Without Reservations (16 page)

“Good morning,” Sarah said, turning around. “Quite the fresh day, isn’t it?” I noticed she and Victoria wore almost identical outfits: dark tailored slacks and sweater sets, one yellow, the other
pink. “This is Angela Martinelli,” she said, introducing me to the woman at the wheel of the car.

Angela turned and held out her hand. “So you’re the American I’ve been hearing about. How nice to meet you.” Something about the way she said this, the warmth and wry tone of her voice, made me like Angela. Angela was not wearing slacks and a sweater set. Angela, looking as sleek as a greyhound with her white hair pulled back and tied with a black ribbon, wore what looked like khaki jodhpurs and a crisp white cotton shirt.

“Well then, ladies, we’re off,” she said. Then, affecting a Bette Davis voice, she added, “Fasten your seatbelts, it’s going to be a bumpy night.”

Bette Davis! From
All About Eve
, one of my favorite movies! Now this is a woman after my own heart, I thought, as the big boxy car moved soundlessly out from the curb and into the stream of traffic.

Although the drive to Sissinghurst took about two hours, it seemed much shorter. But then time always telescopes when you put four women together who are eager to share what’s on their minds.

On the way Sarah talked about the creation of the Sissinghurst gardens. “They were really designed to function as outdoor rooms, walled in by hedges and enclosures. And the White Garden was where the family dined.” But it was the garden’s creators—Sir Harold Nicolson, a diplomat, and his wife, writer Vita Sackville-West—that interested me most.

“It was a most unconventional but remarkable marriage,” Sarah continued, explaining that Vita had engaged in passionate affairs
with a number of women. But despite this, the marriage held. “Restoring Sissinghurst, I think, played a large role in keeping Vita and Nicolson together. You might say the gardens became the object of Vita’s passion.”

“Well, not
completely,”
Victoria broke in. “Wasn’t there something in that biography of Virginia Woolf about an affair with Vita before the war? One that ended when Vita grew tired of Virginia?”

“Well, I guess gardens can only go so far in the passion department,” Angela said.

“And how would you know?” Sarah asked wryly. “It’s not as though you’ve ever gardened.”

“No. But we’ve all got our Sissinghursts, haven’t we? Our secret gardens that replace some lost passion in our lives. My Sissinghurst, I suspect, is salmon fishing.”

I was struck by Angela’s honesty. And by her willingness to share such an intimate observation. It seemed very brave. What was my Sissinghurst? I wondered. The answer was not difficult: my writing. The search for an elegant way to explain something in words—what I thought of as the physics of writing—still thrilled me.

At the gardens Sarah acted as our guide, leading us through the breathtaking estate that had been nothing more than a series of deteriorating sixteenth-century buildings when Vita and Harold purchased it in 1930. Now there were lawns, orchards, and a lake. And, of course, the famous gardens. The Rose Garden. The Sunken Garden. The Cottage Garden. And the one everyone came to see: the White Garden, known for its flowers and fragrances.

“Quite likely it’s the most copied garden in the world,” Sarah said, leading us through a landscape of drifting, fragrant whiteness. White snapdragons. White roses. White peonies. White irises. White geraniums. White lilies. White poppies. It was like walking through a field of snow flurries.

We strolled through the garden more or less in silence, four women, each with her own thoughts. But later, as Angela and I followed the other two women back to the car, she asked me what I thought of Sissinghurst.

“I was trying to imagine what it would be like to live here and walk through the White Garden in moonlight.”

“Quite lovely, I suppose, in a ghostly sort of way,” Angela replied. “I know you’ll think me mad, but standing in the garden I was thinking about my last fishing trip.”

“And what did you think?” I asked.

“Oh, that standing in a stream always gives me a feeling of connection.”

“Connection to what?”

“To myself, I suppose. To the person inside who’s been there for as long as I can remember.”

I was intrigued and wanted to know more about the person inside Angela. But by this time we had reached the car, where Victoria and Sarah stood waiting.

It was about seven o’clock when the maroon Bentley glided to a stop in front of my apartment building. “It was a marvelous day, wasn’t it?” Victoria said. “But I’m dead tired.”

We were all dead tired. And comfortable enough with each other to admit it, thereby eliminating any halfhearted suggestion about going on to dinner. But tomorrow was another day, and Victoria, the Scarlett O’Hara of the group, always planning something, came up with an idea.

“I’ve heard of an absolutely fantastic production of
Pride and Prejudice
going on in London this month.” A theater company in town, she told us, was presenting an adaptation of Jane Austen’s book in various historic houses around London. “It will be like watching the Bennets in their own drawing room,” Victoria said.

The idea appealed to all of us immediately. It was just a matter of finding out when and where the performances were scheduled, a task Victoria eagerly accepted.

Two days later, she called to ask if the following Thursday suited me. It did. “We’re going to have a light supper over on Walton Street before the play,” Victoria said, referring to a charming street tucked away behind the Brompton Road just near my flat.

“That sounds lovely,” I told her, parroting the phrase that by now was etched into my brain.

The performance of
Pride and Prejudice
took place at an historic house near Greenwich Park in the southeast section of London. Victoria had been right; listening to the drawing-room conversations between Elizabeth Bennet and Mr. Darcy in such a setting engaged the imagination in ways not possible in a regular theater. The production was delightful and I was thoroughly enjoying myself when, near the end of the play, a sharp, throbbing headache appeared. Ten minutes later, a queasy feeling began to come and go.

The cause of my distress puzzled me. I’d felt fine at dinner and had not eaten or drunk anything likely to account for my symptoms. I tried to concentrate on the play, telling myself the feelings would pass. But they didn’t. Later, when it was suggested we have a drink, I said nothing to the others about feeling ill, saying instead I was way behind in my letter-writing and would pass on the drink.

It was a wise decision. By the time I unlocked the door to my flat, the headache was so bad I could barely see. I turned on one small light in the foyer—any light brighter than that made me feel dizzy—and managed, just, to undress myself, take some aspirin, and crawl into bed. Automatically, I turned on the radio on the nightstand. It had become a habit to fall asleep listening to the “chat” shows that ran throughout the night on London radio. And, I figured, if ever I needed someone to help get me through the night, this was it.

I slept fitfully, waking every hour or so to the sound of disconnected bits of conversation coming from the radio.
Pruning of flowering shrubs is best done after the blooming season.… Your puppy should be spayed at eight months.… Having sexual relations twice a week is not unusual for couples in their seventies.…
In between, I dreamed. Jumbled-up, nonsense dreams that patched together bits and pieces of my life, past and present, into surreal vignettes.

When I heard a phone ringing I wasn’t sure if I was dreaming or if I was awake. Slowly, though, I realized it wasn’t part of a dream; someone really was on the other end of the line, trying to reach me. But did I have the strength to answer it? With great effort I rolled over in the direction of the night table and picked up the receiver.

It was Angela. She was calling to say, in a voice shot through with wry amusement, that I should be on my guard, that Sarah and Victoria had discussed dueling schemes after dropping me off the night before. “Sarah wants to go to Hidcote Gardens and Victoria’s keen for Bath. What do you think?”

I tried to sound as normal as possible, telling Angela I was a little under the weather and would have to take a rain check. But my voice, so weak that it was almost unintelligible, did not fool Angela.

“You sound awful. I’m coming over,” she said, brushing aside my halfhearted protests.

The truth is, I was relieved to know she was on her way. And very glad that it was Angela who was coming.

“You look ghastly,” Angela said when she arrived, skipping any polite pretense about my appearance. Ordinarily, I considered such things important—keeping up appearances, no matter how difficult, affecting an attitude of self-sufficiency, not letting on when I was feeling ill, etc., etc., etc. But when the body fails as mine had, regression seizes the opportunity it’s been waiting for: to push aside the adult and let the child—in my case the sick child—take over. I yielded to Angela’s ministrations.

To my surprise, she knew her way around a sickroom. She took my temperature—“Up, but not too bad,” she said, dispensing a dose of aspirin—then moved me to the other twin bed while she changed the sheets. Then she handed me fresh night clothes and a cool washcloth, crushed some ice, pouring it over the Coke syrup she’d brought with her, darkened the room and, finally, checked the medicine cabinet and pantry to see what was there.

“I’m calling Victoria to bring over some things from the chemist and the grocer. You should try to get some sleep,” Angela said. She left the bedroom, leaving the door behind her slightly ajar. Exhausted by the morning’s activities I quickly dozed off.

I awoke to the low, musical sound of women’s voices in the living room. As I listened through the half-open door to the soft, blurred conversation, its slow cadences as reassuring to me as a cool hand on my brow, I thought of Mother and Grandmother, talking at night on the porch just beneath my window. I looked at the clock; a little after one in the afternoon. I checked myself out by trying to
sit up in bed. But even raising my head required more energy than I had. It also produced a wave of dizziness that sent me scurrying back to my pillow.