Стефани Баррон - The White Garden - A Novel of Virginia Woolf

“Better than when the Wolves were here. That’s what I call them. Leonard and Virginia. They were perpetually short on funds. Used an earth closet, if you can believe it — no running water. All the effort went into the garden.” She set the grocery bag on the bonnet of the car and went round to the boot. Peter and Jo exchanged glances. Time to scarper.

The girl was engaged in lifting a suitcase to the ground. Another was firmly wedged near the spare tire.

“Can we be of help?”

“That’d be brilliant — thanks.”

Peter hefted the second case from the boot, took the other in his free hand, and said smoothly, “Lead on.”

She led.

There was a back gate to the property, and a path to a second gate in the walled garden; she opened this with some difficulty, the iron hasp being long since rusted into obduracy. “It’s just through here,” she said. “You can drop the cases at the back door — I’ll fetch them in.”

Peter set down the luggage carefully on the brick path and dusted his hands. Jo was trailing along behind, her eyes on the autumnal remains of the mixed borders. Leonard’s tastes had run to the exotic, it seemed — if indeed the plantings were representative of those that had grown in his day.

“Unfortunate that the house is closed,” Peter remarked. “We drove down from Cambridge on purpose to see it.”

“Cambridge? Which college?”

“King’s,” Jo said automatically.

“I’ve a mate at Magdalene,” the girl offered. “I’m Lucy, by the way.”

“Peter. And that’s Jo.” He held out his hand. “Well, we won’t keep you. Enjoy your time here.”

“Thanks. I’ll probably be stark, staring mad in another week — they’ll have to scrape me off the floor of the Arms.”

“Not keen on solitude?”

She stared at him, her lips slightly parted. “In this place? It’s the end of the earth. I only agreed to house-sit again because I had the loan of the car. As soon as I start talking to myself, I’m off to Lewes for the evening.”

“Smashing,” Peter murmured. “Well, Jo, it’s a pity we came on the wrong day — but we’ll just have to see the place on your next trip to England.”

“Whenever that is,” Jo mourned. She gave Lucy a brave smile.

“Are you American?” the girl asked.

“Yes. I’m from L.A.,” Jo invented, remembering Ter. “California. Hollywood . You’ve heard of it?”

“I should say so!” Lucy said scornfully. “Not that I think much of the place, mind. The way those people treat poor Posh and Becks. It’s inhuman.”

“He should never have left West Ham,” Peter observed.

“You mean Manchester United.”

“Yes, well, I’m heading back tomorrow,” Jo persisted. “And the whole point of my trip, really, was to see Virginia’s house.”

“You’re having me on,” Lucy said.

As they were undoubtedly lying through their teeth, Jo was momentarily flummoxed by this comment, but Peter said hastily, “It’s true. Jo’s life dream has been to stand in this very spot. She’s a writer, you know.”

“Oh. Books,” said Lucy dispiritedly.

“Movies, actually. That’s why I live in LA. We’re thinking of doing something on Virginia. Sort of like The Hours , only less…”

“Dreary.” The girl eyed Jo suspiciously, as if uncertain whether to believe her, and said: “Ever met Brangelina, then?”

Jo shook her head regretfully. “But my friend’s niece was one of their nannies. They have several, you know.”

“Well, they would , wouldn’t they?”

“Jo, we really should be going.” Peter’s voice was that of the long-suffering Englishman forced to endure more Hollywood gossip than anyone should, over the past few days.

Lucy licked her lips and glanced hurriedly over one shoulder, as though the ghost of the Woolfs might be watching. “Look, if you’d like to come in for a few minutes — it seems a shame, you’ve come all this way…”

“Really?” Jo cried. Without waiting for an answer, she bounded forward and hugged the girl impulsively. “You’re just too sweet. I’ll never forget this. It’ll make my whole trip worthwhile!”

“I’ve always wanted to see California, myself,” Lucy said. Her cheeks were flushed and hectic, like a nineteenth-century consumptive’s.

IT WAS A SMALL, LOW-CEILINGED PLACE LIT BY ONLY A FEW windows; and the pervading sense was of green: green shadows, green walls, faded wood the color of slate, chairs sagging from use. It was a restful house; but inescapably of a period — impossible to imagine Lucy’s friends truly living here. It was probable, Jo thought, that the caretakers had a modern apartment somewhere on the premises. It would not do to betray nosiness, and ask.

Lucy was chattering on about a Jennifer — there were so many possibilities with that name, it might be Lopez or Aniston; Jo murmured something about Madonna, and diverted her immediately.

A succession of tables filled the sitting room; Jo could imagine books stacked and spread out to be read, or manuscript pages fluttering. A pot of tea and a plate of something simple — Virginia was a notoriously spare eater, an anorexic, probably. There was a poky old kitchen and two bedrooms. Virginia’s sitting room was closed to the public.

“In good weather, she liked to write in what she called the Lodge — the old gardener’s hut at the bottom of the garden,” Peter murmured.

Jo followed his gaze through the back window and saw it: a perfect little room of one’s own, with a porch.

“One of the suicide notes was found there. On her desk.”

“Why kill yourself,” Jo asked wistfully, “when you’ve got all this?”

Lucy was hovering, probably regretting her impulse to let them in; Jo smiled at her encouragingly. “Who’s your favorite British actor?”

And received a disquisition on several raffish young men of dubious sexual orientation.

Peter was bent over a glass case, studying some pictures. There were albums, too, all of them very old. “Jo,” he said. “Still have that photocopy from Charleston?”

“The mural?”

“The group snap.”

She fished in her purse and drew it out.

“I thought so. There’s another version of the same people displayed here — only they’re named, this time.”

She looked from her photograph to Peter’s. It was dated 1936. Quentin Bell, Maynard Keynes , she read; Roger Fry, Clive Bell, Julian Bell, Anthony Blunt . The final figure was Leonard Woolf; thin and spare even in his middle period, his nose strong as a ship’s prow, his hair swept back from a broad forehead. The most interesting face in the bunch — besides Virginia’s suffering one.

“Lucy,” Peter said firmly, “you’ve been too lovely — but we mustn’t trespass any longer. Enjoy your evening in Lewes. Try not to go mad amongst all these ghosts.”

“I won’t charge you entry fees,” the girl said tentatively. “It being a Closed Day. I wouldn’t like to have to explain to the Trust.”

“Very right,” Peter agreed. He slipped her a ten-pound note. “Have a pint or two at the Arms, won’t you? With our thanks?”

GRAY EXPECTED MARGAUX TO KEEP HIM WAITING that Wednesday evening. Still, he arrived at Bar 190 a few minutes early; ordered a very dry gin martini; and sank back against the dark oak paneling. He was adept at stillness, and in his charcoal-colored jacket and simple white shirt he might have disappeared into the crowd. It was his composure, however, that drew attention. Most men, left alone with a drink, would have immediately accessed their BlackBerries and trolled through email, or dialed someone on a cell phone. Gray simply sat, one hand lying casually on the table before him, the other thoughtfully stroking the stem of his martini glass. His self-containment suggested he was somebody; and it is possible that more than one person drinking at the Gore Hotel that evening wondered who .