The Forgotten Garden Part 8

It was slow going, but Ca.s.sandra didn't need to go far to realize that Nell had been trying to solve the mystery of her ident.i.ty.

August 1975. Today they brought me the white suitcase. As soon as I saw it, I knew what it was.I pretended casualness. Doug and Phyllis don't know the truth and I didn't want them to see that I was shaking. I wanted them to think only that it was an old suitcase of Dad's that he'd wanted me to have. After they'd gone, I sat looking at it for a time, willing myself to remember: who I am, where I am from. It was no use, of course, and so, at length, I opened it.There was a note from Dad, an apology of sorts, and beneath it other things. A child's dress-mine I suppose-a silver hairbrush and a book of fairy tales. I recognized it immediately. I turned the cover and then I saw her, the Auth.o.r.ess. The words came fully formed. She is the key to my past, I'm sure of it. If I find her, I will finally find myself. For that is what I intend to do. In this notebook I will chart my progress, and by its end, I will know my name and why I lost it.

Ca.s.sANDRA TURNED carefully through the moldy pages, filled with suspense. Had Nell done what she set out to do? Found out who she was? Is that why she'd bought the house? The final entry was dated November 1975 and Nell had just arrived home to Brisbane: carefully through the moldy pages, filled with suspense. Had Nell done what she set out to do? Found out who she was? Is that why she'd bought the house? The final entry was dated November 1975 and Nell had just arrived home to Brisbane: I'm going back as soon as I've tied things up here. I'll be sorry to leave my house in Brisbane, and my shop, but what does it compare with finally finding my truth? And I'm so close. I know it. Now that the cottage is mine, I know the final answers will follow. It is my past, my self, and I have nearly found it.

Nell had been planning to leave Australia for good. Why hadn't she? What had happened? Why hadn't she written another entry?

Another look at the date, November 1975, and Ca.s.sandra's skin p.r.i.c.kled. It was two months before she, Ca.s.sandra, had been deposited at Nell's place. Lesley's promised week or two had stretched on indefinitely until it turned into forever.

Ca.s.sandra set the notebook aside as realization hardened. Nell had taken up the parental reins without skipping a beat, had stepped in and given Ca.s.sandra a home and a family. A mother. And never for an instant had she let Ca.s.sandra know of the plans her arrival had interrupted.

Ca.s.sANDRA TURNED from the aircraft window and pulled the book of fairy tales from her carry-on, laid it across her lap. She didn't know what had made her so certain that she wanted to bring the book on board with her. It was the bond with Nell, she supposed, for this was the book from the suitcase, the link with Nell's past, one of the few possessions that had accompanied the little girl across the seas to Australia. And it was something about the book itself. It exercised the same compulsion over Ca.s.sandra that it had when she was ten years old and had first discovered it downstairs in Nell's flat. The t.i.tle, the ill.u.s.trations, even the author's name. Eliza Makepeace. Whispering it now, Ca.s.sandra felt the strangest s.h.i.+ver tiptoe along her spine. from the aircraft window and pulled the book of fairy tales from her carry-on, laid it across her lap. She didn't know what had made her so certain that she wanted to bring the book on board with her. It was the bond with Nell, she supposed, for this was the book from the suitcase, the link with Nell's past, one of the few possessions that had accompanied the little girl across the seas to Australia. And it was something about the book itself. It exercised the same compulsion over Ca.s.sandra that it had when she was ten years old and had first discovered it downstairs in Nell's flat. The t.i.tle, the ill.u.s.trations, even the author's name. Eliza Makepeace. Whispering it now, Ca.s.sandra felt the strangest s.h.i.+ver tiptoe along her spine.

As the ocean continued to stretch below, Ca.s.sandra turned to the first story and began to read, a story called "The Crone's Eyes," which she recognized from the hot summer's day long ago.

The Crone's Eyes by Eliza Makepeace Once in a land that lay far across the s.h.i.+ning sea there lived a Princess who didn't know she was a Princess, for when she was but a small child her kingdom had been ransacked and her royal family slain. It so happened that the young Princess had been playing that day outside the castle walls and knew nothing of the attack until night began its fall towards earth and she set aside her game to find her home in ruins. The little Princess wandered alone for a time, until finally she came to a cottage on the edge of a dark wood. As she knocked upon the door, the sky, angered by the destruction it had witnessed, broke apart in rage and spat fierce rain across the land.

Inside the cottage there lived a blind crone, who took pity on the girl and determined to give her shelter and raise her as her own. There was much work to be done in the crone's cottage, but the Princess was never heard to complain, for she was a true Princess with a pure heart. The happiest folk are those that are busy, for their minds are starved of time to seek out woe. Thus did the Princess grow up contented. She came to love the changing seasons and learned the satisfaction of sowing seeds and tending crops. And although she was becoming beautiful, the Princess did not know it, for the crone had neither looking gla.s.s nor vanity and thus the Princess had not learned the ways of either.

One night, in the Princess's sixteenth year, she and the crone sat in the kitchen eating their supper. "What happened to your eyes, dear crone?" asked the Princess, who had wondered for a long time.

The crone turned towards the Princess, skin wrinkled where her eyes should be. "My sight was taken from me."

"By whom?"

"When I was but a maiden, my father loved me so much that he removed my eyes so I need never witness death and destruction in the world."

"But, dearest crone, you can no longer witness beauty, either," said the Princess, thinking of the pleasure she gained from watching her garden blossom.

"No," said the crone. "And I would very much like to see you, my Beauty, grow."

"Could we not seek your eyes somewhere?"

The crone smiled sadly. "My eyes were to be returned by a messenger when I attained my sixtieth year, but on the night ordained, my Beauty arrived with a great las.h.i.+ng storm on her heels, and I was unable to meet him."

"Might we find him now?"

The crone shook her head. "The messenger could not wait, and my eyes were taken instead to the deep well in the land of lost things."

"Could we not journey there?"

"Alas," said the crone, "the way is far, and the road paved with danger and deprivation."

By and by, the seasons changed, and the crone became weaker and paler. One day, when the Princess was on her way to pick apples for the winter store, she came upon the crone, sitting in the fork of the apple tree, lamenting. The Princess stopped, startled, for she had never seen the crone upset. As she listened, she realized that the crone was speaking to a solemn grey and white bird with a striped tail. "My eyes, my eyes," she said. "My end approaches and my sight will never be restored. Tell me, wise bird, how will I know my way in the next world if I cannot see myself?"

Quickly and quietly, the Princess returned to the cottage, for she knew what she must do. The crone had sacrificed her eyes to provide the Princess with shelter and now must this kindness be repaid. Although she had never traveled beyond the forest rim, the Princess did not hesitate. Her love for the crone was so fathomless that if all the grains of sand in the ocean should be stacked up end to end, they would not run so deep.

The Princess woke with the first dawn of morning and wandered forth into the forest, stopping not until she reached the sh.o.r.e. There she set sail, crossing the vast sea to the land of lost things.

The way was long and hard, and the Princess was bewildered, for the forest in the land of lost things looked vastly different from that to which she was accustomed. The trees were cruel and jagged, the beasts ghastly, even the birds' songs made the Princess tremble. The more frightened she became, the faster she ran, until finally she stopped, her heart thundering in her chest. The Princess was lost and knew not where to turn. She was about to despair, when the solemn grey and white bird appeared before her. "I am sent by the crone," said the bird, "to lead you safely to the well of lost things, where you will find your fate."

The Princess was much relieved and set off after the bird, her stomach grumbling, for she had been unable to find food in this strange land. By and by, she came upon an old woman sitting on a fallen log. "How fare you, Beauty?" said the old woman.

"I am so hungry," said the Princess, "yet I know not where to seek food."

The old woman pointed to the forest and suddenly the Princess saw that there were berries hanging from the trees, and nuts growing in cl.u.s.ters on the ends of branches.

"Oh, thank you, kind woman," said the Princess.

"I did nothing," said the old woman, "except to open your eyes and show you what you knew was there."

The Princess continued after the bird, more satisfied now, but as they went the weather began to change and the winds grew cold.

By and by, the Princess came upon a second old woman sitting on a tree stump. "How fare you, Beauty?"

"I am so cold, yet I know not where to seek warm clothes."

The old woman pointed to the forest, and suddenly the Princess saw brambles of wild roses with the softest, most delicate petals. She coated herself with them and was much warmer.

"Oh, thank you, kind woman," said the Princess.

"I did nothing," said the old woman, "except to open your eyes and show you what you knew was there."

The Princess continued after the grey and white bird, more satisfied now, and warmer than before, but her feet began to ache, for she had walked so far.

By and by, the Princess came upon a third old woman sitting on a tree stump. "How fare you, Beauty?"

"I am so tired, yet I know not where to seek carriage."

The old woman pointed to the forest, and suddenly, in a clearing, the Princess saw a s.h.i.+ny brown fawn with a gold ring around his neck. The fawn blinked at the Princess, a dark, thoughtful eye, and the Princess, who was kind of heart, held out her hand. The fawn came to her and bowed his head so she might ride upon his back.

"Oh, thank you, kind woman," said the Princess.

"I did nothing," said the woman, "except to open your eyes and show you what you knew was there."

The Princess and the fawn followed the grey and white bird further and further into the dark forest, and as days pa.s.sed the Princess came to understand the fawn's soft and gentle language. As they spoke, night after night, the Princess learned that the fawn was in hiding from a treacherous hunter sent to kill him by a wicked witch. So grateful was the Princess for the fawn's kindness that she undertook to keep him safe from his tormentors.

Good intentions pave the way to ruin, however, and early next morning the Princess woke to find the fawn absent from his usual place by the fire. In the tree above, the grey and white bird twittered in agitation, and the Princess jumped quickly to her feet, following where the bird led. As she drew deeper into the nearby brambles, she heard the fawn weeping. The Princess hurried to his side and saw there an arrow in his flank.

"The witch hath found me," spoke the fawn. "As I collected nuts for our journey she ordered her archers to shoot me. I ran as far and as fast as I could, but when I reached this spot I could go no further."

The Princess knelt by the fawn and so great was her distress at witnessing his pain that she began to weep over his body, and the truth and light from her tears caused his wound to heal.

Over the next days the Princess tended the fawn, and once his health was restored they continued their journey to the edge of the vast woods. When they broke finally through the rim of trees, the coastline lay before them and the glistening sea beyond.

"Not much further north," said the bird, "stands the well of lost things."

Day had ended and dusk thickened into night, but the s.h.i.+ngles of the beach shone like pieces of silver in the moonlight, marking their way. They walked north until finally, at the top of a craggy black rock, could be seen the well of lost things. The grey and white bird bid them farewell and flew away, her duty discharged.

When the Princess and the fawn reached the well, the Princess turned to stroke her n.o.ble companion's neck. "You cannot come with me down the well, dear fawn," she said, "for this must I do alone." And summoning up the bravery she had discovered on her journey, the Princess jumped into the opening, and fell and fell towards the bottom.

The Princess tumbled in and out of sleep and dreams until she found herself walking in a field where the sun made the gra.s.s glimmer and the trees sing.

Suddenly, as if from nowhere, a beautiful fairy appeared, with long, swirling hair that glistened like spun gold and a radiant smile upon her face. The Princess felt instantly at peace.

"You have come a long way, weary traveler," said the fairy.

"I have come that I might return to a dear friend her eyes. Have you seen the globes of which I speak, bright fairy?"

Without a word, the fairy opened her hand and in it were two eyes, the beautiful eyes of a maiden who had seen no ill in the world.

"You may take them," said the fairy, "but your crone will never use them."

And before the Princess could ask what the fairy meant, she woke to discover she was lying by her dear fawn at the top of the well. In her hands was a small wrapped parcel in which lay the crone's eyes.

For three months, the travelers journeyed back across the land of lost things, and over the deep blue sea, to arrive once more in the Princess's homeland. When they drew near to the crone's cottage, on the edge of the dark, familiar wood, a huntsman stopped them and confirmed the fairy's prediction. While the Princess had been traveling in the land of lost things, the crone had pa.s.sed peacefully to the next world.

At this news, the Princess began to weep, for her long journey had been in vain, but the fawn, who was as wise as he was good, told his Beauty to stop crying. "It matters not, for she did not need her eyes to tell her who she was. She knew it by your love for her."

And the Princess was so grateful for the fawn's kindness that she reached out and stroked his warm cheek. Just then, the fawn was changed into a handsome prince, and his golden ring became a crown, and he told the Princess how a wicked witch had put a spell on him, trapping him in the body of a fawn until a fair maiden might love him enough to weep over his fate.

He and the Princess were betrothed and lived together happily and busily evermore in the crone's little cottage, her eyes watching over them eternally from a jar atop the fireplace.

THIRTEEN.

LONDON, 1975.

HE was a scribble of a man. Frail and fine and stooped from a knot in the center of his k.n.o.bbled back. Beige slacks with grease spots clung to the marbles of his knees, twiglike ankles rose stoically from oversized shoes, and tufts of white floss sprouted from various fertile spots on an otherwise smooth scalp. He looked like a character from a children's story. A fairy story. was a scribble of a man. Frail and fine and stooped from a knot in the center of his k.n.o.bbled back. Beige slacks with grease spots clung to the marbles of his knees, twiglike ankles rose stoically from oversized shoes, and tufts of white floss sprouted from various fertile spots on an otherwise smooth scalp. He looked like a character from a children's story. A fairy story.

Nell pulled herself away from the window and studied again the address in her notebook. There it was, printed in her own unsightly hand: Mr. Snelgrove's Antiquarian Bookshop, No. 4 Cecil Court, off Charing Cross Road-London's foremost expert on fairy-tale writers and old books in general. Might know about Eliza? Mr. Snelgrove's Antiquarian Bookshop, No. 4 Cecil Court, off Charing Cross Road-London's foremost expert on fairy-tale writers and old books in general. Might know about Eliza?

The librarians at the Central Reference Library had given her his name and address the day before. They'd been unable to rummage up any information on Eliza Makepeace that Nell hadn't already found, but had told her that if there was anyone who could help her further with her search, it was Mr. Snelgrove. Not the most sociable of fellows, that much was certain, but he knew more about old books than anyone else in London. He was as old as time itself, one of the younger librarians joked, and had probably read the book of fairy tales when it was hot off the press.

A cool breeze brushed against her bare neck and Nell gathered her coat tight about her shoulders. With a deep, clear breath of purpose, she pushed open the door.

A bra.s.s bell tinkled in the doorjamb and the old man turned to look at her. Thick spectacle lenses caught the light, shone like two round mirrors, and impossibly large ears balanced on the sides of his head, white hair colonizing them from within.

He tilted his head and Nell's first thought was that he was bowing-some vestige of manners from an earlier time. When pale, gla.s.sy eyes appeared over the rim of his gla.s.ses she realized he was merely improving his view of her.

"Mr. Snelgrove?"

"Yes." Tone of a tetchy headmaster. "Yes, indeed. Well, come in, do. You're letting the wretched air through."

Nell stepped forward, aware of the door closing behind her. A little current sucking out, leaving the warm, stale air to resettle.

"Name," said the man.

"Nell. Nell Andrews."

He blinked at her. "Name," he said again, enunciating crisply, "of the book for which you are searching."

"Of course." Nell glanced again at her notebook. "Though it's not so much a case of searching for a book."

Mr. Snelgrove blinked again slowly, a parody of patience.

He was weary of her already, Nell realized. This caught her off guard; she was used to playing the wearied herself. Surprise brought with it a pesky stammer. "Th-that is..." She paused, trying to compose herself. "I already have the book in question."

Mr. Snelgrove sniffed sharply and large nostrils clamped shut. "Might I suggest, madam," he said, "that if you already have the book in question, you have little need for my humble services." A nod. "Good day."

And with that he shuffled away, returned his attention to the towering bookshelf by the stairs.

She had been dismissed. Nell opened her mouth. Closed it again. Turned to leave. Stopped.

No. She had come a long way to unravel a mystery, her mystery, and this man was her best chance of shedding some light on Eliza Makepeace, why she might have been escorting Nell to Australia in 1913.

Pulling herself to her full height, Nell crossed the floorboards to stand by Mr. Snelgrove. She cleared her throat, rather pointedly, and waited.

He didn't turn his head, merely continued shelving his books. "You are still here." A statement.

"Yes," said Nell firmly. "I have come to show you something and I don't intend to leave until I've done so."

"I fear, madam," he said through a sigh, "that you have wasted your time just as you are now wasting mine. I don't sell items on commission."

Anger p.r.i.c.kled Nell's throat. "And I don't wish to sell my book. I ask only that you take a look at it so that I might gain an expert opinion." Her cheeks were warm, an unfamiliar sensation. She was not a blusher.

Mr. Snelgrove turned to appraise her, that pale, cool, weary gaze. A thread of emotion (which one, she could not tell) plucked neatly at his lip. Wordlessly, and with the slightest of movements, he indicated a little office behind his shop counter.

Nell hurried through the doorway. His agreement was the sort of tiny kindness that had a habit of poking holes in one's resolve. A tear of relief threatened to break through her defenses and she dug inside her bag, hoping to find an old tissue so she might stop the traitor in its tracks. What on earth was happening to her? She wasn't an emotional person, she knew how to keep control. At least, she always had. Until recently, until Doug had delivered that suitcase and she'd found the storybook inside, the picture as its frontispiece. Started remembering things and people, like the Auth.o.r.ess; fragments of her past, glimpsed through tiny holes in the fabric of her memory.

Mr. Snelgrove closed the gla.s.s door behind him and shuffled across a Persian carpet dulled by its coat of long-settled dust. He navigated his way between motley mounds of books that were arranged, mazelike, on the floor, then dropped into the leather chair on the far side of the desk. Fumbled a cigarette from a battered packet and lit it.

"Well"-the word floated out on a stream of smoke-"come on, then. Let me cast my gaze across this book of yours."

Nell had wrapped the book in a tea towel when she left Brisbane. A sensible idea-the book was old and precious, it needed protection-yet here, in the dim light of Mr. Snelgrove's trove, the domesticity implied by its shroud embarra.s.sed her.

She untied the string and slipped off the red-and-white-checked cloth, restrained herself from pus.h.i.+ng it deep within her bag. Then she handed the book across the table into Mr. Snelgrove's waiting fingers.