The Memory Tree

by Linda Gillard

  ‘We don’t actually know the two were connected,’ Phoebe pointed out.

  ‘That’s true. It could just have been staff shortages, I suppose.’ Connor looked at me again and leaned forward. ‘You’ve got a theory, haven’t you?’

  ‘Possibly.’

  ‘Ooh, don’t be a tease!’ Phoebe rapped on the tea tray with a spoon. ‘Spill the beans, Ann.’

  ‘Well, it’s only a hunch, but my guess is, Hester wasn’t referring to death. By this time she was an old hand at death, wasn’t she? No, it had to be something bigger . . .’

  ‘Bigger?’ Phoebe exclaimed. ‘What could be bigger than death?’

  ‘For Hester? Sex. I think sex could have been bigger than death.’

  Connor looked at me, then let out a low whistle. I reached over, picked up the diary and read aloud.

  ‘Something has happened that never should have happened. Something terrible.

  ‘I am lost, quite lost.

  ‘Dear God help me.’

  ‘Oh my Lord . . .’ Phoebe murmured. ‘Poor old Hester!’

  THE BEECH WOOD

  He came at dawn to say farewell. Certain he would never return, he touched us, many of us, with strong, hard hands that had nurtured seedlings and killed men. He stroked our grey bark – a placatory gesture – then took out a knife. One by one, he gouged letters to form a sentence few would understand.

  He stepped back, regarded his handiwork and murmured, ‘As these words grow, so may our love.’ Turning his head slowly, he looked about him, trying to fix the images in his tortured mind. He heaved a shuddering sigh and, as the air left his body, he began to shiver, though the day was mild.

  His downcast eyes saw something small and bright lying on the ground. Her brooch. The ornament that had lain upon her breast.

  He closed his knife and put it in his pocket, then stooped to pick up the brooch. Turning it over in his fingers, he saw the catch was broken, but not beyond repair. He would mend it for her.

  As he dropped the brooch into his pocket, his hand trembled. He looked up at the smooth bark he had desecrated, removed his cap and said, ‘Forgive me.’ Whether it was to us he spoke, whether to her or to his God, we did not know.

  He replaced his cap, turned and strode away to war, her brooch clinking against the knife in his pocket.

  PART THREE

  VIOLET

  July 13th, 1916

  Georgie Flynn was dead. Violet heard the news from Mrs Ellis, Cook up at the big house. She had it from her sister, George’s mother, who’d had a telegram, so Violet knew it must be true. With her father dead and William away in France there was no one in whom Violet could confide. Miss Hester had said, if William should die, a position would be found for her up at the house, but that generous offer had been made before Violet realised her predicament. She hadn’t even written to George to tell him the news because she wasn’t sure, or rather she hoped very much that she was wrong. Now she was certain.

  Violet sat down at the kitchen table and considered her future. While William lived, she need not despair. He would be angry certainly, but he would stand by her. He was a good man. He knew George and liked him. They’d been at school together. But might William lose his position if he allowed a disgraced sister to keep house for him? And how easily would he find a new position? What if he didn’t return . . . ?

  As she fought down a wave of nausea, Violet thought briefly of swallowing rat poison, then considered drowning herself. She concluded hanging would be quicker and less painful, but she had no idea how to tie a noose. Undaunted, she trudged upstairs to search through William’s book collection for a volume that might enlighten her. Something nautical perhaps.

  As she struggled to read the books’ spines, Violet’s resolve gave way. Sinking to the floor beside the bookcase, she wept and wished she’d never been born, or at least never set eyes on that luckless charmer, Georgie Flynn. The smell of burning bread brought her to her feet again. Wiping her eyes on her apron, she hurried downstairs.

  She would have to tell Miss Hester. Better she should hear the news from Violet herself, rather than gossip from the servants’ hall. Miss Hester had always been kind. She was fond of Violet, fond of William too. She would doubtless do what she could. In any case, thought Violet, as she took a scorched loaf from the oven, the baby might die. Babies died all the time. All might yet be well.

  There was a knock at the door. As Violet set the loaf down, she craned to see out of the window.

  It was a boy with a telegram.

  So convinced was she that her brother must be dead, it was with something like elation that Violet learned he was missing in action. He might yet live. He must live! For if William were to die . . . Well, there was no other remedy. She would just have to find a good strong piece of rope and hang herself from the Trysting Tree.

  Hester received Violet in the morning room. At the sight of the telegram, Hester turned pale, but her face remained impassive. After she’d read it, she handed it back to Violet, then went over to the window where she stood and looked out on to the garden. Vegetable beds now sub-divided the vast lawn of which her father had once been so proud. Hester no longer felt guilty or even sad that cabbages had replaced cabbage roses. Of what earthly use was beauty now? And was there anything more pointless than a lawn? People needed food, not flowers. Families were losing their menfolk and their livelihoods. The war was like a plague, except it didn’t carry off the weak and elderly. Those it left behind. This plague took the young and the strong, those who would be missed most.

  Hester remembered Violet and turned away from the window. She went back to her seat, where she listened in silence to Violet’s assurances that William would eventually return home. As the girl prattled on, Hester tried to think. Glancing up, she saw Violet sitting with her head bent, her hands clasped tight in her lap.

  ‘What is it, Violet? Is there something else? Something you haven’t told me?’

  Violet had prepared her speech and delivered it without raising her eyes from the floor. When she’d finished, the poor girl looked so miserable, Hester wanted to tell her all would be well, but, on the face of it, things looked bad, very bad indeed. Violet needed hope though. So did Hester. Hope that the war would end soon; hope that William would eventually come home; hope that Violet and her baby would thrive. How could they carry on without hope?

  Hester had already considered the possibility that she might become responsible for Violet’s welfare, but she hadn’t expected to support a child. Thinking quickly now, she decided to set her plans before Violet, but first she had to settle her own mind. She needed to think that what had happened was not just what Violet had called ‘a few moments of madness’. Hester needed to believe in love, in passion, in something bigger than death. She thought if she understood exactly what had happened, she’d be able to help Violet and sympathise with her sorry plight, but the reasons for her curiosity were complex. It seemed to her lamentable, almost shameful that a young girl who’d worked as a maid for the Mordaunts should understand the momentous thing that had happened to her, when Hester did not.

  Hester realised she was angry – not with Violet, nor even George Flynn, but with herself, with her own ignorance. She just wanted to know – and damn the social niceties. She jumped as if she’d said the words aloud. Recovering, she smoothed the folds of her skirt over her knees. When she looked up, she found Violet watching her anxiously with William’s dark, troubled eyes. Hester’s nerve almost failed her, but she cleared her throat and said, ‘I’d like to ask a question, Violet, if I may. A very personal question. Would you mind telling me how you came to be . . . in this unfortunate position?’

  Violet blinked, astonished. She opened her mouth to reply, then shut it again, unsure whether Hester required circumstantial detail or – this surely could not be the case? – whether the mistress of Beechgrave sought enlightenment.

  ‘I’m afraid I don’t understand, Miss.’

  ‘When did . . . the incident ta
ke place? Some time ago, I should imagine?’

  ‘Three months ago, near enough. When Georgie was home on leave.’

  ‘I see.’ Hester nodded encouragement. ‘Go on.’

  Violet looked uncomfortable and her eyes roamed around the room until they settled again on her clasped hands. ‘We went to the woods. That was where we used to go . . . Courting. It was almost dark. But there was a moon.’

  Hester waited a moment, then spoke again with a gentle smile. ‘It was not, I think, the moon that led to your predicament.’

  ‘No, Miss.’

  ‘He kissed you, I suppose? George Flynn?’

  ‘Oh, yes, there was a good deal of kissing.’

  Hester blushed but persevered. ‘And . . . ?’

  ‘We held each other tight. For a long time.’

  ‘I see. But there must have been more . . . I should imagine?’

  ‘Yes, Miss.’ Violet took a deep breath and said, ‘Georgie – George, I should say – took me up in his arms and carried me to a part of the wood that’s known for . . .’ Violet broke off and began to wring her hands.

  ‘For . . . ?’ Hester prompted.

  ‘For being comfortable, Miss. If you take my meaning. It’s where courting couples go. They meet under the Trysting Tree.’

  ‘The one with all the carvings of names and dates?’

  ‘Yes. That’s where young people go to declare their love.’

  ‘And . . . consummate it?’ Violet failed to meet Hester’s eye, but nodded. ‘It’s secluded there, I take it?’

  ‘And there’s a mossy bank,’ Violet said with a significant look.

  ‘Rather damp, I should imagine.’

  Violet looked surprised, then said, ‘I’m afraid I don’t recall.’

  ‘No, of course not. You would remember only George. George and his ardour. You would forget everything else, I’m sure.’

  Violet nodded eagerly. ‘Yes, Miss. That’s just how it was!’

  ‘So you and he, you . . . lay down together? On the mossy bank? And that would be when it happened?’ Hester cleared her throat. ‘A sort of embrace? Passionate?’

  ‘Very passionate.’

  ‘One that effected a . . . physical union.’ Violet nodded. ‘And that was enough?’

  ‘More than enough, Miss.’

  ‘I see. To think it takes so little . . . to produce a child.’

  ‘I told Georgie we shouldn’t, but he knew I didn’t really mean it, with him off to war in the morning.’ Violet lifted her chin. ‘Any girl would have done the same, I’m sure, if she loved her man.’

  ‘Any girl?’ Hester’s eyes widened. ‘You think so?’

  ‘Well, yes, if she was made of flesh and blood! Anyway, it was all over before I knew it and Georgie left for France the very next day. At least he went off happy,’ Violet added with a sniff.

  ‘Did he ever know? About his child?’

  ‘No, I never told him. I wasn’t sure and it didn’t seem right to worry him until I was. Then by the time I was sure—’ Tears started into Violet’s eyes.

  Hester glanced up at the window and watched as the sky darkened. There would be rain soon. But the gardens needed it. That’s what Mr Hatherwick used to say. William too.

  She turned back to Violet who was wiping her eyes. ‘I’m so sorry, Violet. We live in such very difficult times. How is one supposed to know what is right and what is wrong?’

  ‘I just followed my heart, Miss Hester. I can’t believe that was wrong. Foolish maybe, but not wrong, surely?’

  ‘No, I don’t think it was wrong of you, Violet. Not at all. It’s the war that’s wrong. Thank you for answering my questions so honestly. I hope you’ll forgive my curiosity and not think it very strange. I had only the vaguest notions about . . . love. And I didn’t marry, so my mother never had occasion to—’ Hester ground to a halt.

  ‘Did your brothers never tell you?’ Violet asked with a pitying look.

  ‘No. I asked them once, but they seemed to think the subject unsuitable for a young woman, even though ignorance has such far-reaching consequences. Did you know?’ Hester asked earnestly. ‘Did you understand that what you and George were doing might lead to . . . new life?’

  ‘Yes, Miss. I hoped it wouldn’t, but I knew it might. I’ve seen it happen to other girls.’ She shrugged. ‘Some are lucky, some aren’t. But if your man’s going off to fight for King and country—’

  ‘And if you fear you might never see him again . . . Yes, I can quite see how something like that might happen. In the heat of the moment . . .’ Hester looked up as the first heavy drops of rain thudded against the window panes, beating an irregular tattoo. ‘I don’t blame you, Violet, and I certainly won’t judge you, but we must address the issue of your future. If William fails to return and if, as you say, no other family member is prepared to take you in, you will, as I understand it, become homeless, with no means of support.’ Violet stared at the floor again and nodded, disconsolate. ‘Your situation is serious then. So serious, I imagine you would raise no objection if I appointed you lady’s maid to Mrs Mordaunt.’ Violet looked up sharply. Unable to speak, she shook her head. ‘Good. Then that’s what I shall do. You will no doubt remember from your previous service in this household that Mrs Mordaunt was a particular and demanding mistress. Well, you will find her much changed. I have to inform you that an excess of grief has overturned my mother’s mind.’

  ‘I’m very sorry to hear that.’

  ‘So if you accept this position, you will find it . . . challenging.’

  ‘I shan’t mind, Miss. Not a bit.’

  ‘I shall also require you to disguise your . . . predicament for as long as possible. My mother is not naturally observant, but she is censorious. I cannot and will not confide in her,’ Hester said firmly.

  Violet grinned. ‘You can conceal a good deal behind a well-starched apron and a large tea tray, Miss!’

  ‘Indeed.’ Hester smiled. ‘I fear we might have to become rather resourceful in the coming months. I trust I can rely on your discretion.’

  ‘Silent as the tomb, that’s me,’ said Violet, laying a finger on her lips.

  ‘I shall require you to live in, of course, and, for a variety of reasons, it’s my intention to shut up most of the house. I’ll need your help with that. You might also have to cook for us. I doubt Mrs Ellis will be persuaded to stay on once she hears I’m going to dismiss most of the staff.’

  ‘I’m a good plain cook,’ Violet announced. ‘Mrs Ellis herself said I have a light hand with pastry.’

  ‘Then I think we shall manage very well. The position I’m offering you is unusual, but you will be well remunerated. In the meantime, I shall shut up Garden Lodge. The Lodge and the position of Head Gardener will remain vacant until we’re quite convinced that William . . . that your brother will not be coming home.’

  ‘Oh, thank you, Miss Hester!’

  ‘As for your child, we shall accommodate it at some distance from my mother’s room. I’m sure we can create a pleasant nursery in one of the other rooms.’

  ‘Oh, Miss, you’re so very kind!’

  ‘Every child should be welcomed into the world, whatever its provenance. A new life is a very precious thing, especially these days.’

  ‘And especially when the father’s already dead,’ Violet added, laying a protective hand on her belly. ‘This baby might be all the family I have now.’

  ‘Let us hope and pray that isn’t so. If the poor mite has been deprived of its father and possibly its uncle, it will nevertheless have a loving and capable mother and a true friend in me.’ Hester rose and took both Violet’s hands in hers. ‘Beechgrave welcomes you and your child. In exchange, I expect loyalty, discretion and unquestioning obedience. Unquestioning, Violet. Do I make myself clear?’

  ‘Yes, Miss.’

  Hester squeezed the girl’s hands. ‘But let us still be friends, we who have lost so much! Let us not lose each other in the hard times to come. I promise to stand by y
ou in your hour of need and I trust you will stand by me.’

  ‘Ask anything of me. If it’s in my power and doesn’t harm William or my child, I shall perform it.’

  ‘I could ask no more of the dearest of friends,’ Hester said, her voice unsteady. ‘You can have no idea, Violet, how much I shall depend upon your support.’

  ‘I’ll never be able to repay you, Miss Hester, but a more loyal friend and servant you shall not have – not till the day I die.’

  ‘Oh, do please call me Hester! We’re sisters now. Sisters in misfortune.’

  When, finally, she was able to speak, Violet’s reply was a soundless whisper. ‘Thank you. Hester.’

  HESTER

  July 13th, 1916

  A distressing and difficult day. If I can set it all down, perhaps I shall feel better able to cope. There are times – and today was one of them – when I long to lie down, go to sleep and never wake up. I used to think Mother had lost her reason. Now I wonder if hers was a sane response to a world gone mad.

  Violet came to see me this morning. She had two pieces of news, both of them very bad. I regret to say she has received a telegram informing her that her brother is reported missing in action on the Somme. She delivered the customary platitudes one employs under these sad circumstances. She assured me William might still be alive, that he is missing, not dead, then repeated the now-familiar anecdotes about men who turn up on their own doorsteps long after their families have abandoned hope. I do not believe either of us was convinced. It requires energy to hope, energy and faith, both of which are in short supply these days. But we both owe it to William to continue to hope and so I shall.

  Violet’s second piece of news was just as disturbing and she suffered wretchedly in the telling of it. Some minutes passed before I realised what, in her euphemistic way, she was struggling to say. It concerned yet another death in action: George Flynn’s, a name unknown to me, though when Violet referred to ‘Georgie’, I recalled she had mentioned him before in connection with William’s leave. The nature of their relationship was unclear, but I assumed Violet was grieving over the death of a sweetheart. In a somewhat confused account, she mentioned marriage several times, though it appeared Flynn had not actually married her.