Distant Voices. Barbara Erskine

sorry, Mama.’ That was all he had said. ‘I’m sorry, Mama.’

       She closed her eyes and took a deep slow breath.

       ‘You may go now, Bates,’ she said.

      Suddenly she could smell tobacco. Amanda looked round, afraid, expecting to see him there, but she was still alone. The greenhouse grew warmer. She put her hand up to the neck of her blouse uncomfortably and turned back towards the door. A fork and spade were leaning against one another, dug into the earth. Around their handles a trail of bindweed had woven them together.

       ‘She told you then.’ Cook felt a twinge of pity for the white-faced old man. He stared at her blankly. ‘She let two of the maids go this morning,’ she went on as if it would be a comfort.

       He shook his head blindly. ‘The orchids. They’ll die.’

       She shrugged. ‘They’re only flowers.’

       He had pale blue eyes, irises as clear as the sky. Unfocused now, they swam with tears. Shocked, she stepped back.

       The frosts are coming. I can smell ’em.’ The old man’s voice cracked.

      She shook her head. ‘It’s the horses. Mr Williams heard them quarrelling last night. He owes thousands. This wouldn’t have happened if his old lordship were still alive.’ She shook her head and turned away. No point in telling him the rest, poor old man. It wasn’t just the orchids which were going. Half the servants; her ladyship’s jewellery; the silver; maybe even the house itself.

      Leaving the greenhouse Amanda followed an overgrown track round towards the old kitchen garden. The walls which sheltered the neat beds had nurtured a tropical jungle there. She wandered over the paths and finding a bush of raspberries long grown wild picked some, sucking their sweet juice from her fingers as she remembered she had had no breakfast.

      ‘No!’ The shout behind her was full of pain.

      She spun round, staring wildly towards the bushes. The birds had stopped singing. She could no longer hear the tennis balls. Nervously she retraced her steps towards the gnarled pine tree which towered over the glasshouse and dodged behind it, looking round. There was no sound of footsteps, no further cry. Her heart was hammering under her ribs and suddenly she was not enjoying herself any more.

      She glanced over her shoulder. From here she could not see the chain-link fence at all. All round her the overgrown shrubs and tall grasses pressed in in a thick wall. She took a deep breath. Backing away from the tree she glanced to her right. A pane of glass in the greenhouse had caught the sun, blinding her. Beyond it lay the stretch of grass which had once been a lawn and beyond that the fence and home.

      To her left a shrubbery – leggy, thin-leafed rhododendrons, holly, smoke trees – scrambled over one another towards the light, above them a huge acacia.

      Cautiously she made her way back towards the greenhouse. Behind her she could hear a pigeon. The soft coo swelled into the silence and then died again as she saw the old man hobbling towards her. She stood transfixed with embarrassment. There was nowhere to go; nowhere to hide in time. She bit her lip and stood waiting, expecting a tirade of abuse for her trespass.

      He walked straight past her. His eyes, the clear pale blue of forget-me-nots, did not move to left or right. With them steadfastly fixed on the greenhouse he hobbled within two feet of her and on down the path. Behind him the air was cold.

       There would be a frost that night. The evening was clear. The smoky bonfire spread the scent of burning leaves throughout the garden; the plume of blue rose straight up into the still air as he raked them higher and higher onto the pile. He glanced over his shoulder towards the glasshouse seeing the blooms basking in the warmth through the sparkling panes: creamy petals, tinged with pink – velvet, pampered, exquisite blooms fit for the show tent. There was no breath of wind. A huge moon hung like a wraith in the blue sky, lifting over the trees. By dusk it would be at the zenith and the first ice crystals would start to crisp the grass.

       He rubbed his eyes with the sleeve of his jacket, raking harder. Behind the windows of the house mother and son were once more at war. Their voices filled every room now. He had taken her pearls, her diamonds, the silver flatware and sold it for a song. More than that. He had taken her pride.

       Below stairs the Williamses waited, shocked and afraid. The others had gone: the last of the maids, the under gardener, his lordship’s valet. This morning when Mrs Williams had brought the breakfast tray into the dining room her ladyship had sat there at the head of the table as usual but she had spoken no word; her face was white, almost transparent with exhaustion, the lines beneath her eyes blue-black. Staring in front of her she made no sign, spoke no word of greeting or command and putting down the tray Mrs Williams had crept away and cried.

      Staring after the old man Amanda shivered. Perhaps he was blind? But surely he would have sensed her there so close to him on the path? She could see him now, pottering about in the greenhouse, bent, slow moving, deliberate in his movements as he groped amongst the rubbish on the staging.

      Nearby the blackbird burst once more into song. With a sudden shock Amanda looked round. When she turned back to the greenhouse the old man was no longer in sight. She bit her lip, conscious of a rash of goose pimples across her skin and, hurrying now, tiptoed back the way she had come.

       He banked up the bonfire as it grew dark, put away his tools and stood for a moment staring up at the sky. The first ice from the north was sharp. It would be a hard winter. Shrugging, he walked slowly back towards the greenhouse and went inside. Closing the door he stood for a moment in the soft darkness. The air still carried a trace of heat from the sun but already the chill was building. He lit his lantern and stood it on the staging, waiting for the flame to steady and the shadows to stop their wild jumping. The old wooden chair, where he used to sit to eat his piece and drink the tea one of the maids would bring him stood now beside his untidy workbench. He reached for the packet of cigarettes and drew one out with a shaking hand. The pull on the nicotine was good. It steadied him. Made him feel calm. Sitting there he watched the smoke drift up around his head as the temperature began to drop.

       As the leaves began to droop and the brown touch of the frost claimed the first blooms, turning the plants to pulp, he threw down the cigarette end and climbed onto the chair. His long scarf made a gentle noose for the scraggy neck as he hooked the end over the curved nail in the roof support. He gave a wry smile as he pulled it tight. No more than an old turkey cock who must die at last. He shivered. Around him he could hear the plants dying. His own death, he thought, as he kicked away the chair, would be less hard.

      Amanda stopped. She turned towards the greenhouse. From somewhere she could smell burning leaves. She frowned. It was an autumnal smell; aromatic and smoky, redolent of cold days and frosty nights. She shuddered again, violently this time, suddenly acutely aware of ice in the still, summer air.

      The chain-link fence rose six foot in front of her, a barrier between her and home. The foothold which had hoisted her over was on the far side. For a moment she stood, defeated, aware that her neighbour was watching her from one of the upper windows of her house. With a smile and a shrug Amanda turned back towards the trees to look for something to stand on.

      From the bedroom window she could see the reflections on the glass in the evening sunlight. A different angle, a different colour, it was as beautiful as in the morning, but warmer, richer, more textured.

      As soon as she had dropped back onto her own square of bare earth and ducked into her house her neighbour had knocked on her door, baby on hip, and smiled conspiratorially. ‘I saw you over there. You’ve got more courage than me. I’ve wanted to explore that garden since the day we moved in.’

      She was, it seemed, a kindred spirit after all. And she knew the story. The fall of the family fortunes, the gambling debts, the frost and then at last the fire that destroyed the house.

      ‘There is no entrance to the garden,’ she