The Garden of the Harp

By Britt Banz

Gardens form a world in which my imagination travels. The protagonists and events in this novel are fictitious, but the locations in Ireland actually exist. I personally went to the gardens mentioned to do research. 
Likewise, I have carefully researched the historical facts of Irish history and art history. Where necessary, I have changed time references and adapted them to the novel.
 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Matthew Reynolds
• Release date: Mar 6, 2023
• ISBN: 9798215492437

Book preview

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Table of Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

The Garden of the Harp

Chapter 1

Larissa

Sommer 2019, travel day 1 – Berlin

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I vaguely remembered her, her wild curls, the wooden horses she had carved for me, and the huge garden. Aunt Maria was gone overnight. Vanished from my girly life for no apparent reason. Without saying goodbye to me.

I kept looking at the board with the departures. The line with our flight moved up a bit again. Next to it, the words Check-in kept flashing like a warning: Dublin - 9:55am .

An hour ago I was still looking forward to the flight not being delayed. Now this punctuality seemed almost threatening to me. Dublin was steadily approaching, with Affliction in tow.

I unconsciously bit my knuckle. What should be so bad about a holiday trip to the Emerald Isle? It didn't change our lives. The whole thing is ridiculous.

Father was probably the only person on earth who regarded a garden trip to Ireland as treason. If he exposed my lie, there would be a rupture. I was sure of that. His anger boiled over the subject, as did his heart problems. He shouldn't get upset after a heart attack, a second heart attack wouldn't go as smoothly again.

My upper jaw pressed into my lower lip. Choosing one's own way sometimes had its price, but was a holiday trip worth such a sacrifice? If Father would at least explain why the mere mention of his sister Maria's name triggered a storm of negative emotions in him, to the point of a downright Ireland aversion. For outsiders, the whole thing must have seemed strange.

I drummed my fingers on my purse. Always at the last minute. Britta was a wonderful friend, but always being late was getting on my nerves.

For the umpteenth time I looked from the scoreboard to my watch as if it were showing a different, more merciful time. At the same time, I was annoyed that I had gotten up extra early that June morning in order to be at the airport on time.

All I wanted was a relaxing seven days in Ireland, a country that I didn't know and that I wanted to discover with my girlfriend. But even before departure, severe turbulence had occurred on this trip.

I pulled my phone out of my pocket and quickly typed a message: Where are you? I would have liked to put twenty question marks after it. Hopefully she hadn't taken a taxi to the airport during the morning rush hour. Then she was guaranteed to be stuck on the city freeway.

I paced nervously. I alternately looked in the direction of the entrance and at the boarding pass. 9:25am - Boarding for Dublin. It was now 9:20 a.m.

Man Britta! She also had to get rid of her suitcase. Mine was probably stowed away in the belly of the plane by now.

I looked at the phone screen again. No new message. I quickly selected Britta's number from the favorites list. The dial tone was a long time coming. I shifted from one foot to the other. My friend hated being called after her when she was late. I knew dear Britta.

Once a year we both travel together for seven days – always to a different country. This travel ritual had developed into the untouchable »Week of Our Friendship«. She was sacred to us.

In order to avoid lengthy discussions, we had made an agreement: Britta chose the travel destination one year, and I the next. Each had to accept the location selection of the other without objection. That worked perfectly. So we had traveled half of Europe together in the last few years. Each time we came back full of new impressions. And we were always a little closer as friends.

For the current trip, it was Britta's turn to choose the destination. I remembered exactly when she had excitedly announced her decision to me during a walk a few months ago: Ireland.

"Finally I can show you the land of my heart. Dirk and I felt like we visited every village on the island. Believe me, in the end you too will belong to the committed community of Ireland fans.«

But I had caught my breath.

What is?

You know - my father.

Oh, your family problem...

Britta raised her eyebrows.

"That is absurd. Larissa, what do you have to do with it? You're 35. Do you want your father to tell you where you can't go on vacation for the rest of your life?"

Then Britta had started to rave about it.

'You will love Ireland. The people are so welcoming, the scenery is magnificent - and so are these plant paradises. We visit a number of parks and gardens just for you. And I can tell you: the country is full of them!«

That sounded completely to my liking because I loved gardens. I always looked at gardens when I traveled. Now it would be the turn of the green retreats of Ireland. They shouldn't be inferior to the famous gardens in England, at least that's what Britta claimed.

But then it crashed. I had a premonition. On a Sunday afternoon over coffee and cake at my parents' house, I mentioned as casually as possible that I would soon be traveling again with my best friend Britta, this time to Ireland.

As soon as I said the word Ireland , my father, who had become the quieter sort of person in recent years, flushed red with anger.

Ireland - how dare you, Larissa?

I'm only on vacation for a few days...

Ireland, the land of your greedy aunt!

My father said the word Ireland with such disgust, as if he thought the island was the gateway to hell.

We just want to look at some gardens there...

You don't know what you're going to do if you want to go near that damned woman whose name I don't want to hear or speak in this house.

Frantically, as if he couldn't get enough air, his breathing quickened.

"But you know my deal with Britta. When I picked Spain last year, she wasn't thrilled because she doesn't like the heat. However, she didn't object and it turned out to be a great trip. It's our girlfriend ritual!'

You have to make a decision, Larissa.

The tone of his voice was razor sharp. I fought the feeling of being patronized like a child. It couldn't all be true, I was a grown woman.

My father got up from the table with a jerk. His half-eaten slice of cake tipped sideways on the plate. The coffee in the cups spilled over.

Friedrich, be careful with the dishes!

My mother held the swaying porcelain coffee pot.

In the midst of this chaos I heard my own defiant voice.

'But what have I to do with your age-old family quarrels? To this day you haven't told me what it's all about. Besides, I have no intention of visiting my aunt. Plus I don't even know where she lives, let alone if Aunt Maria still lives in Ireland.'

As the name Maria escaped my lips, the red in Father's face turned to crimson. He fixed me with narrowed eyes. Now I, too, jumped up from the chair. We faced each other like two fighting cocks in an arena. It was quiet for a moment. He was audibly gasping for air.

This woman wanted to destroy our family. And now you're betraying us too and siding with her.

Father swept across the room and growled, Traitor. Then he slammed the door with such force that it cracked and the blast of air rattled the cups on the coffee table. The chandelier made of fine Murano glass, which I always thought was too elegant for my parents' style of furnishing, swayed. I only knew such drama in terms of relatives from films.

But she's your sister...

Father stopped hearing my murmurs a long time ago.

My mother, who usually soothed family arguments, was curt.

»You're usually so intelligent, Larissa. But what did you think of Ireland?'

To block out the outside noise at the airport, I pressed my phone closer to my ear. After the free character the mailbox jumped on. I barely waited for the beep, the signal to speak.

»Britta, get going! I'll go to the hand luggage check and secure us a place in the queue. Run straight there. Hurry up!"

On almost all of our trips, Britta only showed up at the airport at the last moment. But she never got that close.

If dear Britta doesn't appear in the next few minutes, that's it for our vacation.

Fortunately, with the noise of the many people around me, no one heard me talking to myself. In the meantime I had reached the security check. I got in line at the end of the line, which was moving forward quickly, piece by piece.

Too bad, nothing came of the leisurely stroll through the duty-free shop. I rubbed my palm across my frown. So far this journey has only caused tension rather than relaxation, in many ways.

Just the crazy row with dad in advance. This ominous family quarrel with his sister was almost 30 years ago. I would have loved to know what had happened between him and Aunt Maria back then.

In any case, after the unspeakable Sunday afternoon at my parents' house, I had decided not to be interfered with. I decided everything in life on my own, without asking Mom and Dad. Otherwise it would have been extremely strange for a woman in her mid-thirties. But a few days later my mother called me.

»Your father was so bad the evening after your visit that I even had to call our family doctor. Luckily he came by, it was the weekend. He gave him a sedative and forbade any excitement. His heart can't do it.«

My mother took a hard breath.

"He never got over it with his sister, your aunt. Larissa, show consideration for your father. Don't go to Ireland, please!'

I swallowed. It rattled in my head. The trip had long been organized, the flights and hotels were booked. Britta had planned a great route that would take us first to the Wicklow Mountains in the south east of Ireland, then to the extreme west to Connemara and later to the south west of the island.

My girlfriend had worked out the program for our visits in detail. And because I hated driving myself in left-hand traffic, Britta even agreed to take the wheel of the rental car for the entire route. I couldn't cancel this Ireland trip anymore. And I didn't want it either.

But it wasn't my intention to upset Papa unnecessarily. I knew that mental stress was definitely bad for his health.

I heard my mother's breathing on the phone.

Larissa, are you listening to me?

Through the window I looked at the flower pots on my roof terrace. All were planted with ferns. At the end of the 19th century, these fabulous plants had triggered a veritable collector's hype in England. I stared at the green fronds. Though there was no wind, a single fern leaf moved left and right. I had to answer, the pause in speaking had been too long. First, I cleared my throat exaggeratedly.

'Oh mom, it's good that you're calling. All the excitement was for nothing. Britta has since changed her mind. She really wants to go to England with me now. There is a garden show organized by the Royal Horticultural Society . Britta said that would be just right for me. It's not the famous Chelsea Flower Show , but the flower show at Hampton Court on the Thames. We'll fly to London and then we'll see more gardens in England.«

The Hampton Court Palace Flower Show was always in July, not June, but Mama wouldn't check. I couldn't remember lying so brazenly to my mother. In hopeless situations, however, white lies, at least those that do no harm, were allowed. Especially with such a trivial matter. At least I told myself the whole thing was ridiculous. But my innermost feeling was that it was of the utmost importance to my parents, especially my father, that I not go to Ireland.

A sudden pain in my heel made me wince.

Sorry.

The man behind me in the queue had his trolley case rammed into my legs. His way of telling me that I should kindly unlock the door. I gave him a stern look and was about to yell, Look out! when my cell phone rang. The display showed Britta . Without waiting, I accepted the call and started right away.

»Britta, this time you're overdoing it. Where are you?"

I heard a sob on the other end of the line.

Larissa, I'm so sorry. I can't come with you.

"Are you kidding? I'm already standing in front of the hand luggage check.«

I can't move anymore. I got shot in the back. Dirk thinks I have a herniated disc.

The moment I heard the word herniated disc, the Dublin flight indicator on the departures board changed to Boarding .

»Lara, it hurts like hell. I could scream. I wanted to report earlier, but I could hardly move and I can't sit down.«

»Oh Britta, you poor thing. I'll drive to you right away."

No! Dirk takes me to the hospital. You can't help me there. You just have to do our tour alone! We can no longer cancel the trip. The whole planning took me so much time. And I have come up with such splendid highlights for you. Everything is booked and paid for, rental cars, hotels, the flight. We don't get anything back with such a short-term cancellation. you have to drive! It hurts that I can't be there. But say hello to my beloved Ireland!

Another bump touched the backs of my knees. I looked around and saw the angry face of the man behind me.

"Now finally unlock the door! My flight won't wait.«

In one fell swoop, my brain had to process multiple orders at the same time. Travel alone? From time to time, professionally, I went solo to medical congresses, but I met colleagues I knew on site. But going on vacation all alone was anything but appealing to me.

On the other hand, I definitely needed a change. Working in the clinic was so exhausting. If I stayed at home, to-do lists would rule my days off.

The passengers in the queue were constantly moving forward. I had almost reached the conveyor belt of the hand luggage check. I saw the couple in front of me put their jackets and bags into the plastic tubs. The two were my age and seemed sympathetic. They kept beaming like they were in love. I hesitated to take off my jacket as well. Nor could I push my way back in line and escape the whole mess.

The young man had already passed the metal detector, his girlfriend had to wait. The two, only a few meters apart, waved at each other like royal children.

Is ceol mo chroí thú, he called to her softly. She answered this secret message with a feathery air kiss. These incomprehensible snippets of language had a mystical ring that fascinated me. That had to be Irish.

All of a sudden I had the solution: I could fly to Ireland first and get an impression. If I couldn't stand it on my own, I would travel right back.

With his vehement urging, the man behind my back tried to impose his will on me. His perfume smelled musty. In his impatience he would have liked to push me off the track.

I stayed.

If it turned out that I wasn't going to England but to Ireland, Dad would go nuts. This perfectly rational man was adamant in this family matter. Over the years I'd asked him what Aunt Maria had done to make him react so draconically. But unsuccessful. He always broke off the conversation immediately.

Nor could I let the whole thing be.

A loud voice snapped me out of my thoughts. I raised my head and pricked up my ears. In the wafting background noise of the airport I heard a loudspeaker announcement:

Last call for flight to Dublin.

Chapter 2

Larissa

Summer 2019, travel day 1 – flight Berlin to Dublin

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I ran to the gate as fast as I could. Panting and drenched in sweat, I hurried onto the plane as the last passenger. The stewardess was already locking the cabin door. How I hated rushing at the airport.

But when the plane reached the sky above the clouds, I finally relaxed. From my window seat I looked at the bright sun and sipped on a coffee.

This trip would be different. That was clear. I closed my eyes and saw myself wandering through Irish gardens and staying in quaint country hotels. But sitting alone at a table in a restaurant – that could get boring. I already missed the talks with my friend Britta. For me, exchanging ideas about the new impressions was one of the most valuable parts of a trip.

And then the traffic on the left. Only once, years ago, in England, did I try to drive on the wrong side. To my horror, there were cars coming towards me in my lane, honking their horns loudly. It had been hell. My brain couldn't process the situation adequately. Only at the very last moment did I swerve the wheel to get into the left lane, against all odds. I swore then that I would never drive on the left in my life again. Oh god, I really didn't know how to handle the next few days at the wheel in Ireland. My hands clenched.

Thank you.

The stewardess took the coffee mug. I folded up the table on the seat. Then I took out my phone and scrolled through the picture gallery. Some time ago I photographed the old photos from my childhood with my smartphone. So I always carried them with me.

The pictures were from my photo album, the only one I owned. My mother had given it to me the day I left my parents' house. Unfortunately, unlike some friends, it was not the norm in our family to give the children an album with photos from the entire calendar year every Christmas. My parents didn't have time for that.

So my photo album showed everything in one place: from birth to graduation. My childhood and youth were hidden between its slightly battered covers. After that, the family album era was over. From time to time they took pictures together, but they never made it into an album.

When I started studying medicine, I left home. Since then I have lived in a penthouse apartment in Berlin-Schoeneberg. My father had bought the condo for me years earlier. I enjoyed the privileges of being an only child.

The apartment with a roof terrace was located near Winterfeldtplatz, where a popular weekly market took place on Saturdays. I liked the area. It was livelier than Berlin-Lichterfelde, where my parents' house was, where I grew up.

I swiped my finger across the display. There was the picture of my graduation party. My parents and I in festive attire. Papa and Mama looked proudly into the camera. I was one of the best in my class and was therefore able to start studying medicine straight away without having to wait.

my confirmation As a teenager, I stand in front of the church with my godmother: my mother. In the absence of relatives, Mama took over this task without further ado.

My communion - me as a girl all in white with a candle in my hand. And since my first day of school - with the obligatory school cone.

It was only now that I noticed that the pictures in my album didn't show any vacation scenes, no hobbies, no free time. They only documented official stations. As if life only consisted of stages that one had to achieve.

In the next picture, Grandma Edith was holding me as a small child. What a beautiful woman she had been. Slim, tall and with aristocratic features. Unfortunately, I couldn't remember much about her. I was five when she died.

The photograph was taken by someone in their garden at Wannsee. As a child, this park seemed like a fairytale world to me.

Next to us in the picture stood Aunt Maria in an eccentric dress, laughing, with open eyes. The sun elicited a red nuance from her unruly, dark, curly mane.

My father's sister was shown better in the next photograph that captured my baptism. Aunt Maria acted as my godmother and beamed at me as an infant in a christening gown. Her gaze exuded immense joy. One would have thought the baby would have been her own.

Using my index finger and thumb, I zoomed in on the photo on the small display to see Maria's face in great detail. Those kind eyes.

When I was a small child, my parents often took me to Aunt Maria, who acted as a babysitter. My mother had been working in my father's new laboratory at the time. My parents didn't have much time for me during this phase.

Only scraps of memories reached me from this early childhood. But the photos activated my memory. Aunt Maria played with me in the garden at Wannsee. Together we dug in the ground, collected leaves, watered flowers. We had always handled plants.

I surmised that Maria had planted the seeds of my fondness for medicinal herbs. At that time I thought I was in paradise. That childhood dream ended abruptly. Dad's medical lab was up and running, so my mother worked there less often. So she had time for me.

From one day to the next, Aunt Maria was no longer needed as a babysitter. And I was expelled from the plant paradise. Not that I didn't enjoy spending time with my mother as a kid. But the hours with Aunt Maria in the garden held a magic. Together we dived into a sweet dream world.

When I remembered it, I felt a vague feeling of complete happiness. I felt my previously tense body soften and my stomach area noticeably warm. A tear ran down my cheek. I wiped them with the back of my hand. These photos touched me immensely. Maybe it was just an overreaction to the stressful situation I had just gone through. Sometimes memory played a trick on those who looked back. But deep inside I was rumbling.

I enlarged the image on the display again with my fingers. I wanted to look Maria in the eye. This radiance from deep within the soul. No monster looked like that. Whatever had happened back then, that my father and his sister had fallen out never to be seen again, I finally had to know.

I couldn't get anything out of my parents. Once I had asked Papa in a telephone call en passant where Aunt Maria would live in Ireland. Then he hung up.

I couldn't understand. But his harsh reaction piqued my curiosity. If Papa and Mama didn't want to tell me anything, I would just ask Aunt Maria herself. After all, she was my godmother. As a godchild, I had a right to talk to her.

I had to track her down and pull her out of the family void. That decision seemed like the most obvious thing in the world to me at that moment, flying 10,000 feet above the earth, so close to the sun and clouds, and looking into Maria's sparkling eyes.

Another tear found its way. I squeezed my eyes shut. Unexpectedly, but crystal clear, I heard an inner voice.

Find her!

A lump blocked my throat. I had no idea how and where to start looking. I searched my memory vigorously. I thought of the wooden figure that Aunt Maria had given me for my christening. I never had the heart to give away the damaged toy. It was a little horse, carved by her. I wasn't sure if that could be a first clue. But without starting points, the investigation is likely to be difficult.

I opened my eyes and looked out the window