The Wild Garden

She would never have cried if she had not been alone. If Gabriel had been there, or Liz, or even her mother (especially her mother) she would not have given into sentiment. For that was all it was, wasn’t it? An agreeably miserable wallow in the past, a necessary rite of passage. She and Liz had had such good times together in that flat in Barclay Terrace, but things like that did not last for ever. They were both moving on. Martin, Kate guessed, would be moving in pretty shortly, and she was going to Gabriel and to Allansfield.

She sniffed hard and wiped her eyes, laughing at herself now. Gabriel and Allansfield - there was nothing to cry about there. She was not being turned out on her ear into the freezing streets. She was going to live with Gabriel Erksine in his country house in Fife.

She got up and began to throw tubes of oil paint and brushes into a large green shoe box, wondering if she ought to stock up with more paint before she left, and then remembered that Gabriel had assured her there was a good art supply shop in St Andrews. "There is civilisation beyond Edinburgh, you know, Kate," he had said with a smile. He was right, of course, and she needed to be weaned off Edinburgh. She had never lived anywhere else, although she knew this showed a distinct lack of curiosity on her part. Her contemporaries in the Fine Art honours class at Edinburgh College of Art had scattered far and wide, in the four years since graduation, some to London, some to New York but many of them had gone to Glasgow. Kate went to see them sometimes and had been quite tempted by their spacious studios in old warehouses. Being in Glasgow seemed to do great things for their careers. Yet the moment she was back in Edinburgh, she had always known Glasgow would not suit her. Edinburgh, she had found, fed her imagination - and so, with a bit of luck, would Allansfield.

Falling in love with Gabriel had been a strange business. Kate had not intended it to happen. She had not been in the mood for getting involved with anyone. She had just broken up messily with an abstract expressionist called Simon whose attitude to commitment had been as sloppy as his brushwork. She had, as a result, adopted a hostile attitude to men. Yet at the Private View for the Manzoni Gallery Winter Show she had been fascinated to see a striking man, looking at the two large pictures that she had persuaded Sandra Manzoni (with some difficulty) to put in the show.

At first, he had been looking at her Pandora, tapping his catalogue gently on his chin, as he read every detail of the composition, his lips fixed in a careful line of concentration, his eyes never wavering, one arm folded across his chest. He rocked slightly and moved onto Triptych, glancing back at Pandora as he did.

She tried to be inconspicuous. She even pretended to study one of the large abstract spatters that hung nearby but she kept glancing at this man, who appeared quite rooted to the spot in front of her picture. She moved and pretended to look at Pandora. She heard him stir slightly beside him, and took as long a look at him as she dared. She looked longer than she meant to - his face was interesting. It was not just the look of concentration which impressed her, but the physical quality of his features: they were somewhat craggy, and were worn by age and by experience. She wanted at once to paint him and wished she had the cheek to suggest it, for it was clear he liked what he saw in front of him. She knew she should have had no qualms about jumping for a bit of business. She could see from the cut of his dark, elegant suit and his gold cuff-links that he was well-off, but Kate held her tongue. She did not wish to break the spell of his looking.

He realised that she was standing beside him. With an elegant gesture with his catalogue he surrendered Triptych to her attention, as if he did not like to hog it. He’ll move on now, she thought, but he moved back to Pandora. I ought to say something, he might want to buy it. I might actually have a customer here. But her throat was dry.

"These really are the best things in the show," he said, suddenly. "Why they hang such gems down here, I don’t know."

He was speaking to her and she knew she ought to come up with some appropriate response. All she could manage was a foolish grin, and the odd thought, that his voice was as interesting as his face: a little hesitant, a little husky but very expressive.

"Do you know the painter?" he said, looking at the catalogue. "Kate Mackenzie - is that it?"

"Yes, Kate Mackenzie," she said, managing to speak at last. "I do know her - well, I mean to say that’s me..."

"Ah…" he said and nodded to her in fashion which in a more ceremonious age she might have mistaken for a bow. "Then, many congratulations."

He had introduced himself and they had begun to talk about her pictures. He was knowledgeable about painting without being pretentious. She sensed at once he understood what she was trying to do in her work and she began to bask in the agreeable glow of his intelligent appreciation of them. Then he had made her jump out of her skin by telling her he was going to buy them both.

"Both?" she said. "Are you sure?" She wanted to add, "do you know how much they are?" and he, as if reading her mind said, "I think they are bargains at a grand a piece."

Kate grinned, recalling the conversations she had had with Sandra Manzoni over the price. "Your pictures are too large, Kate. People don’t have room for such big pictures. You’re more likely to sell at a lower price - seven hundred and fifty, perhaps." She was glad she had stuck to her guns over a thousand.

"Well, my bank manager is going to like me," said Kate, "for a change."

After the sale had been settled, with Sandra Manzoni fluttering and crowing with delight, he had asked, with a certain amount diffidence, whether she would like to go for dinner somewhere. She found could not resist this request. She wanted to celebrate, and it was business after all. She might get another commission from him.

They went to a fish restaurant which Kate had often walked past with envious glances, feeling she would never be rich or smart enough to eat there. That night, she had felt quite comfortable amongst the art-deco panelling and glowing lamps. She was wearing her best clothes, and now she had become used to the idea that she was an artist who actually sold pictures, she felt she had a right to be there. Or was that feeling of confidence entirely due to the lovely cold Chardonnay? They had drunk a bottle down pretty swiftly (hardly very difficult from those vast glasses) and it was settling on to her empty stomach with incredible ease. She felt beautifully relaxed and not at all as if she were out with a stranger. Perhaps it was not the wine at all but Gabriel Erskine. He had the knack of making her feel quite at home with him.

They had finished their first course, the bottle of wine and a very good conversation about food, when Gabriel leant back against the banquette, stretching his arm out along the back of it, and smiled, most contentedly. "That’s the best smoked salmon I’ve had in ages. It so rarely has any taste these days."

Kate finished her last mouthful of prawns in saffron sauce and smiled. "I wish I had such a long perspective on the matter."

"I am very spoilt in that respect," he said. "We used to have wonderful smoked salmon at Allansfield - that’s my house in Fife. It came from my mother’s family, up in Argyll. They had their own smoke house on the estate, but then my cousins had to sell the place in the sixties. A great shame really."

"I wonder if it really tasted that good," said Kate, leaning her elbows on the table and resting her chin on her knotted hands, trying not to be overawed by casual his references to country estates. "Or is that just nostalgia?"

"The young can be very cruel, can’t they?" he said, reaching out and refilling her glass. "Well, just you wait - you will have your own sacred notions to be disabused of...." He smiled. "Probably, it didn’t taste any different. I just associate it with the wonderful holidays we used to have up there when I was a child."

"That is definitely nostalgia," she said.

"All right," he said. "Your turn. What do you remember eating as a child?"

"Oh, sherbert dabs and refreshers!" She said flippantly and then grimaced. "But there’s nothing interesting to remember really," she went on. "The Mackenzies are such a very dull family."

"I can’t believe that. How could they have produced you?"

"Oh I’m dull too," she said airily, with a slight wave of the glass. "It’s only my work that’s interesting. The rest of me is a mess."

"A mess is not the same as dull," he said.

"You can have dull a mess rather than an interesting mess. I’m a dull mess."

He laughed and said, "If you insist."

She took another great mouthful of wine and considered her family for a moment.

"Well, I suppose they’re not so dull, my family."

"Tell me about them."

"Well, my mother’s a recently retired civil servant and my sister Fiona, she’s a junior doctor, in Manchester."

"And your father?"

"He’s dead, died three years ago now,"

"I’m sorry," he said. She glanced up at him, realising he was about the same age as her father when he died. But her father in her recollection seemed a great deal older.

She shrugged, and went on, "The worst thing about my family is they’re all very public spirited. Dad was a civil servant too. And what am I - a bloody artist!" She grinned. "I used to pretend I was adopted sometimes. But unfortunately, I look very like my mother."

"Then she must be good looking."

"That’s dreadful!" she said and laughed to cover her surprise. His remark, she felt, had crossed that invisible line from ordinary friendliness into the realms of flirtation.

He laughed too and nervously. "Yes that was a little glib, but I couldn’t resist it," he said. "Will you forgive me?"

"Of course," she said.

"It’s just my inexperience," he went on.

"Inexperience?" she queried.

"Oh God, you don’t think I am, do you?" he said. "Oh, but I can imagine how this might appear...." He began to laugh and, he covered his mouth his hand and appeared to be trying to compose himself, as the waiter brought the next course. When the waiter had gone, he said, "Please excuse me - it’s just I hadn’t quite cast myself in that role - the disgusting old divorc顳inking his fangs into an innocent girl."

"Well, I am not innocent girl. I’m twenty six," said Kate, calmly.

He stared at her. "Goodness, you’re the same age as my son." He put down his knife and fork and thought for a moment. "But really, I am sorry, I didn’t mean to appear to be...how do I put this? Pushy?"

"You’re not," said Kate. "I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t want to be, would I?"

"But I don’t like the thought that..."

"I wouldn’t worry," said Kate, dipping a potato into the buttery juices of the halibut. "I mean we’re having fun, aren’t we? Isn’t that all that matters?" She found she was rather proud of herself for saying this. She felt excited and altogether quite reckless.

"You’re absolutely right," he said, smiling broadly. His smile was magnificent. She tried to picture him as he would have been at her age, and realized that it was time that had made his face so interesting. Then he would have been just another handsome young man with not one half of the assurance he had now.

She had recounted the evening the next day to Liz, who promptly labelled him the Angel Gabriel, because Kate had made him sound so perfect. It did seem almost impossible that anyone could be quite so perfect and Kate felt apprehensive about their next meeting - they had decided to go and see The Magic Flute together. As she got ready to go, she found herself wishing it were possible to hover for ever on the brink of expectation, at that impulse of first attraction, the equivalent of that delicious moment before the roller coaster plunges downwards. She was nervous of going on although she wanted to. What if she found out something awful about him? What if he had lied, and did in fact have a wife, as well as a string of mistresses? Perhaps he had some obnoxious sexual habit for her to discover, and surely that was not at all impossible for someone of his background. Weren’t boarding schools and nannies supposed to do strange things to people?

Her nerves were not helped a great deal when Martin, Liz’s boyfriend, informed her that Gabriel Erksine was probably one of the wealthiest men in Scotland. Martin worked for a pukka firm of chartered accountants and Gabriel turned out to be a client.

"It’s steel money of course," said Martin. "And ships. The family made a killing with nationalisation and the amazing thing is they’ve held onto it. He’s very canny apparently."

"Well, that explains why he could spend two thousand quid without blinking," said Liz. Kate felt disappointed. It was as if her pictures were trifles to him, which had required him to make no sacrifices. But at the theatre, just before the lights went down and the overture began, Gabriel told her that he had spent two days moving the pictures around at Allansfield so that he could find a good spot for Pandora.

"I’m afraid there was no room for Triptych though - and anyway it would have been selfish of me to keep them both, so I’ve sent that off to the Erskine-Lennox trust."

"What’s that?"

"It’s rather charming trust my grandfather set up. It sends pictures all over Scotland, to places that don’t have collections of their own - schools, hospitals, village halls, that sort of thing. Do you mind?"

"Mind?" said Kate, a little incredulously. "It sounds like the sort of thing painters dream about."

As the performance proceeded, she realised she was sinking fast. She had felt profoundly comfortable, knowing that he was watching the action with the same attention as her. When, almost at the end, Pamina and Tamino sang their duet to the accompaniment of throbbing strings, she could not resist glancing at him. He had the same thought and turned to her, reached out her for her hand, squeezed it gently for a moment and then let go again. It was an instant of pure communication that she had never experienced with a man before.

She came into the flat, a little breathless from the three flights of stairs, carrying two large shopping bags.

"I’m not going to miss those stairs, you know," she said. She put down the bags in the hall. "How’s the packing going?" Before Kate had a chance to answer, she added, "You’ve been crying."

It was useless to deny it.

"Just nerves, I suppose," Kate said with a shrug.

"Well, I’d be nervous in your shoes," said Mrs Mackenzie, following Kate into the kitchen.

"Well, I think it’s a good sign," said Kate. "I mean you should feel nervous doing something important - and this is important."

Kate appreciated the fact that her mother said nothing at this point. It had taken Mrs Mackenzie a while to get used to the idea of Kate going out with a man who was twenty two years her senior. The first time Kate had taken him to the house in Craiglockhart Loan, she had almost visibly blenched at the sight of him. It had been ironic really. Gabriel was probably the first respectable looking male Kate had brought home to her mother and yet she could see in Mrs Mackenzie’s panic struck eyes she would have preferred an unshaven yob with Doc Martins and ripped jeans sprawling on the sofa in the front room to this forty-eight year old.

"What’s in the bags?" Kate asked, as she made the tea.

"Just some family things I thought you ought to have," said Mrs Mackenzie. "Things your father would have wanted you to have when you left home."

"I left home four years ago," Kate pointed out. "Don’t you mean when I got married?"

"Yes I suppose I do, and since this seems to be the nearest you’re going to get to that just now..." she said with a sigh.

"Would you prefer it if we were getting married, Mum?" said Kate. "If we were engaged or something?"

"Yes," said her mother. "Frankly, Kate, I would. I wouldn’t feel you were rushing into things so. You’ve only known him six months. You can’t really know someone in that time."

"So, that’s why I’m moving in with him, isn’t it?" said Kate. "I can’t think of a better way to get to know someone than living with them, properly living with him."

"I suppose that’s the way people arrange things these days," said her mother. "But it still surprises me that he should suggest it."

"Gabriel didn’t suggest it. We came to a mutual decision."

Kate saw again that her mother was biting her tongue. She was only five years older than Gabriel, but the psychological gap between them seemed far wider sometimes than their own twenty two years gap. Besides, Kate never thought of Gabriel as being old - he was merely older than her. He never pulled rank on her in respect of age. That was one of things she liked about him most of all: he never patronised her, never suggested that he knew any better about anything than she did, except perhaps in the matter of Latin names for plants, which amused her. His pride in his botanical knowledge was endearing.

She went into the hall and looked into the bags. There were some old books that had belonged to her father and other less identifiable items, carefully wrapped up in newspaper.

"They’re nothing special," said her mother. "But you should have them. And I dare say Gabriel will have more room for them than I do."

Kate wondered if Mrs Mackenzie had quite understood how large Allansfield actually was. The way Gabriel talked about it sometimes made it sound like nothing more than a farmhouse. She was going to get a shock when she first saw the place, just as Kate had done.

Kate lifted out one of the newspaper packages and unwrapped it. Inside she found an old brass candlestick.

"They belonged to your grandparents," said her mother. "Fiona’s got the other."

"Thanks, Mum," said Kate realising that the candlestick meant that Mrs Mackenzie would, with time accept the situation with Gabriel. "I really do appreciate this." Her mother smiled briefly and went into the chaos of Kate’s half packed up room. Kate following her, went on, "And I am sure about this, absolutely sure that this is right thing for me. I’m crazy about Gabriel and Allansfield is the most fabulous place..."

Her mother who had automatically begun folding a jumper, looked up and said wryly: "Oh, Kate, are you sure that ‘crazy’ is quite the right word to use to your old disapproving mother?"

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