Read Online Griefwork by James Hamilton-Paterson - Free Book Online
Authors: James Hamilton-Paterson
Ads: Link
upwards throughout his body like hemlock so that even his vision grew momentarily dim though with red streaks like sunset. ‘But of course we’re none of us up to snuff,’ he told himself when he was back on his feet. ‘Short commons for everyone. What can you expect on half rations?’
Even as he returned to his seedlings he felt optimistic about the future. Things could only improve. Here were thirty little plants where a month or two ago had been none. Probably half of them would wind up in other gardens, at Kew outside London, at the Hortus Botanicus in Amsterdam, the Orto Botanico in Florence, in Paris, Brussels, Edinburgh, The Bronx. ObviouslyBerlin and Frankfurt would have to wait. Who knew what was left of those once-magnificent gardens? Strangely, many of the learned societies which administered such places had managed to remain in touch throughout the war. It had been amazing how amid bombing and shelling and with an entire continent in convulsions of militarised chaos, a network of private links and public services like veins beneath the skin had pulsed on in some sort of fashion. Late in the war Leon had been caught in an American daylight raid when the whole city centre had been cleared of people, tin-helmeted wardens herding everyone off the streets and into shelters. His last sight before being pushed underground had been of a postman, open leather satchel in a steel basket on the handlebars of his bicycle, pedalling among the last raid’s uprooted cobblestones while troops and gunners dashed for their positions. The postman was holding a letter as he rode, reading the address. It had flashed upon him how layered reality was, not at all a single thing. The postman belonged to another, concurrent version, like a ghost of prewar days passing through in a dream. By such means had the Royal Botanic Society kept in touch with brother bodies, exchanging professorial greetings, learned papers, even seeds and cuttings, the hideousness of human behaviour made to vanish in the contemplation of a new rose or a batch of tenderly coaxed seedlings.
It made him happy, then, to imagine these little plants leaving him to join another collection elsewhere, new life being passed from hand to hand, propagating itself together with knowledge. Was he not a midwife in his mould-stained apron, bringing into the world difficult infants in this great incubator, rearing, training and strengthening them until they could flourish on their own and be ready to leave if need be? His children. Up and down the nave, in aisles and transepts, beneath the dome, his children, rampaging with vigour. Only when placed in the context of the snowscapes outside could they be seen as delicate.On their own terms they burgeoned fit to cover the Earth.
Towards noon the sun broke weakly through to light up the south-facing angles of the Palm House roof. There the snow melted from the panes’ topmost edges and sagged to form wet crescents of palish sky. At ground level the temperature remained below freezing, the snow pristine but for the twiglike tracks of birds and the scars of his own flounderings. This layer also transfigured the gardens, hiding signs of damage and neglect. The head under-gardener had been pensioned off, having lost a leg in a tram accident during the blackout. Two other gardeners had been killed in air raids and several boys and men had never returned from conscription into the army. Evidently the Society did not yet feel financially secure enough to fill their vacant posts. The beautiful seventeenth-century mansion attached to the gardens and forming the Society’s headquarters had been requisitioned by occupying forces and left partially ruined. The current priority seemed to be to restore the house before the gardens. Nothing was quite certain. Meanwhile, snow covered all evidence of indecision.
Leon was suddenly prompted to drop what he was doing and go and look at his lotuses. He had scrounged some immense aluminium
Even as he returned to his seedlings he felt optimistic about the future. Things could only improve. Here were thirty little plants where a month or two ago had been none. Probably half of them would wind up in other gardens, at Kew outside London, at the Hortus Botanicus in Amsterdam, the Orto Botanico in Florence, in Paris, Brussels, Edinburgh, The Bronx. ObviouslyBerlin and Frankfurt would have to wait. Who knew what was left of those once-magnificent gardens? Strangely, many of the learned societies which administered such places had managed to remain in touch throughout the war. It had been amazing how amid bombing and shelling and with an entire continent in convulsions of militarised chaos, a network of private links and public services like veins beneath the skin had pulsed on in some sort of fashion. Late in the war Leon had been caught in an American daylight raid when the whole city centre had been cleared of people, tin-helmeted wardens herding everyone off the streets and into shelters. His last sight before being pushed underground had been of a postman, open leather satchel in a steel basket on the handlebars of his bicycle, pedalling among the last raid’s uprooted cobblestones while troops and gunners dashed for their positions. The postman was holding a letter as he rode, reading the address. It had flashed upon him how layered reality was, not at all a single thing. The postman belonged to another, concurrent version, like a ghost of prewar days passing through in a dream. By such means had the Royal Botanic Society kept in touch with brother bodies, exchanging professorial greetings, learned papers, even seeds and cuttings, the hideousness of human behaviour made to vanish in the contemplation of a new rose or a batch of tenderly coaxed seedlings.
It made him happy, then, to imagine these little plants leaving him to join another collection elsewhere, new life being passed from hand to hand, propagating itself together with knowledge. Was he not a midwife in his mould-stained apron, bringing into the world difficult infants in this great incubator, rearing, training and strengthening them until they could flourish on their own and be ready to leave if need be? His children. Up and down the nave, in aisles and transepts, beneath the dome, his children, rampaging with vigour. Only when placed in the context of the snowscapes outside could they be seen as delicate.On their own terms they burgeoned fit to cover the Earth.
Towards noon the sun broke weakly through to light up the south-facing angles of the Palm House roof. There the snow melted from the panes’ topmost edges and sagged to form wet crescents of palish sky. At ground level the temperature remained below freezing, the snow pristine but for the twiglike tracks of birds and the scars of his own flounderings. This layer also transfigured the gardens, hiding signs of damage and neglect. The head under-gardener had been pensioned off, having lost a leg in a tram accident during the blackout. Two other gardeners had been killed in air raids and several boys and men had never returned from conscription into the army. Evidently the Society did not yet feel financially secure enough to fill their vacant posts. The beautiful seventeenth-century mansion attached to the gardens and forming the Society’s headquarters had been requisitioned by occupying forces and left partially ruined. The current priority seemed to be to restore the house before the gardens. Nothing was quite certain. Meanwhile, snow covered all evidence of indecision.
Leon was suddenly prompted to drop what he was doing and go and look at his lotuses. He had scrounged some immense aluminium
Similar Books
