The Memory Tree

by Linda Gillard

  Now she was up against a new enemy – old age. I sympathised. At forty-three I was no longer young myself, or no longer felt young. Phoebe didn’t help matters by telling me my face had become ‘more interesting with age’. She then surprised me by asking if I would sit for her. I say surprised because I’m the image of my father. Phoebe couldn’t help but be reminded of Sylvester whenever she looked at me – a fact that might have contributed to our strained relationship. She made no reference to the likeness and never failed to point out that I owed my limited artistic ability to her genes, but as I matured, even I could see a marked resemblance to the few photographs I owned of my dark and handsome father. If Phoebe had wanted to forget Sylvester, she stood little chance while I was at home, a living reminder of what we’d both lost.

  The walled kitchen garden attached to Garden Lodge used to supply all the fruit, vegetables and flowers for the big house. There were also various outbuildings for special purposes: growing vines, mushrooms and peaches; storing fruit, flowerpots and tools; housing the donkeys that pulled the lawnmower. One of the larger outbuildings was an orangery, a long building like a conservatory, but with less glass. It was this that had persuaded Sylvester and Phoebe to purchase a large overgrown plot, blessed with a piece of ancient woodland and a sheltered walled garden.

  The orangery was duly converted into a spacious studio for Phoebe, with new windows and skylights installed on the north wall. Little more than a large cottage, Garden Lodge became the family home in which Sylvester hoped to raise a big family. Once restored, the walled garden was to provide that family with food, flowers and an excess to sell.

  It was a natural adventure playground and once my father had gone, I had it all to myself while Phoebe worked long days in her studio. She would allow me to enter and watch, but if she had a paintbrush or a stick of charcoal in her hand, conversation was forbidden. Consequently, I loved school for the social life. There was always someone to talk to, but in fact, mostly I listened. Listening seemed to make you more popular, especially with boys, and I was desperate to be popular. My father had done a bunk and my mother ignored me. Grandparents, aunts and uncles were dead or distant – mostly in Madeira – so I used to long for Monday mornings when I could get on the school bus and hear what everyone had been up to at the weekend. Their lives always seemed so much more exciting than mine. Other children’s parents provided a taxi service to and from shopping centres, cinemas and parties, but Phoebe refused to ferry me about, insisting that, as the breadwinner, she didn’t have time. I was dependent on an irregular country bus service.

  Phoebe occasionally gave me money for a taxi and my pocket money was generous, but we did little together apart from go into Bristol to buy art materials. Much to the envy of my friends, she even allowed me to buy my own clothes and shoes. She didn’t mind what I looked like. I doubt she even noticed.

  I enjoyed our excursions to the art shop. Phoebe would chat and explain what things were for and how they were used. Whenever I showed an interest in something, she’d pick it up and put it down on the counter, adding it to her purchases. I wasn’t allowed to paint in the studio, but I didn’t mind. I liked to work at an old table in my bedroom with its view of gloomy Beechgrave up on the hill, looking, to my fanciful teenage eyes, like Jane Eyre’s Thornfield Hall.

  Long after Sylvester had abandoned his family and garden, there were still flowers and seed heads to be gathered. I developed an interest in botanical illustration and pattern which led to a career in textile design. My work now appears on kitchenware and stationery, as well as textiles. It earns me a comfortable living, but Phoebe was disappointed that I pursued a commercial branch of art. She took a dim view of my draughtsmanship and knew my artistic options were limited, but she deplored my lack of ambition. I just wanted to earn a living doing something I enjoyed, something that would fit in around raising the family I assumed I would have. So I acquired a suitable job, a suitable husband and a suitable home. I even knew which room would become the nursery.

  In the end, in an act of despair and defiance that I hoped would ensure conception, I resigned from a perfectly good job and went freelance, creating a studio for myself in the large, light room I’d set aside for my babies. My career flourished, but my marriage didn’t. By the time I was forty, I was on my own, working hard, making lots of money, rarely leaving the house. Just like my mother.

  When Jack rang to say he wanted a divorce, I decided it was time to face up to my future. I was ready to abandon the nursery-studio and return to my roots in Somerset. I’d never had the big family I’d longed for, both as a child and as an adult, but I decided I would do my best with the family I had, which was Phoebe. It seemed the right thing to do. She had nobody else and, really, neither did I.

  Phoebe wouldn’t countenance anything in the studio being moved, so I had to work with her set-up, which wasn’t difficult. It was distracting, but also inspiring to be surrounded by my mother’s work, to sense the creative energy those walls had witnessed and absorbed.

  When I moved in there were two easels, both supporting work in progress, though the paint was long dry. At one end of the long room stood an oriental screen dividing the space into bedsit and studio. Behind the screen was an old wooden dresser with kettle, teapot, a jar of coffee and a few empty wine bottles. There was a single Z-bed standing on the bare boards with a rug beside it. There was no wardrobe, but Phoebe had hammered a few nails into the wall and hung clothes from them – the paint-stained jeans and overalls she wore for work. Thick jumpers spilled out of a chest of drawers, topped with a hairbrush and comb, but no mirror.

  The studio half of the room was more organised, with paints, brushes, jars and other equipment neatly arranged on shelves. Sketches and postcards were pinned up on a cork board, alongside various takeaway food menus. There was a faded and threadbare chaise longue and a full-length mirror hanging on the wall. I assumed this was to reflect more light until I realised one of the unfinished canvases was a self-portrait of Phoebe at work in her studio, an almost geometric study of squares and oblongs, lozenges of light and shadow. It made me think of Vermeer and I admired it very much.

  When I sat for Phoebe in the studio, I took the risk of telling her so.

  ‘You know, that unfinished self-portrait is very good.’

  ‘Sit still.’

  ‘Sorry . . . Why don’t you finish it?’

  ‘I got bored with it. Bored with me as a subject. And irritated. I kept moving.’

  I suppressed a smile. ‘I suppose that’s the trouble with self-portraits.’

  ‘You said that without moving your lips. No, don’t smile. This is a study for a series I’m planning and there’ll be nothing pretty about it. I want it to be forensic,’ she added with relish.

  ‘Oh dear, that doesn’t sound at all flattering.’

  ‘I had the idea of doing a series of portraits. The Seven Ages of Woman. I thought it might make a good comeback show. The journey from untouched adolescent girl into raddled old age. That one of me would be the last in the series. The one of you hanging in the sitting room would be the first.’

  ‘The one with the flowers?’

  ‘Yes. You were twelve. It would be a good place to start. Dagmar’s had her eye on that one for years, but I said I’d never part with it. It’s some of my best work,’ she hastened to explain.

  I wasn’t hurt because I knew Phoebe hadn’t meant to hurt, probably didn’t even understand that I could be hurt. She was just an artist at work. Observant. Impersonal. I was no more to her than an inanimate object in a still-life arrangement.

  Altering my position minutely to relieve tension, I said, ‘It’s a great idea for a series.’

  ‘Stop fidgeting! You were much better at this when you were a child. You’d sit for hours. A model model, in fact.’

  ‘Tell me more about your portrait series.’

  Phoebe didn’t reply. I thought she’d decided to drop the subject when she suddenly said, ‘I wanted to show how
women have lived, what they’ve experienced, just by showing their faces. I see it and I think I can make other people see it. Well, I could have done once. Not sure now. Not sure about anything any more. Bloody cancer,’ she muttered. Her charcoal stick snapped and she tossed the remainder aside, saying, ‘That’s enough for today. I’m tired . . . Is it gin o’clock yet?’

  I knew better than to ask Phoebe if I could see the sketch, but I could tell she was happy with it. Later, when she was taking a nap, I went back over to the studio and examined her work.

  My first reaction was to look away, shocked, as one might turn away from the sight of an open wound. I steeled myself to look again and the second time wasn’t so bad. I was prepared for the thin face with its sharp chin. The lines on my face weren’t deep yet, but they were there. Life had already sketched them in and so had Phoebe. My eyes looked good – large, challenging – but she couldn’t catch their pale blue in monochrome.

  It was a good likeness and it wasn’t just a likeness. Phoebe’s sketch showed me a quality I never see when I’m putting on my make-up or when I’m in front of the mirror at the hairdresser’s, but which I know is there.

  Emptiness.

  An emptiness that longs to be filled.

  Phoebe and I rubbed along. She was both grateful for and resentful of my presence, but there were few sulks and no rows. We both knew we were avoiding a discussion of the big issue: putting Garden Lodge up for sale. I waited for her to raise the topic and she waited for me. It was emotional stalemate. Every day I promised myself I would tackle the subject of Phoebe’s future, but the longer I was there, the harder it became.

  Matters were finally brought to a head when she fell again, slipping on frosty paving stones. It could have happened to anyone, including me, but I took it as a sign and decided to broach the painful subject of selling the home she’d loved, lived and worked in for more than forty years.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Mum, please. Can you at least give it some thought?’

  ‘I’ve already given it a great deal of thought,’ she said loftily. ‘This is my home and my workplace. I cannot leave.’

  ‘I’m not asking you to give up work, you know that. I’m just asking you to think about moving to somewhere more manageable. You can continue to live independently with a bit of assistance. Someone to clean, a freezer full of nutritious food, a flat close to a doctor’s surgery – all of this would make your life so much easier. And just think of the cash you’d raise.’

  ‘Cash?’ Suddenly alert, Phoebe fixed me with a look. I realised she had no idea what Garden Lodge was worth.

  ‘You’re sitting on a small fortune here and what use is that to you? You could sell this, buy a comfy flat and have enough left over for a luxury cruise.’

  She snorted. ‘And who would I go with?’

  ‘You’d have enough money to treat someone to a holiday.’

  ‘I would?’

  ‘My preliminary research suggests an asking price of half a million would not be out of the question.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘It depends what the land’s worth as a building plot. But the house itself has a certain historical appeal. The two combined could fetch a good price. Then there’s the woodland. People get emotional about things like that. Someone could view this place and fall in love with it, just like you and Dad.’

  In the silence that followed it occurred to me how rarely I mentioned my father to Phoebe. I felt awkward, guilty almost, as if I’d sworn in church.

  ‘I didn’t fall in love with it, actually. But I was in love with Sylvester and he was mad to have the place, so I went along with his hare-brained scheme. I humoured him and he humoured me. It worked up to a point.’

  Talking about Sylvester seemed to lower her mood still further, so I decided to drop the subject, contenting myself with the suggestion that it might be useful to have the house valued. Phoebe said nothing for a moment, then looked at me warily, as if she suspected a trap. ‘Half a million, you say?’

  ‘It’s possible. There’s no knowing what someone would pay for a quirky one-off property like this.’

  ‘It would have to be someone with more money than sense!’

  ‘Well, fortunately there’s no shortage of those.’

  Phoebe fell silent again, but I knew she hadn’t finished, so I waited.

  ‘I suppose I’m not getting any younger.’

  ‘Nor do you have one foot in the grave. You’re semi-disabled, not dying. You just need to adapt. Like you did after Dad left. It was very hard, I’m sure, but you did it. You started over. You could do that again. Especially with me to help you.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I think if I moved closer . . . I mean, if you had someone dependable living locally, I’m sure you’d manage better.’

  Phoebe raised a hand in protest. ‘I wouldn’t want you cramping my style, Ann. I have to have my own place, with my own front door.’

  ‘Of course. I wasn’t suggesting we’d share a home, but I think the time has come for me to live closer. Closer to my roots. It’s what I’d like to do. I could help set you up in a new home and be around for . . . well, for any emergency. And then I could stop worrying about you.’

  Phoebe looked surprised. ‘You worry about me?’

  ‘Of course I do.’

  ‘Why? There’s absolutely no need.’

  ‘I know I don’t need to worry, I just do. You’re my mother. It’s natural to worry about people you love.’ Phoebe looked blank and I began to flounder. ‘That’s what love is, isn’t it? Worrying something bad will happen.’

  ‘Well, I never worried about Sylvester.’ She looked away and added, ‘I suppose I should have, but you never see these things coming.’ She looked back at me and lifted her chin. ‘I observe, Ann, I don’t empathise. That’s why I was a lousy wife and a lousy mother.’ She shrugged. ‘Sorry, but that’s just the way I’m made.’

  ‘You weren’t a lousy mother,’ I lied. ‘And I’m sorry if I’ve depressed you with all this talk of selling up. Just give it some thought and let me know what you decide. When you’re ready. No pressure.’

  As the year wore on and the trees surrounding Garden Lodge shed their leaves, the house and garden became lighter. As a child, I would take myself off to the wood in autumn and lie under the beeches, gazing up at their golden leaves. Sometimes I’d pretend I’d been abandoned – not a huge leap for my imagination. I’d lie there, feigning death, waiting to be buried under a blanket of leaves by robins, like the Babes in the Wood – a vain hope, since beeches retain their leaves until the spring. In the end cold and hunger would effect my resurrection and I’d run back to the house in search of warmth and food, wobbling inside my oversized wellingtons, glad to be alive.

  When I was older, I liked to watch from my bedroom window as autumn stripped the other trees and their dark outlines emerged, stark against a pale, wintry sky. As the leaf canopy fell, trees became easier to draw, I could spot birds and the occasional foraging squirrel, so I rather liked the West Country winter, despite what seemed at times to be perpetual rain. My father fled to Madeira whenever he could and found excuses to linger. He wasn’t like Phoebe or me. We observed the weather with our artists’ eyes or we ignored it, carrying on in our phlegmatic British way. But Sylvester must have suffered.

  Autumn was made bearable for him by his dahlias. Bold flowers with no scent, they collapse at the first frost, but they’re the last big colourful blooms before the onset of winter, gaudy and short-lived, like a firework display. Sylvester gathered bunches of them and brought them into the house where, to Phoebe’s horror, they would shed earwigs. Whenever I see them now – dahlias or earwigs – I think of my father.

  There’s a photo of me, standing gap-toothed next to a cactus dahlia, its flowers as big as my head. For many years I wondered if, whenever he saw one, Sylvester thought of the shy, smiling child who’d posed beside one of his giant blooms. I liked to think that he did.

 
Phoebe caved eventually and agreed – ‘just out of curiosity’ – to have Garden Lodge valued. Two agents told us it was difficult to price, but suggested we test the market at around £495,000. They also warned us there would be little interest until the spring. Nevertheless, Phoebe agreed to put the house on the market, reassuring herself, ‘I don’t have to accept an offer. I’d just be interested to know, that’s all. Half a million for this place seems bloody ridiculous to me. I’m sure it’s just greedy estate agents, trying to boost their commission.’

  It was a start. My mother was at least thinking about her future.

  Weeks passed and we heard nothing. Phoebe said, ‘I told you so.’ We discussed reducing the price, but the agent advised us to hang on until the spring when things would apparently get moving again, but I sensed Phoebe was disappointed. She was also irritated by my continuing attempts to keep the house tidy for potential buyers, so in the end I gave up and turned my attention to the neglected garden.

  Phoebe had let the walled garden become completely overgrown. Renovating it was beyond my modest capabilities, but I’d cleared the paths and swept up fallen leaves so people could at least walk round and see the size of the plot.

  The cottage garden, as we called it, was situated at the back of Garden Lodge, enclosed by old outbuildings and glasshouses, a shed, the studio and a gate that led to a rutted lane and the outside world. It had once been riotous with colour and crammed with plants. I could vaguely remember its decline in the years after Sylvester’s departure. The roses had persisted, as did the shrubs. Marigolds, cornflowers and nasturtiums had self-seeded, but gradually the weeds took over. Plants died and weren’t replaced. Phoebe wasn’t interested. She simply passed through the garden on her way to the studio. It was just a thoroughfare to her and probably a source of unhappy memories.