WILLIAM
February 15th, 1916
The beech wood was still dark in winter. Leaves clung on until spring, but as Hester and her friends entered the wood, they sensed, as always, a benign presence. The wood, with its ancient trees engraved by men long since deceased, had more to do with the dead than the living, but here, William thought, death would be peaceful, even companionable. A man would not feel alone, abandoned, like those left groaning in No Man’s Land.
William wished fervently that he could be permitted to decide the moment of his death. Granted this privilege, he would choose to leave the world now, here, in this wood, whole in body if not in mind, walking between his sister, Violet, and his employer, Miss Mordaunt. If he were still capable of feeling happiness, William would die content, but he had lost the habit of happiness. The numbness never seemed to abate, yet as they strolled along the familiar path, dotted with clumps of snowdrops, his heart was full – of what he wasn’t sure, but he remembered happiness used to feel something like this.
Hester had insisted he use her Christian name. He kept forgetting and the women laughed together comfortably as William tried to adjust to the new friendship. He didn’t laugh, but smiled shyly at his own awkwardness, saying little that was not an answer to a question. He listed the names of flowers he had grown in his trench garden, but when he tried to explain what the garden meant to him and what it meant to the men, Hester started to weep.
Mortified, William looked on helplessly as Violet took her weeping friend’s hand and tried to comfort her. Hester stuttered her apologies and spoke of her dead brothers who had died as officers, though William still thought of them as boys, young lads who used to climb the very trees that now surrounded them.
He wanted to help. He wanted to restore the calm, bright happiness he had seen on Hester’s face as she took tea in the parlour, seated beside his father who, though in good spirits, had the look of death in his face. William had seen too much of it to be mistaken.
Now Hester shuddered in an agony of grief and spoke of losing her family, everyone, even her crazed mother. She clutched at Violet’s hands, telling her how much her ‘second family’ meant to her.
William turned away and bowed his head. He longed to take Hester’s soft little fingers in his callused hands. He wanted to brush the curling lock of hair from her damp cheek, but he stood aloof, his mute suffering a companion to hers. When he looked up, he saw his sister gazing at him in silent appeal, so William spoke.
His voice was deep, authoritative and Violet hardly recognised it. It was the voice he sometimes used with the boys who’d signed up for death and glory and saw only death. They needed a father, an older brother, someone who understood the ways of a wicked world. William had been all these and more. He’d learned what to do when men went to pieces, but he’d never seen a woman so distressed, not even Vi. He couldn’t just stand by and watch and so he spoke.
‘Miss Mordaunt . . . Hester . . . It might be better this way. Believe me, they’re better off dead than wounded.’
At the sound of his voice, Hester lifted her head, her eyes wide with horror. ‘Better off dead?’
‘Better dead than wounded.’ She stared at him, uncomprehending, but he met her eyes. ‘If you knew the things I have seen! I cannot speak of them, but no man would wish to survive some of the wounds this war inflicts. Your brothers are at peace now. It’s over for them, but for some of the living, even some of the whole, it will never be over. Their bodies will heal, but their minds have been destroyed. I’ve witnessed that. Men driven mad by the noise. The mud. The blood . . . Better dead than insane, surely?’
Hester stared at him, supported still by Violet. ‘Better dead?’
‘Better still that this war had never begun, but your brothers are out of it now. They died as proud young men. They won’t come home blind or crippled. They won’t have to see women turn their faces away from hideous disfigurement. They won’t have to bear the weight of anyone’s pity.’
Hester straightened up and wiped her eyes. ‘No. They would have hated that.’
‘Your grief cannot bring them back, but if it could, your brothers would only be sent back to the Front – to die again! So let them rest now. You must rest too. They’re at peace and I’m sure, wherever they are, they know how much they were loved. How very much they are missed.’
Hester blinked at him and stammered her thanks, then turned to Violet. Summoning a wan smile, she said she would like to go home. Declining an offer of company, Hester apologised once more for her outburst and turned back to William. She gazed into his solemn brown eyes and tried for a moment to imagine what those eyes had seen, then she extended her hand. It seemed to Hester that William swayed slightly before taking it, but she assumed the unsteadiness was hers.
‘If what you say is true, William – and I’m sure it must be – how can you face going back?’ She didn’t withdraw her hand and he could not let it go.
‘I haven’t left. Not entirely. Only part of me has come home. Most of my mind is still in France. Tending my garden. Tending men’s wounds. I’m here, in this wood with you and Vi, but I’m thinking about the lads. Wondering how they’re managing. How many have been wounded in my absence. How many are now dead. Even here . . .’ He looked up at the tree canopy sheltering them. ‘In this earthly Paradise, I can still hear the guns. The screams of the wounded. The moans of the dying . . . My body is here with you at Beechgrave, but my mind is with them. In Hell.’
Speechless with horror, Hester clutched at William’s hand and bowed her head. She swallowed and said, ‘May God take good care of you, William. You will be in my thoughts and prayers.’
After a moment, he said, ‘I could not wish for more, Miss Mordaunt.’
‘Hester,’ she insisted, looking up into his face, still holding his hand.
‘Hester.’
She turned away quickly, threw an arm round Violet’s neck and kissed her on the cheek, then set off in the direction of the house, walking briskly. For no reason she could fathom, Hester felt as if she’d been released from some kind of captivity. Her heart soared, like a bird set free from a cage.
HESTER
February 17th, 1916
William has returned to France. We did not say goodbye. I avoided visiting yesterday so he should have a last day with his family, uninterrupted by a visit from an outsider. But Violet delivered a letter from him this afternoon. In it he thanked me formally for offering him the post of Head Gardener, which he intends to take up after the war is over. He said the thought of returning to work at Beechgrave will sustain him in the conflict to come.
I am glad that is settled.
February 28th
When I saw Violet today, she said Mr Hatherwick has taken William’s departure badly. Apparently he is quite cast down again and has lost all appetite, convinced he will not see his son again.
This news led to a disturbing realisation. If Mr Hatherwick should die and if William does not return, I shall have no choice but to turn Violet out of Garden Lodge as I shall need the house for a new Head Gardener. So I have considered offering Violet the position of lady’s maid to my mother. Agnes gave notice yesterday, which was not unexpected. Looking after Mother is like caring for a child now and more than I can ask of a lady’s maid. I doubt I shall be able to find a replacement for Agnes, so for now I shall have to look after Mother myself, but it is a position that Violet might fill competently. Mother knew her well before she left us to look after the Hatherwick men, but I wonder if she will remember her now?
I can hardly ask Violet to live in servants’ quarters after she has had so much independence and responsibility at Garden Lodge, but I could perhaps open up the small room next to Mother’s for Violet’s use, then Mother would have both of us to hand, one on either side. That would suit her very well.
I do believe my plan might work. At least I would not have to think of making Violet homeless. There is an alternative if William does not come home, but I hope
and pray that he will and that Mr Hatherwick will make a full recovery.
March 13th
Many of Beechgrave’s flowerbeds and some of the lawns have been turned over to food production. Huge quantities of seed have been sown and, from his sickbed, Mr Hatherwick has suggested many heavy-cropping varieties.
He grows weaker every day. Violet says he eats very little, so I asked Cook to send over some tasty morsels to tempt him. I report to him daily to keep him informed of progress being made in the garden. It appears to cheer him a little.
April 10th
I have neglected my journal of late in favour of working in the garden, but I must write now in an attempt to calm my mind. I have not heard from Walter in almost a week, which is most unlike him. His letters are short, but they are regular. His mother has not heard from him either.
April 13th
Now poor Violet is unwell. She has tried to disguise the fact, but she looks pale and ill and she is not her usual cheerful self. When I paid a call today, Mr Hatherwick waited until she was out of the room, then he asked me to keep an eye on her. He said she was very poorly and could not keep food down.
Nursing her father must be taking its toll and then there are her fears for William at the Front. Violet has literally worried herself sick.
April 15th
I received a communication from William today. There was no message other than the date and his signature. It was a pencil sketch of his trench garden. In the picture the flower beds and shelter are surrounded by a devastated wood. The trees are just skeletons, bare, broken trunks, with all their branches gone. The beds are edged with stones and William has drawn a soldier standing on the boardwalk, leaning over watering his plants. Behind him is a sign nailed to a dead tree. It says, ‘Regent Street’!
This simple little missive has raised my spirits. William’s sketch conveys the bleak horror of the battlefield, but it is not without hope. It celebrates the indomitable human spirit.
Still no word from Walter.
April 18th
Walter Dowding is dead. He died in France at St Eloi. Mr Dowding called to bring me the news in person. Apparently Walter did not suffer. It was a sniper’s bullet to the head.
I received the news yesterday with a composure Mr Dowding no doubt attributed to shock, but I felt nothing. Searching my heart for grief, I found it empty. Today letters of condolence began to arrive, including one from Walter’s mother.
After I read it, I had to get out into the fresh air. I ran through the garden until I reached the wood and found the beech tree, the one known as the Trysting Tree. I sank down and leaned back against the tree, then I spread Mrs Dowding’s crumpled letter on my knees and smoothed the page. I read the words again, mouthing them silently, trying to feel what I knew I should feel. There was anger and an immense sadness, but nothing more, or nothing I dared own.
In her grief, Walter’s poor mother had thought of me and penned a few hasty, heartfelt words. Deprived now of a close family tie, Ursula Dowding hoped we should be united by our grief. She assured me that, bereft of her only child, she would continue to think of me as the daughter she had hoped to welcome into her family when this dreadful war was over. Towards the end of the letter, her bold hand began to falter. The final lines sloped steeply. She wrote, ‘Walter is at peace, of this we can be certain. It is only for ourselves that we must be sorry. But let us not be sorry, Hester! Let us rejoice that, as women, we have been allowed to play our part, making this great sacrifice for our King and country.’
I stared at the letter for some time. To my horror, I found I was not sorry. Grieved, certainly, at the manner of Walter’s death and its utter futility, but the thought of his absence made my heart beat faster – not with rage or despair, but with hope, an emotion long-forgotten which I quashed immediately, appalled. But alone beneath the old beech tree, I could acknowledge the truth. Walter’s death means I am free. For that terrible mercy, I shall rejoice. Secretly. Shamefully.
May 20th
I have neither the will nor the energy to record anything more than the bare details of another death.
Herbert Hatherwick passed away last night. Pneumonia. Violet hopes William will be permitted to come home for the funeral. She is exhausted with nursing her father and looks quite ill herself.
If I lose Violet, I do not know how I shall be able to carry on.
May 22nd
William has been granted leave. It is doubtful whether he will be home in time for his father’s funeral, but he will at least be able to comfort Violet, who is prostrated with grief. Mr Hatherwick’s death was not unexpected, but she seems inconsolable. She will no doubt rally when William returns.
May 23rd
As the war drags on, I have been considering how I might be more useful. My brothers and Walter Dowding made the ultimate sacrifice for their country. And I? I have done nothing. I do nothing. I wait. Wait for news, wait for the war to end. And then? When it is all over? Does life hold anything more for me than looking after Mother?
I remember seeing an extraordinary notice in The Times. It said something to this effect: ‘Lady, fiancé killed, will gladly marry officer totally blinded or otherwise incapacitated by the War.’ I could not decide if it was one of the saddest or one of the bravest things I had ever read. Perhaps it was both. I have seen several such notices since.
I am neither so desperate nor so selfless that I could enter into a practical arrangement of this sort. Not now. The war has changed me, changed everything. Before the war, my family expected me to marry without love and I was ready to do it. But now I cannot. The war has taken so much from me, but it has given me freedom of a sort. I am prepared to live for another, to dedicate my life to his, but there must be love – and more than the love I feel for Mother and my dear friend Violet.
But freedom brings responsibility and so I have been thinking how I might put Beechgrave to better use. I should like to make a real contribution to the war effort. In particular, I should like to do something to help the men who survived the slaughter, but are now broken in body and mind. I am of the opinion that Beechgrave would make an excellent convalescent hospital. I am sure patients would derive benefit from the garden produce and exercise taken in the garden. Those unable to exercise would surely be strengthened and comforted by fresh air and the fine views afforded by the house.
Since I can do nothing to bring back my dead, I shall honour their memory by turning my attention to the living and those who are struggling to rebuild their shattered lives.
May 24th
William arrived today, too late for his father’s funeral. I have not paid a call yet. I thought it best to leave brother and sister to grieve together.
I hope while he is at home William will be able to spare some time to advise me about increasing food production from the garden. In the absence of Mr Hatherwick, it is now my responsibility. I must instruct the staff or leave matters in the uncertain hands of Dawson, a journeyman gardener who is now the most experienced of the staff who remain.
May 27th
Something has happened that never should have happened. Something terrible.
I am lost, quite lost.
Dear God, help me.
ANN
‘Aha!’ Phoebe said, jabbing at Hester’s diary with a bony forefinger. ‘That must be what sent Ivy over the edge. “Something terrible.” What can it have been, I wonder? Read on, Connor. Don’t leave us dangling.’
As Phoebe settled back in her armchair, Connor shook his head. ‘That’s it.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘She doesn’t say any more.’ Connor leafed quickly through the journal. ‘There’s a gap of about six weeks before the next entry.’
‘Oh, how maddening!’ Phoebe grumbled.
‘Looks as if Violet’s pregnant by then, but I don’t think that can have been the disaster, do you? Hester seems more concerned about what to do with Beechgrave.’
It was late. The wine bottle and coffee cup
s were empty. The room was warm and stuffy. Before Hester dropped her bombshell, I thought Phoebe was in danger of dozing off, but she sat upright now, awake and alert, watching Connor. I got up to put another log in the stove. ‘Perhaps the “something terrible” refers to William’s death,’ I suggested. ‘Did he die in the war?’
‘No. There are photos of him taken years later. He was alive when Ivy went off to horticultural college in her teens – that would have been in the early 1930s – but he died not long after. So it wasn’t that.’ Connor set the diary aside, leaving it open on the sofa. ‘But I’ve had a quick look at the next volume of Hester’s journal and—’
‘Cheat!’ Phoebe exclaimed, launching a cushion at Connor who caught it neatly and grinned. ‘That’s strictly against the rules!’
‘It was just a little peek. William seems to go off the radar for about a year. Missing in action, I suppose.’
‘Did Ivy ever mention the missing year?’ Phoebe asked.
‘No, other than to say William refused to talk about the war. Actually, what she said was, he couldn’t talk about the war. She said he didn’t remember a thing about it. Shell shock, I suppose.’ Connor turned to me. ‘You’re looking thoughtful, Ann.’
‘Am I? Puzzled is what I feel. I don’t think the “something terrible” can be what drove Ivy to destroy the archive. Don’t you think in ninety-odd years she’d have found the time to read her adoptive mother’s diaries? And even if she didn’t, what is there in that entry to make a nice old lady do what she did? Her action was extreme, but the journal entry is vague. And if Ivy already knew what it referred to, why did she suddenly decide the evidence had to be destroyed? It doesn’t add up. I think this was something awful for Hester, but not Ivy.’
‘It must refer to something pretty dire though,’ Connor said. ‘I mean, Hester kept going despite the loss of most of her family and her fiancé. But this – whatever it was – made her shut up the house.’
The Memory Tree Page 13