The Memory Tree

by Linda Gillard

  ‘I doubt she did. She could have destroyed the contents in the fire.’

  ‘Ah, the plot thickens!’ Phoebe said gleefully. She looked up from the empty envelope to see Connor looking past her. He appeared to be watching Ann, but his brow was contracted into a frown. Turning, Phoebe saw Ann staring, white-faced, at a photograph she held between her fingers. As Phoebe watched, it fluttered to the floor as Ann gripped the back of a dining chair for support.

  ‘Ann? Are you all right?’ Phoebe bent to retrieve the photo, but Connor ducked and got there first. It was a photo of his great-grandmother, Violet, pictured with her infant daughter, Ivy. They were sitting on a swing, which hung from a branch of a large beech tree.

  ‘Are you feeling unwell?’ Phoebe asked. ‘Sit down for a bit. You’re looking quite peaky.’

  ‘No, I’m fine. I just felt a bit . . . peculiar, that’s all. I don’t know what came over me.’

  ‘Was it something to do with this?’ As Connor held out the photo, Ann shrank back.

  ‘I don’t know. I think it might have been.’

  ‘Here, let me see,’ Phoebe said tersely. Connor handed over the photograph without taking his eyes off Ann.

  Phoebe examined the photo. ‘Ah, this is the old beech! The one that came down in the storm. Do you remember that night, Ann? It was terrifying! I expect that’s what upset you. Remembering all that. It would give anyone a nasty turn. Delayed shock, that’s what it is,’ Phoebe said emphatically. ‘And I dare say you could use some lunch. We all could. Connor, be a love – go and put the kettle on. I’m gasping.’

  Surprised by the endearment, Connor turned to look at Phoebe but she avoided his eye. As he left the room, she quickly shoved the photo under a pile of letters, then turned to Ann, inviting her to admire another sketchbook.

  ANN

  I ate very little while Connor and Phoebe tucked into quiche and salad. She was more voluble than usual, compensating perhaps for my silence. I didn’t mean to be the spectre at the feast, but my brain couldn’t process their chatter. Connor would throw back his head and laugh and I’d realise I had no idea what Phoebe had said. Everything seemed distant somehow. Or maybe it was just me. Connor and Phoebe got on so well now, I felt like a spare part – a mere baker of quiches and dresser of salads.

  The morning’s archive session had depressed me and I didn’t know why, but these days I wandered round in a state of tired confusion. I worked hard during the day, designing, gardening, cooking and cleaning, but I wasn’t sleeping well at night.

  Jack’s girlfriend had given birth to a baby girl and he’d emailed me a photo of her. I appreciated his tact in sparing me a portrait of mother and baby doing well and was genuinely very happy for them all, but their bliss seemed only to increase my sense of isolation. I put this down to loneliness, months spent looking after an elderly parent, adapting my life to fit in with hers. I’d become a carer and knew I should make more effort to get out and see my friends. They sometimes invited me to do things at weekends, but I always declined. Weekends were when I helped Connor with the garden, when I took photos and helped him design his website. My days were full.

  On the face of it, we were all having a very pleasant time and Phoebe was flourishing under the new regime, yet persistent nightmares and insomnia made me wonder at times if I was losing it. I seemed to have become two different people. With a comfortable life, a thriving business, friends, freedom, I had almost everything a woman could want. But there was another me, an alter ego who felt frightened, almost desolate at times, as if I’d lost everything that ever mattered. But I hadn’t. My marriage had failed and I was childless, but I’d come to terms with those sad facts years ago. I’d filled my life with other things, determined not to want what I couldn’t have.

  Sometimes I got up in the middle of the night and poured myself a glass of wine, hoping it would send me off to sleep. I would sit at the kitchen table, brooding. After the second glass, I’d ask myself whether the problem was really quite simple, simple and insoluble. I asked myself if the problem was Connor.

  When he was around, I felt awkward, confused as to the footing on which we stood. When he wasn’t around, I felt as if I was waiting until he was. He was a friend, a quasi-employee, my project manager, a tonic and companion for my aged mother. Connor had become many things to us, but not what I wanted him to be, which meant he’d been added to the list of things I was determined not to want.

  It seemed determination was not enough.

  After lunch I declined Connor’s customary offer of help and loaded the dishwasher myself while he and Phoebe returned to sifting through photos and letters. I tidied the kitchen, then wiped down all the worktops. It was when I found myself sweeping the floor – very thoroughly – that I realised I didn’t want to go back into the sitting room.

  I put my head round the door to ask if anyone wanted tea. There were no takers, so I said I was popping out for a breath of fresh air and shut the door without waiting for a reply.

  As I headed for the beech wood, I resolved to keep Connor at a professional distance, whilst doing all I could to help with the restoration of the garden and solving the Mordaunt mystery. I thought I might even take on a little project of my own: researching shell shock and memory loss, to see if I could account for the anonymity and subject matter of the sketchbooks, which intrigued me. The artist had drawn Beechgrave many times. It was clearly an obsession. Would William Hatherwick have missed his old home and job to this extent? If so, what prevented him from returning after he’d gone missing? Was Beechgrave more to him than his job, his home, his sister? Did it represent something he wanted, but couldn’t have? Happier times? Lost memories . . . ? Or did Beechgrave represent a person William wanted, but couldn’t have? And was that perhaps why he’d stayed away?

  I came to a halt beside the upended stump of the fallen beech. I studied the knotted root plate and marvelled at the complexity of a tree’s life support system. How tenaciously those roots had clung to the soil, burrowing down, wider and deeper, grounding the massive trunk and canopy above. Nevertheless, it had been felled, not by man, but by the wind. Age and weather had weakened the ancient beech until one day its strength gave out.

  I couldn’t help thinking of Phoebe. My mother could still walk, but she had to lean on a stick. She still worked, but cancer, trauma and pain had worn her down. Even before that, she’d struggled as a single working mother. As far as I knew, Sylvester had never sent us any money. We never even got a Christmas card from him, but at least he hadn’t laid claim to his half of the marital home.

  As I wandered on through the wood, I tried to think what I could actually remember of my father, as opposed to what I’d been told, or what I’d gleaned from looking at old photos. It wasn’t much. I thought I could remember standing on a swing, like the young Ivy Hatherwick, with Sylvester standing behind me, pushing the seat gently, as I swung back and forth. I remembered feeling quite safe, even though I was standing up on the swing, because I knew my father was right behind me.

  ‘I’ve brought you some tea.’

  I spun round, my heart pounding, to see Connor holding two mugs, one of them extended towards me.

  ‘Oh! You startled me.’

  ‘Sorry. Thought you’d have heard me coming.’ He handed me a mug and I drank gratefully, comforted by the heat of the tea.

  ‘I was miles away. Thinking about when I was young and used to play here.’

  ‘Your very own wood. Lucky girl.’

  ‘I suppose so. I had no one to play with though.’

  ‘Did you talk to the trees?’

  I looked up surprised. ‘Yes, I did, actually. I’d forgotten until you said that, but now I remember, I did. I think I even had names for some of them. I used to sing to them too,’ I added, rather embarrassed. ‘And dance sometimes.’

  ‘I bet they enjoyed that.’ He looked round, surveying the trees, but I saw no hint of mockery on his face.

  ‘There used to be a swing.’
r />   Connor turned to look at me. ‘Like the one in the photo?’

  ‘Yes. I can hardly remember it now. It wasn’t there when I was older. I remember climbing trees, but I don’t remember sitting on a swing.’

  ‘Rope rots eventually. Maybe someone thought it was dangerous and took it down.’

  We drank our tea in silence until Connor said, ‘Something’s bugging you, Ann. Is it me?’

  ‘You?’ Tea spilled from my mug and scalded my hand.

  ‘Well, our project. The garden. Or is it all my family stuff? You must be getting fed up with it by now. And it’s not as if we’re actually getting anywhere.’ He waited for me to reply but I didn’t know what to say. ‘The garden’s almost finished, so we can call it a day soon. Then if you wouldn’t mind letting me come back to take a few seasonal photos . . .’ He paused and searched my face again. ‘Or you could take them yourself and email them to me if you prefer. I can be out of your hair in a few weeks’ time if the weather’s kind. Then you’ll get your life back,’ he added with one of his wide smiles, but it looked pasted on. Above, his eyes looked disappointed.

  ‘Phoebe won’t know what to do with herself at weekends. She keeps talking about painting you. Don’t be surprised if she asks you to come back and sit for her.’

  Connor’s face brightened. ‘I’d be happy to. If that’s all right with you.’

  ‘Why wouldn’t it be?’

  He shrugged. ‘Just checking. I don’t like to presume. And you’re pretty hard to read.’

  ‘Am I?’

  ‘Well, I find you hard to read.’ He raised his mug and swallowed some tea. ‘Quite confusing, in fact.’

  ‘Really . . . ? Maybe that’s because I’m confused.’

  ‘What about?’

  ‘Oh, everything . . . What to do about Phoebe. Selling the house. Getting a divorce. Getting older. You name it, I’m confused about it.’

  ‘Do you still have feelings for your husband?’

  ‘Only friendly ones. We split up years ago but we didn’t bother with divorce. Neither of us was a big fan of marriage and we didn’t expect to marry again. No, it’s just . . . well, I suppose it’s a watershed, isn’t it? I’ve arrived at a point in my life where some things have come to an end. Youth. Marriage. My childbearing years. And now I have to decide whether to become a carer for my mother or whether to farm the job out to someone else.’

  ‘I think Phoebe wants you to have your own life. And she’d never forgive you if you gave up your work. She could probably manage on her own with some help, couldn’t she? I’d be happy to look in now and again.’

  ‘Thank you, Connor, you’re very kind, but I think I’d still worry about her living alone.’

  He gave me a stern look. ‘We both know how much Phoebe would hate to hear you say that.’

  ‘You’re right. She’d be furious.’ His smile seemed genuine this time, but I looked away and said, ‘Sometimes I wonder if it’s not so much that Phoebe needs looking after, as I need someone to care for.’

  ‘I think you need someone to care for you, Ann. Care about you.’

  ‘Do you?’

  ‘Do I care?’

  ‘No, I mean, is that what you think? About me? That I— I’m sorry, I’m not explaining myself very well.’ I glared at the ground. ‘Oh, what is the matter with me?’

  Connor put down his mug, then took mine. He set it down and said, ‘May I?’ and took hold of one of my hands. I felt rooted to the spot, as if I was being pulled down into the earth, like one of the trees that encircled us.

  ‘May I?’ he asked again. Lifting one of his big, strong hands, he placed it behind my head, cradling my neck and threading his warm fingers through my curling hair. I managed to raise my eyes as far as his chest and stared at a moth hole in his Fair Isle sweater. I noted the colours – dove grey, moss green, burnt umber – and resolved to look for them in my work basket. Mending. That’s what you did when you looked after people. You mended things. Toys. Sweaters. Broken hearts. You made them whole again. I wanted to do that. Mend things between me and Phoebe. Between me and my father. But I’d never be able to do that because I didn’t know where he was. Nor did Phoebe. There was just a gaping hole, a hole where my father had been. A hole in my life, even a hole in my memory.

  Connor was kissing me and I didn’t know what to do other than kiss him back, so that’s what I did. I don’t know how long that might have gone on if it hadn’t started to rain.

  He pulled away and said, ‘Let’s get you inside before you get soaked.’

  ‘Connor—’

  ‘It’s okay. I’m not going to assume anything. I’m just glad you weren’t angry. Or offended.’

  ‘No. I was . . . pleased.’

  ‘You don’t look it,’ he said with a laugh.

  ‘Don’t I? How do I look?’

  ‘Confused.’ He raised a finger to my mouth and touched it. ‘But beautiful as ever.’ He looked up. ‘It’s really coming down now. Let’s get back to that stove.’

  He took my hand again and pulled me through the wood, back towards the house. As we ran I called out, ‘Connor, wait!’ I let go of his hand and turned, looking back the way we’d come.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘I don’t know. Something . . .’ I looked round at the trees, searching. I’d no idea what for.

  ‘Did you leave something behind?’

  ‘No. But I remember that I did leave something here, a long time ago . . . And I remember coming to look for it.’

  ‘You didn’t find it?’

  ‘I don’t remember. I just have an awful feeling . . .’

  ‘About the thing you lost?’

  ‘No. About something that happened.’

  ‘Here?’

  ‘I think so.’

  ‘Something bad?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘So bad, you don’t remember what it was?’

  ‘So bad, I don’t want to remember what it was.’

  Connor stared at me, then threw an arm round my shoulders. ‘Come on. Let’s get out of here. This place is giving me the creeps.’

  HESTER

  February 10th, 1917

  Ivy Hester Hatherwick was born yesterday. She is so very small, but she seems strong and determined to live.

  Violet was heartbroken that William was not here to share our happiness. There is still no news of him and I fear she has now abandoned all hope, finding it easier to accept that he is dead than to wonder how he can be alive, but unable or unwilling to write. I understand her reasoning. Nevertheless, I find myself unable to contemplate the possibility. This has less to do with hope, rather more to do with stubbornness. I do so want little Ivy to have a family.

  February 17th

  An unsettling day. This morning Mother said something that astonished me. I wish to record her words here, lest I should later think I imagined them.

  She must have heard Ivy crying. Mother’s hearing is still acute, though her wits are scattered. She emerged from her room to enquire about the noise. She believed there must be a cat trapped in the house somewhere and Mother cannot abide cats. I told her one of the servants had brought a new baby up to Beechgrave. I felt uncomfortable telling a lie, but the truth is far too complicated for Mother to comprehend and I had no wish to distress her.

  Much to my surprise, she asked to see the baby. Ivy’s persistent crying indicated she was still at Beechgrave, so I could think of no good reason to refuse Mother’s request. I left her waiting outside her room while I hurried off to fetch Ivy. I found Violet pacing the floor with the fretful baby in her arms. She apologised for the din, then I told her Mother wished to make Ivy’s acquaintance. Violet looked anxious, so I tried to reassure her with a smiling confidence I did not feel. Taking Ivy from her arms, I asked her to accompany me.

  Violet followed reluctantly as I carried Ivy along the corridor. Fortunately, the brisk movement seemed to pacify the child. When I presented her, Mother pulled back the shawl to peer at Ivy’s face,
then turned her attention to Violet. She looked her up and down, almost as if she were seeing her for the first time.

  ‘Is this baby yours, Hatherwick?’

  Violet looked from Mother to me, at a loss, so I answered quickly, ‘Yes, Mother. She’s called Ivy. Ivy Hester. After me.’

  Mother looked surprised. ‘Is there a father?’ she asked sharply.

  ‘He died in the war,’ I explained, with a sidelong look at Violet.

  ‘Ah!’ Mother said, studying Ivy’s face again. ‘A dead war hero . . . Just like my own dear boys.’

  I thought I should faint with shock, but knew I must answer straight away. ‘Yes, Mother. Like poor Arthur and Eddie.’

  ‘So much death,’ Mother said, shaking her head. ‘Take her away. She reminds me of my dead babies. I simply cannot bear it.’ She rubbed her temple, saying, ‘I think I shall go mad, Hester.’ Then she gazed at me, her eyes quite lucid and said, ‘I shall!’ With that, Mother turned her back on us, shut herself in her room and locked the door.

  I have knocked several times in the last few hours, but she has not responded.

  February 25th

  Mother has stopped playing the piano. I do not know which was worse: listening to her accompany music only she could hear, or this ominous silence. It is almost as if Arthur and Eddie have died again, as if a last musical link with my brothers has been broken. The silence is so final.

  Mother has not played for several days now and I cannot bring myself to ask her why. I suppose I fear the answer. Or no answer.

  I went to the music room today and took up my viola which has lain untouched for months. I tuned it, then played my part of a Brahms sonata, one Mother and I used to enjoy. I hoped the sound would lure her from her room, either to chastise me for my poor playing or to accompany me.

  She did not appear.

  I was unable to complete the piece – itself incomplete without Mother’s contribution. I replaced the viola in its case, then sat down and wept. I had thought I was done crying, but grief appears to be a reservoir that never empties. Memory refills it constantly.