Amy gestured around at the moist greenery, the aerial roots that curled and looped and the heavy-scented, florid blooms. She was conscious of the hothouse heat under her hairline and the dampness gathering in the small of her back and at the cuffs of her dress. She saw that there was a faint sheen of sweat in the hollow of Nick’s throat where the dark hair showed at his open collar. He saw her looking.
‘I’m very sorry.’ The stiffness momentarily dispelled by the orchids’ beauty was back again. ‘Mr Dawe doesn’t permit the gardeners near the house without collars and ties. But no one ever comes in here.’
Mr Dawe was the ancient, formally trained head gardener. He regarded every flower cut from his beds and borders as a sacrifice. Amy smiled faintly at the thought of him.
‘It doesn’t matter to me,’ she said, ‘I’m a nurse now, you know.’ She had meant to imply that she was a matter-of-fact, hard-working person herself, but it had come out instead sounding as if the sight of a man’s bare chest was a familiar one. Amy felt the colour deepening in her already flushed face. Nick Penry was standing watching her, his respectful attitude only a veneer over the challenging mockery. Amy remembered the anger he had stirred in her on the day of the hunger march, and she swallowed it down again, determined to be friendly. He could laugh at her if he pleased, but she wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of seeing that she minded.
‘Do you know a lot about flowers?’
‘I didn’t, until I came here. Not much grows, down the pits,’ he said drily. ‘When I came here, they started me off in the gardens as a handyman. Digging, forking manure, that kind of thing. Easy work, but not exactly interesting. Then, not long afterwards, one of the lads went off sick and they pulled me in to work in the cold houses. It was fascinating, seeing all the cuttings standing up in those little pots as if they would wither and die for sure, and then coming back and seeing that they’d taken, with all the white roots curled in the pot like threads. Mr Dawe said I had a talent for it, and kept me there. Then a couple of months ago he put me in charge of this place.’ Nick glanced up at the curve and swell of glass roof rising to the central ridge. ‘I’m going to put the blinds down on the sunny side,’ he said.
On the house wall a system of metal rods was connected to a polished brass handle. Nick began to wind it round and with grudging squeaks of wire against metal faded rolls of green canvas unfurled against the glass. When one side of the ogee roof was covered, a mysterious green shade fell across the jungle of plants and dimmed the strident blossoms. Amy felt the coolness fall across her face and looked up gratefully. The orangery felt like a rain forest instead of a tropical island.
Nick had gone back to his flowers. She was afraid, from his absorbed expression, that the moment of confidence was over. But after a moment he began to talk again, almost to himself.
‘I like the orchids best. Look at this one.’ He reached out to touch a dark pink flower with a soft lip that turned downwards and out like a woman’s mouth. ‘Did you ever see anything so lovely? So uselessly and extravagantly beautiful?’
In the dim, scented heat Amy felt a little shiver puckering her skin. If you come from Nantlas, she thought, seeing in her mind’s eye the grey stone and black dust and the cold curtains of rain, then the flamboyance of orchids would strike your eyes like a torch in the darkness. She thought they were sinister. Her own preference was for the flowers of the cottage gardens, the grey and blue of lavender and the spikes of lupins, and the innocence of daisies and sweet peas.
‘I started reading about them. There are the records in the estates office. I went into town, to the public library. But there are only two books on orchids there, neither of them much good.’
Amy remembered that behind the metal-latticed doors of the Chance library there was almost a whole wall of botany books. ‘I think there must be some of my great-grandfather’s in the library here,’ she said. ‘I could look them out for you.’
Nick picked up his watering-can again. ‘That would be very kind,’ he said.
Don’t, Amy wanted to beg him. Don’t make me be Lady Bountiful. It doesn’t have to be like that.
‘How is your son?’ she asked.
‘Well enough, thank you. He had a kind of blood disease and we were badly worried. But he’s getting treatment and he’s almost back to normal now. He won’t ever be right, because of what happened when he was born. But it seemed hard that he should have to suffer even more than that.’
Amy thought of the Lambeth, and some of the things she had seen in the children’s long-stay wards. ‘Yes,’ she said quietly.
Nick was working, apparently eager to be alone again with his flowers. Amy only knew that she wanted to go on talking to him.
‘And your wife?’ she persisted. ‘Don’t they miss you at home?’
He jerked round so that he stood squarely in front of her. His height was suddenly threatening, with no trace of a submissive stoop left now.
‘Why do you want to know?’ he snapped. The odd greeny-grey of his eyes was hard and opaque.
‘I …’
‘My wife is well. They are both fed, thanks to you, by what I send back from here. Is that what you want, for me to say thank you? Why don’t you come right out and ask me? “I’d like you to show some gratitude, Mr Penry.” Well then, thank you. My son’s alive, my wife’s got food and clothes and a fire in the grate. All thanks to you, Miss Lovell. Will there be anything else, miss?’
Amy stepped back as if he had struck her. The air suddenly felt leaden, as if a thunderstorm quivered overhead.
‘Why do you hate me so much?’ she asked.
Nick stood for a long moment without moving, and then let the watering-can drop sharply so that the metal clanged on the marble floor.
‘Ach.’ There was despair as well as disgust in the guttural little sound. ‘I don’t hate you. I don’t care enough. It doesn’t matter, either way.’
‘I don’t believe you,’ Amy said hotly. ‘Not about me, but you do care. You care about things, all right. That’s what’s the matter with you.’
Then she turned and walked away, slowly and with measured steps, denying him the satisfaction of seeing her run.
The heavy, carved doors closed firmly on the rampant jungle and Nick was left alone with the finches.
He stood in the same position, staring ahead of him. When a whirr of green wings brought another of the birds down to his crumbs, Nick wearily lifted his hand and rubbed his face.
Aloud, he said something in Welsh. Mae’n ddrwg geni. I’m sorry. And then, bending to his work again, ‘The Honourable Amalia Lovell, wasn’t it? But my friends call me Amy. I expect you’ve got plenty of those. You don’t need another.’
Amy went back along the silent corridor, faster now that he couldn’t see her, almost running until she reached her room. The nurse who had come to look after her was smoothing the white cover on the bed.
‘Miss Lovell? Are you all right? Here, sit down.’
Amy shook her head. ‘I’m just breathless. I walked too fast up the stairs. There’s no need to stay. I’ll just sit quietly for a while.’
At last, the woman went away and left her alone. Amy sat down on the seat in the deep window embrasure. The glass was cool to lean her burning face against. Beneath her the mown grass of the park rolled away to the huge cedar tree, and almost in the shade of it a man was working, raking up the folded swathes of cut grass into neat piles.
Abruptly, she turned away from the sight.
The morning’s papers and a new glossy magazine were laid out on her table. Tony Hardy had sent her a package of new novels when she was ill, and the coloured spines glowed invitingly. Amy picked one out and flipped through the pages. Nothing was right. Nick Penry’s opaque eyes stared out