I wonder why bees prefer single blooms? My brothers would not know. All they have retained of their excellent and largely wasted education is the rules of various sports.
I should have liked to be a scientist. A botanist, perhaps. Or a plant collector who travelled to China, like Mr E. H. Wilson, though I should prefer not to have my leg crushed in an avalanche of boulders and have to set it using a camera tripod for a splint. If I could not be a botanist or an explorer, I think I should have liked to be a gardener. When I mentioned this to Mother, she laughed. Sadly, I am a source of constant and unintentional amusement to my family. Mother explained that ladies paint flowers and wear them, they do not grow them.
The rules of life seem to me as unfathomable as the rules of cricket, yet I feel sure the bees know what they are doing. There has to be a reason why they go only to the single flowers, why they are never distracted by the opulence of ‘Souvenir de la Malmaison’.
I wish now that I had paid more attention to Walter when he was proposing. Perhaps I might feel more enthusiastic about marriage if I had. The truth is, I have never really thought about it much, but I know I should. Mother says time is running out. I am twenty-two.
June 12th
I have been considering Walter’s proposal and have come to the conclusion that I wish I were a man. To be female is to be second-rate, or rather to be regarded as second-rate.
To console myself, I shall record the disadvantages of being male, but I fear the list will be very short.
I should detest having to smoke cigars.
I think it unlikely I should be able to drink port in any quantity.
I doubt I could ever be reconciled to whiskers or shaving.
I have no interest whatever in horse-racing or shooting things with guns.
After this, the issues are less clear. Men talk of the financial obligation to provide for a family, but it seems to me, if they would refrain from producing such large families, they would surely manage better. A man does at least have a choice. He can choose not to marry. He does not become a burden on his family in the way that I, if I do not marry, will become a burden to Arthur or Eddie. My greatest inducement to marry is the thought that, if I do not, I will inevitably become nurse and companion to whichever of my parents survives longest, after which I shall have no choice but to cast myself on the mercy of my brothers, who will be obliged to house, feed and clothe me.
It comes as no surprise, therefore, that Arthur and Eddie are all in favour of my marriage to Walter – or indeed anybody. Eddie even had the effrontery to suggest this might be my last chance to make a good match.
For that reason alone, I was tempted to decline Walter’s proposal, but he is a good, kind man and confident we are well suited. This surprises me as we have spent little time together, almost none of it alone, but I scarcely know what ‘well suited’ means. My parents have no interests in common, but have been married for nearly thirty years. Perhaps sharing a home and children are sufficient bond.
I am, in any case, discouraged from pursuing a wider range of interests. Whenever I demonstrate that I have more intelligence and initiative than a lap dog, Father looks shocked and accuses me of displaying ‘unfeminine tendencies’.
I wish I could work. I stand at my bedroom window and watch the garden staff digging, raking, planting, pruning, cutting the grass – all of it in the fresh air, often in sunshine. I long to be busy, to be doing, to smell the damp earth as I turn it. How glorious that would be! To crumble a handful of it in my hands and see it teeming with life: seeds, roots and tiny insects. And, oh, how I should love a bonfire! I am sure I should not mind the smoke at all. Can it be any worse than the stench emanating from the billiard room? To stand burning rubbish on a cold November day, tending the flames and feeding the fire with a pitchfork – the thought makes me quite dizzy.
I watch our gardeners at work and long to know what they know, do what they do. Mother will not even let me arrange the flowers. She says the Head Gardener must do it. It is his responsibility, she says, as if these things are set down on tablets of stone.
It has often struck me that if an activity is enjoyable, satisfying or lucrative, it will be the province of men. What have they left us to do other than supervise the people who supervise the servants? Bear children, of course, but nothing I have observed or heard about motherhood suggests it is enjoyable or satisfying work, nor is it lucrative.
I suppose if I marry him, Walter will insist on a family. He did not mention this when he proposed. At least, I do not think he did. He made mention of ‘duty’, but I am not sure now if it referred to his or mine. I have to conclude that he might have hinted at the need for children.
When I am married, I shall insist on arranging my own flowers. Walter can hardly begrudge me that, surely? But I despair of ever being allowed to dig, or build a bonfire.
I have quite forgotten what I was going to write next. When I looked up from my window seat, out at the garden, I saw young Hatherwick, the Head Gardener’s son, watering the bedding plants. It is a pleasure to watch these simple, repetitive tasks, performed with the experience of years and an economy of effort that confers a sort of physical grace. Hatherwick appears to me to be a man who knows what he is doing. And why.
I ache with envy.
ANN
‘So it looks as if the unknown lover was Walter,’ Phoebe said, handing Connor her empty wine glass, which he duly refilled.
‘Why do you say that?’
We were gathered in the sitting room, listening to Connor read from Hester Mordaunt’s diary. The book was a hundred years old and badly charred. Some pages were spoiled where the ink had run and only the second half was legible.
Listening to Connor – who was enjoying himself impersonating Hester – was like tuning into a radio play halfway through. We were trying to identify characters and their motives. Phoebe was entranced. When we showed her the inside of the seed packets, she was consumed with curiosity, then, when Connor told her he thought he recognised the handwriting, she insisted he bring Hester’s diary to show us. He’d turned up with the diary and two bottles of red wine, ready to sing for his supper.
‘Well, it must be Walter,’ Phoebe insisted. ‘The packets are signed “W”.’
Connor’s smile was infuriatingly enigmatic. He had the advantage over us. He’d already read some of the diary, but not wanting to pre-empt Phoebe’s detective work, he turned to me and said, ‘You’re very quiet, Ann. Any theories?’
‘I don’t think it can be Walter.’
‘Why not?’
‘Well, she’s obviously not very keen on him. And she never did marry him, did she?’
‘No. Hester never married anyone.’
‘And Walter doesn’t sound the type who’d keep seed packets.’
‘He chose the rose garden for his proposal,’ Phoebe offered in Walter’s defence.
‘Yes, but I don’t think he was a nature lover. Hester didn’t think she could ask him about the bees.’
‘Or the birds and the bees,’ Connor added.
‘Perhaps the packets belonged to Hester,’ Phoebe said. ‘Maybe it was a little game they played. Like writing messages on fans. People did some weird things as a substitute for snogging.’
‘They certainly did,’ Connor said, refilling my glass but not his own. ‘Shall I read on?’
‘Yes, please!’ Phoebe said eagerly. ‘Let’s make a night of it. But, your glass is empty, Connor. That lamentable state of affairs must be rectified.’
‘No, I’m driving later.’
‘Rubbish!’ Phoebe snorted and looked at me. ‘He can stay over in the studio, can’t he?’
‘Of course – that is, if you’d like to,’ I said, turning to Connor. ‘Don’t let yourself be browbeaten by my mother. I’m sure she’ll let you go home if you promise to leave us Hester’s journal.’
‘Until I’ve photocopied it, I’m sleeping with it under my pillow.’
‘Well, that settles it then!’
Phoebe said, grabbing the bottle and filling Connor’s glass. ‘Bolt the doors, Ann. Now, are we all sitting comfortably . . . ? When you’re ready, Connor. You have a captive audience.’
He cleared his throat, sat back and resumed his reading.
HESTER
June 13th, 1914
Mother says I must give Walter his answer. She assumes my answer will be ‘Yes’ and faced with her certainty, I have been unable to initiate a discussion. I am not at all sure what there is to discuss, but feel I should consider all the implications of marriage, in particular marriage to Walter Dowding, for the fact is, I do not love him.
I am not so naïve as to assume that love is necessary for marriage to be a success. Respect, loyalty and compatibility are as important as love – or so I must assume. I know few married women and they do not discuss marriage. They discuss their husbands’ and children’s achievements and occasionally the achievements of their cook. All I know about marriage is what I have observed at home and what I have gleaned from my reading. Sadly, the novels of Thomas Hardy, of which I am inordinately fond, give me no grounds for optimism.
I should have liked very much to fall in love, for the experience. I cannot imagine what it must feel like. Not altogether comfortable, I fear. Perhaps this is why I like reading Hardy. His books are full of feelings I have never had – and some I hope never to have – but I do want to know about them.
I should give Walter his reply, but I am too hot and tired to think about it any more. How can I be tired when I never do anything more strenuous than write this journal and read to Mother?
June 14th
There was a terrible scene today. Mother was very upset. So was I, but I managed not to cry until I reached the seclusion of the beech wood, where I finally gave vent to my feelings.
I had simply asked for more time. Mother said I cannot possibly need more time since there is really nothing to consider. Apparently I have no right to become a burden and that is what I shall be if I decline Walter’s offer. Mother made it quite clear she thinks I am unlikely to receive another, so I shall be beholden to my brothers for the rest of my life.
I had rather be dead. Or married.
Walter shall have his answer tomorrow.
June 15th
It is done. I am to become ‘Mrs Walter Dowding’. It sounds very distinguished, but I was rather attached to ‘Miss Hester Mordaunt’.
Walter says I have made him very happy. He did not mention the word love. Neither did I.
Afterwards, I went down to the wood and sat beneath the Trysting Tree, the old beech with tangled roots like a giant’s ball of knitting wool. I cried for a long time and missed dinner.
I must have fallen asleep for when I opened my eyes I found I was being watched. I was frightened until I realised it was young Hatherwick. I believe his name is William. He explained that he had come upon me, asleep in the wood and was concerned for my safety, so he had waited until I woke. I was confused, still muddle-headed with sleep and said nothing. The light was fading and I felt nervous, alone in the wood at dusk.
Hatherwick had already taken his leave and turned away when I called him back. Mother would have been horrified, but I did not care. At that moment I did not care about anything, least of all Mother. I needed to talk to someone, so I talked to Hatherwick for a little while. I told him I was to be married. When he congratulated me, I said I should much rather travel the world and collect plants, like Mr Ernest Wilson. He did not laugh, nor did he look surprised. He suggested I might have many opportunities to travel as a married woman. I told him that unless I made an enormous fuss, I should not even be permitted to arrange my own flowers. He smiled then, but it was a sad sort of smile, as if he understood.
There was a long, uncomfortable silence, then he asked if I should like to borrow a book about plant collecting in China. I said I should, very much. He told me his sister, Violet, would deliver it and I could keep the book as long as I liked.
I am very tired now, but cannot sleep. The conversation with Hatherwick runs through my head, over and over. His act of kindness has made a great impression on me and I am eager to read his book. I do hope he will remember to send it.
THE BEECH WOOD
We bore witness at the beginning. We stood, as we have always stood, observing merely, while she watered our roots with her tears.
Her body shuddered with sobs as she rested her dark head on her arms. Her fine clothes absorbed moisture from the soil and the cool evening air. Finally, she slept, her limbs awry, her body twisted, like one who lay dead.
When he came upon her in the clearing, he stood still, fearful until he saw she breathed. He looked back the way he had come, then stood guard at a distance, his strong, rough hands in his pockets, watching her.
As soon as she opened her eyes, she saw him and got to her feet, alarmed, shaking out her long skirts. She reached out and placed a hand on one of us to steady herself while she gathered the strength to run. He stepped back, his palms raised towards her in a gesture of submission. As he removed his hat, she recognised him and said his name. He inclined his head, trying not to stare as she lifted a hand to an errant strand of hair and tucked it behind her ear.
She was dressed in green, tall, slender, like a young sapling, bending easily at the waist to brush leaves from the soiled hem of her skirt. He noted the silky brown of her hair, like horse chestnuts, the hazel of her unhappy eyes. She seemed to him the very spirit of this dark, green place.
His heart was full and he wanted to touch her. Instead, he sought a way to help. He had his reward. When she smiled, her long, troubled face was transfigured. It was as if the sun’s rays had suddenly penetrated the woodland gloom. He could not prevent himself from smiling in answer.
Thus it began.
WILLIAM
June 15th, 1914
When William Hatherwick returned home to Garden Lodge his sister, Violet, set aside the sock she was darning and chided him for missing supper. As he cut himself a thick slice of bread, she set a bowl of soup before him.
‘Eat it before it gets cold.’
‘It was such a fine evening, I went for a walk. I forgot the time.’ He swallowed some soup, then said, ‘Do we have any brown paper and string?’
Violet went to the wooden dresser and pulled open a drawer. She withdrew several pieces of used string and a creased sheet of brown paper, smoothed flat and neatly folded. ‘Are you sending a parcel then?’ As she deposited the paper and string on the table, she bent and whispered in his ear, ‘Who’s the lucky lady then?’
William ignored his sister’s nudge and said, ‘Would you deliver a book to Beechgrave for me? I’m lending it.’
‘I didn’t think Mr Mordaunt took much interest in the garden,’ Violet said as she settled down again in her chair. ‘Doesn’t he leave everything up to Father?’
‘Yes, he does. The book isn’t for him. It’s for Miss Mordaunt. She’s interested in horticulture. Unlike her father.’
Violet looked up from her mending, wide-eyed. ‘You’ve spoken to Miss Mordaunt?’
Scraping up the last of the soup from his bowl, William avoided her eye. ‘We discussed plant collecting. I was able to satisfy her curiosity on a point and suggested she should read one of my books. I propose to lend it to her. It’s very informative,’ William added, finishing the last of his bread and butter. ‘And entertaining. I think she’ll enjoy it. So would you take the parcel up to the house for me? Tomorrow. Miss Mordaunt’s expecting it.’
‘Very well, if you’ve promised it to her. But William—’
‘And I don’t see any need to mention this to Father. The book’s mine. There’s no harm in lending it to an interested party, is there?’
‘I suppose not,’ Violet answered cautiously.
He rose from the table and said, ‘The soup was very good, Vi. Thank you.’
‘I baked jam tarts. Strawberry. Your favourite. Will you have one with a cup of tea?’
‘Not now. I’m going upst
airs to read.’
‘You’ll wear out your eyes with all your studying! On a fine night like this a young man should be walking out with his sweetheart.’
The criticism was familiar, but William knew his sister spoke with affection. She was also expressing her own frustrations. Since the death of their mother, Violet had had little opportunity for leisure.
‘As you’re well aware, Vi, I cannot marry until I’m appointed to the position of Head Gardener. The path to advancement is study and the increase of scientific knowledge. I must make my own way in the world. No one else can do it for me. Goodnight.’
In the spartan seclusion of his room, William gazed out of the window towards the beech wood. There was not enough light to read, but he postponed the lighting of his candle by taking a volume from his bookcase, which he proceeded to wrap. He made a neat parcel, taking care with the corners, then tied it up with string. He took a pencil and wrote
Miss H. Mordaunt
Beechgrave
Setting the book aside, he lit his candle and placed it on the table. Overwhelmed suddenly with exhaustion – his twelve-hour working day had started at six in the morning – William yawned, then dragged a callused hand through his thick dark hair, greasy now with sweat. He opened the window wide and leaned out, inhaling the scents rising from the garden below: lilac, honeysuckle and night-scented stocks. He closed his eyes and almost reeled. A man could get drunk on their perfume.
As he removed his waistcoat and shirt, he looked again at the dark outline of the beech trees against the night sky. Ignoring the promptings of conscience and common sense, William reached for his sketchbook and picked up the pencil again. He sat down at the table by the window and placed the open sketchbook so it took advantage of the candle and the rising moon. He began to draw quickly and as he drew, he forgot his aching limbs and the nagging pain in the small of his back, aggravated by hours spent scything long grass. He forgot everything. All he remembered was the face he now drew: the silky hair in disarray; the thick, arched brows; the curve of dark lashes on her pale cheek. He hesitated to draw her mouth, not because it was challenging, nor because he’d forgotten it. To draw her mouth accurately, as he had seen it, her lips parted slightly as she slept, the upper lip drawn up so he could see her small white teeth, to record such a thing seemed intimate and intrusive, so he hesitated for a moment, then, grasping the pencil firmly, he completed his sketch.
The Memory Tree Page 8