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

They’re good people, she said, but they don’t understand. I place them in danger the longer I stay here. I know things I shouldn’t. They’re like children, they don’t see the risk. They’re supremely unconscious. They write letters to men who put guns to people’s heads .

Wild talk, and none of it any sense. What danger could such an old lady know? But I saw as how she was that scared. It was like throwing her in gaol, to call for Miss Vita .

Keep her talking, I says to myself. Keep her talking a while, and maybe one of them will hear. Maybe they’ll come for her. And you won’t have to do nothing .

I need to get to London, she says, like a woman in a fever. As quick as may be. You could take me now it’s dark. In the pony trap. I’d go myself, only I don’t know how to harness the pony .

The missus can’t spare me for so long, I said. Nor the trap for so far a trip as London .

Then take me to the station, she says. I don’t mind the wait. There will be a train soon enough. Please, Jock .

And she holds out a guinea, and presses it in my palm .

Now, ma’am, I says, there’s no call for that .

Take it, she says. With my thanks .

So I harnessed the pony. He didn’t half like it at that hour of the night, neither. And we set out in the darkness, me driving slow as slow and hoping all the time that Mr. Harold would hear the sound of the trap wheels and come shouting after. But he didn’t. The South Cottage where they sleep is far enough from the cow barn. Only the Home Guard in the tower, maybe, saw us go; and it’s not his place to sound an alarm for anything but Germans .

A chill night, and no moon. Close to midnight, maybe. There won’t be a train until half six, I told her. She asked how long the drive to the station would be. Maybe an hour, I says. You’ll have a fair wait, in Staplehurst .

But as it happened, we never got so far .

Just past the hillock near Cranbrook Common there was a car. A big, black monster with no running lights on account of the blackout, driving fit to bust. The road’s tight as a glove and the hedges high and the beast was on us before we knew what we were about. I doubt the driver even saw us before he hit, his big black fender taking the side of the trap at a mad clip, the pony shying and plunging, and me without a prayer of saving us. The Lady screamed and clutched at my arm but it was no good, the whole trap was over, and the poor horse caught in the traces and screaming, too .

I was tossed in the hedge when the trap overturned, and took a knock on the head; lucky, I suppose, not to break my neck. But it took me a moment to get up and when I did, I saw the car had stopped. There were gentlemen in proper long coats and trilby hats and dark gloves, and they’d got out of the car to see what was amiss. But the pony was my job; lying on its side, legs kicking, and that awful screaming. I went to its head and felt in my pocket for my knife, to cut the traces — but I’d forgot the knife in my room back home. I tried to soothe him, thinking if he was calmer I’d be able to get the harness off him. One of the gentlemen came over to help. Sat on the horse’s head while I worked the straps. Unpleasant, he was — What kind of fool drives a gig at this hour of the night? he asks, impatient, like I’m the village yokel that knows no better .

The Lady had to reach the station, I says .

We’ll take her on, he tells me, as I free the horse and get him onto his knees. It’s the least we can do .

I saw, then, that another of them had her by the arm and was half-carrying her to the car .

Ma’am, I called out. Ma’am, are you all right?

But she made no answer .

Fainted, the fellow next to me said. But she’ll be fine. Sorry for your trouble. And he shoves a pound note in my hand .

The pony was dead lame. I had to leave the trap and walk him home, a mile or more .

I WENT STRAIGHT TO SOUTH COTTAGE WHEN I GOT there and roused the master. Such a time I hope never to live through again — Miss Vita, with her face set like stone, and Mr. Harold more quiet than I’ve ever known him. Worse, that was, than if he’d raged like Da when the drink’s on him. Miss Vita looked at the horse and Mr. Harold told Hayter he’d have to walk out with us in the morning, and look at the trap; and then he says to me, as I stand with my cap in my hand, Did you get a look at the car’s number?

I shook my head .

Pity, he says .

But they was from London, I offer .

They would be, he says .

And turns away without another word .

Monday, 7 April 1941

It is certain now that no one answering to the Lady’s description took the first train Saturday morning from Staplehurst station, nor the last. No one like her has been seen in all the Weald, as far as Mr. Harold can make out. He’s asked the police and looked in at hospital. The telegraph has been fairly singing her name, and how she looked .

The earth has swallowed her up .

Today, Miss Vita is to visit the Lady’s sister at a place called Charleston, and then drive to her home which is a monk’s house. She has asked me to come and tell her people what I saw and know. When the trip is done Miss Vita will take me back to Knole — I am in disgrace. I am that sick with losing the Lady, and losing my place, that I wish I were dead. I tried to help but did only harm. I cannot tell Miss Vita she feared to stay at Sissinghurst, for she wouldn’t understand and would probably be affronted. But she did not see the fear in the Lady’s eyes .

To me Miss Vita says only You are a good fellow, Jock, and will be much missed; but your mother will be wanting you at home, to be sure. You are safer in such times with your family .

I am not missed and I will not be safe .

I will go for a soldier. Da will say it’s all I’m good for .

MAYBE SHE IS ALL RIGHT AND GOT WHEREVER IT was she was anxious to go. Maybe we will find her sitting at home when Miss Vita drives down to Sussex. Maybe it is not my fault that everything went bad and the pony was put down and the gig chopped up for firewood. But I feel in my heart that it is all my fault. I live that time — the car coming round the curve in the dark, the horse screaming, the feel of the hedge as it came up to strike my cheek — over and over, whenever I shut my eyes. And the Lady, not speaking or looking, as they dragged her away .

This bit of writing should be kept safe. For Mr. Harold, maybe, who might want it someday. I will set an angelic host around it. For the Lady .

Jock Bellamy

“EXTRAORDINARY IS A WORD TOO OFTEN APPLIED TO items that pass through an auctioneer’s hands,” Marcus Symonds-Jones observed as he looked around the conference table in Imogen Cantwell’s office, “but in this case I would argue the term is merited. One such find would be notable — even if unattributed to an author. Two must be remarkable; but to have three related documents , two of them written by Virginia Woolf, is a discovery of the rarest order. When one considers the contribution the find provides to English history and literature — I think we may justly call it priceless.”

“Priceless,” Gray Westlake repeated as he rocked precariously on one of the Head Gardener’s folding chairs. “That’s hardly the best choice of word, Marcus. Say priceless , and I walk out of here.”

“I think it’s exactly the right word,” Jo countered. “I wouldn’t part with my grandfather’s diary for any amount of money. It’s too personal. And I want my grandmother to read it.”