The White Garden: A Novel of Virginia Woolf

Chapter Forty

IT WAS A ROLL OF PAPER, TIED WITH MORE TWINE. Fingers shaking, Jo slipped the string from the roll.

“Careful,” Margaux said sharply over her shoulder. “There’ll be damp.”

There was damp. The pages — each no bigger than the palm of Jo’s hand — were closely scrawled in lead pencil that had faded over the years. She played the penlight’s beam over them — it was now quite dark — and said, “It looks like Jock’s handwriting.”

“Let’s go inside,” Imogen said brusquely. “You can’t read that out here. Ter, take care of the Virgin, will you?”

Peter helped right the statue before they left the White Garden. Jo waited; it did not seem fair, after their long hunt, to steal a march on Peter. She kept the bundle of paper swaddled in the ancient glove as they trekked back to the Powys Wall.

Terence parted from them at Imogen’s office. “If there’s nothing else, I’ll be off.…”

“Go on, then,” Imogen ordered.

Jo reached for him impulsively and hugged him. “If you ever give up your dream of L.A., I’d be happy to see you in Delaware. And thanks, Ter. For all your help.”

“S’nothing. Come by the pub later and we’ll pull a pint.” He grinned at them and disappeared in the direction of the greenhouses.

Jo set the garden glove carefully on the staff table. Peter peered at the bundle.

“Cigarette papers. Can you believe it? Must’ve been the only paper he had. Did your grandfather smoke?”

“Not to my knowledge.”

“Everybody rolled their own during the war years. Even Vita,” Margaux observed. Then her expression changed. “My God — I bet those are Vita’s cigarette papers.”

“ — The habit of stealing being one that runs in the Bellamy family,” Imogen said dryly. “But don’t admit it too loudly. You’d have to hand over that packet to the Trust.”

Peter glanced at Jo. “You can decipher the script. Why don’t you read this aloud?”

“I’ll make tea,” Imogen suggested. “It’s downright cold now we’ve turned the corner to November. Sorry I’ve nothing stronger.” It was a peace offering; and she seemed remarkably unconcerned about setting limits on their access, now they’d actually found something in the Little Virgin.

Jo drew out a chair and took the first small sheet between her fingers.

2 April 1941

The worse bit about living on your own is that there’s nobody to talk to. If it were home, I’d say, Da the Lady’s come and asked me to keep something for her, and he’d say, Give it here, then, Jock, there’s a good lad, and that’d be an end to it. Or Mum would say, Poor old dear, she’s a bit wanting in the upstairs, isn’t she? You’d best tell Miss Vita. And so I’d go and do that. But there’s no one. I could write to Mum and ask but I’d never write to Da; he’d be that put out at me acting foolish. When you’re man enough to work and live on your own among the gentry, you’re man enough to know what to do with the puzzles they put in your hands.

Besides, I like the Lady. She’s daft, right enough, and she looks like a walking skeleton when you see her across the garden, but there’s a look in her eyes when she talks that makes you listen. I was asleep when she came to the barn door tonight but I got up and pulled my trousers on because it seemed like she needed help. That’s the other reason I don’t like to write to Mum — she’d call it indecent, the Lady looking for me like that, after the Family’d gone to bed. If I can’t write to Mum I might as well write to myself, so says I. Maybe then I’ll sort it out.

Jock, she says, standing at the foot of the hayloft stairs with her hair all wild and her fur coat on, will you drive me to the station?

At this hour, ma’am? I says. It’s gone past ten, and there’ll be no trains till morning.

She looked around her then like all the demons of hell were after her, and ran out of the stable. That’s when I pulled on my clothes and went after.

She was hurrying down the drive to the road. I’d no business telling the gentry what to do, but I didn’t like the look of her, nor her being all alone in such a state, and I reckoned Miss Vita would be angry if I said I’d seen the Lady go and lifted not a finger to stop her. I caught her up and said, Now, ma’am, can’t it wait till morning, and she said I’ll be lucky if they don’t find me before then. I said, Who? But she didn’t answer, just turned round wild-like and clutched my jacket with her hands. Jock, she says, Don’t ever trust the men of Westminster, no matter what they offer. Westminster men lie.

Do they now, I says, as though she’s talking how deep to plant bulbs before the first frost. I’ll be sure to keep that in mind. But it’s five mile and more to Staplehurst, and a long enough wait for the first train. Do you stay warm inside, ma’am, and I’ll come find you at first light. You’ll be much more comfortable in the pony trap, or Miss Vita’s car.

Why do you call her that? she asked. Not Mrs. Nicolson, but Miss Vita?

It’s what we all called her at Knole, I says. I’m a Knole lad, born and bred.

She’s not to know, the Lady said, nearly in tears. She’s not to know. It was a terrible mistake to tell Harold. I’ve written it all down.

She tapped something she had under her arm, and I saw it was a copybook, like we used in school.

That’s all right then, I told her, like she was a little child. If you’ve wrote it all down. That’ll keep till morning.

I made so bold as to take her by the arm, and turned her towards the house, thinking that if I talked to her gentle-like she might come back the right way so I could settle her and get Miss Vita to call Doctor. But she dug in her heels and shook her head and said I can’t stay in this place, I’d be a fool to stay here now Harold’s gone.

What, I says, with me and Hayter and Miss Vita what can handle a gun, and that Home Guard fellow posted in the tower? You’re safe as houses, ma’am.

Don’t lie to me, Jock, she says too quiet.

I put my hand on her arm again. If you go I shall have to rouse Miss Vita. It’s as much as my place is worth, you leaving and me saying no word.

She seemed to fall in like a wilted flower at that, her shoulders hunching and her head drooping on her thin neck, and I was afraid she’d started to cry. I asked if she was all right and she said in a kind of whisper My head aches so, it’s the voices clamouring, every hour, they never stop no matter how much I plead.

That sent a chill up my spine and I said, I’ll get Miss Vita. But the Lady swayed where she stood and I had to reach for her, sure enough, before she swooned. Come along, I said, trying to keep the scared out of my voice. You have a liedown and we’ll set you to rights.

A slow walk back to South Cottage, me holding her upright and her breathing hard. I looked at her face once and it was dead pale, shining like a ghost in the night, though there was no moon. When we reached the door I rapped on it, hard, and rapped on it again.

Jock, she says faintly, I’m not well. Take the book, Jock. Keep it safe.

She fainted then right enough. But it was Miss Vita who put the Lady to bed, and Miss Vita who kept the book, sending me about my business once I’d helped her carry the Lady upstairs.

I’m not easy in my mind. Not liking to fail her.

Miss Vita gave me a shilling, and said as how I was a good lad and to say nothing more about it.

She threw the deadbolt on the cottage door as I left.

4 April 1941

I fetched Mr. Harold from Staplehurst this afternoon, him coming down as usual for the Saturday and Sunday. Very absent-minded he was, and Is the Lady still unwell? he asks, as soon as I’ve seen his traps into the cart. He’d had a letter from Miss Vita, seemingly, them being the sort to write to each other every day. I told him I hadn’t seen the Lady since Wednesday night when she’d had her fit, me being that busy with turning the kitchen garden, but I hoped as she was on the mend. He called me good lad as he stepped down from the box, but when I carried in his things I heard him talk low to Miss Vita. Quite out of her head, Miss Vita said, and it’s clearly a return of the old trouble; do you think we should write to Leonard?

I’ve written to Maynard, he says. That should settle her.

When they saw me they fell quiet and I hurried with the bags, not liking to put my nose where it wasn’t wanted.

I hope they have her book put by safe. Maybe it’s fretting after it that’s driven her out of her senses.

5 April 1941

I was up with the light this morning, knowing full well how Mr. Harold is when he’s down for his two days, wanting to dig in his bit of garden. He was before me, all the same, smoking his pipe on the steps of the Tower, which is sandbagged and barricaded by the Home Guard and even Miss Vita barred entry. Very natural Mr. Harold looked, a proper gentleman in his old tweed jacket and flannel bags, and the smoke curling about his head. He bid me good morning, and said something about the beds in the Lime Walk, and I made to move on, me hoping to thin the peas, when he said, You did well to come to Mrs. Nicolson the other night. If anything like that should happen again, be a good lad and do the same, won’t you? And I said as how I hoped the Lady was faring better. He said I am sure we shall have her on her feet in no time. And then — for the life of me I couldn’t say why, or what moved me to do it — I says, very bold like, I hope as her book is kept safe. She was that worried about it.

Mr. Harold takes his pipe out of his mouth and looks at me as though my face had gone blue. Quite safe, he says. Provided no one talks when they shouldn’t.

I hope I know how to keep a secret, I says, on my dignity; and how to value the trust of my betters. I pick up my barrow and turn for the kitchen garden when Mr. Harold says, I have set an angelic host around it, and lifts his pipe to the sky.

I gave no sign I knew what he meant. But it’s clear as daisies. He’s hid the book in Miss Vita’s tower, where nobody can come nigh it.

I felt better after that. The two of them worked in the garden, and at tea time the Lady took a stroll among the roses, which is just starting to leaf. There was colour in her cheeks and no wildness about her looks and I thought, No harm done that I can tell.

Until bedtime, when she came looking for me again.

JOCK, SHE WHISPERED, STANDING RIGHT OVER ME so I was scared half to death. Jock, you must help me.

What is it? I says, sitting up with the sheet to my neck.

I can’t stay here any longer. If I stay here I shall die.

Now, ma’am, I says, don’t you think you ought to speak with Miss Vita?

Please, Jock, she says. I’ve no one I can trust. Please help me.

I asked her to turn around while I pulled my clothes on and then I got her back down the stairs as fast as I could. It not being seemly for a lady of her quality to be up in a hayloft.

Ma’am, I says, the only way I can help you is if I call Miss Vita now. Or Mr. Harold. You must know how it is.

Call Miss Vita and you will kill me, she says.

I tried to speak, but no words come. There was something in her eyes — that look like a cornered animal — that made me listen. She was terrified of Miss Vita and Mr. Harold. I was sending her for help to the very ones she feared.

Lord, ma’am, I said. Whatever is amiss?

They’re good people, she said, but they don’t understand. I place them in danger the longer I stay here. I know things I shouldn’t. They’re like children, they don’t see the risk. They’re supremely unconscious. They write letters to men who put guns to people’s heads.

Wild talk, and none of it any sense. What danger could such an old lady know? But I saw as how she was that scared. It was like throwing her in gaol, to call for Miss Vita.

Keep her talking, I says to myself. Keep her talking a while, and maybe one of them will hear. Maybe they’ll come for her. And you won’t have to do nothing.

I need to get to London, she says, like a woman in a fever. As quick as may be. You could take me now it’s dark. In the pony trap. I’d go myself, only I don’t know how to harness the pony.

The missus can’t spare me for so long, I said. Nor the trap for so far a trip as London.

Then take me to the station, she says. I don’t mind the wait. There will be a train soon enough. Please, Jock.

And she holds out a guinea, and presses it in my palm.

Now, ma’am, I says, there’s no call for that.

Take it, she says. With my thanks.

So I harnessed the pony. He didn’t half like it at that hour of the night, neither. And we set out in the darkness, me driving slow as slow and hoping all the time that Mr. Harold would hear the sound of the trap wheels and come shouting after. But he didn’t. The South Cottage where they sleep is far enough from the cow barn. Only the Home Guard in the tower, maybe, saw us go; and it’s not his place to sound an alarm for anything but Germans.

A chill night, and no moon. Close to midnight, maybe. There won’t be a train until half six, I told her. She asked how long the drive to the station would be. Maybe an hour, I says. You’ll have a fair wait, in Staplehurst.

But as it happened, we never got so far.

Just past the hillock near Cranbrook Common there was a car. A big, black monster with no running lights on account of the blackout, driving fit to bust. The road’s tight as a glove and the hedges high and the beast was on us before we knew what we were about. I doubt the driver even saw us before he hit, his big black fender taking the side of the trap at a mad clip, the pony shying and plunging, and me without a prayer of saving us. The Lady screamed and clutched at my arm but it was no good, the whole trap was over, and the poor horse caught in the traces and screaming, too.

I was tossed in the hedge when the trap overturned, and took a knock on the head; lucky, I suppose, not to break my neck. But it took me a moment to get up and when I did, I saw the car had stopped. There were gentlemen in proper long coats and trilby hats and dark gloves, and they’d got out of the car to see what was amiss. But the pony was my job; lying on its side, legs kicking, and that awful screaming. I went to its head and felt in my pocket for my knife, to cut the traces — but I’d forgot the knife in my room back home. I tried to soothe him, thinking if he was calmer I’d be able to get the harness off him. One of the gentlemen came over to help. Sat on the horse’s head while I worked the straps. Unpleasant, he was — What kind of fool drives a gig at this hour of the night? he asks, impatient, like I’m the village yokel that knows no better.

The Lady had to reach the station, I says.

We’ll take her on, he tells me, as I free the horse and get him onto his knees. It’s the least we can do.

I saw, then, that another of them had her by the arm and was half-carrying her to the car.

Ma’am, I called out. Ma’am, are you all right?

But she made no answer.

Fainted, the fellow next to me said. But she’ll be fine. Sorry for your trouble. And he shoves a pound note in my hand.

The pony was dead lame. I had to leave the trap and walk him home, a mile or more.

I WENT STRAIGHT TO SOUTH COTTAGE WHEN I GOT there and roused the master. Such a time I hope never to live through again — Miss Vita, with her face set like stone, and Mr. Harold more quiet than I’ve ever known him. Worse, that was, than if he’d raged like Da when the drink’s on him. Miss Vita looked at the horse and Mr. Harold told Hayter he’d have to walk out with us in the morning, and look at the trap; and then he says to me, as I stand with my cap in my hand, Did you get a look at the car’s number?

I shook my head.

Pity, he says.

But they was from London, I offer.

They would be, he says.

And turns away without another word.

Monday, 7 April 1941

It is certain now that no one answering to the Lady’s description took the first train Saturday morning from Staplehurst station, nor the last. No one like her has been seen in all the Weald, as far as Mr. Harold can make out. He’s asked the police and looked in at hospital. The telegraph has been fairly singing her name, and how she looked.

The earth has swallowed her up.

Today, Miss Vita is to visit the Lady’s sister at a place called Charleston, and then drive to her home which is a monk’s house. She has asked me to come and tell her people what I saw and know. When the trip is done Miss Vita will take me back to Knole — I am in disgrace. I am that sick with losing the Lady, and losing my place, that I wish I were dead. I tried to help but did only harm. I cannot tell Miss Vita she feared to stay at Sissinghurst, for she wouldn’t understand and would probably be affronted. But she did not see the fear in the Lady’s eyes.

To me Miss Vita says only You are a good fellow, Jock, and will be much missed; but your mother will be wanting you at home, to be sure. You are safer in such times with your family.

I am not missed and I will not be safe.

I will go for a soldier. Da will say it’s all I’m good for.

MAYBE SHE IS ALL RIGHT AND GOT WHEREVER IT was she was anxious to go. Maybe we will find her sitting at home when Miss Vita drives down to Sussex. Maybe it is not my fault that everything went bad and the pony was put down and the gig chopped up for firewood. But I feel in my heart that it is all my fault. I live that time — the car coming round the curve in the dark, the horse screaming, the feel of the hedge as it came up to strike my cheek — over and over, whenever I shut my eyes. And the Lady, not speaking or looking, as they dragged her away.

This bit of writing should be kept safe. For Mr. Harold, maybe, who might want it someday. I will set an angelic host around it. For the Lady.

Jock Bellamy