The Garden Read online

  THE GARDEN

  by

  L. A G. STRONG

  IN MEMORIAM

  VIVIAN ALFRED BARTON

  KILLED IN ACTION

  SEPTEMBER 22ND 1917

  Contents

  Book I

  Chapter 1

  Chapter II

  Chapter III

  Chapter IV

  Chapter V

  Chapter VI

  Chapter VII

  Chapter VIII

  Chapter IX

  Chapter X

  Interlude

  Chapter XI

  Chapter XII

  Book II

  Chapter XIII

  Chapter XIV

  Chapter XV

  Chapter XVI

  Chapter XVII

  Chapter XVIII

  Chapter XIX

  Chapter XX

  Chapter XXI

  Chapter XXII

  Chapter XXIII

  Book III

  Chapter XXIV

  Chapter XXV

  Chapter XXVI

  Chapter XXVII

  Chapter XXVIII

  Chapter XXIX

  Book IV

  Chapter XXX

  Chapter XXXI

  Chapter XXXII

  Chapter XXXIII

  Chapter XXXIV

  Chapter XXXV

  Chapter XXXVI

  Epilogue

  Ten Years Afterwards

  Foreword

  There are two things I want to say, and, as they will not combine, I will have to say them separately.

  A. I have been surprised to find many readers ready to credit me with the opinions on religion expressed by characters in my books. May I make clear, therefore, that no character in this tale of pre-war Ireland is in any sense my mouthpiece: that I do not at all support the sectarian views of old Mr. Conroy, nor endorse Long Mike Hogan’s strictures upon a body for which I have the greatest respect. The opinions of characters are as much part of a story as their clothes or personal appearance, and I cannot see why a writer should be taken to endorse them, merely because he allows them vigorous expression.

  B. Years ago, at a picnic, an incident occurred round which I afterwards wrote a story. Needless to say, the whole thing had to be reset to give it meaning, and the characters altered. In spite of this, nothing would convince the participants in the incident that they were not depicted. One said: “There were eight of us, not seven. You forgot old So-and-So. And we didn’t all walk back. The What-d’you-call-’ems brought their car. Don’t you remember?”

  L. A. G. S.

  Book I

  Chapter I

  The British and Irish Steam Packet Company’s Lady Hudson-Kinahan slid gently over the oily water to her place on the North Wall. Holding tightly to his toy monkey, Dermot stood in the safe place where his mother had put him, staring, at the quays, the stack of barrels, and the slowly moving sheds. He was to look out for Granny. Every few Seconds he remembered this, and gazed at the little black knot of people who were wavering about on the shore, uncertain at what berth the ship was coming to land. Their faces were small and clear, but somehow unreal they waved, and their mouths opened, but no cries fixed on him, and he of welcome could be heard over the noise of the winches. Three or four, who had detached themselves from the main body, hurried along excitedly, keeping pace with the ship. Close to Dermot a sailor, with a big moustache and with wrinkles at the corners of his eyes, was coiling a thick rope, swaying from, the hips as he did so. Dermot’s gaze fixed on him, and he forgot all else, till suddenly there was a loud hail and the sound of a rope whizzing in the air. Looking up he saw the, rope fall away into the distance, and land with a thud on the wooden quay. Its bight slipped heavily in to the water, and the end on the quay began to slither after it: but an old sailor in a jersey ran with fat agility got hold of the end grinned ridiculously up at the ship, and hurried off to make the rope fast

  Then arose a bewildering din. The mysterious little bell range, the propeller began, to thrash in the water, and the ship shivered and throbbed. The shore stood still then began to approach them sideways. The winches clanked. The faces on the quay grew bigger, and were upturned to the ship. Sailors bustled about the deck, shouting Unceremoniously two of them cleared a place at the rail, lapped back the big broad polished balustrade, and, between them, lifted a piece of the white railing bodily out. Then, with great confusion and shouts of “Mind yourselves, mind yourselves, now,” they ran a gangway along, and fixed it in place. Passengers, their arms full of bags and umbrella cases, fussed back protestingly to give it room.

  Remembering his duty with a start, Dermot looked down at the crowd of faces. It was very difficult. He began laboriously eliminating them to himself: “That’s not my Granny, and that’s not my Granny, and that’s not my Granny”: but it was very difficult, for as he looked down at the faces, this and that one would catch his attention. A laughing young woman in black, carrying a baby, and making all sorts of signs to someone away on his left somewhere. Dermot looked along the deck to see if the person were making signs back, but could not see past the crowd around the gangway. Then there was an old gentleman on the quay, who had obviously seen the person he was coming to meet, and had gone quite red with pleasure, but evidently did not think it proper to show his delight in public. He kept pulling his mouth straight, and looking down. Then his glance would steal up again, and he would nod very happily, his face working. Dermot could not see who it was he was looking at, either. It was all very difficult. He sighed, and clasped his hot hands tighter than ever on his toy monkey.

  Then, very kindly, Granny saved him further trouble by detaching herself from the crowd to ask a question of a sailor. The sailor pointed up at the men holding the gangway in readiness. Yes, there was Granny. Darling Granny: with her black bead cape, and hat tied under her chin with wide black ribbons. He unclasped a hand, waved it, and gave a thin, unheard cry. The ship bumped, the gangways shot out, swooped heavily, blindly, then fell with a crash. The fussy passengers began to fight their way off the ship, entangling one another in their bags and umbrella cases. The sailors shooed them good-naturedly along, as if they had been so many refractory cattle.

  Granny had seen Mummy. She was beaming up, her face alight with smiles. There would be tea, and the lovely strange china things on the tea table, and Grandpapa’s moustache cup. Then Mummy was upon him, flushed, laughing, still half anxious, and holding him tightly by the hand.

  Getting off gangways was one of the things you simply did not dare let yourself experience. You shut your eyes to everything except the exact place you were to put each foot: you clenched your teeth: you did not let yourself think about anything at all until you were safe on the great wide quay that came up to meet you. If you once stopped to think: if you once let yourself feel what crossing a gangway was really like, with all of you: you would never be able to cross one again. A moment of clenched teeth, of stumbling over the high wooden ridges ; one sickening glimpse of dark green, oily water ; and he was on shore, safe and sound, blinking, with clamour all about him, and Granny stooping from the sky, to kiss him welcome.

  He focussed his attention upon her gravely, and was opening his mouth to ask her two very important questions, when she straightened up, and gave her attention to Munny the nurse, who was carrying baby Eithne. Granny began to chuckle and coo, till she realised that, miraculously, the baby was asleep. For a long, long time Dermot stood there, absorbed in thought, surrounded by noise and whirling vague shapes, while the luggage was taken from the hold, recognised, redeemed, and hoisted upon the roof of a gloomy old four-wheeler. Horse and vehicle looked ancient, but the driver, a wild bearded fellow, made up for them with excess of animation. In one sentence he exhorted the porter, reassured Granny and Dermot’s mothe
r, and made impolite replies to a disappointed rival and a couple of outside car drivers, who persisted mechanically in offering their services. The misgivings of the ladies were not allayed. Nothing but the difficulty of getting the big trunks down again kept them from changing their mind and seeking a more sober convoy. Finally, when it seemed to Dermot that they must all be going to spend the rest of their lives upon the noisy quay, he was bundled in, and off they started. At once a fresh noise made speech impossible. The iron tyres of the four-wheeler ground deafeningly over the cobbles, and the Whole vehicle shook, and rattled till the passengers’ teeth chattered in their heads. It was like thunder. It was like dogs growling. It was like a hundred stormy nights at once: and out of the window, through the dirty shivering glass, danced distorted, fantastic visions of great ships beside the quay, wobbling and joggling on and on for ever.

  Swish—grrr—plonk. The cab swung away to the left, off the cobbles, on to a smooth hard road. The grown-ups smiled at one another in relief, plaintively, and settled themselves in easier positions. It was possible to speak.

  Granny beamed lovingly at Dermot.

  “Well, little son” she said, “and how are you, after your long journey?”

  “Very well, thank you, Granny.” Her voice made Dermot remember his questions. When he wanted to say anything of his own accord, he could never get it out straight away. He did not stammer: he paused, looked as if he were going to swallow, and opened his mouth for a moment before the sound came. So Granny, once he had answered, turned to his mother to hear her explain how well the children had weathered the trip. He had to slide off the seat and catch her arm, to make her listen.

  #8220;Please, Granny.”

  “Yes, darling son. What is it—only sick the once, coming round the Longships. Do you tell me that! —There’s me brave sort. Only sick the once.”

  “Granny.”

  “Yes, son?”

  Please—how is Paddy

  “Paddy?” Granny’s face went blank for a moment, as she sorted a host of Paddies. “Oh, Paddy! Paddy-monkey! Is it the monkey ye mean, son?”

  “Yes. How is he?”

  “Faith, son, he’s grand. Full of life and spirits. Too full. He got away on us the other day, climbed up the pear tree by the wall, and took your Grandpapa’s toothbrush, that was out drying on the windowsill. Oh, he’s well enough. Well and bold.”

  Dermot contemplated the monkey’s escapade.

  “How is Pucker?” he asked next.

  Granny beamed.

  “She’s well. And she has a grand surprise for you.”

  “A surprise?”

  “Yes, a grand surprise. You’d never think it, and she only a little thing last year, coming in on the bed every morning to play with you. What do you think—she has a little tiny kitten of her own !”

  “Pucker has a kitten?”

  “A little wee kitten, and its eyes only opened just in time for you.”

  Dermot’s brows drew together.

  “Its eyes, Granny?”

  But Granny’s attention was diverted. They were on cobbles again, and getting near to Westland Row, where they must catch the train to Sandycove and Granny’s house. Grandpapa would be at the gate. Grandpapa was usually at the gate, in Dermot’s outdoor memories of him: either watching for the tram, when he went in to work in the morning, or coming in from the tram, when it brought him back in the evening. Dermot had been a very little boy last year. His memories were not at all continuous.

  Then followed more noise and tumult, the dismounting of the luggage, the paying of the cab. The man was gabbling and Granny was saying finally, “Nonsense, me man, nonsense, you’re well paid,” over and over again, till he retired and climbed on his box, shouting a commiseration to the porter who had undertaken their load. Then, the dark noisome cavern of the station, the yelling, the barrows of luggage: and finally, when they were more or less settled to await the train, the appalling shriek of an engine, which woke the baby and set her crying. All crowded round to comfort her, taking no notice of Dermot, who stood very pale and serious, staring straight before him, with big shining eyes. At last he slipped up close beside his mother. Realising, she squeezed his hand.

  “Poor little son,” she whispered, half laughing, half sympathetic. “Did the horrid engine frighten him?”

  “N-not exactly,” he whispered back. “But I didn’t like it, very much.”

  She gave him a reassuring squeeze: and then, before much else could happen, their train came in. Dermot disapproved of the hard, bleak carriages, with their strip of baize nailed on a wooden seat, and the partition which did not go all the way up to the top. The edge of the seat was cold against the inside of his bare knees. He frowned, and wriggled in shocked discomfort. English railway carriages were not like this. His mother, aware of him again, smiled in humorous tenderness. Dermot understood that she was inviting him to laugh at the hard, bare carriage. He smiled dutifully back: then his brow cleared.

  Before long, a demented whistling and shouting announced that the train was to start. Granny took a last look out of the window, to make sure that none of the luggage was left behind: the train gave a jerk, and they were off. It clattered past the backs of dingy houses, considerately veiling some of them with puffs of its own steam ; then came trees, gardens, open lawns ; and soon it was racing along beside the sea. Ca-CLACKET, ca-CLACKET, ca-CLACKET—loud and monotonous the train’s noise beat against the low sea wall, echoing back flatly into the carriages. Granny gave up trying to talk. She sat gazing at her daughter and her grandchildren, her face trembling into smile after smile of delight. For a glorious two months she would have them to herself again. And Dermot’s mother, exhausted with the long trip, smiled back at her, glad to be in the place she still called home.

  Chapter II

  Grandpapa was standing at the gate, looking out for them. He stood with his hands clasped behind his back, leaning a little forward. He smiled when he saw them, and then began to look anxiously up and down, to see if a tram was coming. That was always a difficulty, when the tram-line went past one’s door. Any vehicle delivering luggage had to make haste about it, or else pull two or three times to the other side of the road, to let the tram go by. As for delivering furniture—it was a nightmare. Grandpapa would be irritated and indignant when, in the middle of the unloading, the great tram came clanking round the curve, and the man stamped impatiently on his bell: but, as he was above all a law-abiding man, part of his irritation would be due to being put in the position of a person distracting the tram’s lawful course. Later on, that same summer, small though he was, Dermot could feel perfectly his Grandpapa’s concern on such an occasion, and keep watch in a fever of anxiety for the yellow and blue front appearing round the trees.

  But, this time, all was well. In a sort of dream, Dermot was lifted down, doubling up his legs to avoid the circular iron step of the cab. He felt the tickle of his Grandpapa’s beard on his cheek, saw the tiny neat garden with its stock and mignonette, the trim window boxes, the clean wash of the cottage walls: all in a dream, because his mind was fixed on Paddy-monkey and Pucker the cat, and because, though he did not realise it, he was very tired. Finding himself alone, as Grandpapa pressed forward to the others, he walked up the little stone path, climbed the two high steps, and went, blinking, into the dark hall. Before his eyes could accustom themselves to the darkness, it was blocked by a stout, chanting figure, holding wide arms of welcome—Bessie, the cook.

  “Oh, oh, musha! Master Dermot asthore! The grand big size y’are! The big boy! And Baby Miss Eithne! Well now, well now, indeed.”

  She hugged him, and put him down, pressing forward to the door.

  “Oh, Miss Margaret, ma’am. To see ye agen! Welcome home, welcome home.”

  Dermot stood, by the big grandfather clock, waiting for the tempest of exclamation to die down. His desire to rush through and out to the back of the house, to greet Paddy-monkey and Pucker, had left him. He felt strange and lost in the dark hall. Th
ey were all exclaiming round the baby, blocking out the light, blocking up everything. The man could not get by with the luggage.

  Then, abruptly, the assembly awoke to business. Dermot was bundled into the nursery, to be out of the way: and before he could do anything, his nurse Munny took him, and washed his face and hands. She did it instinctively, as the first of many necessary things to be done. While the sponge was obliterating his face, and the towel scrubbling his limp hands, he could hear the heavy steps of the cabman, and the thudding of the boxes. He gave a deep sigh, felt suddenly much better, and smiled up at Munny.

  There was a little bit of creeper hanging down outside the window. It had flowers on it. He liked it. He was going to be here for a long, long time.

  “Munny.”

  “Yes, darling.”

  “May I go and see Paddy-monkey now, and Pucker, and her new kitten?”

  “Yes, dear. Go into the kitchen and ask Bessie. You remember the way, don’t you.”

  What a silly question. “Yes.”

  “Mind that horrid monkey doesn’t bite you,” Munny called after him. She said it more from duty than anything else: as a kind of protest against the enormity of keeping such a creature. Dermot stopped in the doorway.

  “Paddy isn’t horrid,” he said, frowning. “And he wouldn’t ever bite me,”

  “It’s a long time since he saw you. You’re bigger now. He may have forgotten you.”

  As she said it, Munny conjured up for her tired self a real apprehension. She followed him to the door, but was reassured by the sight of Bessie standing at the end of the passage, winking and nodding her head.

  “Come on now, Master Dermot, till we go and see Paddy-monkey.”

  Dermot took her hand, and she led him through the little low kitchen, hung with every sort of shining pot and pan, up a step, into an even smaller white-washed scullery. Out the door, and a couple of steps along the path, to where Paddy-monkey lived, in a big dog kennel against the warm outside kitchen wall. Seeing the kennel, Dermot drew back. Suppose what Munny said was true, and Paddy didn’t know him !