The Memory Tree

by Linda Gillard

  This, it transpired, was the source of her anxiety. Incoherent with grief and shame, Violet described to me her gradual realisation that ‘a few moments of madness’, as she put it, were to have lasting consequences. By the time she had recited her litany of sickness and discomfort, I was convinced the poor girl had cause to be concerned for her future – and the future of another. There were moments during this painful and embarrassing dialogue, in which Violet referred repeatedly to her ‘predicament’, when I feared I might laugh or burst into tears. By dint of concentrating on my interrogation, I did neither.

  I had already concluded that, if William should fail to return, I must employ Violet at Beechgrave. This morning’s conversation confirmed that I have arrived at a crossroads in my life where there are no signposts, so I have taken inventory of my life. I find I no longer wish to receive visitors, nor do I want to venture farther than Beechgrave’s beloved gardens, filled as they are now with potatoes, leeks and marrows, like a market garden. I am too exhausted to manage Beechgrave with the few staff who remain and they are insufficient in number to keep the house in good order. Mother still waits for her dead sons to come home and believes Father is away on business, so I must act alone.

  I believe I must shut up Beechgrave. I have asked Violet to help me pack away the valuables I wish to keep and make a list of those I wish to sell. We shall leave Mother’s wing alone and I believe she will be none the wiser. Violet can have the room adjacent to Mother’s. I shall also be on hand, along the corridor. I think it might work very well.

  Despite all that has happened in the last year, despite all I have lost, it is still possible to number many blessings. Chief among them, I count my friend, Violet Hatherwick and her ‘predicament’ for it has forced my hand. I must and will act. I shall also pray – without much conviction, sadly – for William Hatherwick’s safe return and, together with Violet, I shall prepare for new life at Beechgrave.

  It will be a blessed relief to rest and talk no more of death.

  PHOEBE

  Phoebe had persuaded Connor to sit for her. He posed, perched on a stool in the studio, looking out into the garden where heavy rain bounced off the paths. It drummed on the roof and filled the silence in which Phoebe usually preferred to work, but her curiosity about this young man prompted her to ask, ‘What’s with all the hair, Connor? It’s fun to draw and would be lovely to paint, but isn’t it rather a bother?’

  Connor laughed his deep laugh, the one that reminded Phoebe of a teddy bear Ann had as a child. It had an amiable growl and, until its fur had worn away, the bear had been the same golden colour as Connor’s hair. But Connor wasn’t cuddly. There was something animal about him though, Phoebe thought. Nothing threatening or predatory, just something vital, instinctive. Connor relished life.

  ‘I just don’t have time to get it cut, Phoebe. I keep meaning to buy some sharp scissors to hack some of it off, but I never get around to it.’

  ‘It’s not an act of rebellion then?’

  ‘Against what?’ Connor asked mildly.

  ‘Your military antecedents. I wondered if being unkempt was a statement. Long hair. Un-ironed shirts. Muddy shoes. I imagine your father would have had forty thousand fits.’

  Connor was silent for a moment and it crossed Phoebe’s mind she might have overstepped the mark, but she felt she knew Connor quite well now. Theirs was a frank and easy relationship, a friendship that was – unusually for Phoebe – uncomplicated by sex.

  ‘A statement? No, that never occurred to me,’ Connor replied, with a hint of awe. ‘You could be right, I suppose, but it’s not conscious. I suppose I just feel more comfortable being a slob.’

  It was Phoebe’s turn to laugh. ‘Alternatively, perhaps you have an undiagnosed Samson complex.’

  ‘Samson?’

  ‘You know, the Bible story. Does your formidable strength depend on the length of your hair?’

  ‘Not as far as I know. It keeps my head warm in winter though.’

  ‘Well, if you ever want a trim, Ann’s a dab hand at cutting hair now. She does mine. Saves me a fortune and I don’t have to listen to all that “Where did you go on your holiday?” crap.’

  ‘I’m sure Ann’s got much better things to do with her time.’

  ‘Oh, it wouldn’t take her long. She’d say you have very “forgiving” hair, like hers. Thick and wavy. I’m deeply envious,’ Phoebe grumbled. ‘I had perfectly good hair until I lost it all to cancer, then when it grew back it was sparse and white. I was horrified! Hadn’t seen my natural colour in years.’ Connor turned his head, as if about to speak. ‘Don’t move! I’m doing something difficult . . . To judge from the quantity of hair you currently possess, I doubt you’ll ever go bald, but take it from me, there are few things more dispiriting than having a freezing bald head in the depths of winter. I used to wear fleece hats in bed, but they slid off, so some well-meaning soul knitted me a big baby’s bonnet with a chin-strap. I told her I’d rather die of hypothermia.’ Connor smiled but didn’t move or speak. ‘To begin with you’re grateful for any hair, even white stubble,’ Phoebe admitted grudgingly. ‘But disenchantment soon sets in. You’d think the fear of death would drive out all personal vanity, wouldn’t you? Strangely, it doesn’t, despite the fact that when you have no hair, no eyelashes, no eyebrows and no pubic hair, you scarcely feel human.’

  ‘Didn’t you have a wig?’ Connor asked.

  ‘Oh, yes. Couldn’t bear the damn thing. It was so tight, I felt as if my head was in a vice. It gave me headaches, so I mostly wore scarves and hats. I’ve always been a hat person. Still am,’ Phoebe said, adjusting her denim cap.

  ‘You’ve had a tough time, Phoebe, that’s for sure. I admire your indomitable spirit.’

  ‘Indomitable, my arse! It’s sheer bloody-mindedness. In any case, there’s always someone worse off than yourself.’ She put down her sketchbook, removed her cap and scratched her head, ruffling her sparse, red hair. ‘You can relax for a moment. I’m about to rant, but you don’t actually need to listen.’

  Connor turned to face her. ‘I’m all ears.’

  Phoebe replaced her cap and folded her arms. ‘Do you know what kept me going? When they put that bloody great darning needle into me and pumped me full of cherry-coloured poison? Thinking about the children. Kids who suffered even more than me, because at least I understood what was being done to me. And then I used to think about the nurses whose job it was to make those poor kids suffer, in order to save their lives. What a terrible way to earn a living! Finally, I would think about the parents of those children, who had to watch their babies suffer. That’s what kept me going. Or at least it saved me from self-pity. Because it was one thing to go completely bald and have to wear a rubber tit, but I was damned if I was going to feel sorry for myself. I spared myself that indignity,’ Phoebe said with a haughty sniff.

  Connor said nothing, but a grin spread slowly across his open face.

  ‘Did I say something funny?’ Phoebe snapped.

  ‘No. I’m smiling because you’re heroic, Phoebe. You just don’t give a damn, do you?’

  ‘No, I don’t. Never have. And cancer did nothing to mellow me, I’m pleased to say.’ She pointed through the window. ‘Looks as if the rain’s easing up now. I dare say you’re eager to get outdoors again.’

  ‘I could certainly do with a bit of fresh air. But finish off your sketch. I’m in no hurry.’

  He resumed his pose and Phoebe picked up her pad again. She drew in silence, observing how shafts of sunlight now brought out tawny shades in Connor’s hair and tanned skin. She sighed and said, ‘You know, I should have done this in pastel. The colours are very interesting now. You’ll have to sit for me again.’

  ‘I take it that’s an order, not a request?’

  Phoebe didn’t look up but smiled despite herself. Once again, curiosity got the better of her. ‘Do you have a girlfriend, Connor?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Boyfriend?’

  ‘No.�
��

  There was a short silence, broken only by the sound of Phoebe’s charcoal stick scratching at the cartridge paper.

  ‘Do you, Phoebe?’

  ‘Do I what?’

  ‘Have a boyfriend?’

  ‘No, I don’t . . . Neither does Ann.’

  Phoebe paused to observe him carefully, but saw no reaction apart from a slight twitch at the corner of his mouth which might have been the beginning of a smile. He continued to stare through the studio window and said, ‘Duly noted.’

  Phoebe tore the finished sketch from her pad and took it over to a table where she sprayed it with fixative. Connor got to his feet, stretched his arms and arched his back. She returned and handed him the drawing. As he examined it, she noted he turned a little pale, but Phoebe was unperturbed. When confronted with her vision of them, people were often shocked.

  Connor shook his head, at a loss for words. Finally, he said, ‘I love it!’

  ‘Good. You have excellent taste,’ Phoebe announced, wiping her hands on a grubby cloth.

  ‘But I see what you mean about the hair. Definitely in need of a hard prune,’ he said, handing back the sketch.

  She waved it away. ‘It’s yours. That was just a preliminary scribble, so I can get to know your face.’

  ‘You mean I can keep this?’

  ‘Of course. Sell it when I’m dead. It might make you a bob or two.’

  ‘You’re joking!’ he said, outraged. ‘I shall get it framed. Just in case I do go bald.’

  Phoebe chuckled. ‘Well, I’m glad you like it. Some people hate how I see them. I’m fearfully honest, you see. But I suspect you can handle it.’

  ‘Could you handle a kiss?’

  ‘I thought you’d never ask!’ said Phoebe, opening her arms wide.

  Still holding his sketch, Connor hugged her with his spare arm and kissed her on the cheek. ‘Thank you, Phoebe.’

  She ruffled his hair. ‘Have a word with Ann. I’m sure you’ll find she’d be happy to oblige.’

  They regarded each other for a moment, then Phoebe winked. Connor laughed his booming laugh and went off in search of Ann, to show her his portrait.

  After he’d gone, Phoebe finally acknowledged the pain in her hands. Wincing, she massaged her fingers, one by one. It had been a good morning’s work. Painful, but productive.

  The rain set in again before lunch and Connor abandoned any idea of working in the waterlogged garden. Phoebe suggested they have what she called ‘an archive day’ and Connor was prevailed upon to drive home to fetch several cardboard boxes of photos, diaries, letters, even a family Bible for Phoebe and Ann to sift through in the quest to solve the Mystery of the Mordaunts. After lunch they gathered in the dining room to unpack the boxes.

  Even though the content was unexceptional and the authors were long dead, Ann felt something like an illicit thrill as she removed old letters from their envelopes and perused them. She soon recognised the handwriting and style of each family member, especially Ivy’s. She had sent many lively letters home from horticultural college in the 1930s, but one letter in particular caught Ann’s eye.

  ‘Connor, this is very odd.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘It’s a letter from Ivy to Uncle William. It appears to be the first one she sent from college. Have you ever seen it?’

  ‘Not sure.’ He moved round the table to look at the letter. ‘What’s it about?’

  ‘The content isn’t what’s odd. It’s the condition of the letter.’

  As he took it from Ann’s hand, Connor saw that the large clear handwriting was blotched where liquid had made the ink run. The blots were irregular in shape, but roughly circular, as if drops of water had fallen on to the paper.

  Phoebe hobbled over to join them and peered at the letter. ‘Looks like Ivy was crying when she wrote it.’

  ‘Yes, that’s what I thought to begin with,’ Ann replied. ‘But then I thought, Ivy wouldn’t have sent a tear-stained letter home, surely? She wouldn’t have wanted them to know she was homesick. And in any case, if you read the letter, it’s clear she’s having a great time. Or says she is. So I don’t think these can be Ivy’s tears.’

  ‘But there’s nothing in the letter to make anyone cry,’ Connor said. ‘Let alone William.’

  ‘Well, Hester might also have read it.’

  ‘And maybe Violet,’ Phoebe added. ‘Perhaps she was missing her daughter badly.’

  Connor took the letter and examined the paper closely. ‘Maybe the marks aren’t tear stains. Perhaps someone was watering a plant or arranging some flowers and the letter got splashed.’

  ‘That seems more likely,’ Ann conceded. ‘It’s a lovely letter. Anyone would have been delighted to receive it.’

  ‘Yes, she was a good correspondent,’ Connor said, his face darkened by sadness. ‘Great fun. Her letters and postcards got me through some bad days at boarding school. I used to keep them and read them over and over.’

  ‘And thus was the young archivist born,’ Phoebe said, laying a hand on Connor’s shoulder.

  ‘Yes, I suppose you’re right.’ He bent down and heaved another box on to the table. ‘Here’s something to interest you, Phoebe.’

  ‘Ooh, what?’

  ‘Old sketchbooks.’

  She pounced and started to turn the thick pages, declaring, ‘The artist has some skill. Were these Hester’s?’

  ‘No, I don’t think so,’ Connor replied. ‘The drawings are nearly all houses and gardens. Mostly Beechgrave. But there’s something that looks like it was once a French château, in ruins. As far as I know, Hester didn’t go abroad during the period these books cover. The artist dated the sketches but gave no clue as to their location. But many of the drawings are obviously Beechgrave. Except . . .’ Connor paused in his unpacking.

  Phoebe looked up from her perusal of one of the sketchbooks, sensing another clue. ‘What? There’s something odd about them?’

  Connor took the lid off a shoebox containing photographs and extracted a handful. ‘This is what Beechgrave looked like around 1916. They’re all dated on the back. As you can see, the lawns and ornamental gardens have been dug up and replanted with vegetables. Now compare those with the sketches done by our unknown artist.’

  ‘I see what you mean. Then these must have been drawn before they turned the gardens over to food production.’

  ‘But that’s just it, they weren’t. Look at the date.’ Connor pointed to some figures in the corner of a page. ‘Tenth February, 1917. Well, in the first place rose bushes wouldn’t have been in flower in February and, secondly, these photos indicate the rose gardens had been dug up by 1916. So that means—’

  ‘These were drawn from memory!’ Phoebe exclaimed. ‘If so, they’re even better than I thought. The artist has quite an eye for detail.’

  ‘So they were probably drawn by Hester then,’ Ann said, taking the sketchbook from Phoebe. ‘Perhaps she was feeling nostalgic about the good old days before the war.’

  ‘But what about the château?’ Connor persisted. ‘It’s obviously been drawn by the same artist. Could it be imaginary? Would Hester while away her time drawing picturesque ruins, buildings destroyed in a war that killed both her brothers and her fiancé? And why would she keep drawing Beechgrave – obsessively, almost – when she lived there?’

  Phoebe looked at Connor and narrowed her eyes. ‘You’ve got a theory, haven’t you?’

  ‘Well, it’s more of a hunch,’ he said, tipping the contents of another shoebox on to the table. He retrieved some envelopes bound together with a black ribbon. ‘These telegrams announced the deaths of the Mordaunt brothers and the news that William Hatherwick was missing in action in 1916, but he was back home again by the spring of 1917. I think these could be his sketchbooks. Maybe he saw this château in France and drew it from memory. Beechgrave too, perhaps, when he was in hospital.’

  ‘What about this building?’ Ann asked, showing him another page. ‘It’s not Beechgrave and i
t’s not ruined. It looks like a stately home.’

  ‘Could have been a military hospital. That’s what they did with a lot of the big houses. Hester eventually turned Beechgrave into a convalescent home for Tommies.’

  ‘Did Ivy never say who the sketchbooks belonged to?’

  ‘I never asked. I didn’t find them until after her death.’

  ‘It’s odd that all the sketches are dated meticulously but not signed,’ Ann said as she flipped through the pages. ‘No name at the beginning either. The work is strangely anonymous.’

  ‘Yes, that’s what struck me. And if you compare the sketchbooks with the diaries, you’ll see Hester has her name and address at the front of each of them and every entry is carefully dated.’

  ‘So you’re saying, if these sketches were Hester’s, she would have recorded what the buildings were, or where they were. She was methodical, wasn’t she?’

  ‘Exactly.’ He beamed at Ann with frank admiration.

  She smiled back uncertainly. She wanted to help Connor, who had done so much for Phoebe and Garden Lodge, but the quantity and variety of archive material seemed almost overwhelming. Ann turned her attention to the photographs, her thoughts disordered.

  ‘Connor, this envelope’s empty,’ Phoebe announced. ‘Where are the contents?’

  ‘Search me.’

  ‘So why have you kept an empty envelope?’

  ‘Because it seemed like a significant empty envelope.’

  ‘How so?’

  ‘Well, look who it’s addressed to.’

  Phoebe read out the name. ‘Ivy Hatherwick. What’s remarkable about that?’

  ‘That wasn’t her name. I mean, that was her birth name, but by the time she could read, she’d been adopted and was known as Ivy Mordaunt.’

  ‘But why on earth would she have saved an empty envelope,’ Phoebe asked, ‘however it was addressed?’