Girl in the Dark (19 page)

A
CREPUSCULAR LIFE
can lead to strange misapprehensions. Visiting the New Forest at dusk and dawn, Pete and I rarely see other people, coming across mainly ponies and deer. I comment on the absence of humans, which serves to render more striking the powerful presence of the trees.

“You do realise,” says Pete, “that if we went in the daytime like normal people, the whole place would be jumping?”

“Really?” I say.

“Yes. It’s a honeypot. Loads of people go there. Honestly, you are a nitwit. What did you think all those empty car parks were for?”

“Ah,” I say. “I suppose there were a lot of car parks, actually, now one comes to think of it.”

I am always on the lookout for different things to do at dusk—new woods and paths within a reasonable distance
of our home, outdoor concerts and theatre, if they do not start too early, and the audience is not overlit. Much research is needed, and often the idea does not come off.

“You should look into Mottisfont,” says Pete. “They have a walled rose garden, and they open late for two weeks around midsummer, when the roses are at their peak, because so many people want to see them.”

Eagerly I page through the National Trust handbook. Mottisfont is a property in the valley of the River Test, not too far away. Its rose garden is internationally famous, specialising in traditional old-fashioned varieties that have not had the smell bred out of them in pursuit of the structure or longevity of the blooms.

I run my finger down the table of opening times—and indeed, for two weeks, the gardens stay open until 8:30 p.m. But, consulting my diary for sunset times, I find that this is no good—because around the summer solstice the sun is at the peak of its glorious career and, diva-like, does not quit the stage until at least twenty past nine. Currently, I can manage half an hour before sunset—but that would mean starting any visit at 8:50 p.m., twenty minutes after the gardens have closed.

So near and yet so far, I think sadly, imagining roses that I will never see. I mind even more for Pete than for myself; I want to give him treats that we can enjoy together, as there is still so much he has to do alone.

So I decide that I have nothing to lose. I write a letter to Mottisfont explaining my situation and asking if there is any possibility that we could visit the garden later. I offer to pay for the inconvenience, or extra hours for staff.

It is early May when I write, and I fully expect to receive nothing but a polite refusal. But then, in mid-June, a lady phones me up. “I’m sorry we haven’t got back to you,” she says. “It is extremely busy here during the rose season. But yes—you can come. We can open the gardens for you between nine and ten, and there’s no need to pay.”

“That’s wonderful,” I say, overwhelmed. “Thank you so much.”

So on the date agreed, I climb out of my puppy cage into a car park from which the last vehicles are dispersing after a long and sultry day. The air is warm and close, but the first cool tendrils of evening are beginning to lace their way through. Soon a young woman appears, with keys, and lets us into the main grounds. Together, we cross a stone bridge over the burbling river, then pass along the north front of the house, and past the stable block, and through an avenue of enormous stately trees, before we reach the walled garden itself.

The wall is high, and made of old bricks in an incredible variety of colours—russet, violet, peach and cream, the descending sun brushing all of them with gold. The young woman unlocks a door in the wall, and holds it back for us with her outstretched arm.

We go inside.

The smell wallops us in the face.

It is as though we have passed from air to some new substance, formed of a thousand interlocking scents that twist languorously about each other, like invisible smoke. We feel resistance on our skin as we push further in, as if the garden within the wall were at a higher
pressure than the world outside. The temperature itself grows warmer. “There you are,” says the young woman. “Enjoy! I’ll meet you back at the front gate at around ten.” She closes the door on us, and we are left alone in this magical, rainbow garden, trespassers in its silent, oozing profusion. To strike a match would probably be dangerous; the whole thing might explode.

We look slowly about us. A wide border runs all the way around the walls, backed by climbing plants spread-eagled across the brick. The main part of the garden is laid out in geometric beds, with long straight paths running between them. Some of these walks lead under arches, thick with climbing roses. At one crossroads is a circular stone pool, with a little fountain at its centre. Apart from the discreet bubbling of the water and the drone of late bees zigzagging between blooms, everything is still.

There are roses here—but many other flowers as well: lilies that thrust upwards on long slender spikes, tufted carpets of pinks, neat humps of lavender like green-and-purple porcupines; plants that fork and furl and splay, plants of which I do not know the names, plants with ordered, structured heads, plants with trailing, pendulous sprays.

I run my fingers gently along smooth and furry leaves, put my nose into velvet and silken depths. I want to get bodily into the beds, and roll; I have to hold myself back.

Slowly the light alters, from yellow to purple to blue. The colours in the garden grow softer and less distinct. Pete, who has been taking pictures, puts away his camera
and comes to join me. We sit on a bench beside an enormous flesh-coloured rose, its blossoms blowsy and collapsing, revealing indecently hairy yellow centres. Petals spread over the earth and grass like a layer of delicate ears. The fragrance wraps us in a private cloud.

“We are very lucky to see this on our own,” says Pete. “During the rose season there are usually hordes of visitors, and the whole place is packed.”

There is evidence of hordes passing through: some of the paths are made of turf, which has been ground down into bare earth by hundreds of feet. And there is a sandwich on one of the seats, in a plastic triangular case.

“Yes—it’s wonderful,” I say, leaning back on the bench and looking at the sky, where a moon has appeared, like a suddenly opened eye. “Complete, decadent luxury.” But I still feel a small pang. I would quite like to be part of a horde now and again, to rub up against my own species in the mass. It does not happen any more.

We wander back to the door in the wall, and slip through into the real world, closing it carefully behind us. We make our way through the shadowy grounds to the entrance, passing an elderly lady exercising a snuffling dog among the stately trees.

“She must live here, lucky person,” I whisper to Pete.

“Yes,” he replies, “I think there are apartments in the house.”

The young woman with the keys is waiting at the gate. When we thank her, she tells us that it has not been any trouble, as she does not live far away. We drive back in the not-quite-dark midsummer night, and on
the inside of my eyelids I carry with me the imprint of glorious flowers, and in my nostrils, the ghosts of their perfume.

I have always been a hat person, and now I have the perfect excuse for building a truly fine collection. The exercise bike in the corner of the living room, bought years ago by Pete in a keep-fit paroxysm but used only periodically by either of us since, has found its true vocation as a hatstand. Hats are piled up on the handlebars, hooked over the LCD display, and one sits proudly on the uncomfortable, buttock-slicing seat.

In my acquisition of hats I face one main obstacle, apart from the obvious difficulty of not being able to visit shops. I have a very large head, and thick hair; many hats do not fit, perching on top in a ridiculous manner, and resembling, as my mother puts it, “a pimple on a cheese.”

I fall constantly for hats in catalogues that claim “one size fits all,” and find, invariably, that it does not. Sadly, I package up the hat for Pete to take to the post office. He has to do this on Saturday mornings, when there is a long queue, and the whole process makes him grumpy.

“If you must purchase unsuitable hats,” he says, as he pulls on his anorak, “can you at least try to do it from companies that offer a courier collection service?”

“But it was such a beautiful hat,” I wail.

“Face it, darling, you haven’t got a normal head.” He stomps to the front door. “Now is this proof of posting or have I got to pay?”

Pete’s goddaughter Sophie, who is six, comes to visit, accompanied by her parents, and by Hannah, her smaller, fiercer, faster-moving sister. We sit about chatting, drinking tea and eating cake. Slowly, as though drawn by an invisible magnetic field, the two little girls sidle towards the exercise bike. When they get close to it, Hannah, looking back to see if anyone is noticing, lifts off a hat and puts it on.

It is a large-brimmed hat in a brown woollen material, and it entirely envelops her head. She stands stock still, suddenly transformed into an oversized mushroom. Meanwhile, Sophie has selected a straw hat with a pink scarf round it, and is examining herself in the long mirror on the wall. Hannah, recovering from her surprise, throws off the brown hat and finds a black waterproof one decorated with a small flower, which she reaches up and places on her father.

Soon everybody is wearing hats.

Even the silly hat comes into play. It is a greyish-brown toque-like creation in stretchy fake fur, with a stripy Davy Crockett tail hanging down the back. Pete brought it back from a trip to the States—the hat is entirely useless in terms of light protection, but an excellent source of entertainment.

Sophie comes up to me and asks shyly, “What is your favourite hat?”

“That’s a very good question,” I say, and consider
the matter. Finally I pick out an oversized cap with a big peak, made of rich brown plush the colour of ginger cake. “This one. This is the one I like best.”

Sophie nods approvingly. “That is a good hat,” she says.

Despite their popularity with visiting children, my hats, worn on walks, have an unfortunate disadvantage. Dogs in general become excited by my presence; a sub-set of dogs, it turns out, have a particular susceptibility to hats.

Pete and I are getting out of the car one winter evening towards sunset, preparing to go for a walk in some snowy woods. We come across a man returning to his vehicle accompanied by a small, yappy dog. The dog takes one look at me, in my woollen, broad-brimmed hat, and launches itself at my throat.

Luckily, being a small dog, its powers of propulsion only take it to three or four times its actual height. I stand frozen with my back to a coppice of hazel as, barking fiercely, it bounces up and down to the level of my chest.

“Come here, Hugo,” the owner, a scruffy, oddly dressed type, says lackadaisically. Then, when the dog takes no notice, he says accusingly, “It’s your hat. He doesn’t like your hat.”

I smile weakly, expecting the man to call his dog off, but although he says, “Come here, Hugo,” a couple more times, and opens the boot of his car, the dog continues to bounce, like a rubber ball with curving, miniature claws.

“He doesn’t like hats,” the man says again.

“Look,” I say breathlessly, “I have to wear a hat for medical reasons. I would like to take it off, but I can’t.”

My heart is pounding and my legs are starting to shake; the dog seems to be gaining momentum, its snapping jaws getting closer to my face. Pete tries to distract it, and the man thumps the boot with his hand, calling it to get on board, but it is obsessed.

There is no one else in the tiny forest car park, a small tongue of mud and gravel off the side of a country road. Long yellow rays of low sun weave through the leafless trees; I feel them warm the back of my coat. I consider running, but I am standing on snow that has been compacted to lethal smoothness by many wheels and feet; the last thing I want to risk is a fall that would bring me within range of those teeth.

Despairingly I lift up my hand. I grasp the brim of my hat, and pull it down to my side, scrunching it in my fingers to try to conceal it from view. The sun encircles my head.

The dog subsides, barks cursorily a couple more times, jumps into the waiting boot. The man laughs, slams his door, and drives on his way. I replace the hat and we have our walk, but I do not escape the consequences: the next day, and several days afterwards, in the dark.

I ask everyone I know about dogs and hats. What is it that the dog thought it saw on top of my head? Or was it what it could not see—my eyes, perhaps, shadowed beneath the brim? The whole thing remains mysterious,
serving only to increase my circumspection when I am out and about, and some low leaping form appears in my field of view.

I did not have much interest in growing things, in the life before. Emerging from the darkness into a light-limited, largely housebound life, I look about for occupation, and discover the garden. Plants do not mind being attended to at dusk; in fact, where watering is concerned, they actively like it. So long as I can go outside at f4 or above, it’s safe to hack back branches and prune roses without risk to limbs. (I did try twilit weeding at f2, but, failing to distinguish leaf-shapes in the gloom, I unexpectedly grasped a nettle.)

The garden, when I first give it my attention, has been Pete’s for several years. It is full of low-maintenance trees and shrubs, chosen because they have good colour in autumn, abundant blossom in spring, interesting seed heads, or some other feature of photographic interest. I can appreciate a good seed head as much as the next person, but I instinctively feel that something is missing. Apart from a lovely apple tree of the variety “Reverend W. Wilkes,” which showers us most Augusts with huge, blushing cooking apples, there is nothing in the garden that we can EAT.

I start with herbs in pots. Then I move on to tomato plants in containers, potatoes in the old compost heap and Giant Russian sunflowers against the fence. Then I
order a small raised bed, and plant salad leaves, radishes, rocket and strawberries. My army of containers slowly marches across the patio, until it is occupied completely, and surrenders.