Mr Darwin's Gardener (3 page)

Cathy Davies puts a scarf on John. We're going on an excursion, we'll walk along the path across the meadow. I made the picnic, there's milk in a bottle, sandwiches wrapped in paper.

Thomas stands in the garden. Five wrinkled brown apples dangle from the apple tree and black cherries hang from the cherry tree. No birds in view, though; it is as if the dense, grey sky were too heavy for flying in. He takes deep breaths. In the eyes of the villagers, I am unhinged. Not a madman, like Edwin, who drools and rolls his eyes. Worse, because I have chosen my madness myself. Book-learning is madness, in their opinion, because it is not meant for ordinary people. A gardener should stick to his spade. If he has ambition, let him grow a rose with multilayered petals, a cup-like corolla and an unusual colour – not blue, though. He could name the rose after his wife. Blackened tomato stalks lean against the shed wall.

The children stand on the step. I smile. All is well, all is well. I take the picnic basket from Cathy's hand. The children run along the gentle slope in their thick, dark clothes. The grass glows green even in the cloudy light. In death, Gwyn was as light as a bird. Reason prescribes balance and moderation. But my heart just keeps on pumping sludge, which dims the blood and the mind. No
man in his senses sets fire to a well-made, solid-oak bed; only a man full of grief, like Job.

…yet man is born unto trouble, as the sparks fly upward.

John opens the gates and shuts the gates. On the hill, they sit down on rocks to eat sticky pieces of bread. John asks Father to tell of the voyage of HMS
Beagle
. Thomas has told the story many times and embellished it with pirates and treasures and cyclones.

No, today he tells the story of a garden party held by the Spanish court in 1623.

An Italian named Mr Cesare Fontana planned the magnificent evening event in the garden. Nobody had ever seen such a feast before, nor have they since. This is not a tale from
Arabian Nights
, but as true as they come. The feast was attended by the King and the Queen, who came dressed in velvet cloaks and furs and bejewelled crowns and gold chains. The courtiers and ladies-
in-waiting
and aristocrats and foreign invitees were also splendidly attired. Tables groaned under the weight of roasted chickens and pies and fancy cakes. Vats stood full of dark-red wine, and hot chocolate flowed from silver jugs into silver mugs.

Most resplendent of all was the garden itself. It boasted box trees, magnolias, brilliant bougainvillea, fragrant lilies in different colours, palm trees, hundreds of
different
roses, narcissi and hyacinths. The scent was as of a thousand open perfume bottles. There were even more wondrous things in the garden than the trees and flowers, for Mr Fontana had had quite weird oddities constructed there. Light silver thread had been braided and fashioned into beautiful decorations. Fairy castles, lightweight and gleaming as cobweb, hung on the branches of trees. Next
to real trees stood trees forged from metal and decorated with jewels. The light from the colourful lanterns hanging on the metal branches glittered in rainbow baubles.

Butterflies of silver and gold floated on the branches of the real trees. Mechanisms made their wings flutter. It was as if the butterflies were really flying. Massive, ferocious dragons had been forged from iron and they too flapped their bat-like wings and belched real flames out of their gaping jaws. Whether children were allowed to the party, I do not know, for the butterflies and fairies were beautiful but the dragons frightening.

They were allowed, John says.

They were allowed, Cathy says.

The best and most exciting thing happened at the end.

All of a sudden, the ground began to tremble under the party guests' feet. Astonished, they all took fright. A volcano built from clay threw glowing sparks into the night sky, like a hundred dragons. Ladies and gentlemen and young men and maidens began rushing hither and thither. They held on to their hats, their cloaks and each other, for they all thought it was for real and the tremors would cause them to plunge into the earth and burning lava to flow over them. But no!

At that very moment, an orchestra concealed in the shadows of the garden struck up merry music. The
trembling
of the ground ceased and the volcano erupted red, blue and green rockets, which spread out against the night sky, sparkling flowers and fountains.

The guests laughed and clapped their hands, for all the frightening events had been arranged for their amusement. They drank more wine and danced to the music. They spoke of their wonder at one man's ability to construct mechanical, metal wings, to make the earth tremble and
to conjure magnificent bursts of flames. I will not declare this the end of the story. Man has been capable of even better things; we do not yet know of what he is capable. After all, there are gadgets and machines that run on steam and electricity. Perhaps we shall even forget how wonderful is an orchid, or a diving wasp.

The most beautiful thing about plants is their silence. The second most beautiful thing is their immobility
, I wrote when Gwyn died. I am reading now, it is evening.

I wrote unscientifically.

Even condolences thundered then, and goodwill would not leave me in peace.

Grief is weighty but it is a stone I bear myself.

Victims of revenge and victims of mercy are in the same position, I believe; other people make their affairs their own.

I have decided to research the electricity of plants, inspired by the writings of Gustav Theodor Fechner and Edward Solly. I will try to use electricity to grow plants. Perhaps the sharp tips of plants function like a lightning conductor and collect electricity from the atmosphere. Maybe these tips facilitate the exchange of charges between the air and the earth. If I could connect plants in metal containers to a static generator, they would grow well. I would use a mesh of metallic filaments located above them and earthed with a pole in the ground. I do not have a generator, though.

Do-gooders understand disease and even death, but not the fact that I want to be alone. Solitude is what they themselves fear most.

When I was out of my mind and the children were asleep, I wrote:

The silence of plants calms the mind. I am glad that plants do no run off like animals or fly away like birds. They stay put for hundreds of years, like oaks, or they vanish for winter and rise from the ground like the blue lily of the east, and they spread joyously like the balsam that flings its seeds far.

When Gwyn was dying, I did not think about where she was going, but about what she was leaving. She was abandoning Catherine, John and me. She did not leave abruptly. Death held the door ajar for many months.

I wrote that
a plant dies easily
,
an annual's stem withers after the seeds have developed.

The villagers believe it is not worthwhile for a family such as ours to carry on living. They think that is the law of nature. In his newspaper article, Lewis put thoughts in my mouth that many find pleasing in their terribleness.

Anything goes, whether it comes from God or science or one's own head. As long as the evidence supports a notion one believes anyway. Village theology amounts to raking with a flea comb. Inappropriate thoughts are tidied away. At the same time, the hair falls out.

The man walked into the village wearing a dark-violet jacket, yellow-brown waistcoat and striped trousers. He hurried past the church down the slope. His shoes raised clouds of dust since it had not rained for several days.

I
Rosemary Rowe was washing the inside of the shop window, for Harry whacks flies against the glass. I have tried to tell him: you must be careful, your hand may go through the glass. The sharp shards will go right into your flesh. And squashed flies make for awkward stains.

I
Stuart Wilkes was sitting in the Anchor, at the table by the window. I was drinking beer after settling the ironmongery bill with Harry, which was as always the subject of a dispute. So my throat was dry and it was hot to boot. I thought… heavens, a stage player, walking along the road in broad daylight. Nose up in the air, he had a slight limp in his left foot, but he walked with a
straight-backed
tread. I reckoned the visitor would come and ask for a room upstairs, and I was right. The door opened and James hastened off in search of Martha.

I
Martha Bailey wiped my hands and came out of the kitchen. I wondered why a man would carry his luggage in a sewing bag, unless it was fashionable in London or Paris. Perhaps it was. He fished a purse out of his pocket
and put it on the counter. I waved dismissively; an upright fellow can pay in the morning. I would have been better off slapping myself on the cheek.

When the mistress called,
I
Lily Marsh took the
gentleman
upstairs. I supposed he was a salesman, with silver-plated spoons and chains and lace cloths, because his load looked light when he placed it on the bed. I had made the bed up with clean sheets in the morning and brought water for the jugs, so I merely opened the window a chink to earn the coin the gentleman would surely put into my hand. But he chose to turn his back on me as I stood at the door. He muttered a thank you without giving me a ha'penny.

In the pub,
we
– James, Martha and I – wondered whether the man was a pedlar of bric-a-brac or a
cardsharp
or a lay preacher from an evangelical church; they have mushroomed. His apparel was so garish, though, that he could have been an actor. We prattled on about
what
he was and did not wonder
who
he was. He appeared a quite ordinary youngish man. He was neither tall nor short, not fat but sturdy. His full, light-brown beard was bushy, he wore spectacles on his nose.

In a large town he would not be looked at twice.

In the visitors' book, the man wrote D.L., Edinburgh.

I
Henry Faine walked from the Hall to the village, across meadows and along paths. The August evening was drawing in. A strong smell of grass and dry clay wafted to my nose. I twirled my walking stick in the air like a dandy on a boulevard. I remembered Paris, and the leaves of the linden trees shining in the light of a street lamp as I climbed the steps up to the street; and suddenly the sounds of horse-drawn carriages and footsteps swirled all around.

The village is quiet in the evenings; only the wind in the trees and the jackdaws to be heard.

When I swung the walking stick, it sent leaves flying off the hawthorn hedge. Because paperwork dries the palate, I went to the Anchor for a pint. There sat the visitor at the window table, eating chops and peas and fried potatoes.

I
James Bailey whispered to Martha that the visitor was sitting at Stuart Wilkes's table but you could not mention it to him. After all, we have not even screwed a brass plate on to Robert Kenny's table, and he is a better customer, drinks more. And when Stuart came in, he sat at another table as if nothing were amiss.

So
I
Stuart Wilkes sat down at the card table instead of in my regular spot and watched the visitor. His knife and fork were moving hectically. Henry came in, out of breath and with a stick under his arm. Once James had brought a beer, I said, that man may have come to peddle Bibles. Not just any old Bibles, but de luxe editions that have to be ordered. He did not come to our village by accident. It is because Mr Darwin lives here, and godlessness is a worse threat than in the neighbouring villages. I drank to Robert's health and hazarded that Champagne Charlie singing and clowning would bring more joy to an
audience
of villagers than the doctrine of evolution and the Bible put together.

The visitor did not have a second beer. He climbed the stairs to his room. But that evening
I
pulled many more pints for others.

The visitor was up and about early. Wearing the same clothes as before, he was waiting for breakfast.
I
James Bailey came downstairs with my shirt hanging over my trousers, running my fingers through my hair, to light a fire. It is cold inside, in the shade, even in the heat of summer. Martha was not yet in the kitchen but in the backyard feeding the chickens, so I had to make up the fires and ask the visitor what he would like. Bacon sausages eggs kippers bread and jam and coffee. I calculated how much money we would make if he were to stay a second night and for breakfast again – he has not said either way. A red-blooded man eats a proper breakfast when his purse is full. I felt its weight when I lifted it to the counter in front of Martha. I laid the table. A journeyman is a carefree man, though the road is hilly and winding.

I have been nailed to a single crossroad. Let the roads run to Holwood and Luxted and further.

I
Rosemary Rowe had already watered the lettuces and pumpkins and tomatoes behind the shop when I saw Martha feeding the chickens. The birds flapped and clucked and pecked, and the yard was clouded with dust. God's own creatures, maybe, but chickens are stupid and wicked. I looked at the big front window from outside and it did look clean. Good, Harry would not get cross. I went in to
arrange the biscuit tins in a row. I had not even unlocked the shop door when I saw the visitor coming out of the Anchor. He began walking briskly. I did not see which way he went; I did not have time to peek, if someone should ask. Dr Kenny was the first to ask.

I
Robert Kenny walked towards Gorringes.

The sun made my eyes sting. I walk every morning, though: rain or shine, all year round, even if I have drunk whisky the night before. At first the villagers marvelled at a man walking long distances for the sake of it, not
fetching
or carrying anything. Sales, the miller, said it was as daft as running a mill without grain. But I maintain that the soles of my shoes are as wise as Galen and Avicenna. Paracelsus knew that you learn better when wandering than when squatting by the oven – though everything else he wrote was mumbo-jumbo.

I pressed my hat down to protect my head from the heat of the sun. My forehead felt heavy after a night of little sleep. My head felt full of water; it was sloshing. I could not sleep because Mary was up in the middle of the night. She lit a lamp, crept downstairs and started writing. I am a doctor but I still do not know whether she is mad or merely sad. A doctor could only ask another doctor. I will not ask, since the patient is my own wife, who claims to be writing a novel. I have not seen a single line of it. Mary looks rotund, healthy in body, but she cries, too much. Returning to the village, I saw a strange man in a violet jacket walking south from the church turning, hands swinging and left leg limping. I had to ask Mrs Rowe who it was, but she did not know, much to my surprise.

Usually gossip speeds around the village so fast it goes arse over tip.

That afternoon, when he witnessed the visitor's return to the Anchor through the shop window, Harry Rowe's face contorted. Later,
everyone
knew.

I
Rosemary Rowe knew that when Harry got cross, even prayer would do no good. I prayed for our Margaret. That prayer did not make it to heaven either. It just crawled along the ground. His will be done – although Daniel Lewis did play his part in the matter. But when a man turns against another man, there is no time for mercy. It is always the women who have to suffer. Just before Christmas last, the vicar noticed that the collection moneys had dwindled. That was not down to any miserliness on the
congregation's
part. And when he saw that the church wine, too, had been depleted, the verger was quietly sent on his way. Then Harry grasped where else Lewis had been sticking his hands – besides the collection bag, that is – and not just his hands. When Harry saw through the bushy beard and portliness and fancy clothes of that fellow strutting about in the village, a fuse was ignited. I covered my ears, held my head.

I
Harry Rowe say good day, thank you, good day, thank you to my customers. Sixpence please. Thank you. Good day. My heart is parched. My eyes burn. My hand clenches although I should be stretching out my palm.

Violet soap and sugar. Thank you. Good afternoon.

Even a bear has a heart. Captive bears dance. Your heart aches when you see animals in cages. They have such a look in their eyes. You cannot settle everything with words. Only women think that. My sense of justice is in my knuckles. Thank you.

Wilkes left the door ajar. Damned prick. We'll teach him, if it's the only lesson he learns. I'll teach Lewis. He
was calling himself Lawson at the Anchor. The man may have a hard skull, but his spine's sheer wax.

Men wheedle women, win them round. Women cannot see beyond their noses when a man fawns. Three years ago, the beard on Daniel's cheeks was still growing inwards. Now his face is like the burning bush. Lewis fawned in the name of the Lord. Falsified axle grease.

Man does need God. I called to Him for help during a storm in the Bay of Biscay. The captain was a coward and a sluggard. God creates order at sea. Also on dry land, across the realm. Thank you. The correct change.

Thomas Davies once said to me that a single plant can yield both medicine and poison. That is so. The same goes for the Bible. Lewis sent Margaret into a spin. I'll spin him. Better late than never. I shall not kill. The Sixth Commandment forbids it. It does not mention beating. The law wins out when it's flogged into people's backs. Good day, Mrs Faine. Yes, yes. The pearl buttons arrived yesterday. Four holes, two sizes.

Let Rosemary come behind the counter. Pshaw, ugh, I spit on the ground. I lift the crates and sacks off the cart. Harrison's fat-arsed horse keeps farting. Let's get a crowd together and lead Lewis a merry dance. Lead him into a gallop. His feet won't touch the ground.

I
Stuart Wilkes was drawing in my workbook when Lucy came to tell me that Robert Kenny was waiting in the living room. I was perturbed, of course. Everything always happens in the middle of something else.

Robert mentioned the fact that a stranger was sitting at my table yesterday. Of course, I deserve a fine table on account of my significant achievements, whereas drinking alone earns Robert his spot. I did not say that.

Talk about tables amounted to only one per cent of Robert's business. At first I did not grasp why he was describing that beardy's clothes to me, as well as the limp that I had seen with my own eyes. Watch-seller or book-pedlar, let him sit where he will. I do not imagine anything would stick to the chair. But oh no. Two hours ago, Harry Rowe, James Bailey, Sales the miller and another three men had knocked on the Kennys' door. Even though a patient was sitting in the waiting room, Mary had fetched Robert. She had inferred from the men's faces that something was afoot – something more serious than Sarah Hamilton's boil.

I
Sarah Hamilton poured tea for Mother. I said, Daniel Lewis may well have been able to pronounce
In nouminee deou
nicely, but he deceived Innes the vicar and the whole congregation. Knowing Latin is a sign of being educated, but for Daniel it was nothing but a way of disguising carnality. Now we know why Margaret Rowe rushed off to London or Bath or Brighton, I am not sure. But the impudence of the man, returning to the scene of the crime! Hannah replied: The congregation did the right thing, hiring him as verger. The old one wasn't up to it any more. That man was as thin as a skinned squirrel and half deaf. He's dead now. Daniel Lewis seemed good for polishing chandeliers and tidying up hymn books. And maybe a smile from a handsome young man helped loosen the purse strings at services.

Mother dear, outward appearance is but clothing for men's souls.

Sarah dear, faces and souls get shrunken and wrinkled at the same rate.

I
Eileen Faine also knew. I strode along the path, grass glumes and thistle burrs clinging to the hem of my skirt. The sun was blinding. A gnat flew into my nostrils, ugh. I do not ride in a carriage since I am quite capable of walking. Henry and Alice are the same. Lucy Wilkes is getting fatter and fatter. I take after my father. Father was tall and thin, and in old age his head resembled a skull stuck on a pole.

Sweat and dust tickled my skin. I smelt the fresh cow dung; what a good smell. Two cows gaped at me from the pasture. Six were lying down and chewing cud. I seized my hem and curtsied. Moo moo, let's tell all, let's speak every language: cow, horse and sparrow. Ladies, let us roll the words into a dung ball, just like the sacred scarab of Egypt.

The heat squeezed my forehead. I was thirsty.

I slowed down, straightened my back, stretched my neck, raised my chin. I walked with dignity and at a goodly pace so that I could feel the movement of my feet and legs in my thighs and waist. Mr Paine led his flock to green pastures; I conversed with cows and spoke to a goat. What else can you do in a village, except when there's news?

But my fause luver staw my rose,

And left the thorn wi' me
.

Margaret was a birdbrain and Daniel a smooth rascal. But is it worse to love and grow unhappy than not to love and grow unhappy?

Snip snap, I was pruning roses in the garden. I told Alice, who was holding the basket, and Henry, who was pretending to read the paper. I told them what Lucy Wilkes had said, that Daniel Lewis was a chap who could bow without being smarmy. That is why he was entrusted with the keys to the church, as well as the wine and the collection money.

But that man got greedy. Just before Christmas, a big bazaar was organized. Everyone had been knitting crocheting baking icing. The money box clinked away as I bought a cake baked by Mary, and Lucy bought a cake baked by me, and Rosemary bought a purse decorated by Martha and Martha bought handkerchiefs embroidered by Rosemary.

Instead of just being light-fingered, Daniel Lewis let his thieving get out of hand. That was the end of the story. But will another chapter follow now?

Righteousness spreads like pestilence, Henry Faine thought.

Revenge brings great satisfaction. Everyone has stored up things to avenge, but the victim is not always about. So when a common enemy is found, people seize the opportunity – in the name of God, the church or a woman. Or because a country village is somewhat short of entertainment.