“So how was it?”
Marin came into the house from her date with Joss and managed a tight smile. He’d walked her to the door, but there had been no warmth in it, no kiss or even a handshake. He’d waved goodbye and retreated quickly to his van. Somehow, over the course of the evening, it had all gone wrong.
“Fine.” Rebecca frowned, not fooled, and Marin shrugged off her coat. “Don’t ask me to tell you about it now, Rebecca, please. I’m too tired.”
“But something happened—”
“No, not really.” She didn’t know what had happened. One moment they’d been getting along, and the next Joss had been monosyllabic and wooden, retreating further and further from her. She must have said or done something that put him off, and she was too inexperienced and ignorant even to know what it was. “I’m going up to bed.” Rebecca’s face fell and Marin forced another smile. “Honestly, it’s fine, Rebecca. We had a nice enough time. I’m just not sure we’re suited. Please don’t worry.” Awkwardly she patted her sister’s hand before retreating thankfully to the solitude of her bedroom.
She caught her reflection in the mirror by the bed and winced at the dress, the hair. She still had some of the crimson lipstick on her mouth, making it stand out almost savagely on her pale face. She wiped it off and then pulled the pins from her hair, unzipped her dress. She wanted to forget it all.
So much for trying, she thought as she slipped into her pyjamas, and then into bed. So much for taking those small, hesitant steps into the land of the living. She closed her eyes, tucked her knees up to her chest. At least before she hadn’t had to deal with this uncertainty, this hurt.
The next morning she felt a bit battered, but she tried to be practical. She told herself she was overreacting, but the days passed and Joss didn’t appear. Rebecca went to school, and Marin occupied herself with her growing business – she had three new clients – and the garden. She’d stayed out of the garden for a day or two at first, because somehow it all felt ruined now, but then she decided she was being ridiculous. The garden was hers, and she’d enjoyed restoring it. It didn’t matter if she’d scared Joss away. She could still work on it.
So she hired a rotovator and spent three back-breaking days clearing the roots; the sight of all the churned-up black earth made her heart swell with pride even as she caught herself glancing at the garden door, waiting for Joss to appear. He didn’t.
She and Rebecca made a bonfire of all the brambles and roots in the corner of the garden; the Hattons came over and it felt like Guy Fawkes Day in the spring, the sky still light and streaked with clouds of rising smoke.
“What are you going to do with all this garden?” Jane asked as they glanced over at the freshly tilled, empty expanse, the bonfire casting dancing shadows across the earth.
“I don’t know. I could put it all to lawn, but that seems a bit boring. And I don’t think I have the resources to make a butterfly house.”
“No, that does seem a bit impractical,” Jane agreed with a smile. “But you could do some flower beds with plants that butterflies like. Attract them that way.”
“Yes…” She liked the thought of butterflies in the garden again, restoring it just a little to how it once was.
It was mid April, and the world was coming to life. The day after the bonfire Marin came in to find a clump of bluebells outside the garden door; they seemed to have appeared overnight. She transplanted them to the walled garden, nurturing the tender white bulbs, enjoying the way she was filling up the space, bit by bit.
Rebecca started to help her, shyly at first. They went to the garden centre and picked out seeds and bedding plants. Rebecca pointed out a few benches and a table she liked, and Marin bought it all. She felt reckless, defiant even. We can do this, her heart seemed to be saying. We can do this together, and we don’t need you.
But Joss wasn’t around to hear.
He’d been absent for nearly two weeks when Marin decided to go to the library in Whitehaven and see if she could find anything about the man in her photograph. She’d solve that mystery on her own too, without Joss’s help.
She spent several hours trawling through dusty boxes of donated letters and photographs in the library’s archives; her head was starting to hurt from deciphering the crabbed handwriting and the tiny type in the clippings. A librarian took pity on her after a couple of hours and asked if she was looking for something in particular.
“You might want to try the Archive and Local Studies Centre on Scotch Street,” she suggested. “They’ve got far more than we do – all the old parish records and census transcripts, and the newspapers as well. Most of it is on microfiche, so you won’t strain your eyes.”
Since she’d come this far, Marin decided she might as well keep going, and within half an hour she was ensconced in the Local Studies Centre, seated at a microfiche machine, blinking in the bright light as she scrolled through a decade’s worth of newspapers. It was easy to get caught up in the articles about the war and the local efforts to help, but resolutely she scrolled past them to 1919, the time of Eleanor Sanderson and the mystery gardener. She didn’t know what she expected to find; a gardener would hardly make the local paper. And yet she thought of that look of longing on his face and she kept scrolling.
When she found it, it took her a moment to realize what she was seeing: a photograph of the gardener, but this was a portrait of him in his army uniform, his hair brushed back with pomade, his face unsmiling and serious. But it was him, she was sure of it, and her gaze moved from the photograph on the front page of The Whitehaven News, 26 July 1919, to the blazing headline: LOCAL GARDENER ARRESTED FOR DESERTION.
Marin’s hand stilled on the machine as she scanned the article; realizing how important it all was, she forced herself to start back at the beginning and read more slowly:
The villagers of Goswell were shocked to discover a gardener and veteran had deceived many by pretending to be a soldier from the West Yorkshire Battalion. Going by the alias Jack Taylor, this scoundrel whose true name is John Bradford became dear to many until his nefarious deception was uncovered and he was shown to be the worst kind of coward, a deserter from the Second Northumbrian Division…
The language, for a newspaper article, seemed melodramatic and overblown, but she supposed that was a reflection of the times. And the reporter was clearly biased against this John Bradford, calling him a scoundrel. She wondered what other people had thought… what Eleanor Sanderson had thought.
Marin scrolled through several more months’ worth of newspapers, and she found a few more articles. The initial furore had died down and she read how John Bradford had been taken to Alnwick, where he would be court-martialled. The case seemed to have gripped the country, with people weighing in on both sides, some wanting leniency, others thinking he deserved the full measure of the law’s punishment. She scrolled down some more, but the microfiche roll ended before she found out what had happened to John Bradford, and when the staff assistant went to check, the next batch of newspapers available on microfiche was from two years later.
“What happened to those two years of newspapers?” Marin asked, and the woman shrugged in apology.
“We preserve as much as we can, but inevitably some things get lost or damaged.”
Frustrated and longing to know more, Marin headed outside. She felt too restless and keyed up by what she’d discovered to head straight home, so she wandered through the centre of town for a bit before ending up at a café on Lowther Street. She ordered a latte and sat at the table in the window, watching the world go by, her mind on John Bradford – or Jack Taylor, as he’d been known in Goswell.
What kind of man had he been? Marin realized that she’d assumed from the photograph that he’d been a man of some feeling and depth. She’d given Jack Taylor a character reference based on nothing more than a long-ago look. Perhaps he really had been the scoundrel the newspaper had made him out to be. Perhaps she’d read far too much into that look of Jack’s, just as she’d read too much into that look of affection on her father’s face – and Joss’s friendship.
It had been over two weeks since she’d seen him, although she’d glimpsed his van in the church lane. She’d got used to him coming round, helping her in the garden. There could be no doubt that he was avoiding her, that something had changed between them on that dinner date. She thought about confronting him, cornering him in the churchyard and demanding to know why he was keeping his distance, but everything in her cringed from doing something so obvious, so pathetic even. They’d gone on one date. It wasn’t as if they’d even had a relationship. It had just felt to her as if they had at least the beginnings of one.
She left the café and headed back to Bower House; Rebecca was already inside when she came in and dropped her keys on the kitchen table with a clatter.
“Where have you been?” she asked. She was sitting at the kitchen table, munching toast with chocolate spread and flipping through a teen magazine. The sight was so normal, so pleasant, that it took Marin out of her own gloomy mood for a few seconds.
“I was in town, doing some research,” she said, and went to fill the kettle.
“Research? On what?”
“The photograph of the girl and the gardener. Well, the gardener mainly, since we hadn’t found out who he was.”
“Hadn’t?” Rebecca repeated, her eyebrow rising. “And now you have?”
“Yes, but I almost wish I hadn’t.” Marin reached for a teabag, flinging it into a mug with a sigh. “Sometimes I think it’s better not knowing.”
“That doesn’t sound good.”
“It’s not the happy ending I was hoping for,” Marin agreed, and then she told Rebecca what she knew about Jack Taylor, or rather John Bradford, and his desertion.
Rebecca listened, wide-eyed, her knees clutched to her chest. “That’s terrible,” she said when Marin had finished. “But we studied World War I in history – the shell shock and trenches and stuff like that. It was awful for the soldiers. I don’t blame him for deserting.”
“Maybe not, but we’ll never even know why he deserted, or whether he was punished.”
“Would he have been executed, even after the war?”
“I don’t know.” Marin poured the boiling water into her mug and stirred slowly. “But that article in the newspaper was written on 26 July 1919 – that must have been soon after the photograph was taken. James Welton said it was from a fete that summer.”
“Maybe he knew he was going to lose her,” Rebecca said dreamily.
And while that seemed tragically romantic to a fifteen-year-old, Marin thought it just sounded terrible. She drank her tea and threw together a casserole for dinner; she’d become quite adept at making a quick meal and popping it in the Rayburn. Rebecca had gone upstairs to do her homework, and after prowling around the kitchen for a moment Marin decided to go outside. She started for the garden as a matter of habit, but suddenly she couldn’t face seeing it all, dealing with the memories that weren’t even hers.
She turned instead to the gap in the hedge where a gate had once been, leading to the churchyard and the vicarage gardens. She walked through the churchyard, the air brisk, the sun still high overhead even though it was nearing seven o’clock. She could see a few people in the distance, walking dogs on the path that ran along the sheep pasture. The pasture was full of sheep and their lambs that had been born in the last few months, gambolling little creatures with fleece like cotton wool.
Impulsively Marin left the churchyard and turned towards the beach; the wind kicked up as soon as she headed along the beach road, making her eyes stream and sting.
She hadn’t actually been to the beach very often since she’d moved to Goswell; now she walked along the concrete promenade that ran the length of the beach, the waves crashing against it, the wind whipping her hair around her face.
She stood on the edge of the promenade, entranced by the sheer power of the slate-grey sea. Waves crested white before crashing down with a thunderous roar, and the spray flecked her face. It was a glorious and powerful sight, and the fearsome beauty of it as well as the ever-present wind at her back made her take a sudden step forward, until her toes were touching the edge of the concrete.
Her mind was full of jumbled thoughts of Joss, of Jack Taylor, of her father. Of the past and the future and the choices people made – the choices she’d made, in coming here, in trying to reach out. Was she really going to step back now, and retreat into her shell? Her toes flexed instinctively, almost as if she were poised to jump. Then she felt a hard hand clamp down on her shoulder.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing?”
She whirled around, blinking in surprise to see Joss standing there, looking furious.
“I was just standing here,” she said defensively, and looking down she realized with a shock how close she was to the edge. “I didn’t realize…”
“I’ll say you didn’t realize.” He gestured to her boots, which were wet with spray. “You could have fallen right in, and with the way the wind is now, you wouldn’t have stood a chance.”
A tremor ran through her at the thought. “I’m sorry,” she said, and she didn’t quite know what she was apologizing for.
Joss’s thunderous look softened and he muttered, “I’m sorry, too.” And Marin didn’t know what he was apologizing for either. He nodded towards a bungalow perched just beyond the promenade. “Do you want to come in? I think you could do with a cup of tea.”
“All right,” Marin said, and followed him to the bungalow. It had no garden to speak of, just a strip of grass at the front that would be covered in water during a fierce storm. Joss opened the door and she stepped inside. It was a small, homely, cluttered place, but the picture window overlooking the sea made up for its size. “What a view,” she said. “I feel as if I’m suspended above the sea.”
“You almost are,” Joss answered, and went to the tiny galley kitchen in the back to put the kettle on. After a moment Marin followed him; the shock of the encounter was wearing off and she was remembering, rather painfully, how Joss had been avoiding her for the last two weeks. She thought she should mention it, ask him why, but the question stuck in her throat, the words feeling jagged and sharp.
“I’m sorry for avoiding you,” Joss said abruptly, and Marin nearly sagged in relief that he’d got there first.
“Why have you been?” she asked, and that question felt easier, although she still had to brace herself for the answer.
Joss didn’t say anything for a moment; his back was to her as he stared out the window to the muddy patch of grass behind the bungalow, facing the headland.
“Because I’m a coward,” he finally said, “and I didn’t want to have to tell you about my past, especially after what you told me.”
This was so not what Marin had expected that she didn’t say anything for a few seconds. Joss turned around.
“At dinner. When you mentioned how your father and his wife died.” His face was both shuttered and grim, and Marin shook her head slowly.
“I don’t understand.”
“I know you don’t. But the truth is, I’ve kept something from you. I’m surprised no one in the village has told you, actually. Every time I came to see you I was bracing myself for you to have heard. I suppose people can keep their mouths shut when they want to.”
“What did you think I would have heard?”
He sighed, and as the kettle whistled he switched it off and poured their tea. “I was in prison,” he stated flatly. “I was released three years ago.”
Marin blinked. “Prison…” she repeated slowly. “What… what for?”
His expression hardened and his gaze slid away. “For involuntary manslaughter. It was a light sentence, really, for what I did.”
Manslaughter. She opened her mouth, but no words came out. With a heavy sigh Joss continued. “I told you I never really got on with my father. He wanted me to settle down and work with him, but I wanted to… oh, I don’t even know what I wanted any more. To see the world, to have fun, to be stupid.” He shook his head wearily and handed Marin her mug of tea, cradling his own in his hands. “In any case, I refused. He took on more jobs, worked harder than a man his age should have to. And then he had a heart attack while digging up someone’s flower bed and died.”
“Oh Joss, I’m so sorry.”
“I blamed myself. I felt as if everyone blamed me, although I don’t know if that was true or not.” He lapsed into silence and Marin frowned.
“But that’s not manslaughter,” she said slowly.
“No.” Joss gazed down into his mug. “At my father’s funeral – well, at the gathering afterwards – I drank too much. I wasn’t over the limit, but it was close. And I drove too fast on my way home and hit an eight-year-old girl.” His throat worked, his gaze turning bleak. “She died instantly.”
Marin’s mouth dropped open. “Oh, Joss…” she began, and then stopped. She didn’t know what to say, what she could say.
“She darted out from behind a car. Someone saw that, apparently, which is why I got a lighter sentence. It could have happened to anyone, my defence counsel said. But I’d been going too fast, there was no question. I killed her.”
“And you served your sentence.”
“Three years out of five.” He sighed. “And I came back here because I felt like I needed to face everyone. I didn’t want to run away, and I wanted to keep my father’s business going. But…” He looked up at her, his gaze bleaker than ever. “But nothing changes what I did. Nothing will bring that little girl back.”
“I know.” She swallowed hard and continued. “I can’t imagine what it’s like to live with that, Joss. To deal with it.”
“It’s something I’ll never forget. Never escape.”
“And that – that’s why you’ve avoided me?”
“I wanted to tell you, but then when you told me your father had been killed by a drunk driver…” He shrugged helplessly. “How could you ever see past what I did?”
“It’s not the same—”
“Isn’t it?”
“I don’t know,” she said after a moment, honestly. “I don’t know anything any more. But it doesn’t seem right to punish us both for something that happened a long time ago, something you’ve already paid for.”
“How can you see past it?”
“I’ve lived with a lot of hurt and anger over the way my father treated me,” Marin said. “And I don’t want to live that way any more. I don’t want to hide away with nothing but my own hurt to keep me company.”
“Even so—”
“I’m not the one who needs to forgive you, Joss,” Marin said quietly. “You need to forgive yourself. Or maybe ask the family of that little girl to forgive you. Maybe that will help everyone move on.”
“I did that,” Joss said after a moment. “After I got out of prison. And they were…” His voice thickened, and he swallowed. “Very gracious.”
“Then perhaps you need to be gracious,” she said quietly. “To yourself.”
“It feels like it shouldn’t be that easy.”
“I didn’t say it was easy.”
He gave her a ghost of a smile then and suddenly, inexplicably, Marin felt near to tears. “I wish you’d told me this before,” she said, her voice choking. “Do you know how miserable I’ve been these last two weeks?”
“Oh, Marin.” He pulled her into a hug, and she rested her cheek against the rough wool of his jumper and closed her eyes. “I told you I was a coward,” he whispered, and kissed her hair. “I’m sorry.”
“So am I. For a lot of things.”
They remained like that for a moment, and then Marin eased back. “I found out about our mystery gardener,” she said, and Joss raised his eyebrows in expectation. “It’s not a very nice story,” she said. “But maybe, just maybe, they still found their happy ending somehow.” Maybe happy endings could be found, even through the grief and loss and pain.
“Tell me,” Joss said, and so she did.