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

A three-by-five block of steno sheets, useful for jotting reminders. And lists. They both loved lists.

She took the scrap of paper from Dottie’s hand and read: Tell her pictures at Charleston .

South Carolina? Jock had never been there in his life. Jo shook her head in frustration. “So who’s this lady he wrote about?”

“No idea.” Dottie sniffed.

“Oh, come on, Nana — you knew Jock better than anybody alive!”

“I didn’t know he’d kill himself that day!” She made it sound like an accusation.

“No one could have known.”

“I should have.”

There was no answer to this.

“But you two must have met around the time Jock wrote this letter,” Jo attempted, as she folded the sheets and held them out to her grandmother. “In Italy.”

“He never mentioned its existence,” Dottie replied stiffly. “And he never mentioned me.”

This, Jo thought, was part of the trouble: Dottie felt betrayed. Jock’s suicide was insult enough, a wrenching-out of Dottie’s heart, as inexplicable as it was ugly; but this… She was completely absent from the farewell he’d written, so long ago, to his parents. The unknown lady had taken his wife’s place.

“He was in some sort of trouble, wasn’t he?” Jo asked thoughtfully. “He talks about running . As though it were a matter for the law.”

“He used to tell everybody he’d joined up young — only seventeen, that spring of 1941 — because he couldn’t be tending roses when the fate of Britain was at stake. He never said he was wanted by the Law.”

“But this sounds like…”

“He had no choice. I know. That’s why I came.”

Jo had stared at her grandmother that day in her office, sharply uneasy. She knew nothing whatever about Jock’s war — only that he’d lost his entire family while serving in Italy, to a German bomb. It was all so long ago. It had nothing to do with the sad end in the garage. What did Dottie expect Jo to do?

“You could find out something,” Dottie persisted. “In their records. While you’re there in Kent. He mentions Knole, Jo. The great estate. That’s where he grew up.”

Vita Sackville-West had grown up at Knole, too. It was the ancestral home of the Dukes of Dorset, built before the reign of Henry VIII — a fifteenth-century house the size of a small village. Less than an hour from the garden in which Jo was now standing. But she hadn’t found the courage, yet, to visit Knole. Or ask questions about an unknown woman’s death, nearly seventy years before. She was afraid of what she might learn: That Jock hanged himself rather than face his granddaughter, after her trip to Kent.

“What if I learn the truth, Nana?” she’d asked gently. “And you don’t like it?”

“Jock left this letter for a reason,” Dottie insisted. “He’s dead, for a reason. I want to know what it is, Jo. I want to know what it is.”

FRIDAY’S RAIN WAS A CONFIRMED TORRENT BY breakfast Saturday morning. The October world beyond the leaded windows was depressingly gray. Jo had slept badly. Little things bothered her: the gurgle of water in Cranbrook’s gutters, the wet dripping from every Tudor eave. And so she allowed herself a third cup of coffee while she thought about Nana and Jock and death of various kinds. She took stock of her situation. She made lists.

Lists were a staple of Jo’s life. They made her feel purposeful and competent, and they were usually written in red ink. Several were floating around her leather shoulder bag already — Lilium regale or substitute white Casablancas?; paeonia Cheddar Delight; discuss staking, need for team of real gardeners not hired labor , read one — but this morning’s list was a compilation of unknowns.

She wrote: 1941?

That was the year Jock had lied about his age and run away to war.

She wrote: Police records, Sevenoaks?

Knole House sat on the eastern edge of Sevenoaks, in the part of Kent known as the North Downs. Simply pulling up before the gates of Knole, however, would not guarantee Jo answers. Did anybody — serving class or lord — still live there? Or was the vast sprawl of Kentish stone in its thousand-acre deer park just a National Trust mausoleum? And why assume Jock’s brush with the Lady had happened there?

She had no idea what her grandfather’s life was like in 1941. He had said so little about his own childhood; it was as though only the present existed for Jock. Jo knew vague and impersonal things about England during the war: Luftwaffe bombing raids over Kent, hop fields burning, children sent away by train. Rations and petrol shortage, cooking pots hammered into airplane propellers. Was seventeen still considered school-age in time of war? Or had Jock been sent out to work while the men were fighting?

She wrote: Ask Nana, family friends .

Jo’s eyes rested on the dripping iron hitching post beyond the breakfast-room window. It was shaped like a horse’s head, and might perhaps have been antique. Even this irritated her; a bit of Merrie Olde England intended for the tourist trade. She set down her red pen.

She ought to find Imogen Cantwell this morning and spend an hour in Sissinghurst’s greenhouses, studying the biennials raised from cuttings and seed. She ought to discuss boxwood clones. Hedge-trimming schedules.

She ought to earn Gray’s money.

Instead, she pushed back her chair and went to look for the concierge.

“Local archives?” he repeated, frowning. “Birth and death records? That sort of thing? You’ll want the Centre for Kentish Studies. It’s only a few miles up Tonbridge Road, in Maidstone.”

When her phone vibrated a few seconds later, fresh with a call from Buenos Aires, she let Gray slip into voice mail.

WE ADVISE VISITORS TO BOOK A SEAT IN ADVANCE TO AVOID disappointment .

Jo had found the careful British warning posted on the Centre’s website after breakfast, and dutifully called ahead. There were rafts of people eager to troll through microfilm of seventeenth-century parish registers and polling data from 1869, or so she was told; particularly the Americans on holiday.

“Think they’re related to the Queen,” sniffed the staff member to Jo, “though most of ‘em are Irish and Polish or whatnot.”

She bought a County Archives Readers’ Network ticket, and was given a plastic tag emblazoned with the number of her reserved seat. The Searchroom, as it was called, was like a researchers’ holding pen. At the far end of the space were shelves of archive catalogs — a series of color-coded ring binders divided by subject: green for family and estate records; red for the court reports of the Quarter Sessions. There were also numerous card indexes for parishes, personal names, and miscellany going back ten centuries. Eleven kilometres of data in our archive centre , the website boasted; but most of those facts were inaccessible by computer. She would have to pinpoint the sources she needed to consult — write their catalog numbers on a slip of paper — offer this to an archivist — and wait a quarter of an hour for the volumes to be fetched. She had no idea where to start. She nearly called Nana then and there to announce defeat.

“Can I be of service?”

He was short and slim and mild-eyed; a dark-haired cipher of a man with a neat name tag pinned to his blue dress shirt. MR. TREVELYAN, it said. Such a self-effacing soul would never put ROGER or IAN or HAL on his breast. He would always be Mr. Trevelyan. This, to Jo, was reassuring: she had found authority in a sea of doubt.

“I’m researching my grandfather,” she said. “He grew up somewhere near Knole House.”