The Rose Gardener Page 36

“I can’t help that it was so stormy,” Helene whined, intimidated and already somewhat weepy. “I can only …”

  “You more or less forced me to come here,” said Beatrice, and threw her suitcase with a furious heave onto the backseat of the car. “Otherwise I’d have stayed in London and wouldn’t have had any problems.”

  Helene’s eyes shone with tears. “Could you really have managed to celebrate Christmas without me?”

  “Helene, please don’t make such a big fuss about Christmas,” said Beatrice, annoyed. “It really doesn’t make any difference where and with whom you spend this day. I don’t understand how a person can make themselves so crazy!”

  “And I don’t understand how a person can be so coldhearted,” she said, deeply hurt. “I think of the two of us as a family. All we have left is each other!”

  Beatrice felt too tapped out to put up with the conversation any longer. She sank into the passenger seat and silently cursed her stomach.

  “Drive me back home,” she asked wearily. “None of it matters to me. I need a warm bed and some sleep. And at some point, a drink.”

  She slept until evening. Then she got up, refreshed and recovered, and drank a glass of port with Helene in front of the dining room hearth. She took a short walk to the ocean, found her way by the light of the moon and the stars shining down. The storm had eased; the air, cold and dry, smelled of winter, of dormant heather and icy water. Beatrice breathed deeply and peacefully. After the hectic rush of London, after the city’s stink and the constricted way of life there, people packed tightly on top of one another, the island seemed to Beatrice like a refuge, a paradise of calm. She knew it would have been smarter to stay here, to find herself a job and enjoy the peace that Guernsey gave her. But she also understood that it wouldn’t work. The old pain fell upon her like a mad dog as she looked out over the deep, black, roaring ocean, and followed with her eyes the path of light the moon painted on the water. The events of the past still affected her too deeply. She wouldn’t be able to bear Guernsey.

  The next morning, she and Helene exchanged gifts. The day was as cold and free of wind as the one before it. The two women huddled in front of the hearth, snug in their bathrobes, and unwrapped their presents. Strictly speaking, it was only Beatrice who unwrapped, since Helene was soon finished. Beatrice had brought her a book, one that, she now thought guiltily, she hadn’t even taken particular care in picking out. She had only just thought of it at the last moment before leaving — that she needed a Christmas present — and had picked a random book off the shelf at a bookstore. It had to do with the wild animals of Kenya, something Helene hadn’t ever shown any interest in. She was a bit surprised when she saw the title, but quickly recovered herself and thanked Beatrice effusively. “Oh, but this is wonderful! Thank you very much, Beatrice. I’ll read it and learn about things I’d never even heard of.”

  Beatrice, on the other hand, needed a half hour to unwrap all the little packages that Helene had piled up for her. It was obvious that Helene had really put thought into it. She had put together everything that she thought would make Beatrice happy. Nylon stockings, fur gloves, French facial lotion, a silver wristwatch, a mohair scarf, pearl earrings, and much more. Finally, Beatrice unwrapped a heavy, silver picture frame in which she found a black-and-white photograph of Helene. In the photo she wore her blond hair down and smiled as sweetly as an angel. Beatrice found the picture far too sentimental and was certain she would never display it in her apartment, but she acted as if she liked it.

  Helene beamed. “So you always have me with you! Oh, Beatrice,” she hugged her and let out a deep sigh, “you don’t know how much I miss you when you’re in London! You don’t know how happy I’d be if you were here! All we have left is each other!”

  And I get claustrophobic when I’m around you, thought Beatrice, and extricated herself from the embrace. Why can’t Helene finally meet a nice man, marry him, and just forget about me?

  At noon, Frederic Shaye called and wished her a Merry Christmas. He first reached Helene, who appeared in the living room with a look of consternation and said there was a gentleman on the phone who wished to speak with Beatrice.

  “What gentleman?” Beatrice asked absently. She was reading the book about the wild animals of Kenya.

  “Cayne or Shayne or something like that,” said Helene. “Who is he then? Someone you know from London?”

  “A biology professor I met at a party,” said Beatrice, standing up. “My God, where on earth did he get my number?”

  As it turned out, Frederic had found out through Mrs. Chandler that Beatrice had gone to Guernsey, and had — by way of this same helpful friend — come to learn Helene’s last name. With the help of a directory he had managed to come upon the telephone number.

  “Your friend’s name sounds German,” he said. “And her accent as well. Has she lived there since the time of the occupation?”

  “Yes,” Beatrice said shortly. She saw Helene standing in the living room doorway with her ears pricked up.

  “Well now,” Frederic went on. “Naturally I would have been pleased to be able to see you sometime in London over Christmas, but of course I understand that you wanted to go home.”

  “Have you stayed in London? You didn’t go back to Cambridge?”

  “What am I supposed to do in Cambridge?” Frederic asked. “Nobody’s expecting me there. And here in London I can calmly go about my work.”

  “Is it going well?”

  “Yes, quite well.” He paused for a brief moment. “I’m sorry that we haven’t been able to see each other again,” he said then. “And I get the sense that I’m something of a nuisance to you. I’d be very sorry if that were the case and I … well, I would certainly respect your decision if you were to tell me I shouldn’t call you anymore.”

  “You’re not a nuisance to me,” said Beatrice. Silently she cursed Helene, who stayed right where she was and wouldn’t think of missing a single word of the conversation. “I’m just … I don’t know if I’d like to get tangled up in anything.”

  “It wouldn’t mean getting tangled up if we went out to dinner together.”

  “Of course not.” She suddenly felt very foolish. “Of course it wouldn’t.”

  “Might I take you out in London, then, sometime in early January?”

  She surrendered. “Alright. Early January. We’ll be in touch by phone?”

  “I’ll call you at the Chandlers’. Farewell, Beatrice. And … Merry Christmas!” He hung up.

  “Merry Christmas,” Beatrice said into the dead line. Helene swooped down at once.

  “Who was that then?”

  “I told you already. I met him at a party.”

  “And why is he calling for you here?”

  Beatrice felt like she was being interrogated. “No idea. He’d like to see me again.”

  “Why do you say you have no idea when you know exactly that he wants to see you again?” Helene asked in a whiny voice. “Do you think he’s in love with you?”

  “Helene, we saw each other on one occasion. I really don’t know. Why are you even interested?”

  “Oh now really!” Helene looked like indignation incarnate. “Why shouldn’t I be interested? I’m interested in everything that has to do with you. We belong together.”

  “But on that account it’s surely got to be possible for me to meet other people. I live in London, you live on Guernsey. We can’t control one another.”

  “I think it’s a mistake that you live in London,” Helene said accusatorily. “That way both of us are alone. What good is that supposed to do?”

  “You talk as if we were married. You can’t possible think that we’re to spend our lives together!”

  Helene’s lip twitched.

  God, thought Beatrice, she’s about to start bawling!

 
“You know very well how alone I am now that Erich is dead,” said Helene. “People on the island cut me, and …”

  “That’s not at all the case. They are uncommonly nice to you. Especially when you consider who you are and who Erich was!”

  “But I …”

  “Please, Helene, let’s not discuss it now,” said Beatrice, annoyed. She couldn’t stand it when Helene put on her big puppy dog eyes and spoke in that whiny tone. “Frederic Shaye shouldn’t be any reason to ruin Christmas for us. I’m going for a walk to the ocean. I’ll be back again in time for coffee.”

  “Can I come with you?” Helene asked.

  “No,” Beatrice answered her.

  The fresh, cold air did her good. She breathed in deep, measured breaths and shook off the feeling of oppressiveness that Helene had kindled within her. Helene wasn’t going to work her influence on her life. She thought of Frederic’s warm voice. Later she would recall that it was on this dusky December afternoon that she gave up her inner resistance to him. Much later she wondered if spite towards Helene hadn’t played a role in this.

  Mae appeared that afternoon, after it had already gotten dark. She brought a few presents with her and presented a young, somewhat shy man, whom she introduced as her fiancé. His name was Marcus Ashworth and he worked as a banker in St. Peter Port. Mae looked very pretty and radiant, her cheeks were rosy and her eyes were bright. When she was alone with Beatrice in the kitchen for a few moments, filling cake platters and making fresh coffee, she said, “Marcus and I are getting married. I’m pregnant.”

  “I’m happy for you, Mae,” said Beatrice, since Mae seemed so happy that her pregnancy could hardly have been unwanted. “Are you going to stay here on Guernsey?”

  “I think so,” said Mae. “Yes, definitely even. Marcus grew up here, I did too. Neither of us could even imagine living anywhere else.” She looked at Beatrice with curiosity. “I don’t know how you can stand it, being in London for so long! Aren’t you planning to come back eventually?”

  “I don’t know,” Beatrice said slowly. “I’m not sure if I can come back.”

  “Don’t you feel like this is your home?”

  “No, I do. But I also have bad memories.”

  She regarded the contented, rosy-cheeked Mae, whose eyes held such confidence. Neither horror nor pain could be seen in them. Mae had spent the time of the occupation in her parents’ house, she had never lost her sense of warmth, of security. Beatrice had had to spend the five most important years of her adolescence in the house of a Nazi officer; she had been separated from her parents in the span of a moment; she had kept up a painful and dangerous relationship with a man who had had to live in hiding and almost lost his mind because of it; she had never again seen her family alive. When she saw Mae, she had the feeling that there were light-years separating them.

  “We’ll see what happens,” she said noncommittally.

  “Is there a man in your life, over there in England?” Mae asked, curious. “I wouldn’t think you could have spent years at university without getting yourself involved in some romance!”

  “I had other things to do at university.”

  “Oh God, you can’t have just studied ‘round the clock! From all I’ve heard, people get up to all sorts of fun at university.”

  “Well, whatever the case, I didn’t have a fun time,” Beatrice said, somewhat curtly. “I just had a lot to do.”

  “And now?” Mae wouldn’t relent. “Is there someone now?”

  “How could there be? I tutor spoiled ladies from fine society circles. How am I supposed to meet a man there?”

  “There’s always a possibility. But okay, either there isn’t anybody, or you’d not like to talk about it. If you’re completely free, though, then you could come back to Guernsey. We would all be very happy.”

  “Who would be happy?” Beatrice snapped back, and aggression hovered in her voice. “You have your young, happy family. Don’t you go thinking that you’ll have much time for anyone else once you’ve got your baby!”

  “The main thing is that Helene would be happy,” said Mae. “I think she feels rather alone.”

  “Does she come to you to cry about it?”

  “She whines a lot,” Mae answered carefully, “but she really is lonely. She has no real contact with anyone on the island. Mostly with me still, a little with my parents. It’s tragic, becoming a widow so young.”

  “She has every opportunity to start over. Maybe just not here. She’d have to go back to Germany. I can’t understand why she wouldn’t do that.”

  “They’d point fingers at her. Apparently, right after the war ended, all of a sudden none of the Germans had ever been for Hitler. The way you hear them talk, they were all part of the resistance,” Mae said scornfully. “Strange, then, that Hitler could hang on for so long, right? But Helene, as the widow of an SS-Officer, would have difficulties acting like she were the picture of innocence. I understand why she wouldn’t want to go back to Germany.”

  “But here it’s not much better either, like you’ve just said. Mae, whatever she does, it’s her life. She has to decide on her own. And she can’t cling to me. She’s not my mother or my sister. I’m not responsible for her.”

  “She depends on you though,” said Mae.

  With a violent motion Beatrice took the kettle with the boiling water from the stove and poured it through the porcelain filter into the coffee pot in such a rush that half of it spilled onto the table.

  “But I don’t depend on her!” she said.

  Helene cried a sea of tears when January came and Beatrice made her way back to London. It was a day full of rain and wind; Guernsey showed its gloomiest side. Beatrice could understand that Helene didn’t like to stay behind, holed up in the lonely house, where each day her main occupation consisted of doing crossword puzzles and waiting for a few radio programs to come on.

  “I know how it is,” she said, sobbing, as they both stood in the harbor. Beatrice stepped uneasily from one foot to the other — she needed to have been on the ship a long time ago already. “You’re only going back because of this man. He’s totally turned your head. I don’t have a place in your life at all anymore.”

  “Such nonsense!” Beatrice responded angrily. “I’m going back because I have a few things left to do in London, and because I hope someday to find a proper job there. That’s all.”

  “But he called so often!” Helene wailed. The wind blew her wet hair into disarray. She was dressed too lightly for the cold day, and shivered. She looked childish and fragile. “You can’t tell me that that doesn’t mean anything!”

  Frederic had called two more times, once at New Year’s, and then again, shortly thereafter, to ask when she would arrive in Southampton and if he might pick her up. Beatrice had spoken to him in a matter-of-fact tone, but she had noticed that Helene had been listening intently and apparently with her keen instincts realized the two people speaking did not feel completely indifferent towards one another. Everything within her was on alert. Beatrice felt like she could barely take a breath without Helene investigating and assigning some significance to it.

  “Mr. Shaye didn’t call often,” she said, annoyed. “Listen, Helene, I’ve got to get on the ship now. There’s no reason to cry. Mae’s coming over tonight to have dinner with you, I’ve already spoken with her. So you won’t be alone.”

  “But it’s just not the same! She’ll be sitting there across from me, and I’ll be thinking of all the nights when you were sitting there. I’ll be so sad I could die, and …”

  “Helene, get a hold of yourself!” Beatrice said sharply. “I can’t do anything more for you than to send Mae and ask her to look in on you from time to time. Which she, touchingly, already does. You’ve got it better than many other people. Besides that you’re not even in your mid-thirties. You have every op
portunity to put together a new group of friends.”

  “How? Because of Erich I’m …”

  Beatrice knew the litany that came next, she had heard it a hundred times. She hugged Helene, pressed a hurried kiss on her cheek and said, “I have to go. Keep your chin up. Goodbye!”

  She grabbed her suitcase and ran up the gangplank. She avoided looking back again. Helene’s eyes, full of rebuke, and her face, filled with pain — she didn’t want to take either with her back to England.

  She and Frederic saw each other often once she was back in London. They went out to eat, to the theater, and to the movies, and on a weekend in early February he took her with him to Cambridge to show her the world he called home. They were two teeth-chatteringly cold winter days; a thin layer of snow lay over the fields and on the roofs of the college buildings, and off to the west, where the river Cam became one with the horizon, a shining red sun stood against a icy, pastel-colored sky. Beatrice had a small hotel room near Trinity College, but before they were to go to dinner at a pub Frederic wanted to show her his house which lay on the edge of town. A long chain of houses built one next to the other rose up the street at a slight incline. One of these, located almost exactly in the middle, belonged to Frederic. Its walls were built of white stone; it had lattice windows with blue trim and a bright blue front door. In the front garden there were tall bushes with bare branches. Frederic said they were jasmine bushes, and that in summer the whole street smelled of them. There was also jasmine in the small garden in the back, along with two apple trees and a stone basin that looked like a baptismal font.

  “A present from my students,” Frederic explained. “In summer there’s water inside, and I have rose petals floating on the surface.”

  The house was small and comfortably furnished; in almost all the rooms there were bookcases lining the walls and stretching up to the ceiling. A clammy, damp cold hung in the air.

  “I’m sorry it’s so uncomfortable,” Frederic apologized. “I haven’t been here for months.”

  “Frederic, a house like this can’t be left empty and unheated all winter long,” said Beatrice. “You’ll lose everything in here. The books, the furniture … Don’t you have a housekeeper to look after things?”