The Memory Tree

by Linda Gillard

  Phoebe said nothing, but fidgeted in her chair as if she’d rather be somewhere else. In her studio painting, perhaps. Irritated, I found myself wishing I was talking to Connor instead, seeing concern in his eyes, rather than the squirming embarrassment I saw in my mother’s, but I plodded on, trying to make sense of the random thoughts generated by my weary brain.

  ‘That must have been what happened to Ivy, mustn’t it?’

  Phoebe stared at me. ‘I don’t follow.’

  ‘She must have discovered something, or remembered something that changed things. Changed everything.’

  ‘I suppose so,’ Phoebe conceded. ‘But to react like that, she must have been quite fragile, mustn’t she? Of a nervous disposition.’

  ‘The thing is, she wasn’t. Connor said she was one of the first women to train in horticulture. She’d been a young woman in a man’s world. That must have been tough. Then, when she lost her adult daughter, she stepped in as a surrogate mother for Connor and stood up to his father when Connor wanted to follow in her footsteps. She always sounds tough as old boots, not the sensitive type at all.’

  ‘And yet something knocked her sideways, poor old thing.’

  I stood up and started to clear away the breakfast things while Phoebe sat in ruminative silence. I considered returning to bed for a few hours to catch up on sleep but rejected the idea, fearing a daytime nap would make insomnia even more likely.

  As I loaded the dishwasher, Phoebe suddenly said, ‘What on earth do you think about when you’re lying awake at night?’

  ‘Work . . . The garden . . . I think about how nice it will look in the summer. But mostly I think about Sylvester. Whether he’s dead or alive. And if he is alive, whether it matters to him if I am.’

  Phoebe didn’t reply immediately. She appeared to weigh her words, then said, ‘I’m absolutely convinced that wherever he is now, your welfare still matters to him.’

  ‘You really think so?’

  ‘I know so. He loved you, Ann.’

  ‘But he left.’

  ‘As I have frequently observed,’ Phoebe said loftily, ‘life stinks.’ She hauled herself to her feet, reached for her stick, then shuffled out of the room, breathing heavily.

  Clumsy with tiredness, I broke a glass while loading the dishwasher, then, as I gathered up the pieces, I managed to cut myself. Applying Elastoplast one-handed to a bleeding thumb, I wept a little, for no particular reason.

  I could feel myself unravelling, like a piece of old knitting.

  Connor and I behaved as if nothing had happened. He did not presume, he exerted no pressure, nor did he sulk. He was as cheerful and friendly as ever, but also watchful, waiting for a sign. Clearly it was up to me to indicate if there was to be a shift in our relationship. Probably all I needed to do was speak, touch him, perhaps just smile invitingly and we would pick up where we’d left off in the wood.

  I did none of those things. Insomnia made me too tired to think straight. I knew what I wanted, or thought I did, yet I did nothing, telling myself it was impossible to conduct a romantic relationship under Phoebe’s nose. If I was going to make a fool of myself with a younger man, I didn’t want an audience, let alone one as critical as my mother.

  So I let things drift – long enough for Connor to conclude our kiss had been a whim on my part, an unprofessional gaffe on his. I watched myself throw away an opportunity, as if someone else was directing my life, someone too confused and frightened to know what she was doing.

  My confusion was perhaps understandable. Years of living alone and many months of celibacy had undermined my sexual self-confidence, yet desire persisted. And that was what Phoebe would say, angry and maudlin after her third gin. ‘Don’t believe what they say about old age, Ann. You never stop wanting. You learn to go without, but you never stop noticing what other women have and you don’t. Youth. Beauty. Health. Husbands. Lovers.’ I might have added ‘Children’.

  But what did I fear? My own emptiness and need? Other people’s? Did I see Connor as a threat to my shaky equilibrium, my fragile sense of self-sufficiency? I suppose going without must be habit-forming. I allowed myself to want, but not to have. I watched, though. And Connor waited.

  As spring wore on and the weather improved, we were able to spend more time outdoors and made good progress in the garden. I knew the end of the project was in sight, but Connor always seemed to find more jobs that needed to be done.

  One day he decided to build a compost bin, recycling bits of the old shed that had been crushed by the fallen beech.

  ‘The wood’s perfectly sound,’ he explained, ‘and the bin will blend in better if we use old wood. And cost nothing.’

  ‘I shudder to think what we owe you in man hours,’ I said as I sorted through the heap of broken wood, removing nails with pliers.

  ‘And I shudder to think what I owe you in gin and Rioja, not to mention all the food I’ve put away.’

  ‘It’s kind of you to see it like that, but we owe you big time.’

  He took a long piece of wood, examined it, then laid it across the arms of a garden bench, saying, ‘It’s been a pleasure, Ann. I’ll be sorry when it’s all over, but pretty soon it will be. The garden’s ready now. And waiting.’

  I looked round at the pale new leaves, the breaking buds and the white flowers on the fan-trained pear trees, the first fruit to blossom. ‘It is waiting, isn’t it? And it’s been such a long wait. But finally the time has come. It’s waking up.’

  Connor didn’t reply, but gazed at me for a moment as if he wanted to speak, then evidently thought better of it. Bending over his piece of wood, he began to saw.

  We continued to work together in silence.

  Connor was always a pleasure to watch, at ease with his tools and materials. I admired the unhurried and meticulous way in which he worked, his easy grace as he swung a hammer or stooped to pick up a wheelbarrow. I derived a sensual pleasure from the sight of a man trusting his body, using it skilfully. It soothed me in a way, aroused me in another. When we worked together I would sometimes stand, my trowel or secateurs idle, and watch Connor surreptitiously, hypnotised by the rhythm of his digging or raking.

  Once he must have sensed my gaze, because he looked up from his digging and his eyes met mine. I meant to look away at once, but didn’t. It seemed pointless to pretend.

  He straightened up and said, ‘You look tired. Still not sleeping?’

  ‘No, not much.’

  ‘Maybe you should rest. It’s good to have company, but I can manage.’

  ‘Yes, I know, but I like to be outdoors, listening to the birds. There’s so much activity now. It’s . . . reassuring.’

  ‘Spring’s here again,’ Connor said, leaning on his spade.

  ‘Yes, it’s the continuity, isn’t it? Yet every year spring is just as exciting.’ He nodded, smiling. ‘It reminds me—’ I stopped, unsure whether to continue.

  ‘Of what?’

  ‘Of my father. Being out here and helping in the garden. I think he must have found me little jobs to do. I remember being very happy out here, before—’ Again I faltered.

  ‘Before he left?’

  ‘I was happy enough, but I suppose he and Phoebe must have been miserable.’

  ‘You were only five. You might have noticed, but you couldn’t have understood.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘And it wasn’t your fault he left.’

  ‘I know that now, but years later I used to wonder why I hadn’t been enough. Why he hadn’t wanted to stay for my sake. I’m sure if I’d ever had kids I’d have wanted to hold it together for them.’

  ‘He probably tried.’

  ‘Yes, I’m sure he did.’

  I knelt down again and bent over a tray of plants and began to tease them out of their plastic compartments. One by one, I dropped them into the holes I’d dug for them, then I filled in around them with loose soil, patting it down carefully.

  Connor was silent for a while, then said, ‘Perhaps Sylves
ter thought you’d be better off without him, you and Phoebe. Or – if you don’t mind my saying so – maybe he was just a selfish sod.’

  I sat back on my heels and dusted soil from my hands. ‘Well, that would be the obvious explanation. But somehow I don’t think he was.’

  ‘Phoebe might have a different view.’

  ‘Well, she didn’t ever say he was. Selfish, I mean. She never mentioned him, let alone criticised him. Everything I know about Sylvester, I had to wheedle out of her. She didn’t seem to hold a grudge as so many abandoned women do. She just wanted to move on. And she did.’

  ‘Did you?’

  I looked up at him, surprised. ‘You think I haven’t?’

  He shrugged. ‘I’m just asking the question – and maybe I shouldn’t. But whenever you mention your father, I find myself thinking you and Phoebe ought to talk. Really talk.’

  I bent over again and started to dig more holes with my trowel. ‘Oh, there are loads of things Phoebe and I need to talk about. Her future mainly, but she won’t hear of it. We don’t talk, my mother issues decrees. The latest is, she’s not celebrating her seventieth birthday.’

  ‘You’re kidding? When is it?’

  ‘Next week.’

  ‘Could we throw a surprise party?’

  ‘The surprise would be, she’d walk out.’

  ‘You’re not going to let her get away with this?’

  ‘No, I’m scheming.’

  Connor smiled appreciatively. ‘If you need a co-conspirator, you know you can count on me.’

  ‘Yes, I do. Thank you for being so understanding. About everything.’

  He waved a muddy hand, dismissing my thanks and resumed his digging in silence. I watched him for a moment, then went indoors to make tea and scheme some more.

  Phoebe was adamant she didn’t want a party. She said variously that she couldn’t afford it, we didn’t have room, she didn’t want people to know how old she was. She even tried, ‘I’ve got nothing to wear.’ She didn’t volunteer what I suspect was the real reason: her fear that people might not come. Phoebe had been out of circulation for so long, she must have wondered if her old friends and colleagues would make the effort to trek down to darkest Somerset for what she referred to as ‘a pensioner’s knees-up’.

  ‘Half the old crowd are dead,’ she claimed. ‘And if the art critic from the Guardian is to be believed, so am I!’

  Phoebe forbade me to organise any kind of celebration, but when I remonstrated with her, she said she might enjoy a nice little dinner with Connor.

  ‘That’s a lovely idea. Am I invited?’

  ‘Of course. You’ll be doing the cooking.’

  ‘Dinner at home? Oh, Mum!’

  ‘I’m not dressing up! And I can’t afford to pay restaurant prices for the quantity of booze I intend to drink. You’re a jolly good cook, Ann. Make us something special. Get in a few bottles and invite Connor. I like that boy and he likes us. It’ll be fun! But tell him, no presents. He can’t afford it. I forbid him to waste any money on an old trout like me. But a special evening, just the three of us, raising a glass to seven decades . . . Well, that might be very pleasant. Can I leave it with you?’

  Phoebe left it with me.

  ‘I can’t buy anything?’

  ‘Shhh! Keep your voice down. She’ll hear you.’

  Connor and I were drinking tea in the kitchen, waiting for the rain to stop.

  ‘Can I give her something if I don’t spend any money?’

  ‘I suppose so. But she really doesn’t want anything, just your company.’

  ‘Well, that’s very sweet of her, but it’s also very boring.’

  ‘I know, but she doesn’t want any fuss. She hates being another year older, with so little to show for it. Well, that’s the way she sees it. The rest of us think she’s a hero to try to keep working.’

  ‘That sketch she did of me – it was good, wasn’t it?’

  ‘Yes, it was, by any standards.’

  ‘She says she wants to paint my portrait.’

  ‘Let her. If you’re prepared to sit for her, that is. It’s hard work, harder than you might think. And she can be a real bully if she’s not happy.’

  ‘Can’t wait,’ Connor said amiably. ‘But is there really no way I can cheat with a present? What can I give her that doesn’t cost money?’

  ‘I don’t know. She’s made it very hard . . . Do you own a suit?’

  ‘A suit?’

  ‘Yes. Could you dress up a bit for dinner? I think she’d enjoy that. She once said she thought you’d scrub up well. Her phrase, not mine. If you wore a suit it would make the occasion seem a bit more special.’

  ‘You’d dress up too?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Okay, you’re on. But I have to give her something,’ Connor said, frowning. ‘She’ll be seventy!’ After a moment, his face brightened. ‘Do you think you could get her out of the house for a couple of hours on the day? Take her shopping or something?’

  ‘She hates shopping, but I could drag her off to the hairdresser. She’d probably like to have her hair done for her birthday.’

  ‘Could that take a couple of hours?’

  ‘Easily, if I take her into Bristol.’

  ‘Great! Make the appointment, but don’t tell her what I’m up to.’

  ‘What are you up to?’

  ‘It’s going to be a surprise. For both of you.’

  ‘Will you need a key?’

  ‘No, I’ll be working outside.’

  ‘On what?’

  ‘I’d rather not say.’ He tapped his head, looking mysterious. ‘The concept is still evolving. But I’ll need a photo of Phoebe. Full-face, nice and clear. And if you can find a profile shot as well, that would be handy.’

  ‘I’m intrigued. Will you need anything else?’

  ‘A chainsaw. But don’t worry about that, I’ll bring my own. Any more tea in the pot?’

  On her seventieth birthday I presented Phoebe with champagne, an outrageous Vivienne Westwood hat I picked up on eBay and Classic English Gardens, a book Connor had wanted to buy for her himself. The text was by the Victorian gardener Gertrude Jekyll and was illustrated with watercolours. The book demonstrated the art of ‘painting with plants’, something we hoped would appeal to Phoebe.

  She was thrilled with my gifts, especially the hat, but Connor’s upstaged all of mine. And it cost him nothing but sweat.

  When the doorbell rang I insisted Phoebe answer it to greet her solitary guest. She was wearing a purple trouser suit at least twenty years old, but it still fitted her, which flattered her vanity. It looked good with her freshly cut and blow-dried hair and a new red lipstick. I’d encouraged her to buy some glamorous sandals (heels had been out of the question for years) and I’d lent her some big statement jewellery. I told my mother she looked a million dollars and I wasn’t lying.

  I was in the kitchen setting out champagne glasses on a tray when she called out, ‘My God, it’s a Strippergram!’ Horrified, wondering if Connor had bribed a mate to do the honours, or worse, he was doing them himself, I rushed to the front door where a tall man in a tuxedo stood, his top half almost obscured by a bouquet of flowers.

  ‘Sorry to disappoint you, Phoebe,’ Connor said, lowering the flowers. ‘It’s only me. Happy birthday!’

  ‘You’ve been spending money on me, haven’t you? That’s too bad. I gave the strictest instructions.’

  ‘Not a penny. These,’ he said indicating the flowers, ‘are for the cook. If they happen to brighten up your sitting room a little, Phoebe, that’s just a happy side effect. These flowers are most definitely for Ann.’

  As he presented them to me, Phoebe and I stood open-mouthed, surprised less by Connor’s generosity than by his transformation. He too had had his hair cut and it now formed a thick mat of curls on the top of his head, revealing neat ears and a strong, thick neck. The new style made his shoulders look broader – or maybe that was the tux. I hoped he hadn’t gone to the
expense of hiring it, at the same time acknowledging, if he had, it was worth every penny in entertainment value.

  Phoebe took the words right out of my mouth. ‘Connor, you look gorgeous!’

  He bent his burnished head and said, ‘Thank you, Phoebe. So do you. And so does Ann. I don’t believe it’s ever been my privilege to dine with two such beautiful and talented ladies.’

  ‘Oh, bollocks to that,’ Phoebe said. ‘Come on in and give me a kiss. I’m seventy. We must make the most of what little time I have left.’

  I laughed out loud, but Connor spread his arms wide and enfolded Phoebe in a hug. Looking at his face over her shoulder, I could see his pleasure was genuine. I felt both grateful and jealous.

  ‘Champagne!’ Phoebe called as she released him. ‘Such lovely flowers! I think I might paint them. Ages since I did a still life. I love iris. Those blues and yellows just light up the room! So glad they were for Ann, though. I really didn’t want any presents.’ Phoebe didn’t see Connor’s eyebrows shoot up, nor the conspiratorial look he gave me.

  I jerked my head in the direction of the kitchen, indicating he should follow. He nodded, then turned and escorted Phoebe to her fireside chair. Once she was settled, we went into the kitchen where I started to undo the flowers. ‘Connor, you shouldn’t have spent so much! You know what she said.’

  ‘They’re for you.’ I rolled my eyes, but he protested. ‘They are! I’ve no idea when your birthday is, so this is an early present. Or belated. Whichever . . . Happy birthday, Ann. You know, I’ve never seen you in a dress before. You look stunning,’ he said, bending to kiss me on the cheek.

  He smelled as good as he looked. ‘I need some champagne,’ I said faintly. ‘In the fridge. Glasses over there.’ As he tackled the bottle, I searched for a large vase. ‘Did you already own the tux? It looks terrific.’

  ‘It was my brother’s. It fits me now I’ve bulked up a bit. I used to be a skinny lad, but Ivy said one day I’d probably be built like Kieran, so I should keep it. We got rid of the rest of his clothes. Very evocative things, clothes,’ he added, as he filled three glasses. ‘You don’t realise it when people are alive, but after they’ve gone, you notice their clothes smell of them. I had to get this cleaned a couple of times.’ Connor didn’t explain why and he didn’t need to.