The Last Garden in England(97)

She looked at his hand outstretched as though it was the most alien request she’d ever heard. But, after a moment, she let herself be gently pulled to her feet. Father Devlin released his grip on the back of the chair that balanced him and retrieved his crutches. They began a careful walk out of the room.

Down the stairs, Diana held her head up high as nurses and patients looked up and stared. She must appear to them as a ghost, the unwanted reminder of senseless tragedy.

Still Diana walked on, following the priest through the French doors and down the steps into the tea garden.

She squinted in the afternoon sun. This was her first time out of doors since Robin’s death, and the garden was in the midst of its autumnal transformation. Roses were going to hips, and tall grasses were beginning to throw up their willowy buds. The air was crisp, layered with the damp scent of rotting leaves. In a matter of weeks, the trees would begin to change and all of Highbury would begin to go to sleep except the winter garden.

The winter garden.

“Where are we going?” she asked.

“I think you know,” said Father Devlin.

Reflexively, she put out a hand to stop him. “No. I can’t. It’s too soon.”

The priest shifted his crutches to pat her hand. “I would not do anything that I didn’t think you were strong enough to handle. Trust me.”

She did trust him, so she forced her breathing steady. When they rounded the winter garden’s brick wall, she stopped. On the pathway just inside the winter garden’s gate sat Bobby. He held one of Robin’s tin lorries, silently driving it across the path.

“It’s meant to be locked,” she said.

“I imagine some well-intentioned person put the keys back where you usually keep them. He comes here every afternoon after school and sits in this same spot. When it begins to become dark, he locks the gate again and goes in to his aunt.”

Diana didn’t say anything, watching the little boy. Miss Adderton had been right. All the spark and life that would flash across his face when he and Robin would play at marauding pirates or soldiers was gone. He was too quiet, eyes too solemn.

“I asked Bobby why he comes here, and he says that it’s because Robin told him that this was their special place.” Father Devlin paused. “Do you know what I see when I look at him? I see a little boy who has lost his best friend. He is too young to understand it isn’t his fault. He’s seen far more than his fair share of tragedy already. He has no father, no mother, and now no best friend. His aunt seems overwhelmed by the responsibility of taking care of him. If someone doesn’t do something, this little boy might just grow up thinking that he doesn’t have a place. A purpose.”

She watched Bobby in silence for a moment, rubbing at her left forearm. She thought of what she would hope for Robin if he were the little boy playing alone on the pathway. She thought about what she’d told Father Devlin about her own life. It’s purposelessness.

Slowly she crossed the path to Bobby. The grass must have muffled her steps because he didn’t look up until she was right in front of him, his hand still clutching the red lorry.

“Hello, Bobby,” she said.

“Hello,” he muttered, and went back to rolling the lorry along its invisible path.

She frowned and crouched down. “What are you doing?”

“Playing lorries,” he said softly. She remembered this little voice from when she’d first met him in the kitchen. He’d seemed so small and meek, nothing like Robin’s best friend.

“How did you get into the garden?”

Fearful, he looked up at her. “I didn’t steal the key. I put it back.”

She placed a gentle hand on his shoulder. “It’s all right, Bobby. I’m not angry. I just want to know why.”

“When me and Robin were pirates, we would go into Blackbeard’s lair and take the key and then come here to look for buried treasure. Only we never found it. We had to take the key back or we might get in trouble.”

She smiled. “That’s very clever of you making sure to put it back exactly where you found it. And did you ever find buried treasure?”

He shook his head.

“Why aren’t you looking for your treasure now?” she asked.

He looked up at her, his big hazel eyes filling with tears. “Robin had the map.”

The little boy began to cry heaving sobs. The pressure in Diana’s own chest built, pushing against her heart until her own tears flowed free. Her first instinct was to run, but then she looked at the child laying prostrate on the ground. She couldn’t leave him.

She began to see a path with such clarity it seemed incredible she hadn’t thought of it before. But right now, the only thing that mattered was comforting her son’s best friend.

“Bobby,” she choked out, “I would like a hug. Would you like one as well?”

The little boy half crawled into her lap and buried his face in her chest.





? VENETIA ?


FRIDAY, 18 OCTOBER 1907

Highbury House

This morning, Mrs. Creasley told me unbidden that it is the eighteenth, which means I have been a prisoner for two weeks.

Each morning, she comes with a tray. Then she helps me dress and sits me in a chair, facing the window. I stare at the garden for hours, the birds and insects flitting around before me as they do their autumnal work. I do not sketch. I do not read. I am buried too deep in the pain of the loss.