The Memory Tree

by Linda Gillard

  ‘Really? Well, that makes me feel slightly better.’

  ‘Phoebe never actually told you she was disappointed in you. My father said little else from my teens onwards. He wanted a clone, not a son and I . . . well, I wanted to do something different with my life.’

  The stove was burning nicely now, so I went over and sat beside Connor. ‘Didn’t you say your dad was in the army?’

  ‘Yes. He assumed I’d follow in his footsteps. That’s often the case. You get army families. Ours was one until I let the side down. So I know what it feels like to think you don’t measure up, how tough it can be to go your own way without any support or even encouragement.’

  ‘How old were you when you lost your mother?’

  ‘Four. I don’t remember anything about her. She’s just a photo album. I sometimes wonder if that’s why I grew up so interested in archive stuff. Letters, diaries, photos . . . Those people all seem real to me. Well, as real as my mother.’

  ‘Do you have any brothers and sisters?’

  ‘I had one brother, much older. He went into the army and got himself killed.’

  ‘Oh, I’m sorry.’

  ‘Ivy was like a life force. She was the one who shared my interest in growing things. She was the one who taught me to garden, much to Dad’s disgust. Then when he realised I wanted to make a career out of it . . .’

  ‘He wasn’t happy?’

  ‘He was angry. He talked about horticulture as if it was hairdressing and about as useful. Dad was an army surgeon, so I could see where he was coming from.’

  ‘Oh dear. Medicine and the army. That was a lot of pressure.’

  Connor shot me a grateful look. ‘Yes, it was. But Dad wasn’t just angry, he was ill. He’d seen a lot of appalling things on active service. Not just mates dying. Civilians. Children. It affected him deeply. Permanently. He thought the world was a terrible place and he only saw the bad. So he drank a lot. Said it helped him relax, but I can’t say I ever saw it mellow his mood. He had a vile temper. And he lost control a few times.’ Connor paused and I noticed his big hands were clenched as they lay on his thighs.

  ‘Did he ever hit you?’

  ‘Occasionally. Then I got to be taller than him and hit back. He left me alone after that, but it was shame, not fear. Dad didn’t do fear. It was a point of honour with him.’

  ‘How horrible for you. For both of you.’

  ‘Yes, it was all pretty undignified. Ivy was always trying to patch things up between us, but Dad insisted on seeing my rejection of the army as a rejection of him and my brother’s sacrifice. That’s what Dad always called it. Kieran didn’t just die, he made the ultimate sacrifice. When I rejected the army, Dad said I was rejecting generations of Grenvilles, even rejecting being a man. He just didn’t get it. But his head was a mess, poor sod. Combat didn’t ever stop for him. He was always looking for a fight.’

  ‘He’s dead, I take it?’

  ‘Yes. His battle ended some years ago.’ Connor gazed at the flames dancing behind the glass door of the stove. ‘But the guilt . . . and the disappointment . . . Well, you would know. They go on and on, don’t they?’

  I felt an impulse to put an arm round this sad young man, to offer some sort of indeterminate comfort, but there seemed to be no context in which to touch him and I began to doubt my motives for wanting to do it.

  Connor leaned forward and clasped his hands loosely between his thighs. Staring at the floor he said, ‘At Dad’s funeral all his army mates told me what a great bloke he was. Fearless. A natural leader. One of the best. They said I must have been very proud of him.’ He sat back and sighed. ‘I suppose I would have been if we’d ever really known each other, if he’d ever talked – really talked about his work, instead of giving me all the understated, stiff upper lip crap. I tried to feel proud of him at the funeral but I was just . . . angry.’

  ‘Do you know why?’

  ‘Oh, yes. I was angry because he was gone and he’d never, ever been proud of me. And now he never would.’ Connor looked up, his eyes moist, beseeching. ‘But how can you be angry with the dead?’

  ‘Very easily. For a start there’s no chance of them ever coming back to apologise. And it’s all over, isn’t it? Finally. You’re lumbered with a bad ending. Or just not knowing what was really going on.’

  His smile was lopsided and uncertain. ‘So . . . I’m not just paranoid then?’

  ‘I don’t think so. But what do I know? You said I was paranoid.’

  He tilted his head to one side and looked at me. ‘In the nicest possible way.’

  ‘Thank you. I think.’

  ‘You know what I’m talking about then? The anger?’

  ‘Oh, yes. Sylvester hardly knew me. He never saw what I became or what I did. Okay, I haven’t done anything important, but I would have liked him to know me. And of course I would have liked to know him.’ I hesitated, shot Connor a sidelong glance, then said, ‘For what it’s worth, I’d just like to say, that . . . well, that I’m proud of you.’

  He turned and stared. ‘Whatever for?’

  ‘The way you’ve worked in the garden, giving it all you’ve got. The way you’ve befriended Phoebe. She’s really not the easiest of people, but you’ve given her a new lease of life. She looks forward to seeing you. We both do. And I admire what you’re doing for Ivy. In her memory. Trying to understand what went wrong.’

  He frowned. ‘Is that what I’m doing? I suppose it is. To begin with, I was just curious, but it’s become a bit of an obsession now. I mean, what could be so bad, you actually want to destroy your past? Your memories? I just don’t get it.’

  ‘Me neither, but I’m sure you’re doing the right thing. I think it’s important to understand where we’ve come from. To make sense of things and try to make the best of them.’

  ‘Have you forgiven him?’

  ‘Sylvester? For leaving?’ I got up, opened the stove door and threw in another log. ‘No, I don’t think so. Not really. My own marriage failed, so I can understand what he did. But I don’t think I’ve forgiven him. Not yet.’

  ‘That’s the hard bit. Still work in progress for me.’

  ‘And me . . . Look, I think I’d better go back and check on Phoebe. The loo’s through that door,’ I said, pointing, ‘and you’ll find towels and probably a new toothbrush in the cupboard. Oh, and there’s milk in the fridge. Make yourself tea or coffee in the morning, then come over for breakfast when you’re ready.’

  He stood up. ‘Thank you. And thanks for listening – to Hester’s story and mine.’

  ‘It’s been a pleasure. Truly. I can’t wait for the next instalment.’ As I looked up at him, I realised, had I been taller, I would have kissed him on the cheek. In the few seconds’ hiatus, I sensed Connor having the same thought and wasn’t surprised when he bowed his untidy head and brushed my cheek with his lips.

  ‘Good night, Ann. Sleep well.’

  ‘You too. Good night.’

  When I got back indoors, I found Phoebe had not only put herself to bed, she’d attempted to tidy the kitchen. There was a scrawled note under a dirty wine glass saying, Cracked. Sorry.

  I preferred Phoebe to leave loading and unloading the dishwasher to me, but she liked to demonstrate she was still capable of living independently. When she tackled jobs, there were sometimes casualties. To protect her hands, I’d forbidden her to deal with broken glass and crockery.

  I wrapped up the cracked glass, put on my coat and headed for the recycling bin, taking some empty bottles. On my way, I saw the light was still on in the studio. Connor hadn’t pulled the blinds down and was sitting on the chaise longue staring at the wood burner. I hurried through the garden and disposed of the bottles. On my way back, I glanced at the studio again. He was sitting with his head in his hands.

  I stood in the shadows, rooted to the spot despite the cold. If I went in and asked if he was all right, it would look as if I’d been spying on him. Obviously, I should ignore him, go indoors and get to b
ed. But his head was still in his hands . . . I resolved to go indoors. And didn’t.

  Connor suddenly got to his feet. In one smooth movement, he removed his sweater and tossed it on to the chaise longue. Kicking off his shoes, he started to unbutton his shirt. It was now quite clear I had no business standing in the garden watching a man undress, but if I crossed the garden now, I’d be moving into the light and Connor might see me. Even if he didn’t think I’d been watching him, he’d feel embarrassed. He’d removed his shirt and was unzipping his jeans before I turned and fled to the garage where I waited for several minutes, feeling a complete idiot – and a lot more besides.

  When I felt sure he must have gone to bed, I emerged and set off for the house, keeping my head down. The only light came from the kitchen window now and I scurried towards it. Shivering convulsively, I shut the back door behind me, remembering to leave it unlocked for Connor in the morning. I turned out the lights and went up to my room. Too tired to clean my teeth, I undressed quickly and got into bed where I continued to shiver and think about what I’d seen and what I’d felt.

  I must have dozed off, because I had no idea how much time had passed or what had happened when I found myself sitting up in bed, clammy with sweat, my heart pounding. I stared into the darkness, trying to interpret the rapidly fading vision I could see in my mind’s eye.

  I was outside. In the wood. It was very early in the morning. And I was watching someone . . .

  Then I remembered Connor standing in the studio. As I started to cry, my vision evaporated so completely, I thought I must have imagined it. Overwhelmed by fear and self-pity, I wept for the things I’d wanted and never had. A father. A child. And I cried for what I wanted now and didn’t have. A man. A man like Connor. Kind, intelligent, sensitive, with – as Phoebe had noted – broad shoulders and a nice arse.

  Disgusted with myself, I lay down, hauled the duvet up round my shoulders and closed my eyes. I shivered and snivelled and eventually I slept.

  With the approach of spring, we settled into a comfortable routine. Connor came over at weekends and worked in the garden. I fed him and photographed him for his blog, then in the evenings the three of us would pore over the Mordaunt archive and Connor would read from Hester’s diary. It was like doing a gigantic jigsaw, one we knew was incomplete, but which we nevertheless felt compelled to try and finish.

  There was a standing invitation for Connor to stay over on Friday and Saturday nights so he could drink and make an early start in the garden after the breakfast I insisted on cooking for all three of us. Phoebe enjoyed these weekends so much, she counted the days, anticipating Connor’s return and her next fix of what she liked to call ‘The Mystery of the Mordaunts’.

  I was pleased for her. It was heartening to see her engage with both projects. I was less happy about the fact that I too found myself counting the days. I looked forward to Connor’s visits, for all the same reasons as Phoebe and another I could not have shared with her. Or Connor.

  ‘Things are hotting up,’ Connor announced as he filled our glasses. ‘War breaks out tonight.’

  ‘Jolly good!’ Phoebe said cheerfully. ‘I’ve been looking forward to that.’ She settled back in her armchair and lifted her feet on to a worn leather pouffe. ‘But I do hope you haven’t been cheating, Connor.’

  ‘Cheating?’ His face was a picture of mock outrage. ‘Phoebe, what do you mean?’

  ‘You know. Reading ahead. To see what happens.’

  ‘I’ve dipped in here and there, but I haven’t read everything. I was fairly sure what upset Ivy couldn’t have been in the diaries. She’d had them for years.’

  ‘But they’re quite hard to read, aren’t they?’ I said, handing round the now customary plate of chocolate biscuits. ‘Hester had tiny writing and it’s very elaborate. What was Ivy’s sight like?’

  ‘That’s a good point. She was ninety-seven when she died and her sight wasn’t brilliant for the last decade. But she could have read the diaries years before, when Hester died. That’s when they would have come into her possession.’

  Phoebe clapped her hands. ‘Come on, let’s get on with the story. Don’t keep us waiting for this week’s thrilling instalment. The lamps are going out all over Europe . . . Isn’t that what someone said?’

  ‘That’s right.’ Connor picked up the diary and opened it where he’d left a bookmark. ‘Sir Edward Grey, Foreign Secretary, the night before war was declared. The lamps are going out all over Europe. We shall not see them lit again in our lifetime. So let’s see what Hester Mordaunt had to say about it . . .’

  HESTER

  August 5th, 1914

  We are at war. Germany has declared war on Serbia, Russia and France and now we have declared war on Germany. Mobilisation has already begun. How has this happened? Only days ago the papers were full of civil war in Ireland and now we are at war with Germany.

  We had to respond to the invasion of Belgium, of course. Neutrality was unthinkable. We were honour-bound to come to their assistance, but was there really no alternative to war? If that is indeed the case, why are men so eager to fight? To die? Arthur and Eddie are as excited as schoolboys, full of plans to enlist immediately. To listen to them whoop, you would think they had received an invitation to join a particularly good shooting party.

  Father is calm, but subdued. So is Mother. Neither has said much, but it is clear they view the current situation with dismay and apprehension. I overheard Mother discussing food shortages with Cook. Father has already mentioned digging up some of the lawns to increase food production at Beechgrave.

  The fate of Europe now depends on decisions women have no power to influence. We can only watch helplessly as husbands, brothers, sons and sweethearts go off to fight. But we must show ourselves worthy of citizenship, even if our claim to it is not yet recognised.

  August 6th

  Arthur and Eddie are still determined to enlist. Father says Eddie is too young and cannot enlist without his consent, but I fear Eddie will soon wear him down.

  I heard Mother weeping in the music room, so I went in to try to comfort her. I put my arm around her but could think of nothing reassuring to say. I am not so naïve as to assume my brothers lead charmed lives and will walk through the fire unharmed. Millions of young men will engage in this conflict and many thousands must die. So I simply held Mother’s hand, feeling quite helpless.

  When she had regained her composure, she began to sort through her sheet music, appearing to cast some aside. Her eyes were red, but her expression was determined. She hesitated only once, when she came to an album of her beloved Beethoven sonatas, but after a moment, she dropped it on to the discarded pile on the carpet.

  ‘We have no use for German music now, Hester,’ she said. ‘It would be unpatriotic to play or even listen to it. Germany is our enemy. Their music is forever tainted by their wickedness!’

  Mother did not wait for me to respond, but swept out of the room, her back very straight.

  The sight of so much Beethoven and Brahms lying in a disorderly heap distressed me. I knelt down, gathered the music into my arms and took it away to my bedroom where I hid it at the back of my wardrobe. If the newspapers are right and this dreadful war is over by Christmas, Mother might be glad I put her music by for her. Until then, she will miss Beethoven dreadfully. So shall I.

  August 10th

  Walter has now declared his intention to enlist. He said he hoped to make me very proud of him. I told him I was already proud of him and his patriotic fervour.

  I think I am proud, but my feelings are not at all clear. I fear for my brothers’ safety and wish they could either be spared the coming ordeal or that I could somehow share it with them. I am also afraid for Walter, but at the same time I have to admit – to myself at least – that I am not sorry the wedding has been postponed. Mother says a spring wedding will be much nicer and we shall have more time to plan and shop. The guest list would have been sadly depleted with so many of our young men away fight
ing, so it is best that we wait until the war is over.

  August 16th

  This evening Mother insisted we play some music together in honour of Walter’s decision to enlist. We could only play a trio since Arthur and Eddie have already left for their training camp. The sound we made seemed very thin. I never thought I should miss poor Eddie’s contribution to family music-making. The sight of Arthur’s cello case standing in the corner like a naughty child lowered my spirits. Mother’s too, I suspect. We played two short pieces, con brio, then she seemed to lose heart. She closed the piano lid and, quite disconsolate, said, ‘We shall be reduced to duets soon, Hester. I wonder, is there anything for piano and viola?’ I reminded her I could always play Eddie’s violin. Still she would not rally, but made her excuses and left the room, dabbing at her eyes with a handkerchief.

  Walter left soon afterwards and I went for a walk in the wood, then wandered back by way of the kitchen garden, just for the exercise. As I passed Garden Lodge, Violet Hatherwick ran out to speak to me. She must have been looking out of the kitchen window. After a few polite exchanges, she informed me that her brother wanted to enlist, but felt torn between his duty to his country and his duty to the Mordaunt family. Apparently he has firm ideas about how the garden could be made more productive with the use of fertilisers, but his father is convinced the fighting will be over by Christmas and considers talk of food shortages alarmist. William disagrees. Violet said he has been drawing up plans for the best use of the garden in the event of the war continuing next year.

  I did not know how to respond to this dismal thought. In the silence that ensued, Violet said she had remembered something important and disappeared indoors. After a moment, she emerged with a book, saying, ‘William said I was to offer you this, Miss.’ I examined the spine briefly, then opened the book at the title page. It was a copy of Land of the Blue Poppy: Travels of a Naturalist in Eastern Tibet by Francis Kingdon-Ward. Once again a seed packet had been used to mark a place, but this time it had been slit and opened out so that someone – William presumably – could write on the blank side, For the attention of Miss H. Mordaunt.