark outline of the beech trees against the night sky. Ignoring the promptings of conscience and common sense, William reached for his sketchbook and picked up the pencil again. He sat down at the table by the window and placed the open sketchbook so it took advantage of the candle and the rising moon. He began to draw quickly and as he drew, he forgot his aching limbs and the nagging pain in the small of his back, aggravated by hours spent scything long grass. He forgot everything. All he remembered was the face he now drew: the silky hair in disarray; the thick, arched brows; the curve of dark lashes on her pale cheek. He hesitated to draw her mouth, not because it was challenging, nor because he’d forgotten it. To draw her mouth accurately, as he had seen it, her lips parted slightly as she slept, the upper lip drawn up so he could see her small white teeth, to record such a thing seemed intimate and intrusive, so he hesitated for a moment, then, grasping the pencil firmly, he completed his sketch.
He put the pencil down and rubbed his eyes. When he opened them again he examined his drawing by the light of the guttering candle. It was a good likeness. Very good. It was a knack he had, not just to draw, but to be able to draw from memory. Once he’d seen something, he could always remember it. A list of Latin plant names, a building, a face. As a boy he’d seen a child crushed by barrels falling from an overturned dray. He could see it still – the small, twisted limbs and the blood running in the gutter. Having a good memory could be a curse.
William’s sketchbooks were repositories for his memories. He didn’t draw to record. His brain did that. He drew for the pleasure of re-living an experience. It was over now, but while he’d been drawing her, with the breeze from the window cooling his damp skin, he had felt almost as if he were with her again, in the wood, standing guard, watching and keeping her safe, as if she were a sleeping princess in a fairy tale and he her faithful servant.
He dated the sketch but didn’t sign it, nor did he write her name, but he said it softly before he fell asleep: “Miss Hester Mordaunt.”
HESTER
June 16
th
, 1914
William Hatherwick has been as good as his word! I have by my side a copy of Mr Wilson’s book,
A Naturalist in Western China, with Vasculum, Camera, and Gun: Being Some Account of Eleven Years' Travel, Exploration, and Observation in the More Remote Parts of the Flowery Kingdom.
I do believe I was more thrilled to receive this book than Walter’s proposal.
June 21
st
Our musical evenings are now augmented by another fiddle player and Mother is delighted that we can expand our repertoire. Walter plays the violin and so our piano quartet occasionally becomes a quintet. Mother plays piano, Arthur the ’cello and Eddie the violin, very badly. Although I play the viola, I am more comfortable physically with the violin. However I much prefer the sound of the viola. Years of listening to Eddie torture his E string dulled my enthusiasm for the fiddle.
Mother has insisted we learn some new music to play together. This has annoyed my wretched brothers. They have welcomed Walter into the family, but would rather he play billiards than music. I for one am grateful for our
soirées
. They relieve me of the obligation to make small talk. Walter is a dear, kind man, but inclined to be taciturn. I believe he is aware of the defect because he smiles and nods eagerly when others speak, but this only serves to make him look slightly foolish. I suspect Walter finds Mother intimidating. She does little to put him at his ease, even though she admires his playing.
Undoubtedly Mother is the best musician in the family and undoubtedly Mother knows it. As she plays, she affects a martyred expression, as if conscious she casts musical pearls before swine. Father does not play and Mother claims, when out of his hearing, that he is tone deaf. This might be true. He attends our musical gatherings with little enthusiasm and often falls asleep. Perhaps this is the cause of Mother’s martyred expression. Music is her great love – I sometimes think her
only
love – and in that respect, she failed to marry a kindred spirit. But that is surely one of the virtues of the married state: it unites those with disparate tastes. Life would be deadly dull if we all shared the same enthusiasms, the same passions. How should we ever learn anything new?
Mother said an odd thing this evening. After we had finished playing
The Trout
, she sighed and said, “Such a tragedy that Schubert died so young. Only thirty-one. I shall never reconcile myself to the loss of so much great music.”
I doubt she expected a response, but Walter, still flushed and smiling from his musical exertions, announced, “Whom the gods love, die young.” Mother must have thought his reply a little glib, for she turned to him and said, “Then I must assume, Walter, that they are not at all partial to
me
.”
He stopped smiling and went very red. Arthur managed to control himself, but Eddie choked and had to leave the room, coughing. As the door closed, Father woke up and began to applaud. I avoided Arthur’s eye. He, Walter and I studied our music intently until the sound of Eddie’s paroxysms died away.
June 29
th
I called at Garden Lodge to return A Naturalist in Western China. I was loath to part with it, but I had had it in my possession for over a week. I read the whole book and copied out some of my favourite passages.
Violet answered the door to me, her father and brother being at work. She looked very surprised, but offered me a glass of lemonade. As the day was hot and I was thirsty, I accepted her kind offer.
I sat on a bench outside, sipping the deliciously cool lemonade and inhaling the scent of climbing sweet peas. Violet was busy in the garden with a pair of scissors and I paid her little heed. I was studying the delightful informality of their cottage garden. I decided I preferred it to our extravagant massed bedding.
When I stood up and handed her my empty glass, Violet presented me with a bunch of sweet peas. She had bound them with a piece of garden twine and apologised for the rough nature of the posy. “But the scent is just heaven,” she said. I was very touched. I asked her to be sure to thank her brother for the loan of his book. She assured me she would and thus we parted on cordial terms.
I took great delight in arranging my flowers in a small jug. They sit on my bedroom mantelpiece and the room is full of their glorious scent.
I confess, I have done a foolish thing, but not, I hope, a wrong one. When I returned the book, I wrapped it in the same brown paper in which it was delivered, but I did not return the seed packet that someone – William Hatherwick, I presume – had used as a bookmark. The packet was empty and had contained lettuce seeds, nothing out of the ordinary. I hardly think William or Mr Hatherwick will need to refer to the packet.
I did not realise I had left it out until after the parcel was made up. I considered undoing the string and inserting the packet, but it hardly seemed worth the trouble. In any case, I found myself strangely unwilling to part with it. I wished to retain it as a memento of the happy hours I spent reading Mr Wilson’s thrilling book.
I shall use the packet as a marker in my journal. I can always return it at some later date, but I doubt it will be missed. It is just an empty seed packet.
July 5
th
Yesterday I told Mother I was going into Bristol to attend a lecture with my friend, Charlotte Reid and her brother, Laurence. Unfortunately this was a lie, but I prefer to think of it as a ruse, one with a certain risk attached as Mother occasionally sees members of Charlotte’s family and might enquire about our excursion. I took the precaution of telling Mother the lecture was being given under the auspices of the Royal Geographical Society, so I think it unlikely she will show any further interest. Mother’s idea of a voyage of exploration would be a stroll along the pier at Clevedon, and then only in fine weather.
It would have been quite out of the question to tell her I wished to attend a meeting of the Women’s Social and Political Union. The prospect of women’s suffrage fills Mother with horror. I appear to be the only person in my family who does not subscribe to the idea that women are not only the weaker sex, but also an inferior sex.
The meeting was held at the Victoria Rooms and was apparently a more orderly affair than usual. The newspapers have reported with relish that WSPU meetings have been frequently disrupted by male hecklers throwing missiles: vegetables, rotten fruit, even stones. Surely no one who hurls objects at defenceless women deserves the right to vote?
Yesterday the women of the WSPU were not quite defenceless. I was told the orderly tenor of the meeting could be attributed to the presence of half a dozen professional boxers, hired to protect the speakers. These redoubtable gentlemen were easy to identify by their fearsome expressions and misshapen noses. For this information I’m indebted to Violet Hatherwick, who attended the meeting with her brother, William.
Shortly before the meeting began, we found ourselves side by side on the steps of the Victoria Rooms. It seemed contrary to the spirit of the gathering to ignore Violet, who was Mother’s maid until her own mother died and she had to leave us to keep house for her father and brother. So I nodded and smiled and she nodded back. Courting the disapproval of my companions, I struck up a conversation with Violet, who always seemed to me an intelligent girl, wasted, as so many are, in the mindless drudgery of domestic service. It was then she informed me, with a mischievous smile, that the boxers had been engaged. She said William had insisted on accompanying her, though Violet had assured him she was quite capable of looking after herself. Indeed, her lively and combative expression suggested that if a rotten cabbage had sailed in Violet’s direction, she might have caught it and hurled it back.
William spoke up to say he was eager to hear the speakers and would have attended on his own account in the interests of furthering his education and the cause of universal suffrage. I believe this was the longest sentence I had heard him utter and the first that was not of a horticultural nature. I must have looked surprised, for when he finished speaking, he cast down his eyes and looked uncomfortable.
I hastened to rescue the conversation by informing them that I had resorted to subterfuge to attend, telling my parents I was attending a Royal Geographical Society meeting. When I mentioned my anticipated difficulty, should anyone enquire about the content of the lecture, William reached inside his jacket and pulled out a carefully folded leaflet. He opened it up, then tore off a corner and handed it to me, saying, “I attended this lecture last week. The speaker’s credentials and the subject of his talk are summarised.’ He then indicated the torn corner. ‘I’ve removed the date. I’m sure a cursory study will enable you to answer any awkward enquiries.” He smiled and I was struck then by his resemblance to his sister, though William is darker and usually of a more solemn countenance.
The WSPU meeting was splendid! Laurence fell asleep and snored until Charlotte prodded him with her umbrella, but when I left the Victoria Rooms, my mind was teeming with new ideas. I wished I could offer places in the car to the Hatherwicks, but of course it would never do. In any case, I’m sure they would not have accepted.
As Johnson drove us back to Beechgrave, Charlotte and I studied the Geographical Society leaflet and agreed our story. I remarked that I should have liked to attend both events and Charlotte said, when women achieve full independence, we shall be able to go where we want and do what we want; that the doors of higher education and even the professions will be open to us, when once we have a say in the governing of our country. Charlotte is a passionate and convincing speaker. She could have gone on the stage. Listening to her, my spirits never fail to rally. Laurence however remained unmoved and dozed most of the way home.
Charlotte is right. The future will be challenging for women, but it cannot fail to be exciting, unless, of course, this wretched war happens. But how, in this enlightened age, can war be necessary? The Germans are our friends and the Kaiser is King George’s cousin. I asked Arthur to explain, but he just said it was all talk, there would be no war, but when I asked Father, he said he thought there
would
be a war. He declined to explain why, assuring me I would not understand.
I suppose if we live in a world where grown men throw bricks at intelligent, articulate women, anything is possible.