Cover

The Silence in the Garden

William Trevor

Dedication

for J.C.
and in memory of
my mother

1. Sarah Arrives

It is 1971, and the home that has been provided for Sarah Pollexfen for so long is still a provision that is necessary. She and a one-time maid, Patty, and Tom—illegitimate son of the Rollestons’ last butler—are left at Carriglas, the place that once was magical for her.

Dunadry Rectory, September 14th, 1904. ‘It came from Carriglas, Sarah.’ Mamma said when first I asked about the china on the sideboard. Teapot and sugar-bowl, three cups and saucers, milk jug, a single plate: pale pink roses on a white ground, the last fragments of a set that has once been grand, for ornament only now. I imagine the drawing-room at Carriglas, and the Rollestons drinking from the rosy china. I imagine the island shore where the house is, and the town you can see on the mainland. Hugh has been there. Today Hugh returned after another summer on the island and described the walk from the pier to the white gates, the scent of honeysuckle that accompanies you. He described how you round the last curve of the avenue and there the grey house is, flanked by a monkey puzzle on one lawn and strawberry trees on the other.

In old, leather-bound account books, formally lined, red lines and blue on stiff paper, Sarah has kept her diaries. Stacked beneath the window-shelf of her bedroom, they offer moments in a life. Dunadry Rectory is glimpsed, bleakly cavernous and damp, in the middle of nowhere. Her mother stitches a tablecloth in the porch, warmed by the sun through the glass. ‘Never play with a bee,’ she warns. ‘A bee will sting you, Sarah.’ Sarah’s father reads to Hugh from History of a Churchman. ‘Be so good as to attend,’ he commands, ‘since trouble is being taken.’

A lifetime later Sarah draws the attention of her last companions to the account books, where they are and what they contain. ‘I would wish you to read them when I have gone,’ she instructs. ‘I promised Mrs Rolleston once.’

Carriglas, May 1st, 1908. ‘Hugh’s sister, are you?’ the man enquired, greeting me on the platform of the railway station, and I knew at once that he was Haverty. He had the lean, narrow look of a greyhound, exactly as Hugh has described him.

How long ago it seems, even though it was only this afternoon! The train slowing, the gathering together of my belongings, the weight of the suitcases as I lifted them from the luggage rack, the narrow-faced man opening the door of the carriage. Not waiting for my answer to his question, he told me to take care. ‘Yes, I’m Hugh’s sister,’ I said.