The Memory Tree

by Linda Gillard

  I wanted to put the matter before you because certain evidence suggests someone at Beechgrave might be able to identify this man. His accent suggests he comes from the Bristol area. He’s a talented artist and has shown me sketchbooks filled with drawings of a house and gardens that look very much like Beechgrave. He has sketched the house from all angles, so I doubt he is copying something he has seen in a book. He is evidently drawing from memory. When questioned gently about his sketches, ‘Tommy’ (that’s our name for him) claimed he had no knowledge of the name or location of the house. Its external appearance is apparently all he can remember. I enclose one of his sketches for you to examine.

  We have supplied him with all the sketchbooks we can muster in the hope that some memory will surface that will enable us to identify him and return him to his family. I am anxious to find him a home because there is really nothing more we can do for him, although the peace and quiet here are always beneficial for the nervous cases. He has recovered well from his wounds, but there has been no improvement in his mental state. Time might heal these wounds, if only his memory would return, but at the moment he has no past and no future. He is lost in some sort of mental No Man’s Land and there can be no question of sending him back to the Front, poor man.

  I doubt a physical description will be very useful, but he is dark, with rather fine brown eyes. He is tall, with a ruddy complexion that suggests he enjoyed an outdoor life before he enlisted. He’s intelligent and observant, but as he has no memory, one can only guess at his education. Not a university man, I think. He much prefers to be outside and spends a lot of time walking around the grounds, observing flowers, birds and insects. Oddly enough, he remembers the names of these and even knows some botanical Latin, but he can recall nothing about his life before he was wounded.

  If you think our Tommy might have some connection with Beechgrave, I shall suggest we take a photograph to send to you. I could have asked him to draw a self-portrait, but his face was burned on one side and I hardly think studying his reflection would be good for his spirits. Looking-glasses are in any case scarce items here and for good reason. Some of these poor boys have no idea what frights they look – and that is much the kindest thing.

  So, Hester, I hope you can shed some light on our mystery man. I’ve grown rather fond of him and should be delighted if we could send him home to his family, who must believe him dead by now.

  I shall be going on duty in a few minutes, so I must close. Give my best regards to your mother. She has had so much to bear – as have you, my dear Hester.

  Yours ever sincerely,

  Ursula Dowding

  Beechgrave House

  Yatton

  Somerset

  March 4th, 1917

  Dear Mrs Dowding,

  I was delighted to receive your letter. It is very good of you to make time to write to me when I know you must be quite worn out with nursing.

  I was very interested to hear Tommy’s story. The sketch you enclosed certainly looks like Beechgrave. It must have been drawn by someone who knows the house well, though the ornamental gardens were dug up in 1915. We try to grow as much food as possible now.

  It so happens that a member of our garden staff was reported missing in action on the Somme and I wonder if Tommy might be this man. His sister is Mother’s lady’s maid and I have taken a personal interest in the family, so with your permission, I should like to visit as soon as possible. I propose to travel on Wednesday and stay in a local hotel. Please say nothing to your man. I should hate to raise his hopes in vain. If Tommy is one of ours, I shall arrange to have him brought back to Beechgrave.

  Forgive these hasty lines. I must make my travel arrangements and ensure Mother is cared for in my absence.

  Till Wednesday then.

  Sincerely yours,

  Hester

  WILLIAM

  March 7th, 1917

  He’d been told to expect a visitor. They had mentioned a name, but it meant nothing to him. He didn’t get visitors. Other men did because they had families. He knew he might have a family and must have had a job before the war, but now anyone who ever knew him must think him dead. And that’s how he felt sometimes, on bad days. Like a dead man. But a dead man would have had a name.

  They called him Tommy Gardener because he spent so much time in the garden. He felt better outdoors and it got him away from the worst of the nerve cases. His nightmares were bad, but mostly he was all right during the day, which was more than could be said for some of the others. Door frames were lined with rubber, window sashes were cushioned with thick felt and heavy carpets covered the floors, but still the slightest noise would set off some poor devil.

  It was peaceful in the garden at least. As he weeded and tidied, he named the plants to himself. Otherwise he didn’t have many memories. Nothing at all before the old peasant woman took him in and tended his wounds. She lived alone, her menfolk gone or dead, he assumed. He helped her with her vegetable garden and the few goats and hens she had left. Then one day he was arrested as a deserter and they sent him back to England. It was shell shock, they said. He’d been fighting in a war.

  They put his photograph in the papers, to see if someone would come forward to claim him, but his face was burned on one side and his hair had grown long in France. He doubted his own mother would have recognised him – if he had a mother.

  Since it was clear from his accent that he hailed from the West Country, he was sent to a convalescent hospital in Devon. He recognised nothing, but when he came across pencil and paper, he started to draw his dreams. Not the bad ones, which were indescribable: men drowning in mud, severed limbs, rats gnawing at the entrails of dead men. Those he tried to forget, though he knew they would return when he slept. He had other dreams of a grand house with a large garden. He drew what he could remember of them on scrap paper until someone gave him a sketchbook. He filled it quickly with detailed drawings of a house that could not have been his home, yet somehow he knew it meant more to him than home.

  Drawing stopped him from going mad. The sketches were all he had for memories, those and the plant names. They said he must have been a gardener to know so much Latin, so they allowed him to work outside. The other men sat on the lawn, reading and smoking, or they walked by the river, but he preferred to work. It comforted him and the birdsong always raised his spirits, but there were times he felt so lonely, so completely friendless, he wished a shell had blown his head off.

  Today he had a visitor, the first in six months, apart from the padre. They said the visitor was a lady, so he shaved carefully and scrubbed his broken nails. He wondered what she wanted, then decided he didn’t care. A visitor was a visitor. He’d be pleased to see a new face, though he doubted she’d be pleased when she saw his.

  He wondered if she would be young. Or even pretty.

  He stood up as Nurse Dowding showed his visitor into the library and then retreated to wait by the door.

  The young woman wasn’t pretty, but there was something about her, an air of intelligent composure that he liked. She didn’t flinch when she looked at him, but she was upset, he could see that. Tears started into her eyes, so he looked away, uncomfortable with anyone’s pity. There were others so much more deserving of it. After all, he was one of the lucky ones.

  The visitor cleared her throat, extended her hand and said, ‘My name is Hester Mordaunt. How do you do?’

  He shook her hand, saying, ‘I’m afraid I don’t know who I am, but they call me Tommy Gardener.’

  She managed a little smile, then swallowed and said, ‘I am pleased to inform you that I know who you are.’

  He tried to reply and failed, then reached for the back of a chair to support himself. Hester quickly sat down in another chair, thus granting him permission to sit.

  When they faced each other, she said, ‘You used to work for me. You were Head Gardener at Beechgrave House in Somerset and your name is William Hatherwick.’

  ‘William? My name is William?
’ He laughed, delighted. ‘You’re certain? Certain that’s who I am?’ His hand touched his livid cheek. ‘My face—’

  ‘Quite certain. If your face had been obliterated, Mr Hatherwick, I should have known you from your voice.’

  ‘William Hatherwick . . .’ he said, as if trying out the name. He folded his arms and nodded, smiling. ‘It’s a good name.’

  ‘And you were a very good worker. I gather from Nurse Dowding that for the time being there’s no question of sending you back to the Front, so I should therefore like you to return to Beechgrave to resume your duties. You have a home there, a house known as Garden Lodge.’

  He looked blank at the name, then his eyes lit up. ‘Do I have a family, Miss Mordaunt?’

  She appeared to struggle with her feelings, but when, finally, she spoke, her voice was steady. ‘Your parents are dead, but you have a younger sister, Violet. You also have a niece, Ivy. She’s a baby. Just a few weeks old.’

  His broad smile stretched the shiny scar tissue taut across the bones of his face. He turned to Nurse Dowding, beaming. ‘Did you hear that, Nurse? I’m William Heatherwick and I have a family!’

  ‘It’s Hatherwick,’ Hester said, correcting him gently.

  He nodded, still smiling. ‘Takes a bit of getting used to after all this time. I’d given up hope, you see.’

  She put her head on one side and regarded him earnestly. ‘You remember nothing? Nothing at all?’

  ‘No, Miss Mordaunt, I’m afraid not. But that won’t prevent me from giving satisfaction as your Head Gardener. I haven’t forgotten my trade. I’ve been working in the garden here and studying. I’ve made good use of the excellent library here, haven’t I, Nurse Dowding?’ he said, looking to her for corroboration.

  ‘Indeed you have, Mr Hatherwick.’

  He smiled at her gratefully. ‘I remember all my plants, their names and how they grow, what conditions they like. For some reason I can still remember all that.’

  ‘Do you remember the beech wood?’ Hester asked, watching him closely.

  He frowned. ‘Beech wood?’

  ‘There’s a copse of old beeches. One of them is known as the Trysting Tree.’ She paused, but saw no flicker of recognition. ‘You don’t remember it?’

  ‘No, I can’t say I do. But I remember the Latin name for beech. Fagus sylvatica.’

  ‘Well, that’s something,’ she replied, trying to smile. ‘Names and dates have been carved on the bark of this tree. By lovers. Someone carved this Latin phrase on the Trysting Tree,’ she said, reaching into her pocket and handing him a scrap of paper. ‘Perhaps you know what it means.’

  He unfolded the paper and read aloud, ‘Crescent illae crescetis amores.’ Looking up, he said, ‘This is not the name of a plant.’

  ‘No, I think not.’

  He shook his head. ‘Then I’m afraid I can’t help you, Miss Mordaunt,’ he said, handing the piece of paper back to her.

  As she stood up, she crumpled the paper in her fist and dropped it into a waste basket, then turned away and began to issue instructions about travel arrangements. William Hatherwick expressed his profound gratitude and was dismissed.

  Later, as Nurse Dowding poured tea in the kitchen, she said, ‘Hester, that Latin quotation, the one carved on the tree. I believe it’s from Ovid. It means, As these letters grow, so will our love.’

  ‘Yes,’ her young friend replied wearily. ‘I know.’

  HESTER

  March 9th, 1917

  Violet and her brother have been reunited. She greeted us with many tears on our return and I left them alone together. The journey quite exhausted me and I was glad to retreat to the sanctuary of my room, where I made up a parcel of William’s gardening books, which I have since returned to him. I included the old seed packets I found inserted between the pages. I felt I should return everything to William that is his, as far as it lies within my power. He has lost so much.

  Violet says he does not remember her at all, but seems delighted with baby Ivy. He will not remember George Flynn either, but I am sure Violet will deal with any awkwardness in a tactful fashion. She is as concerned as I about William’s mental stability. After all he has endured, the return to Beechgrave might yet overturn his mind. We must be careful not to overtax it with unnecessary information. His physical wounds healed long ago and he appears to have come to terms with his facial disfigurement, but he is now in the habit of addressing people with his face averted, to spare them the sight of his scars. This is doubly sad. Never a man to shirk responsibility, nor indeed the truth, William Hatherwick’s eyes used to meet mine.

  I am reluctant to lose Violet’s services, but her brother will need someone to look after him. She says he doesn’t need her to live in, but he will need someone to keep house for him. I think if I take on more of Mother’s care and perhaps even some of Ivy’s, Violet would be able to cook and clean at Garden Lodge whilst continuing to live at Beechgrave. She says William will appreciate the solitude at Garden Lodge. He craves silence which acts as balm to his troubled spirit.

  So silence shall be our watchword. It will restore William’s peace of mind and perhaps one day his memory.

  Silence, then.

  It is all for the best.

  THE BEECH WOOD

  It has been our burden and sometimes privilege to bear witness. For centuries we have accepted gifts. Confidences. Confessions. Tears have watered our roots, their falling gentler than summer rain. We have seen acts of passion, of violence, self-slaughter even. We have observed and absorbed much grief.

  On a dark winter’s day, two women, one weeping, one silent, committed a tiny body to a grave beneath our canopy. Prayers were said. They gathered fallen leaves and moss to cover the newly turned earth so there should be no sign, no memorial, save initials graven on our bark. Then they left, one woman leaning heavily upon the other.

  The child is forgotten now. Those who remembered are long dead. But we remember. While we stand, we shall not forget, nor shall we judge.

  Were we human, we should pity.

  Were we human, we should weep to see what we have seen.

  PART FOUR

  ANN

  After Connor kissed me, I stopped sleeping altogether. Well, that’s what it felt like. I don’t think it was anything to do with Connor, but that’s when the serious insomnia started: after we’d stood under the beeches and I’d told him I knew I’d forgotten something.

  Each morning, as the grey light appeared at my window, I was convinced I’d lain awake all night. I grew to dread the solitary robin’s song, herald of the dawn chorus, knowing that was it for another night. The long day had begun.

  I took to drinking red wine before bed, sometimes sherry. I even tried Phoebe’s sleeping pills, but they all had the same effect, or rather, no effect. I would fall into bed exhausted, sometimes a little drunk. I’d sleep, then an hour later I’d be awake again, my mind teeming, my stomach churning.

  Eventually I worked out what the problem was and it had nothing to do with my furtive feelings for Connor. I dreaded my dreams. I dreaded the return of the nightmares I used to have as a child, after my father left. And I dreaded sleep itself, because I didn’t know where I might find myself when I woke.

  ‘I’ve started sleepwalking again.’

  ‘Good grief!’ Phoebe looked up from her breakfast cereal and gaped at me, spoon poised in mid-air. ‘You haven’t done that since— well, since you were very small.’

  I poured myself another cup of tea, watching my hands, willing them not to tremble. ‘Last night I found myself in the kitchen at 3.00 a.m. I didn’t remember getting up or coming downstairs.’

  ‘Oh, Lord . . .’

  ‘So I think I might start taking the key out of the back door at night. If I put it in a drawer, it will make it harder for me to find. More tea?’

  Phoebe passed me her mug. ‘But that won’t work, will it? If your conscious mind knows where the key is, your unconscious mind will know where to look for it. Wou
ld you like me to hide the key?’

  ‘There’s not a lot of point, is there? If I decide to go walkabout, I can still get out through the front door.’

  ‘I must have a key to your room somewhere. I could lock you in if you can bear it. That’s what I used to do. You hated it!’

  ‘I’d hate it now. And supposing you needed me in the night or there was some emergency? No, I just have to crack my insomnia. I’m sure that’s the cause.’

  ‘Do you know what’s keeping you awake?’

  ‘Well, now I think it’s probably fear of sleepwalking, but originally . . .’ I spread honey on some toast and ate without enthusiasm.

  ‘What? Something happened?’

  I swallowed a mouthful of toast and said, ‘I had a very bad dream. About Sylvester. At least, I think it was him. There was a man and it wasn’t Jack.’

  Phoebe eyed me over the top of her mug, a knowing glint in her eye. ‘Connor?’

  ‘No, this man was dark. And very tall. A giant.’

  ‘Sylvester wasn’t tall.’

  ‘He would have seemed tall to me when I was a child.’

  ‘Ah. So you were a child in this dream?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘I was out in the garden, looking for something.’

  ‘Here? Looking for Sylvester?’

  ‘No, for something I’d lost.’

  ‘And did you find it? In the dream, I mean.’

  ‘I don’t remember. But I did find something . . . Something awful.’

  ‘What?’ Phoebe asked, looking apprehensive.

  ‘I don’t remember, but I think that might be why I can’t sleep. My mind won’t let me, in case I have that dream again and I do remember.’ I pushed my plate aside. ‘I’m not making much sense, am I?’