The Memory Tree

by Linda Gillard

  I chose a fine, still November day to make a start. We had no near neighbours, so I decided to have a bonfire. I collected fallen twigs and small branches from the wood and carried them back to the piece of waste ground that once hosted Sylvester’s dahlias. Nothing but weeds had grown there for almost forty years. I forked it over and felt cheered as a blank canvas of damp, dark soil emerged. Soon a robin joined me and, keeping a cautious distance, picked over the crumbling soil for worms. I was glad of the company.

  When some ground was cleared, I arranged my kindling to form a sort of wigwam and added some of the driest vegetation. When I struck a match, the dead leaves sizzled and soon a plume of smoke rose straight up into the air. The smell was almost intoxicating and I experienced a sudden craving for sausages. I remembered a Bonfire Night, my father lighting Roman candles and launching rockets from empty beer bottles, while Phoebe handed round charred sausages in rolls. After he’d gone, I was allowed sparklers and a few small fireworks, but there were no more bonfires or al fresco bangers.

  As I tended my bonfire and contemplated my early childhood, I wondered why I spent so much time thinking about something I could hardly remember. Was I trying to fill in the blanks? Or did I ponder my own childhood because I’d never had a child? No childhood had ever superseded mine in importance, so perhaps I remained shackled to mine, even though it seemed distant, strange, almost forgotten.

  I stared, hypnotised, into the crackling flames, looking for answers, but found none.

  By the time the agent finally rang to make an appointment for someone to view Garden Lodge, I’d almost forgotten it was on the market. The phone call threw me and I must have sounded off-hand, even a little confused.

  ‘Someone wants to view?’

  ‘Yes. A Mr Grenville would like to view the property.’

  ‘Is he a serious buyer?’

  ‘I’ve no idea, but we haven’t exactly been inundated with enquiries, have we? He does have a property to sell. In Bristol. I don’t have any more details, I’m afraid.’

  ‘I see. When does he want to come?’

  ‘As soon as it suits you.’

  ‘Well, tomorrow would be okay. I need to have a bit of a tidy up. Indoors and out. It’s the worst time of the year for viewing the garden unfortunately. There’s nothing to see in January.’

  ‘I doubt he’ll be interested in the garden. It will be the cottage and the building plot. It’s a great business opportunity.’

  But the agent was wrong. Mr Grenville wasn’t looking for a business opportunity.

  He was punctual. As a damage limitation exercise, I’d settled Phoebe down with a cup of tea and a DVD of Murder, She Wrote. At three o’ clock I opened the door to a tall, shabby-looking young man with muddy shoes and over-long hair. Not my idea of an entrepreneur, though I suppose the hair was a bit Richard Branson. I decided he looked the self-sufficient type and must be in search of a family home with a plot of land. Alternatively, he might be casing the joint to see if we were worth burgling.

  He held up the agency brochure and, as he extended a large hand, his wide smile was reassuring. ‘Mrs Flint? Connor Grenville. I hope I’m not too early?’

  ‘Not at all. Do come in. I’m Ann de Freitas and I’ll be showing you round.’

  ‘Thank you,’ he said, stepping on to the doormat where he scraped his shoes thoroughly. As I shut the door behind him, I realised he wasn’t that young – early thirties maybe, fair, with a high forehead that made him look academic, as did the worn cord trousers and shapeless woollen jumper. Looking at him, I doubted he had the financial resources to buy Garden Lodge. Then I told myself there was no uniform for millionaires. Perhaps they made their money by economising on clothes and haircuts.

  I felt nervous. This was the kind of thing Jack used to do. Jack was good with people and could talk to anyone. He’d been the one who’d bought and sold houses. I’d decorated, gardened and cooked. I’d been the home-maker, but it had always been a home of Jack’s choosing.

  Mr Grenville was still standing on the doormat, waiting for me to show him round, so I pulled myself together. ‘This is the hall,’ I announced superfluously. ‘There’s plenty of storage,’ I added, opening a glory hole cupboard and shutting it again quickly before the contents could tumble out. ‘And through here we have the kitchen.’

  ‘Have you lived here long?’ he asked, examining me and not the kitchen.

  ‘I don’t actually live here. I’m staying with my mother until she’s sold the house.’

  ‘Has she lived here long?’

  ‘Yes. Since the early seventies. My father renovated the house and garden.’

  ‘Ah, yes, the garden. It’s very old, isn’t it?’

  ‘It was the kitchen garden attached to the big house.’

  ‘Beechgrave.’

  ‘That’s right. Would you like to see inside the kitchen cupboards?’

  ‘No, thanks, that won’t be necessary.’

  ‘The dishwasher’s brand new,’ I said, pointing.

  ‘Is it?’ He gave the machine a cursory nod, said, ‘That’s useful to know,’ and looked eager to move on.

  He showed no interest in the scullery or the downstairs cloakroom, but stood in front of windows, looking out in various directions. The burglary option seemed increasingly likely, though unless he knew about paintings, he would see nothing worth stealing. Phoebe owned a decent art collection which she’d assembled over the years, often buying when an artist was unknown and still affordable, but Mr Grenville ignored the paintings. When we got to the sitting room and I introduced Phoebe by name, there was no flicker of recognition, so I concluded he either knew nothing about art or was a very good actor.

  He viewed each room politely and briefly, showing no inclination to linger until we came to my room with its view of the wood and distant Beechgrave up on the hill. He stood at the window and looked out in silence until I asked if he had any questions. That jolted him out of his reverie and he said, no, he didn’t want to take up much more of my time.

  I was starting to feel slightly annoyed, or perhaps it was disappointed. ‘Would you like to view outside? The orangery was converted into a studio for my mother, but it would make a lovely big summer house. Or an office.’

  ‘Yes, please. I’d really like to have a look round the garden.’

  ‘There’s not a lot to see at this time of year, but the building plot is sizeable.’

  ‘Building plot?’ He looked surprised.

  ‘Well, yes. We assume that’s what most people will be interested in. The walled garden is a nice level plot and the old brick walls are very attractive. Or they would be if you removed all the ivy. But you don’t have to take the land. We’re selling in two lots. The house and woodland are one lot, the walled garden and outbuildings are the other.’

  He looked crestfallen. ‘I didn’t realise you were breaking it up.’

  ‘All the details are in the brochure,’ I said, sounding rather curt.

  ‘I see. Sorry, I hadn’t really registered . . .’

  I glanced out of the window and said, ‘It’s started to rain again, I’m afraid.’

  ‘I won’t keep you long. In fact, you don’t even need to show me round. I can explore on my own. I know my way round a Victorian garden,’ he added cryptically.

  ‘I’ll have to unlock the studio for you. It’s a bit of a tip, I’m afraid. It’s where I work.’

  ‘I thought you said your mother—’

  ‘She used to work there until she became ill. She hasn’t been able to paint for some time now, so I’ve taken over the studio while I’m staying with her.’

  ‘You paint too?’ he asked, following me down the stairs.

  ‘Yes, though in a very different way. I’m a textile artist.’

  ‘Obviously a talented family.’

  Turning to him at the bottom of the stairs, I said, ‘My father was a passionate gardener and my mother is an artist. I suppose my DNA dictated I’d become someone who dreamed of
being a second William Morris.’

  ‘But instead you became the first Ann de Freitas. An original,’ he added, with such an engaging smile, I was thrown slightly and led him to the back door in silence.

  As I pulled on a raincoat, I said, ‘There’s only one umbrella, I’m afraid, but it’s quite large.’

  ‘Don’t worry about me, I’m used to rain,’ he said cheerfully.

  As we went round, huddled under the umbrella, Mr Grenville’s excitement was palpable, but he paid scant attention to the information I gave him, showing more interest in the ancient graffiti carved on the beech trees than the dimensions of the studio. He had a tendency to wander off, his long legs covering the ground quickly, then he’d stand still, apparently impervious to the rain, and stare into space, as if trying to orient himself or imagine something that wasn’t actually there. Several times he looked up towards Beechgrave, then back at Garden Lodge, his brow furrowed.

  When he joined me again under the umbrella, his spirits seemed as damp as his clothes and hair. ‘Thanks for waiting. I hope you aren’t getting cold.’

  Curiosity finally got the better of good manners. ‘You’re not actually interested in the house, are you?’ He opened his mouth to reply, then thought better of it. To his credit, he met my stern look without flinching. ‘Are you just a time-waster? Or checking to see if we’re worth burgling? We’re not, unless you deal in contemporary portraits.’

  ‘I’m very sorry. I admit I am wasting your time. Really I’m just here to see the garden. What’s left of it.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘It’s a long story.’ He pushed dripping hair back from his forehead and said, ‘I don’t suppose you’d like to hear it, would you?’

  I laughed out loud at his cheek. ‘First you admit you’re wasting my time, then you ask if I’d like to know why?’

  ‘I thought you might. It’s a mystery, you see.’

  ‘A mystery?’

  ‘Yes. Your mother might enjoy hearing about it. She obviously likes mysteries.’

  By now I suspected I was dealing with a patient on the run from Beechgrave’s punishing teetotal regime. ‘What on earth do you mean?’

  ‘Murder, She Wrote. That’s what she was watching. My gran used to love that programme.’

  I faltered, overcome by curiosity. ‘And I suppose if I allow you to tell us this story, you’ll want a cup of tea as well?’

  His grin was disarming and I suspected he knew it. ‘That would be more than I deserve.’

  ‘Dead right,’ I said, turning and heading back to the house, leaving him standing in the rain. ‘This mystery had better be good,’ I called out over my shoulder.

  ‘It is,’ he shouted back. ‘Completely baffling. Definitely a three-pipe problem.’

  I told Phoebe we were having tea with Connor Grenville. Her eyes widened and she zapped the TV with the remote. Turning to him she said, ‘Are you going to buy my house then?’

  He looked embarrassed and said, ‘I’m very sorry, Mrs Flint—’

  ‘It’s not Mrs, it’s Phoebe.’

  ‘Sorry, Phoebe, but I’m here on false pretences. I am looking for a property, but to be honest, this one is a bit outside my price range.’

  ‘So why are you here?’ she asked, with a terseness he could hardly fail to notice.

  ‘I suppose I’m here in my capacity as a garden historian and archivist.’

  ‘Really? Is that what you do?’

  ‘Among other things.’

  ‘And you wanted to give our garden the once-over?’

  ‘Well, yes. But only because there’s a family connection. With my grandmother, Ivy.’

  ‘Oh? Did she use to live here?’

  ‘She and my great-grandmother were both born here, then later Ivy lived up at the big house, Beechgrave.’

  ‘You don’t say!’ Phoebe looked up at me and said, ‘Get the kettle on, Ann. And crack open a packet of chocolate digestives. I think this is going to be interesting . . .’

  When I offered Mr Grenville a towel for his wet hair, he took it saying, ‘Please call me Connor.’ I reciprocated and said he should call me Ann. The formalities over, I also suggested he remove his sodden jumper so I could dry it in front of the wood-burning stove. As he handed it to me I noted his check shirt had seen better days, but not an iron. Rubbing his hands together to warm them, he thanked me and asked if he could help in the kitchen, an offer I declined.

  So it was in a spirit of friendly informality that we gathered round the stove to drink tea. It was dark outside now and the rain had turned to sleet, but Garden Lodge was always a good place to be holed up in bad weather. It wrapped itself around you. Its thick walls and wooden floors felt solid and timeless. They’d last another hundred years or more if left in peace. But, I reflected, the house’s new owner might have other, radical ideas. The thought was uncomfortable, so I pushed it to the back of my mind and concentrated on the potential buyer who was now our guest.

  When you’re an artist, it’s hard not to stare at things, including people. You’re always looking at the play of light on surfaces, observing shadow and texture. When studied, anything becomes interesting and almost abstract as a collection of shapes and colours. I wondered if Phoebe was already painting Connor’s face in her head. She was certainly paying him a lot of attention, but Phoebe had always had an eye for attractive young men and I supposed Connor could be called attractive. He looked fit and tanned, as if used to an outdoor life. His long, thick hair had darkened with the rain, but when dry, it was a warm mix of blond and toffee shades. He possessed steady grey eyes, a pleasant, open face and a manner that was engaging without being pushy. Nevertheless, I suspected he was used to getting what he wanted. Connor Grenville would be a hard man to ignore.

  I passed him the plate of biscuits and, as he took one, he asked, ‘Do you happen to know if your family had any connection with the Mordaunts?’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘The Mordaunts. They built Beechgrave and lived there for several generations. The house was sold by Hester Mordaunt in the 1920s, then it was requisitioned during the Second World War. Did you realise this was the Head Gardener’s house?’

  ‘Oh, yes,’ Phoebe said. ‘My husband was interested in the history of the place. He was a keen gardener himself.’

  ‘But he had no connection with the Mordaunts?’

  ‘None that I know of.’

  ‘Nor the Hatherwicks?’

  ‘I’ve never heard the name. Who were they?’

  ‘Herbert Hatherwick was the Head Gardener before the First World War and he lived here with his family. His son started off as a pot boy in the garden and worked his way up to journeyman gardener before going off to fight in France. Hatherwick’s daughter, Violet – that’s my great-grandmother – had an illegitimate daughter, Ivy, who was later adopted by Hester Mordaunt, the mistress of Beechgrave. Hester seems to have been quite a remarkable woman. She never married and ran Beechgrave on her own, turning it into a convalescent home for wounded Tommies.’

  ‘Was your great-grandmother impregnated by one of the toffs at the big house?’ Phoebe asked with a spectacular lack of delicacy.

  ‘No, not at all,’ Connor replied, unperturbed. ‘The menfolk were all dead. Killed in the war. That’s how Hester came to inherit. There was no one else left.’

  ‘So who was Ivy’s father then?’

  ‘Well, that’s just it. There are big gaps in the story because the family archive is incomplete. My grandmother and I were investigating when she died.’

  ‘What a shame,’ Phoebe said. ‘And I suppose a lot of information died with her?’

  ‘More than you might think. Much of the archive was destroyed. There was a fire, you see . . .’

  IVY

  24th November, 2013

  Ivy Watson threw another log on to the dying fire and replaced the fireguard. She picked her way carefully through the photo albums, letters and postcards strewn on the floor of her small sitting room and settled dow
n again in her armchair. She lifted one of the old albums on to her lap and turned its heavy ornamented pages. Connor had said he needed more photos to scan, partly to preserve them, but also to help him plan the book. He’d asked her to choose her favourites.

  It was a pleasant job for a winter’s afternoon, but Ivy felt guilty dismantling the family albums Hester had made. Connor had shown her how to keep track of where the photos came from. When she removed a photo, she used two coloured bits of sticky paper, both with the same number written on them. One went on the back of the photo, the other filled the gap in the album. It was a simple system and one that Ivy’s old, arthritic fingers could manage. Nowadays writing anything was a trial, so it was kind and clever of Connor to have thought of an easy way to keep the precious albums in order.

  She decided he must have a picture of the old beech, the Trysting Tree. Hester had loved that tree and there were many photos of it, taken in all seasons. One of them showed the graffiti in close-up. Generations of gardeners and housemaids had carved their brief and cryptic declarations of love on its smooth bark, but someone – an educated man, evidently – had carved a Latin inscription: Crescent illae crescetis amores. Ivy didn’t know what the words meant, but she guessed amores was something to do with love. Connor had studied Latin at school and might be interested in deciphering the inscription, so she removed the photo of the beech, making sure she didn’t bend it with her clumsy fingers.

  As she extracted the corners from the small card triangles holding the photo in place, Ivy saw an envelope had been tucked behind. As she turned it over, she was astonished to see the envelope was addressed to Ivy Hatherwick. Until her marriage, Ivy had been known as Ivy Mordaunt. Ivy Hatherwick had been her name before she was adopted as an infant by Hester Mordaunt.

  Curious now, she opened the envelope and removed a single sheet of notepaper. At once she recognised her Uncle William’s handwriting and noted that the letter had been written the day before he died. Ivy settled back in her armchair, but she’d read no more than a few lines when she suddenly shot forward, her hand covering her mouth. As she continued to read, her eyes widened and she emitted a small whimpering noise. When she’d finished reading, Ivy crumpled the letter into a ball, held it tightly in her fist for a moment, then threw it on the floor. She leaned back, clutching the arms of her chair and wept for a long time.