Page 6 of The Sky Beneath Us
‘I apologise for intruding,’ Miss Carmichael continued. ‘We’ll take ourselves elsewhere and leave you to finish your lunch in peace.’
‘Och, it’s no intrusion at all,’ George replied. ‘There’s space enough for us all and the shelter this corner provides keeps the wind off. Please, make yourselves at home.’
We settled ourselves at a little distance from the men and took out the pieces we’d brought with us from our lodgings. I discovered I was suddenly ravenous after our morning’s excitements, and the egg sandwiches Mrs MacDougall had prepared for Marjorie and me became the sole object of my concentration. It was only when Marjorie nudged me and hissed in my ear that one of the gardeners seemed to be glaring at me that I looked up.
A young man sat with his back against the trunk of a red oak, a penknife and short stick in his hands. He’d been whittling at it when we arrived, his head bowed over his work. But now he had abandoned his task, distracted no doubt by the interruption. As Marjorie had observed, he appeared to be staring straight at me with a look of disdain in his clear hazel eyes and I recognised the young man I’d encountered in the Palm House on Sunday.
Mortification flooded through my veins as I recalled how I’d told him about the palmetto. No wonder he’d been annoyed. It must have sounded so condescending, and to one who knew the plants there far better than I.
Determined not to be cowed by his hostility, I smiled in recognition and raised the hand holding the remains of my egg sandwich by way of salutation.
‘Violet Mackenzie-Grant!’ snapped Miss Carmichael, having witnessed my gesture and, I suppose, interpreted it as a brazen flirtation.
A few of the gardeners laughed out loud and I saw one of the girls nudge her neighbour and whisper something behind her hand.Chastened, I dropped my eyes to my lap and felt my cheeks burn with embarrassment. But when I slid a furtive glance towards the young man again a few moments later, I saw he was smiling at me. It could have been simple amusement at my public admonishment, but I thought there was more warmth in his eyes so perhaps there was some sympathy there too.
Marjorie cut an apple in two and passed me one of the halves.
‘Thank you,’ I whispered, my gratitude not just for the apple but for the gesture of friendly solidarity.
The lads got to their feet and went back to their tasks in the gardens, leaving us to finish our lunch. I didn’t dare raise my eyes as they left, not wishing to draw more of Miss Carmichael’s disapprobation down upon myself. But one of them walked close by where Marjorie and I were sitting and something fell at my feet as he passed. Making sure no one was looking (apart from Marjorie, who witnessed the whole incident with much amusement), I reached out and picked up a piece of wood that had been whittled into the form of a palm frond, a perfect miniature facsimile of those of the palmetto.
I tucked it into the pocket of my smock. And now it sits on the bedside table in my room at The Laurels as I write this.
He appears to be a really rather extraordinary young man, that lad with the hazel eyes.
WEDNESDAY, 12THOCTOBER, 1927
At lunchtime today I was called in to Miss Morison’s study. We’d been working in the market garden that morning, harvesting the last of the spring-planted onions and the first of the neeps, so I kept my hands behind my back as I stood before her desk, to hide my dirt-engrained fingernails. Despite my best efforts with the scrubbing brush and carbolic soap, the rich black soil of the vegetablebeds persists in clinging stubbornly to the roughened skin. Mother has sent me a jar of Hinds hand cream, with a note urging me to use it often and to wear a pair of kid gloves at night-time, in a last-ditch attempt to prevent my descent into harridan-ism. It may be effective for women who ‘do housework, play golf, and run a car or a typewriter’, as the advertisements claim, but I’m afraid it doesn’t make much of a dent on the after-effects of ploughing, digging and turning compost heaps.
Miss Morison has a stern outward demeanour but beneath it lies a deep vein of kindness. I was a little nervous as I stood before her, wondering which of my mistakes I was to be dressed down for. There’d been that incident with the insecticide for the Brussels sprouts the other day (although Marjorie agreed with me afterwards that the instructions for its dilution had been less than clear), and last week I’d bent the ploughshare on a stone when attempting to create one of the new market garden beds. But she smiled at me so warmly that I felt the tightness across my shoulders release a little as I shifted my feet on the oriental rug that is the one concession to comfort in her study, lined with its horticultural tomes.
‘How are you enjoying your time with us, Violet?’
My heart sank a little again, nerves a-flutter in case this was her opening gambit in telling me I wasn’t cut out for the course.
‘Very much indeed, Miss Morison,’ I assured her. ‘The work is hard, and I know I have a lot to learn, but I love it here.’
‘Good,’ she replied. ‘Your tutors tell me you are doing well.’ She glanced down at a note on her desk. ‘We have received a request from the Regius Keeper at the Botanics. It’s somewhat unusual, but he has mentioned you by name. It appears your proficiency at illustration has not gone unremarked. They have recently received a large number of specimens from George Forrest’s latest expedition to Tibet and there is much to be done to catalogue and illustrate them. Ordinarily, we would assign such an opportunity to one ofour second-year students, but I’m afraid to say none of them has your proficiency with pencils and paint. I am prepared to let you undertake this work – and it is an excellent opportunity – but only on the condition that you make up the elements of the course here in your own time. Is that something you’d be prepared to do?’
I think I stood in flabbergasted silence for several moments, my mouth opening and closing like a landed trout, before I was able to burst out my excitement and gratitude. ‘To be one of the first people in the country to see those exotic specimens, to be able to study them and be one of those responsible for presenting them to the world ...! I’d love to, Miss Morison. And I’ll be sure to make up the course work too. Oh, thank you, thank you for this opportunity.’
She smiled again, but then quickly readjusted her expression into one of sternness. ‘Very well, Violet. But you must remember that you are representing the Edinburgh School of Gardening for Women and I expect you to behave with decorum at all times. You will be under the scrutiny of some of the most knowledgeable and influential men in British botanical circles. I hope I can trust you to make a good impression.’
I was so excited I could scarcely concentrate on this afternoon’s lectures on the propagation of herbaceous perennials. I think I shall scarcely sleep a wink tonight. I am to present myself at the Library of the Royal Botanic Garden tomorrow morning.
SUNDAY, 16THOCTOBER, 1927
Conscious of keeping my word to Miss Morison, I have forced myself to copy up Marjorie’s notes on pest control for brassicas before allowing time for writing up my journal today. What a week it has been!
As instructed, I made my way through the gates of the botanic gardens and up the path to the Caledonian Hall, which houses the Herbarium. I had to keep pinching myself to be sure it wasn’t a dream, that I really had been selected to help illustrate the latest findings from one of the world’s most renowned plant hunters. Despite its grand name, the hall more resembles a pretty cottage built from honey-coloured stone, its gables decorated with carved wooden filigree. I paused before the door, adjusting the leather satchel containing my art materials across the front of my coat like a protective shield, to give me confidence before knocking. The man behind the desk fixed me with a most suspicious glare when I gave him my name and said I was expected. He is clearly the type of custodian who believes it his duty to preserve the collections in his care from the prying eyes of anyone who might be termed a member of the general public. Reluctantly, he told me to take a seat and wait whilst he spoke to someone on the telephone. Whatever was said, it seemed to convince him that I really was to be allowed into the inner sanctum, because he raised his eyebrows, replaced the receiver without further comment, and told me someone would be with me shortly, before returning to the pages of the vast leather-bound ledger before him.
The silence, broken only by the loud ticking of the clock on the wall behind the man’s desk, merely served to increase my jitters. I reminded myself of the confidence placed in me by Miss Morison and the other lecturers at the School of Gardening, as well as the encouragement given to me by Mrs Hanbury in the gardens at Inverewe, and clutched my bag a little more firmly on my lap to stop myself from quaking. I told myself I deserved my place here amongst the men. And I would need a steady hand if I was to draw and paint George Forrest’s specimens.
After what seemed an eternity – although a glance at the clock told me I’d been waiting less than ten minutes – a door off to theside of the entryway opened and another man appeared. The doorkeeper stood up from his chair. ‘Good morning, Dr Kay,’ he said with some diffidence. ‘This is Miss Mackenzie-Grant, the young lady who is apparently a botanic artist.’ He glanced at me disparagingly, as if he very much doubted this to be true.
The man fixed me with an appraising look as I scrambled to my feet. ‘I’m pleased to meet you, Miss Mackenzie-Grant. We have heard good things about your skill with pencil and paintbrush. I am Francis Kay, the principal curator.’ He shook my hand with a reassuringly firm grip. ‘We are grateful to Miss Morison for sparing you to help us. Please, follow me.’
I trotted through the doorway after him, leaving the custodian to his ledgers, and entered another world entirely. I blinked as we stepped into the central hall, its walls and ceiling painted with whitewash that reflected the autumn light streaming in through tall windows. At one end, the room was lined with shelves and panelled cupboards housing the collections that had already been catalogued. Cluttered workbenches filled the central floor space and around them were piles of wooden crates, many stamped with foreign characters and covered with paper labels, recording the long and sometimes tortuous journeys they must have made to end up here in Edinburgh. Dr Kay led me to a workbench near one of the windows. As we approached, a young man who had been hunched over a desiccated-looking branch straightened up and grinned at me. I think I must have gaped at him like an idiot in return. He set aside the scalpel he’d been holding and held out his hand to shake mine.
