Midsummer

Midsummer

If you are the sort of person who likes secrets and surprises, you
would have loved the garden at Haselmere. Wherever you stood, there was
always something you just couldn't see; a shady area, a hidden corner,
an inviting pathway leading out of sight, the noise of babbling water
somewhere, a low door in all that you hadn't noticed before. You could
wander forever though trailing willows and chance up on heady,
sweet-smelling corners; and just when you felt you'd seen it all, and
there was nothing more to do but return to the house, your feet found
the herb garden and your nose was bewitched by aromatic perfumes and
spices.

Harriet, Millicent and Catherine Grey had lived at Haselmere all their
lives. They had come into the world on the big feather bed in the front
room that overlooked the rose garden, had taken their first teetering
steps on the smooth lawns, grown in stature and wisdom as they explored
the globes, maps and journals in the snug book-lined study.

When their parents died, the house and garden became both father and
mother to them. The outside world was a strange and bewildering place
but behind the security of the mellow walls they were confident and
safe, able to care for one another and protect Catherine from what
would have been her inevitable fate. All three loved their home but
perhaps Harriet was the most devoted to its upkeep. The garden, and
particularly the kitchen garden, was her special province. Plants
flourished under her touch; basketfuls of garden produce appeared in
the kitchen each day.

Harriet was tall and broad. She favoured sensible clothes and was
forthright, even brusque, in her manner but when it came to her
sisters, her heart was benevolent and kind. It was amazing how her
large calloused hands could coax into bloom the most delicate of
flowers. She had a natural ability with the weak; thanks to her, the
outside world was never really aware of Catherine's problems.

Long ago Harriet had married a man much older than herself. Teddy was
her whole world. In his company she sparkled, was beautiful even, all
the ungainliness gone. When he died after a few brief idyllic years it
seemed natural for her to return to the family home. Her bright
happiness dimmed, her former ready laughter rarely heard, she immersed
herself in the care of her sisters.

Millicent was both the brains and the beauty of the family. She had
forged a career for herself in medicine at a time when a woman at
university was a rare sight. Men fell in love with her wherever she
went, and wherever she went there was sure to be a clutch of admirers
in tow. They discussed how she had the most disarming trait of closing
her eyes as she spoke to one man and opening them full on another. She
was proposed to on a regular basis and although she let them down with
charm and kindness, no man held her heart. No man, that is, until the
arrival of Morris Clarke - Pharmaceutical salesman, conman and
philanderer. She met him when he visited the surgery where she worked
and where he instantly set out to charm her. Harriet, a shrewd judge of
character, disliked him from the first meeting, could not understand
what Millicent saw in him - but Millicent had fallen hopelessly and
helplessly in love. He was certainly a handsome man - tall, upright,
distinguished looking with a quick smile, a ready wit and charm in
abundance. Harriet was wary of that easy charm, suspicious of his past
as a military man. She probed cautiously about his family but found
door after door shut against her enquiries. Millicent could see in him
only perfection and would hear no criticism of him. Within weeks they
were married, within months Morris's habits with other women had become
more than rumour. He was rarely at home and Millicent sat alone,
yearning for the laughter and companionship she had known with her
sisters. When he did return, she felt humiliated by his fumbled
embraces and rank whisky breath. It was not long before a young local
girl turned up on their doorstep with a baby in her arms and Millicent
began to see her husband in a truer light. Two days later she was back
at Haselmere, a sad pale replica of the laughing woman who had set off
so bravely and confidently into her marriage. Her husband made no
attempt to follow her. From the moment he had learned that the family
were backed by no wealth other than their home he had lost interest in
his beautiful bride, preferring the willing company of a local
landowner's pretty daughter. With all the kindness and care of a lover,
Harriet nursed her sister back to health but Millicent had developed a
hard cynical veneer. Her smile was rarely seen and never reached her
eyes. She had no interest whatsoever in the young men from her past who
tentatively began to call again - each hoping to be the favoured one.
When Millicent stated that she planned to take up her career as a
doctor again, Harriet was delighted. Soon the small study at the rear
of the house had been turned into a patient's waiting room and the walk
in cupboard next to it became a glorious sparkling den of coloured
bottles, gleaming scales, yards of bandage and boxes and sachets of
powdered remedies. Harriet watched over her sister and took great pride
in seeing her restored both in confidence and looks.

Catherine was the youngest sister, born when her mother should have
been well past childbearing. A thin high wail heralded her arrival in
the world and saw her mother leave it. She lay motionless in her cot
for the first months of her life, unanimated, unfocussed, unsmiling. A
very few years later her family were forced to recognise that she would
never be able to lead an independent life. To the people in the village
she seemed like any other child. Only her over-large pale blue eyes
gave any hint. Her family loved her and she in turn was loving and
happy most of the time, but her sudden rages and heart stopping
disappearances warned them of trials ahead. Lost in a fit of anger she
was implacable and cruel. Her head was full of imagined offences. She
had a sly way of retaliating and a long memory for any wrongs done.
When she was happy she was sunny and full of fun - the best of
companions - but her moods were changeable and often dark.

Inevitably Harriet took Catherine under her wing. With their parents no
longer alive, Harriet determined to give Catherine a steadiness and
purpose in her life. With this in mind she taught Catherine to cook and
bake. Catherine showed an instant skill and flare for this and for some
time now she had been calm, her life on a much more even keel than
during her growing years. Soon she was trusted to turn Harriet's garden
offerings into simple tasty meals and delicious pastries and
puddings.

It was midsummer. The garden was sunk in sultry heat. The sisters moved
slowly around the house, their work over for the day.

"Shall we have tea in the garden?" suggested Catherine, "I have made
our favourite scones and the raspberry jam has turned out particularly
well this year"

The sisters chose the shade of a beech tree to set up their table.
Millicent carried a basket of crockery, Harriet spread out a snowy
white cloth and Catherine set down a freshly baked cake and a plate of
golden steaming scones. Conversation was desultory. Catherine was in a
fey mood, her eyes paler than ever, her breath coming rapidly. Her eyes
darted from sister to sister, her face full of cunning and smiles.
Several times she tried to say something but was prevented by Harriet's
quick frown as she tried to divert her from the subject that was in all
three women's thoughts. But it was useless. Finally Catherine burst
out,

"Did you hear that Morris Clarke has died, it was in all the newspapers
yesterday - and good riddance too!"

Millicent's face turned to stone.

"I would prefer us not to talk about it Catherine."

"But don't you see Millie, I did it for you. He was visiting friends in
the village and fell ill so I took him round a little pick-me-up
specially made by me!"

As the two sisters looked at her, their faces frozen in the dawning
realisation of what she had said, Catherine giggled and
continued,

"That man hurt you Millie, and had to be punished. When I heard that he
was nearby and sick, I took him some raspberry cordial - only I added a
little something from your special cupboard. Thanks to your potions and
Harry's cooking lessons I rid the world of a very nasty sort. More
scones anyone?"

(Based on a painting by Sir James Guthrie
Midsummer (1892)
Province of Royal Scottish Academy)