The Memory Tree

by Linda Gillard

  Phoebe said I could have a William Morris bedroom. I asked how this was possible. Was she offering to paint my walls in Morris style? She explained that you could still buy Morris wallpaper and curtain fabric, but they weren’t cheap. They would have to last me until I left home, so I should choose my patterns carefully, but Phoebe assured me Morris designs were timeless and I would never get bored with them.

  She was right. I never did. I chose a subdued sea-green wallpaper that featured acorns and oak leaves and paired it with the celebrated Strawberry Thief fabric for my curtains. When they were closed, the birds lined up in rows, staring hungrily at the crop of small wild strawberries. I never tired of looking at those patterns, how they never began and never ended, just repeated over and over until you could no longer see birds, strawberries, acorns or oak leaves, you just saw colour and movement.

  I hate to think what my new décor must have cost, but it lasted through my teens and is still in good shape. Phoebe says more than one young artist-assistant has been inspired by his stay in what came to be known as ‘the Morris room’.

  It was the beginning of something important for me. That room made me happy and allowed me to feel connected to the garden even when I was indoors. It taught me that design – even of something as mundane as wallpaper – could affect how you felt. From the moment the first length of acorn wallpaper went up, I was a convert to the Morris philosophy and tried thereafter to have nothing in my home which I did not know to be useful or believe to be beautiful.

  I sat down, contemplated my dancing acorns and rang Connor Grenville.

  ‘Connor, it’s Ann de Freitas here. Have the agency spoken to you about your offer for Garden Lodge?’

  ‘Yes, they have. Twice, actually. Once to say my offer had been accepted, then again to say it had been rejected and that the property had been taken off the market.’

  ‘I’m so sorry to mess you around. There’s been some confusion, you see.’

  ‘No need to apologise. The agent sounded pretty miffed and so was I to begin with, but after I’d thought about it a bit, I realised I was pleased.’

  ‘Pleased? That your offer had been rejected?’

  ‘No, that you’d decided not to sell. I don’t think you should. It’s a wonderful home and you and Phoebe are obviously happy there.’

  ‘Was your offer never genuine then?’

  ‘Of course it was! I wouldn’t waste your time.’ He heard himself, then added, ‘Well, not again.’

  ‘So you did actually want to buy Garden Lodge?’

  ‘Yes, I did, but that was my best offer and I fully expected it to be rejected. It represented all I have – and quite a lot that I don’t, to be honest – but I thought if I actually made an offer, it would clarify matters. For me, at least.’

  ‘You must have been very surprised when Phoebe accepted.’

  ‘I thought it might be you, putting pressure on her to move somewhere more practical. But that didn’t really add up.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘It was obvious you didn’t really want to sell. I mean, you didn’t try very hard, did you? The business potential of that place is tremendous, but you didn’t push it.’

  ‘I didn’t think you were a serious buyer.’

  ‘Are you sure that was why?’

  I hesitated, then said, ‘I was sure at the time, but I realise now neither Phoebe nor I are ready to sell up. She only accepted your offer so I could get her settled elsewhere. In her misguided way, she was trying to be kind. She wanted to relieve me of my responsibilities – I suppose because she so loathed being responsible for me when I was young and she was a single parent.’

  ‘Do you see her as a big responsibility?’

  ‘No, that’s what’s so silly. I was horrified to discover she felt guilty enough to give up her home. But I’ve persuaded her to stay put. I think she could with my support. I’d been thinking of selling my flat in Bath, but I hadn’t decided what to do. Staying at Garden Lodge has given me a lot of time to think. And remember, I suppose.’

  ‘What do you remember?’

  ‘Oh, just how happy the garden used to make me when I was a child. It sounds ridiculous, but I’d like to make reparation in some way.’

  ‘That’s an odd term to use about a garden.’

  ‘I know, but I can’t think how else to explain it. And I thought you might understand.’

  ‘Perhaps I will if you tell me more.’

  ‘It was all so . . . sad. The garden went to rack and ruin after my father left and now I feel guilty about all the neglect. But I was just a child. There was nothing I could do.’

  ‘When was this?’

  ‘1976. I don’t remember much about that time and Phoebe’s always refused to discuss it. He just went out one day and never came back.’

  ‘Did he stay in touch?’

  ‘No. We never heard from him again. I don’t even know if he’s alive.’

  ‘That must have been painful for you.’

  ‘I really don’t remember. But I can remember the garden as it used to be. Well, perhaps I don’t, maybe it’s just that there are photos. Sylvester took lots of the garden.’

  ‘Sylvester?’

  ‘Silvestre Esmeraldo Luis de Freitas.’

  Connor laughed. ‘Wow! Portuguese?’

  ‘Madeiran.’

  ‘So that’s where you get your exotic looks from.’

  It was my turn to laugh. ‘Yes. And my love of plants.’

  ‘So I’m guessing what you’d really like to do is restore the garden. To how it was in Sylvester’s day? Or how it was in its Victorian heyday?’

  ‘I don’t think I mind. I’d just like the garden to look loved. And I’d like to feel less guilty about it. I also wondered whether a big project would help reconcile Phoebe to her disability. She can’t really paint any more, not since she had cancer. The chemo wrecked her nervous system and she’s in constant pain.’

  ‘That’s why she likes mysteries, isn’t it? Something to distract her. Keep her brain occupied.’

  ‘Exactly. I wondered if I could get her involved in planning the restoration of the garden. I mean, it’s all about colour and shape, isn’t it?’

  ‘Have you heard of Gertrude Jekyll? She was a famous Victorian gardener who had to abandon a career as a painter when her eyesight began to deteriorate. Her designs for flower borders were actually influenced by the Impressionists. I suppose you could say she painted with plants and the garden was her canvas. Maybe Phoebe might like that idea?’

  ‘It could certainly be worth a try. I’d really like to get her outside in the spring, but she’ll need some motivating.’

  ‘So now the house is off the market, will you make a start on the walled garden?’

  ‘I’m going to tidy up at least. Find out what’s still alive. But it will be a massive clearing job and I’m not sure how much I can achieve on my own. I’ll have to discuss with Phoebe what she wants me to do and how much she’ll let me spend.’

  ‘Could I make a suggestion?’

  ‘Of course. I’d value your advice.’

  ‘I’m looking for a restoration project. A big one. I want to restore something from a ruin to a garden anyone would be proud to own. And I want to photograph every stage of the process and blog about it.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘To drum up trade. I want to stop working for other people and set up my own garden business and since Phoebe turned down my insulting offer, I can now revert to Plan A, which was to set up Grenville Garden Landscaping. But I need a flagship project. It needs to be local, interesting and challenging. Restoring Beechgrave’s kitchen garden would tick all those boxes and I think there could be a lot of local and media interest, especially as the garden’s owned by a famous artist.’

  ‘But Connor, there’s no way Phoebe’s in the market for all this. She may be famous, but she isn’t working. And she hasn’t sold a painting in ages.’

  ‘Ah, but that’s the beauty of it, you see. You wou
ldn’t have to pay me.’

  ‘We wouldn’t?’

  ‘No, not if you allow me to use your garden as a bit of a show home, post photos of it online and maybe use some of them in a book about Beechgrave and the Mordaunts, the one Ivy wanted me to write. I can link your project – the garden – with my project – the family history. I think I could get an attractive book out of it and carry out my grandmother’s wishes. And you have to admit, restoring the garden would make the house easier to sell when the time comes.’

  ‘So you’re offering to work for free?’

  ‘Yes. But I think I might need some help.’

  ‘What sort of help?’

  ‘Well, if you see yourself as a gardener’s boy, I could definitely use another pair of hands. At the moment I’m just a one-man band. And I’d probably need quite a lot of tea and biscuits.’

  ‘I’m sure that could be arranged. Anything else?’

  ‘No, that’s all.’

  ‘Connor, I don’t know what to say. It’s a very generous offer—’

  ‘And naturally you don’t think you can trust it. Quite understandable, but there are two things you need to factor into the equation. The first is how much I want to be a part of the Beechgrave story, how much I need to know what Ivy discovered. I don’t suppose for one moment the answer lies in the garden, but I just think if I’m on-site, working where she was born, in the shadow of those beeches, I’ll be as close as I can get to solving the mystery, short of checking in to the rehab clinic next door.’ He paused. ‘Does that make any sense?’

  ‘As much sense as me wanting to make reparation to a garden.’

  ‘You see, I have to assume that, in the end, Ivy didn’t want me to publish a book about her family, but I don’t think she could object to a book about the old garden. Especially if it helped get my business off the ground. So . . . what do you say?’

  ‘Well, it all sounds pretty convincing.’

  ‘And there’s absolutely no risk to you. I would run everything by you and Phoebe, from plant lists to the possible intrusion of TV cameras. You’d be the boss.’

  ‘I thought I was the gardener’s boy?’

  ‘The chain of command will be complex, but I’m sure we can make it work.’

  ‘Connor, you’ll have to come and discuss all this with Phoebe. I think she’ll be up for it, but I can’t make any promises.’

  ‘Of course. I’d love to talk to her about it. And I’m curious to know if she’s had any more thoughts about Ivy’s change of heart.’

  ‘She’s certainly been thinking about that and I know she’d be delighted to see you again.’

  ‘Okay, talk to Phoebe and let me know when I can visit. Take your time. I’m not going to put pressure on anyone, but the offer’s there.’

  ‘Thank you. It’s very generous of you.’

  ‘Well, that’s the second thing you need to factor in. Remember I said there were two?’

  ‘What’s the second?’

  ‘How much I’d enjoy spending time with you and Phoebe, not to mention all the ghosts of Garden Lodge.’

  ‘Ghosts?’

  ‘My grandmother, Ivy. My great-grandmother, Violet. Her brother, William Hatherwick, and the woman who ended up owning Beechgrave, Hester Mordaunt. They’re my family, Ann. It would be a privilege to restore their garden. I even thought about buying Garden Lodge so I could do that, but now, if you’ll let me, I can do what I’d planned in my capacity as gardener, not owner. It’s an arrangement that could suit everyone.’

  ‘Let’s hope Phoebe thinks so. I’ll get back to you, Connor, as soon as she’s made a decision.’

  ‘No hurry. The garden’s been waiting since the seventies. A few more days won’t make any difference. Those beeches aren’t going anywhere . . .’

  THE BEECH WOOD

  A storm is coming. We sense it. In our roots. In the quivering air. There’s a shrieking on the wind and a deep stirring in the earth, as if the numberless dead are tunnelling, like moles, out of their graves, to rail against the heedless living.

  A storm is coming, doubtless. There will be destruction. Consternation. We have seen it many times and we shall see it again. We stand, bearing witness to the centuries, impartial, indifferent, offering shelter to any living thing that seeks solace in our shade.

  The ancients among us have learned to yield, to sacrifice a bough – sometimes several. There can be strength in weakness. But the ways of wind and weather cannot be learned in a mere hundred years. The young ones stand tall, shallow-rooted. They break when they should bend.

  After the storm has passed, some lie fallen – though some of the fallen live yet.

  We endure.

  ANN

  Phoebe had a ringside seat. She said she liked to watch demolition, so I placed a bench against the south-facing wall of the kitchen garden, where, even in January, the weak winter sunshine made its presence felt. Swaddled in a fleece blanket and quilted coat, sporting her tweed cap and gloves, Phoebe sat and watched as we tore up decades of undergrowth and tangles of ivy, honeysuckle and clematis were cut back to expose the mellow Victorian brick.

  As Connor hacked and pulled at unyielding brambles, Phoebe called out to him, ‘You put me in mind of the Prince in Sleeping Beauty.’

  He looked up and grinned. Removing a dirty glove, he wiped his forehead with the back of his hand. ‘Well, it’s high time this beauty woke. She’s been asleep for nearly forty years.’ He donned his glove again and returned to work, creating heaps of vegetation which I gathered up and put into a barrow, then wheeled out into the lane and emptied into a waiting skip.

  As I passed Phoebe, I stopped to ask if she was warm enough and if she still had coffee in the flask beside her on the bench. She seemed touched by my concern and assured me she was thoroughly enjoying herself. ‘There’s something rather soothing about watching other people exhaust themselves. I’ve been studying Connor. He has a method, doesn’t he?’

  ‘He says he’s following the sun as it moves round. The difference in temperature is quite marked. Do you feel it when the sun goes behind a cloud?’

  ‘Oh, yes, though I tend to be more aware of changes in light and shade than temperature. Years of working in that arctic studio.’

  ‘It’s not too bad once you’ve lit the wood burner.’

  ‘I could never be bothered. Just donned my thermals and fingerless mittens and got on with it. But I think I must be getting soft. I can feel the sun’s warmth behind me, radiating from the wall and I must say, it’s really rather pleasant.’

  ‘Connor says there’s fruit on that wall behind you. Peaches and nectarines. The sun lovers. Then on the west wall,’ I said, pointing, ‘there should be plums and cherries. On the east wall we should find pears and apples. It’s hard to tell what’s still alive at this time of year.’

  ‘Nothing grows on the north wall, I presume?’

  ‘With luck there could be a Morello cherry.’

  ‘Does Connor know, just by looking at dead twigs?’

  ‘Partly, but there are also a few labels left. Some are the very old metal labels, but some of the newer ones must have been put there by Dad. And we found a notebook in the shed. His gardening notes. It’s still legible.’

  Phoebe looked taken aback. ‘Oh . . . I never thought to clear out the shed. I went through all his other things . . .’ Her voice faltered.

  ‘Looking for clues as to why he left us?’ I asked gently.

  Ignoring the question, she said, ‘Do you know, he kept a rosary in there. In the shed! Great long thing. It hung from a beam, coiled, like a snake. Gave me the heebie-jeebies.’ Phoebe shivered and rearranged her limbs on the bench. ‘We never saw eye to eye about religion. Well, about anything, actually. Lord knows why we married. And as for taking on this place . . .’ She made a dismissive noise. ‘But Sylvester was always happy in the garden. Well, happier. He never learned to live with the British climate, though oddly enough he didn’t mind snow. Said it protected the garden while it
slept, like a white blanket. Honestly, to listen to him, you’d think he was talking about a child, not a garden! But then he adored children.’

  I watched my mother, anxious that she’d waded too far into the past and out of her depth. I was about to change the subject when she said gruffly, ‘He loved you, Ann. Don’t ever think he didn’t. He had no quarrel with you. It was me. It was all my doing.’

  ‘Oh, I’m sure there was fault on both sides, Mum. I didn’t understand when I was young, but I do now. My marriage failed too, you know.’

  ‘It was depression. He loved me. He adored you. But he suffered wretchedly with depression. And I was no use. I didn’t even know what depression was then. I thought it was just a question of pulling yourself together. Having a holiday. A change of scenery. So I encouraged him to travel. Thought it would do him good. And it got him out of my hair . . . I hated feeling powerless, you see.’ She shook her head. ‘That’s why I disliked being pregnant. The thought of something growing inside me, something I couldn’t control. I loathed the whole damn business. Pity I didn’t loathe sex! That would have saved no end of bother.’ She raised her stick and pointed. ‘I do believe that young man is flagging. Time he was fed. I’ll go in and put the soup on. Go and empty your barrow while I make myself useful in the kitchen.’

  As she got to her feet, Phoebe raised her cap and shouted to Connor, ‘I take my hat off to you, sir! You’re a human combine harvester. Tell me, is it satisfying being that destructive?’

  ‘Very!’ Connor yelled back. ‘But it gives a man an appetite.’

  ‘Duly noted,’ Phoebe said. ‘Lunch coming up.’ She replaced her cap and tottered back towards the house, humming tunelessly.

  Following with an overflowing barrow, I watched my mother’s feet as they shuffled across the worn, uneven paving stones. When she got to the back door, she clutched at the handle and raised her stick in triumphant salute as I passed.