The White Garden: A Novel of Virginia Woolf

Chapter Twenty-Seven

PETER SLEPT LATE WEDNESDAY, AND SAT ALONE over tea and toast in the cavernous dining room of the University Arms hotel, a decidedly gloomy Victorian pile that overlooked a sward of green just off Regent Street in Cambridge. The place was half empty, the hallways echoing, but they had settled on it without debate the previous night as the most obvious place to fall into their separate beds.

Jo’d been rather quiet after the Indian curry, and Peter suspected she was worrying about her client again. Reviewing his own high-handed behavior during the past few days, he was awash in guilt; there was no other way to describe his miserable feeling. Guilt was the British national disease, after all, the baseline emotion beaten into every public schoolboy, and he’d carried it abjectly from childhood straight into his relationship with Margaux at Oxford — something she’d taken for granted and knew how to use. Whenever he was uncomplicatedly happy — as now — a shadow of doubt would loom, a gnawing conviction that the bubble must burst as a result of his stupidity and self-indulgence. He’d selfishly seized on this lark as an escape from boredom. Jo, however, had come to England with a job to do — and he’d prevented her from doing it. He might even get her fired.

It was absurd, in the clear light of day, to consider chasing south to Rodmell, much less his harebrained plan of invading the Monk’s House garden under cover of darkness. They would both be arrested. And Jo wasn’t even a British subject! The consequences might be dreadful.

No, Peter thought — compelling as the adventure was, it could not go on. When she came down to breakfast, he’d offer to drive Jo straight back to London. He poured a third cup of tea, found it was lukewarm and bitter when he tasted it, and set it aside. Life was so damnably depressing.

And then his head came around as unconsciously he recognized her step on the marble flooring. She was wide awake, showered, her hair falling loose about her shoulders for the first time since he’d met her; and she’d changed her clothes.

She’d changed her clothes.

“Morning,” he said, rising from his chair. “You look fresh.”

“I’ve been out shopping.” She was smiling ecstatically. “New underwear, Peter. New jeans. A silk sweater. I paid a fortune for this stuff, given the exchange rate — but I don’t even care. It’s like… rain after a day of heat. Pure bliss.”

Pure bliss. New underthings. He found he was blushing, imagining Jo with her long hair down, in the bath, of all places.

“You look smashing,” he managed. “Tea?”

She shook her head. “I found a Starbucks in town. Let’s check out of this place and go already!”

And at the sight of her happiness, he hadn’t the heart to tell her it was over. He merely paid his bill, stowed her shopping in the Triumph’s boot, and pointed its nose toward Rodmell.

IT WAS THREE HOURS BEFORE THEY DROPPED OFF THE A27 near Kingston and slowed to a creeping pace as they entered the village of Rodmell. Rape fields lapped the handful of cottages, a few of them old enough to be half-timbered and thatched. Beech trees lined the fields; a gray, square-sided church tower pierced the distance. The soft, huddled shape of the South Downs rose behind. Children were at play in the schoolyard as the clock slid past noon, their high, piping voices calling as unintelligibly as cranes through the village stillness.

“There’s the pub,” Peter told Jo. “The Abergavenny Arms. Quite old, actually, and known for really smashing house ales. We turn left into The Street — that’s what they call this main road through Rodmell — and Monk’s House is perhaps half a mile on.”

It was a clear autumn day, crisp, with no hint of rain, not even a mass of clouds over the Downs. Stiff from the drive, Jo said, “Let’s walk.”

They left the car near the pub and set out together up The Street. Nothing seemed more natural than Peter taking Jo’s hand as they paced down the verge. “I love this sort of place,” he said. “I don’t know Sussex well, but one finds these smallish villages all over England, despite the ugliness of Town Councils and public works; and they call to me. Rather as I imagine gardens call to you.”

“Then why don’t you get out of London?”

He smiled faintly. “How would I live?”

“Cook. You know you want to. Just make a plan,” Jo answered sensibly. “Figure out how much money you need to set up a restaurant in a destination spot — one like this, only maybe not this exactly, but a village with some kind of draw. Tourists or weekenders. Antiques hunters. University people. That sort of thing. And just… go for it. Peter’s Place.”

“You make it sound so simple.”

“I started my own business.” She shrugged. “I know that it’s not simple. But I also know the more effort it takes, the more you love the result. You’ve got to follow your bliss, Peter. Not just do what you’re told.”

“I don’t know.…” He let go of her hand. “I was never good at… risk-taking. It’s not my strength. Margaux was always the one who walked out on a limb; my job was to make sure the tree never fell.”

“And so you’re still standing here, solid as a rock, while she’s skipped off into thin air?” Jo asked quietly.

He turned and, without warning, kissed her. It was unexpectedly fierce, that kiss: filled with a lifetime of Peter’s dreams and guilt and longing. Jo’s knees gave way and her breath suddenly stopped in her throat. Her hands came up to his shoulders.

“Jesus,” she breathed. “Where did that come from?”

“Sorry.”

He would have walked on, drooping with embarrassment, but she grasped his wrist. “Don’t. That was wonderful. I’d hate it if you never did it again.”

Wordlessly, he reached for her.

A passing car honked irritably as it swerved to avoid them.

MONK’S HOUSE, TO THEIR DISAPPOINTMENT, WAS CLOSED.

“Damn,” Peter said. “At least we know Margaux hasn’t been here.”

“Can we get into the garden?”

He glanced over his shoulder. “Not without an audience.”

It was true that the place was completely exposed to the wondering eyes of Rodmell folk. The house sat right up next to The Street, separated only by a narrow flint wall backed with shrubs. The wall was topped with rounded bricks, and reached only to hip height; Jo could easily imagine swinging over it in the darkness. There was a plain wooden gate with a sign that proclaimed the house’s name; the building itself was faced in white clapboard, with double-hung windows, shutterless, and a right-angled front entry jutting out like a carbuncle. It reminded her of the Federal farmhouses of the Delaware Valley; a place of simple elegance and sufficiency. It was decidedly unlike the flamboyance of Charleston. And that told her something about the sisters, Vanessa and Virginia.

“It’s really all about the garden, which you can’t see from here,” Peter murmured in her ear. “Leonard Woolf was an avid horticulturalist. Started the local society, and so on. Greenhouses, beehives, vegetable plots, an orchard. To say nothing of the flowers. There’s even a bowls lawn.”

“A what?”

He grinned at her. “Like boccie or pétanque, only with a straightforward British name. Perhaps we should walk round to the back, by the church and school — they run alongside Monk’s House. We might find a better view.”

Trying not to appear conspicuous, they walked. The way led them by the old Norman church and its wide-open, sunlit plot of ground, dotted with graves. The sound of children’s voices from the school next door had faded. Presumably the lads and lasses of Rodmell had gone back to their books.

“See the hedge?” Peter pointed. “It borders the bowls lawn. There used to be two elm trees growing in the middle of it — one called Virginia, and the other, Leonard. They leaned toward each other, as though seeking comfort.”

“What happened to them?” Jo asked, her voice hushed.

“Virginia’s blew down in a gale sometime after her death. Leonard’s died, I think, of Dutch elm disease.”

Jo looked at Peter. “And?”

“Leonard buried his wife’s ashes under the tree called Virginia.”

“April 1941. Rodmell.”

“Yes.”

She drew a deep breath. “How will we find the spot, now the tree’s gone?”

“The memorial plaque is still there. With a quotation from her novel The Waves.”

Jo sighed. “It all looks so beautiful — as though someone still lives here.”

“Somebody does,” said a voice behind them.

They turned.

A young girl with ill-cut, sandy-colored hair was easing herself out of a red Austin. She was holding a grocery bag and had a purse slung over her shoulder; keys dangled from one hand. “There are caretakers. Full-time. Only they’re not home at present. I’m house-sitting for the house-sitters. They’re friends of my parents.”

“Ah,” Peter said. “That’s helpful, thank you. It looks… very well tended.”

“Better than when the Wolves were here. That’s what I call them. Leonard and Virginia. They were perpetually short on funds. Used an earth closet, if you can believe it — no running water. All the effort went into the garden.” She set the grocery bag on the bonnet of the car and went round to the boot. Peter and Jo exchanged glances. Time to scarper.

The girl was engaged in lifting a suitcase to the ground. Another was firmly wedged near the spare tire.

“Can we be of help?”

“That’d be brilliant — thanks.”

Peter hefted the second case from the boot, took the other in his free hand, and said smoothly, “Lead on.”

She led.

There was a back gate to the property, and a path to a second gate in the walled garden; she opened this with some difficulty, the iron hasp being long since rusted into obduracy. “It’s just through here,” she said. “You can drop the cases at the back door — I’ll fetch them in.”

Peter set down the luggage carefully on the brick path and dusted his hands. Jo was trailing along behind, her eyes on the autumnal remains of the mixed borders. Leonard’s tastes had run to the exotic, it seemed — if indeed the plantings were representative of those that had grown in his day.

“Unfortunate that the house is closed,” Peter remarked. “We drove down from Cambridge on purpose to see it.”

“Cambridge? Which college?”

“King’s,” Jo said automatically.

“I’ve a mate at Magdalene,” the girl offered. “I’m Lucy, by the way.”

“Peter. And that’s Jo.” He held out his hand. “Well, we won’t keep you. Enjoy your time here.”

“Thanks. I’ll probably be stark, staring mad in another week — they’ll have to scrape me off the floor of the Arms.”

“Not keen on solitude?”

She stared at him, her lips slightly parted. “In this place? It’s the end of the earth. I only agreed to house-sit again because I had the loan of the car. As soon as I start talking to myself, I’m off to Lewes for the evening.”

“Smashing,” Peter murmured. “Well, Jo, it’s a pity we came on the wrong day — but we’ll just have to see the place on your next trip to England.”

“Whenever that is,” Jo mourned. She gave Lucy a brave smile.

“Are you American?” the girl asked.

“Yes. I’m from L.A.,” Jo invented, remembering Ter. “California. Hollywood. You’ve heard of it?”

“I should say so!” Lucy said scornfully. “Not that I think much of the place, mind. The way those people treat poor Posh and Becks. It’s inhuman.”

“He should never have left West Ham,” Peter observed.

“You mean Manchester United.”

“Yes, well, I’m heading back tomorrow,” Jo persisted. “And the whole point of my trip, really, was to see Virginia’s house.”

“You’re having me on,” Lucy said.

As they were undoubtedly lying through their teeth, Jo was momentarily flummoxed by this comment, but Peter said hastily, “It’s true. Jo’s life dream has been to stand in this very spot. She’s a writer, you know.”

“Oh. Books,” said Lucy dispiritedly.

“Movies, actually. That’s why I live in LA. We’re thinking of doing something on Virginia. Sort of like The Hours, only less…”

“Dreary.” The girl eyed Jo suspiciously, as if uncertain whether to believe her, and said: “Ever met Brangelina, then?”

Jo shook her head regretfully. “But my friend’s niece was one of their nannies. They have several, you know.”

“Well, they would, wouldn’t they?”

“Jo, we really should be going.” Peter’s voice was that of the long-suffering Englishman forced to endure more Hollywood gossip than anyone should, over the past few days.

Lucy licked her lips and glanced hurriedly over one shoulder, as though the ghost of the Woolfs might be watching. “Look, if you’d like to come in for a few minutes — it seems a shame, you’ve come all this way…”

“Really?” Jo cried. Without waiting for an answer, she bounded forward and hugged the girl impulsively. “You’re just too sweet. I’ll never forget this. It’ll make my whole trip worthwhile!”

“I’ve always wanted to see California, myself,” Lucy said. Her cheeks were flushed and hectic, like a nineteenth-century consumptive’s.

IT WAS A SMALL, LOW-CEILINGED PLACE LIT BY ONLY A FEW windows; and the pervading sense was of green: green shadows, green walls, faded wood the color of slate, chairs sagging from use. It was a restful house; but inescapably of a period — impossible to imagine Lucy’s friends truly living here. It was probable, Jo thought, that the caretakers had a modern apartment somewhere on the premises. It would not do to betray nosiness, and ask.

Lucy was chattering on about a Jennifer — there were so many possibilities with that name, it might be Lopez or Aniston; Jo murmured something about Madonna, and diverted her immediately.

A succession of tables filled the sitting room; Jo could imagine books stacked and spread out to be read, or manuscript pages fluttering. A pot of tea and a plate of something simple — Virginia was a notoriously spare eater, an anorexic, probably. There was a poky old kitchen and two bedrooms. Virginia’s sitting room was closed to the public.

“In good weather, she liked to write in what she called the Lodge — the old gardener’s hut at the bottom of the garden,” Peter murmured.

Jo followed his gaze through the back window and saw it: a perfect little room of one’s own, with a porch.

“One of the suicide notes was found there. On her desk.”

“Why kill yourself,” Jo asked wistfully, “when you’ve got all this?”

Lucy was hovering, probably regretting her impulse to let them in; Jo smiled at her encouragingly. “Who’s your favorite British actor?”

And received a disquisition on several raffish young men of dubious sexual orientation.

Peter was bent over a glass case, studying some pictures. There were albums, too, all of them very old. “Jo,” he said. “Still have that photocopy from Charleston?”

“The mural?”

“The group snap.”

She fished in her purse and drew it out.

“I thought so. There’s another version of the same people displayed here — only they’re named, this time.”

She looked from her photograph to Peter’s. It was dated 1936. Quentin Bell, Maynard Keynes, she read; Roger Fry, Clive Bell, Julian Bell, Anthony Blunt. The final figure was Leonard Woolf; thin and spare even in his middle period, his nose strong as a ship’s prow, his hair swept back from a broad forehead. The most interesting face in the bunch — besides Virginia’s suffering one.

“Lucy,” Peter said firmly, “you’ve been too lovely — but we mustn’t trespass any longer. Enjoy your evening in Lewes. Try not to go mad amongst all these ghosts.”

“I won’t charge you entry fees,” the girl said tentatively. “It being a Closed Day. I wouldn’t like to have to explain to the Trust.”

“Very right,” Peter agreed. He slipped her a ten-pound note. “Have a pint or two at the Arms, won’t you? With our thanks?”