The House at Mermaid's Cove(16)
Native British plants fought for space with the tropical ones. Edging the stream that ran down to the cove were carpets of bluebells and wild garlic. Red campions, buttercups, and daisies sprouted in open patches between the trees. Tiny violets clung to the mossy banks of the path.
I paused to examine a strange group of plants that were stunted and brown, like an army of dwarfs. The tips of green leaves were beginning to protrude from the stumpy stalks, unfurling from their winter slumber. I’d never seen anything like them in Dublin.
“Giant rhubarb,” Jack called over his shoulder. “From South America. It’ll be six feet tall by June.”
As I hurried to catch up, I brushed against a branch, bringing a shower of petals down on my head. I caught the scent of them—something like vanilla with a hint of pepper. It reminded me of walking under the jacaranda trees in Katanga. In the Congo, spring came in September, and the lilac-blue jacaranda blossoms heralded the beginning of that season. Here it was camellias and rhododendrons—which I’d seen in Irish gardens, but never the size of these.
After a few minutes of walking I could no longer hear the gentle lap of the waves breaking in the cove. Instead I heard the splash of waterfalls and the calls of birds—wood pigeons, rooks, robins, blackbirds—nesting in the trees and bushes. I caught the bright flash of a jay as it darted through the branches. And from somewhere in the green canopy above my head came the sound of a woodpecker rapping on a tree trunk.
It gave me a giddy feeling, being able to see things without having to turn my head. Being without my nun’s wimple and veil was like seeing the world through a wide-angle lens.
“Are you all right? Foot not hurting?” Jack smiled as he turned to me. His mood seemed altogether better today.
“I’m fine, thanks.” I paused, breathing hard. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d walked uphill. My journeys in Africa had mostly been by car or by boat, with very little walking involved. “It’s so beautiful,” I said between breaths. “So peaceful.”
“It’s gone very wild, I’m afraid. We used to have a gardener with a team of men, but they’ve all gone off to war.”
“Where did all these plants come from?” I recognized the tree ferns and palms, but others were unknown to me.
“My family used to own a shipping agency in Falmouth. My ancestors commissioned ships’ captains to bring home seeds from all over the world.”
“What a wonderful idea—and how amazing that they can grow here.”
He nodded. “It’s unusually mild for England. The valley’s quite sheltered, but my great-great-grandfather planted trees to give the place even more protection from the southwesterlies we get here.” He pointed to a row of what looked like pine trees, their topmost branches piercing the sky. “They were planted the year Queen Victoria came to the throne. They’re Monterey pines, from California.”
As we climbed higher, I spotted a little church, half-hidden in the trees. Its walls were dotted with moss. As I glanced up at the metal cross on the roof, a swallow flew out of the porch. I didn’t need to ask if this was his church. The gravestones broadcast it loud and clear. I counted seven with the name “Trewella” within sight of the path. I would have liked to linger for a while. The stories graveyards tell have always fascinated me. But that would have to wait.
Through a gap in the branches of a scarlet rhododendron, I glimpsed another building, more substantial than the church, with ancient-looking walls of honey-colored stone and mullioned windows glinting in the sunlight.
“Is that your house?” I asked. It was much bigger than I’d imagined.
“That’s Penheligan.” He must have seen the expression on my face and guessed what I was thinking. “Like the valley, it’s seen better days,” he went on. “We only use part of it. The whole of the east wing is uninhabitable—the roof leaks and the floorboards have rotted.”
Now I understood why he’d said there was no room for me. The boathouse might smell of fish, but at least it had a sound roof and a solid floor.
The path leveled out, taking us through a phalanx of palm fronds, then out into the open, toward a pair of tall gates, each with a coat of arms of wrought iron. The shield bore an image I’d often seen in church buildings. It was a pelican pecking at its own breast, shedding drops of blood to feed the babies in its nest. It was a symbol of sacrifice—of a mother to her children and of Christ crucified. I shaded my eyes, trying to read the motto inscribed below.
Gever kyns dha honan. It wasn’t Latin or French.
“It’s Cornish,” Jack said when he saw my puzzled expression. “It means ‘Duty before thyself.’” He grunted. “Heck of a thing to live up to.”
Yes, I thought, insert the words to God, and you’d have something identical to one of the guiding principles of the order. It was a maxim I’d failed miserably to live up to.
Jack led me through the gates into a walled garden whose crumbling brickwork was dappled with sunlight. We passed through an avenue of trees—not as tall as the ones in the valley—some thick with blossom. I asked Jack what they were.
“These are pears, mostly. We have a few peach and cherry trees—and that one up against the wall is a fig,” he replied. “Those apples I brought you came from the orchard on the other side of the house. We had a bumper crop last autumn.”