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“I expect you’ve all been wondering where I was,” announced Liz as she swanned into the room with an air of serene satisfaction. (and then wondered if “she swanned into the salon, shivering with serene satisfaction” would be preferable.) (but would “should sound splendid” be better than “would be preferable”?)
“What the dickens are you on about?” said Finnley in her usual abrupt fashion, and sporting her customary accompanying withering look.
“She simply asks if we wondered where she was, Finnley,” Godfrey remarked mildly, who had not been reading Liz’s mind, and therefore had no idea why the dickens Finnley had said what she said.
Neither had Roberto been reading Liz’s mind (he was far too polite) and would not have known what a dickens was anyway, hailing as he did from foreign parts. Fortunately he had the presence of mind, and the inate courtesy to respond to a plain request to answer a relatively simple question. “Where have you been? We’ve been worried about you!” he duly uttered.
Liz beamed at the handsome gardener, or more accurately, the boatman. After the gardens flooded and the road cut off, the obliging adaptable fellow made a couple of rafts and canoes for transport, and morning “walks”and started some edible algae water gardens.
“Finnley’s been down the cellar for over two months,” Liz said to Godfrey who was still wearing a toga. “I confess I hadn’t even noticed, but now that I have, I feel I should investigate her whereabouts and well being, as it were.”
“All you have to do is write her back in, Liz.”
Liz thought it was high time Finnley wrote herself back in, but was prepared to be flexible, as usual.
Oh, so now it’s time to play “Who’s Noticed Finnley?” is it? Two months in the cellar and not a peep from the lot of you. I suppose it’s nice to know I’m missed, even if I had to be forgotten first.
Liz, writing me back in—how generous of you. But let’s get one thing straight; I don’t need anyone to script my next move. I’m more than capable of marching right back into the scene, thank you very much. You’d think I’d be the one to keep this story spotless while I was down there, sorting through all those dusty wine bottles and cobwebs.
But, since you’re willing to be “flexible,” I’ll make my grand return. Just don’t expect me to clean up the narrative mess you’ve made while I was away. If I find characters scattered about like loose socks after a laundry day, there’ll be words, mark my words.
And Godfrey, that toga needs a good ironing. I’ll not have wrinkled linens adding to the chaos. Now, enough dilly-dallying, there’s work to be done, and I’ve got a cellar door to nudge open.
“Oh there you are Finnley, and about time too! I dread to think what you were doing down there for so long… no! don’t tell me now, I haven’t had a decent cup of tea for two months. Go and put the kettle on, there’s a dear.”
Did Romans iron their toga’s? Liz wondered, thinking not for the first time that all that cloth draped over one shoulder couldn’t have been very practical.
“I should think that toga needs a good wash by now, Godfrey, take it off and give it to Finnley. No, not here! That boatman is peering in the window at you.”
After three weeks of fog, a gota fría had settled over Tatler Manor. Torrents of rain poured down on the garden, transforming it into a river. From her drawing room, Liz surveyed the scene, imagining herself drifting across the flood in a boat planned with Walter Melon, once the skies cleared.
Down below, the ever-dedicated Roberto stood ankle deep in the rising waters, glaring at the devastation with a mixture of despair and stubborn determination. He hated rubber boots, because he was allergic to them, but they were the only thing allowing him to trudge through the flooded garden.
The day before, he had risked the elements to save the dahlias, but five minutes in the water had turned his feet a swollen itchy mess. Now, he paced the edge of the garden, muttering curses under his breath, while Liz called him from the window above.
“Roberto! When this all clears, I’m thinking of a little boating expedition with Walter Melon. Perhaps you can fashion me a raft from the greenhouse planks?”
Roberto looked up at her, rain dripping from his cap. “With all due respect Señora, you might need a tetanus shot first.”
Liz laughed, unbothered by his dry tone. “Oh, don’t be such a pessimist. Look at it! It’s practically Venice down there.”
“It’s a disaster,” Roberto grumbled, tugging at the hem of his soggy jacket. “And if you want Venice, Señora, you’ll have to find another gondolier.”
Liz smiled to herself. She enjoyed Roberto’s pragmatism almost as much as she enjoyed teasing him. She knew he cared too much about the garden to abandon it, even in its current state, and she admired his quiet devotion.
As Roberto turned back to inspect the flooded beds, Liz leaned out the window, imagining her boat gliding through the submerged roman pool, the perfect escape from the monotony of the storm.
“Roberto,” the vista of the waterlogged garden had given Liz an idea, “Let’s turn it into an oriental garden with pools and rills and fountains, gazebos and temples, floating pontoons bedecked with tropical flowers and exotic cocktails, holy wells, tiled nooks and whispering cloisters, and vines, lots of vines, and wine. Imagine it! Roberto, we can do it!
“We?” replied Roberto weakly.
Liz wondered if it was too soon to send a cleaning lady to help the retired physicist.
“What do you think Godfrey?” Liz’ snapped at her publisher, sightly annoyed by his debonair smile. “And honestly, I sometimes wonder if I shouldn’t ask Finnley, she seems to have more wits about her than you, dear friend. And where is she by the way?”
“Liz’, will you calm down, this interview business is driving you back to your old manic madness; don’t worry about Finnley, she’s had some errands to run, something about coaching the younger generation, and tiktok oven challenge —don’t ask.”
“Exactly! What? what coaching nonsense? Tsk, stop digressing. Yes, that interview is getting bees in my bonnet, if you see what I mean.”
“Driving you nuts, you mean?”
“Obvie. But look, how about that as an intro? ‘Every story begins with something lost, but it’s never about the loss. It’s about what you find because of it.’ ”
“It’s quite brilliant I must say; how much of it is from the artificial box?”
“That’s what I mean Godfrey! None! But you not seeing a difference is worrying to say the least. This thing is every author’s nightmare; it spews nonsense faster, and even with greater details I can manage in one draft. Look at that. It still comes to me as naturally as when I did my first book. Very heavy door curtain, and the wooden pole sags so I’m on tip toe yanking it, and middle of back unsupported, very stupid really. Stuff like that, I can immediately conjure, painting a world of innuendos and mysteries behind a few carefully crafted words. My words’ a stage. And I even managed to write my last book, with impossibly challenging characters, being a scientist without knowing the first thing about science —apart maybe from science of marriage, although one may argue it’s more an art form. The thing is, Godfrey, and pardon that unusual monologue, yes, and please don’t choke on your peanuts. I’m starting to feel like a faulty robot who can’t stick to the robot plan.”
“I can see you do, Liz, but honestly, we can all make out the tree for the forest. Yours is truly an art that cannot be mimicked by machinery. Have a tonic, and let’s get you ready for that interview —the manicurist is downstairs ready for you with the best shades of pink you can ever dream of.
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