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

The rose arbor was directly ahead of them. Terence stood by it, his arms slack, a hessian square filled with perennial cuttings at his feet.

“Eh, Miss Bellamy,” he said, with obvious pleasure. “I thought you’d done with us.”

“Never so lucky.” Imogen sighed. “Ter, these people want to examine the Little Virgin. I’m here to make sure she’s not tampered with. You’re to do a bit of heavy lifting.”

Terence shrugged, and pulled on the gloves he’d tossed near his tip bag. Jo glanced at Imogen, who inclined her head dismissively and took no step farther; after a second, Jo turned left along the slate path and then right, onto the pavers that led to the Little Virgin. The others followed.

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.