The Memory Tree

by Linda Gillard

  ‘Oh, yes. She has your eyes,’ Hester said fondly. ‘Those remarkable Hatherwick eyes. Dark and intelligent. Violet had them too. She had no difficulty passing Ivy off as her own child.’

  He was already asleep, so she released his hand and studied it as it lay inert on the bedcover. She listened to his laboured breathing for a few moments, then got to her feet. Smoothing his hair away from his clammy forehead, she bent down to kiss him, so gently, he could not have felt it.

  Hester walked over to the door, opened it cautiously, then turned back to look at William’s sleeping figure. ‘It wasn’t wrong,’ she murmured. ‘We weren’t wrong. It was the war that was wrong. Goodbye, my love.’

  She waited for a response she knew would not come, then closed the door quietly behind her. Still clutching the handle, she leaned her forehead against the cool, painted wood, gathering her strength before setting off briskly along the corridor, her shoulders straight, her head high.

  HESTER

  October 7th, 1934

  I fear William will not be with us for much longer. I suppose it’s selfish of me to want him to live, prolonging his suffering when he cannot be cured and lives a miserable, bedridden existence. He no longer has the strength to walk in the grounds of the sanatorium and when I took him round in a wheelchair, it only exhausted him.

  I’ve summoned Ivy by letter and we expect her some time tomorrow. I hope she won’t be too late.

  Today William couldn’t stop coughing, so I held his hand and chatted to him about Ivy, trying to soothe him. As I left – under compulsion from that dragon of a ward sister – he handed me a letter. He was unable to do more than give me a speaking look before the uncontrollable coughing started again.

  October 8th

  Ivy was too late. William died yesterday, not long after I left him.

  Ivy is broken-hearted, especially as she wasn’t able to say a last goodbye. She’s staying now until after the funeral and I shall be very glad of her company. We plan to walk together in the beech wood and share our memories of William.

  When I saw him last, William was semi-delirious but he said he trusted me to do the right thing. I only wish I knew what that was.

  My first duty will always be to Ivy. She is happy and settled at college and doing well. She will need time to adjust, not only to the loss of her uncle, but to the final severing of ties with the Hatherwicks and Garden Lodge, which I’ve decided to sell. It will be a very difficult time. We both need time to think and grieve.

  ANN

  ‘You think the tears were William’s?’ Connor looked at me in disbelief, then stood up. ‘We need more coffee. Or maybe you need less, Ann,’ he added, taking the empty coffee pot over to the sink.

  As he refilled the kettle and switched it on, Phoebe leaned across the breakfast table. ‘Are you on to something?’

  ‘I don’t know. Maybe . . . Connor, when did William receive that letter from Ivy?’

  ‘A week before he died. She wrote to him from college, but he didn’t reply and they never saw each other again.’

  ‘How do we know William didn’t reply?’ I asked, watching Connor spoon coffee into the pot.

  ‘That’s what Ivy told me.’

  ‘But there’s an envelope, isn’t there? An empty envelope with Ivy’s real name, which you said no one would have used. If William wrote to her after his memory returned, he might have addressed her as his daughter. As Ivy Hatherwick.’

  ‘That’s a good point! I don’t suppose there’s any way of dating the envelope?’ Phoebe asked.

  ‘No, there’s nothing on it but her name. It was obviously delivered by hand.’ Connor brought the full coffee pot over to the kitchen table. ‘Shall we adjourn to the sitting room, girls?’

  ‘Good idea!’ Phoebe said struggling to her feet. ‘I could do with the exercise. My arse was taking root.’

  ‘Go and see if you can find that envelope, Connor. I’ll bring the coffee through.’

  As he headed for the sitting room, Phoebe followed, calling out after him, ‘Tip everything on to the floor. Let’s have a good old rummage!’

  I loaded our mugs and the coffee pot on to a tray, deep in thought. By the time I’d warmed some milk in the microwave and carried everything through, Connor had found the envelope and Phoebe was examining it closely.

  ‘Good-quality paper. And lined. A bit feminine, don’t you think? And far too posh for William. He wouldn’t have been able to afford stationery like this.’

  ‘But Hester would,’ I said, setting down the tray on the coffee table.

  ‘It’s not her handwriting,’ said Connor, seated on the carpet, surrounded by mounds of yellowing correspondence.

  ‘Do we know whose it is?’ I asked handing him a mug.

  ‘No. And we don’t have any actual letters from William for comparison.’

  ‘Yes, we do, we have lots.’

  ‘We do?’ He blinked up at me, surprised. Despite the caffeine intake, Connor’s lack of sleep and his exertions of the night before appeared to be taking their toll.

  ‘The seed packets.’

  ‘Of course!’ He reached across the floor, grabbed a large envelope and tipped out the contents. Opening a packet carefully, he examined the tiny writing. Phoebe peered over his shoulder, while I knelt beside him on the carpet.

  There was a tense silence before Phoebe announced, ‘It’s not the same. Damn.’

  ‘But it’s similar,’ Connor countered. ‘And if you consider this was about twenty years earlier and written in a trench, in pencil, possibly under fire . . . He was also writing something he never intended anyone to read.’

  ‘Whereas that envelope,’ I said, pointing, ‘might have contained his final communication with Ivy.’

  ‘What makes you say that?’ Phoebe asked, sipping her coffee.

  ‘Well, it’s probably Hester’s notepaper.’

  ‘I don’t follow.’

  ‘Why would William be writing on someone else’s expensive notepaper? He must have had his own paper and envelopes at home.’

  Connor sat bolt upright. ‘But he wasn’t at home!’

  ‘No, he was in hospital.’

  ‘And Hester brought him in the wherewithal so he could write a last letter to Ivy before he died! It all adds up!’ Phoebe said, delighted.

  ‘Well, possibly . . . Do you think it is William’s handwriting on that envelope, Connor?’

  He examined the two words again. ‘Could be. He was dying. Writing in bed, presumably. It could be the same hand. But if William was writing to Ivy on his deathbed, what would he want to say?’

  ‘Fond farewells. The usual stuff,’ Phoebe said dismissively. ‘How much he loved her, I suppose.’

  ‘He must also have told her she was his daughter.’

  ‘Hang on, Ann – we don’t know that.’

  ‘Yes, we do. The envelope is addressed to Ivy Hatherwick. Her legal name was Mordaunt. He surely must have been writing to tell her she was his daughter.’

  ‘Well, in that case,’ Connor said, ‘she never got the letter.’

  ‘She must have,’ Phoebe insisted. ‘We’ve got the empty envelope here.’

  Connor shook his head. ‘Unless you think Ivy was hiding something from me, we know she didn’t have any idea who her real parents were.’

  ‘That’s right. Not until she read William’s letter.’

  ‘But she didn’t read it, Ann! Hester can’t have given it to her. My grandmother wouldn’t have lived a lie. She couldn’t. She was a deeply moral woman, a churchgoer all her life. She thoroughly disapproved of Hester’s atheism! And why would she have asked me to research her family tree if she knew there were some dodgy skeletons in the cupboard? Sorry, but you’re wrong. Ivy had no idea whose child she was.’

  ‘Not until the day she died.’

  ‘What?’ Phoebe and Connor spoke in unison, staring at me.

  ‘I believe Ivy must have found this letter on the day she died. I’ve no idea where, but I think it must have t
urned up somehow after a lifetime of being hidden – by Hester probably. It might have been her notepaper. If so, she must have given it to William. He probably told her why he wanted it. For some reason Hester didn’t hand the letter over, but decades later, Ivy found it, read it and discovered who she was.’

  ‘And then set fire to the family archive? Why? She adored Hester. And if the “uncle” she’d loved all her life turned out to be her dad – well, why would she be angry about that? It doesn’t make any sense! Having Hester and William for parents was no more shameful than being the lovechild of Violet and some unknown dead Tommy.’

  ‘Oh, no . . . That’s what it was. Shame.’ The shock of realisation was so great, I thought for a moment I was going to be sick.

  ‘Ann, are you okay?’ Connor put an arm round me. ‘What’s wrong?’

  ‘Don’t you see?’ I swallowed and said, ‘If William told Ivy he was her father . . . I mean, if he only told her he was her father . . . Don’t you see? As far as Ivy knew, Violet was her mother!’

  ‘Oh, Jesus . . .’ Connor let me go and his arms fell to his sides.

  ‘Ann, please explain!’ Phoebe said testily. ‘I can’t keep up.’

  ‘Hester never acknowledged Ivy as her own child. We know Ivy believed she was Violet’s child, of father unknown. William was dying when he wrote. Confused, possibly delirious. What if he didn’t explain who Ivy’s mother was? If he didn’t actually name her? What would Ivy have thought? How could she have made sense of it all? After all, she was in her nineties.’

  ‘Oh, Lord . . . I see what you mean,’ Phoebe said.

  I was watching Connor, concerned about his pallor. I laid a hand on his arm. ‘You knew her very well. How would she have taken the news that she was apparently the product of brother and sister incest?’

  ‘She would have been appalled. Completely appalled.’

  ‘You said she wasn’t one to live with secrets. Suppose she thought she’d discovered that her whole life was one big shameful secret, one her conscience-stricken father felt he must reveal on his deathbed—’

  ‘She would have destroyed the letter . . . She might have destroyed everything.’

  There was a long and terrible silence in which no one moved, then Connor’s shoulders seemed to sag and his head fell forward. I knelt up and put my arms round him, holding him tight while his body shook with silent sobs. Phoebe struggled to her feet and, leaning on her stick, she laid her free hand on his head and stroked his hair, murmuring.

  My mother and I shed tears for Connor while he wept for Ivy Hatherwick, who lived and died in ignorance of who she was, who never knew how much her mother had loved her, nor how much she’d wanted to protect her.

  IVY

  24th November, 2013

  Ivy Watson threw another log on to the dying fire and replaced the fireguard. She picked her way carefully through the photo albums, letters and postcards strewn on the floor of her small sitting room and settled down again in her armchair. She lifted one of the old albums on to her lap and turned its heavy, ornamented pages. She decided Connor must have a picture of the old Trysting Tree, so she removed the photo of the ancient beech, making sure she didn’t bend it with her clumsy fingers.

  As she extracted the corners from the small card triangles holding the photo in place, Ivy saw an envelope had been tucked behind. As she turned it over, she was astonished to see the envelope was addressed to Ivy Hatherwick. Curious now, she opened it and removed a single sheet of notepaper. At once she recognised her Uncle William’s handwriting and noted that the letter had been written the day before he died. Ivy settled back in her armchair, but she’d read no more than a few lines when she suddenly shot forward, her hand covering her mouth. As she continued to read, her eyes widened and she emitted a small whimpering noise.

  October 7th, 1934

  My dearest Ivy,

  I understand from Hester that you have been given leave to come home from college. I so look forward to seeing you again, my dear, but I fear I might not, so I’ve decided to write to you. If you are reading this letter, it’s because I am dead and Hester has had to give you my final communication.

  I am very ill and preparing to quit this world. Before I go, I must act according to my conscience, which troubles me greatly. I have something to tell you that will cause you great consternation. I wish to acknowledge the truth about your parentage. Your mother didn’t want you ever to know, but now, as time runs out for me, I believe I must tell you the truth, however unpalatable.

  The facts are simple. Our situation was not. I loved your mother and she loved me, but our love was forbidden. Marriage was quite impossible. On a single occasion, just before I left for France, we succumbed to our mutual passion. You were the consequence.

  I recalled nothing of this until a few days ago when my memory returned in its entirety. Since then I have been trying to come to terms with a past that was until that moment unknown to me. When I came home, I was told you were another man’s child and so all these years I’ve loved you as my niece, but I don’t think I could have loved you more, had I known you were my own child.

  My strength is failing and I must close now. Remember your loving ‘uncle’ and try to forgive your father’s sin. It was committed in the name of love, in the face of probable death. It is in the face of imminent death that I write to you now, to claim you – finally and proudly – as my child. I deeply regret what happened and how it blighted your poor mother’s life, but I do not and could not regret the great gift of your birth.

  My dearest Ivy, please try to find it in your heart to forgive me.

  Ever your loving father,

  William Hatherwick

  Ivy crushed the letter into a ball, held it tightly in her fist for a moment, then threw it on the floor. She leaned back, clutching the arms of her chair and wept for a long time.

  After she’d composed herself, she bent down, her breathing still unsteady, and retrieved the letter. She spread it out on her lap and read the words again, hoping they might have changed, that she had been dreaming, that her aged brain had simply misunderstood. But the words remained the same and there was no other construction she could put upon them.

  She was the child of incest. Violet Hatherwick had been in love with her own brother and it was for this reason no father had been named on her child’s birth certificate. Ivy’s happy, fatherless childhood had been a lie, her parentage an abomination. Hester had evidently tried to shield Ivy from this terrible knowledge by hiding the letter, but truth will out. Oh, why had she not simply destroyed it, so Ivy could die in ignorance of her tainted blood?

  Wiping her eyes, Ivy looked down again at the letter. How dare William ask for forgiveness? She would not, could not forgive such wickedness. His confession had destroyed the pride she took in her family, wiped out all her happy memories. It was all lies!

  But no one else need ever know. Connor must never know. Ivy would make sure of that. When she died, the dreadful secret would die with her. She would protect her beloved grandson just as dear Hester had protected her. But Hester had only hidden the truth. Ivy would destroy it. All of it.

  She got to her feet and staggered towards the fireplace. Setting the fireguard aside, she threw William’s letter on to the fire and watched it burn. When there was nothing left and the flames had died down, she turned and surveyed the family archive spread out on the floor and dining table. She bent down and grabbed some letters and photographs and hurled them on to the fire. As she gathered up the piles of photos and consigned them to the blaze, she began to weep again, but she stood and watched with something like relief as the photos buckled, then burst into flames . . .

  ANN

  Connor was subdued for the rest of the morning. Upset and, I suspect, embarrassed by his emotional response to what was ultimately just a theory about Ivy’s discovery, he set about packing up the archive into its cardboard boxes. I offered to help and we worked in leaden silence while Phoebe took a leisurely bath. Afterwards
he went out into the garden to do a few maintenance jobs and I cleared away the breakfast things.

  Some time later, he put his head round the back door and said, ‘I think I’ll call it a day, Ann.’

  ‘But you’ll stay for lunch?’

  Avoiding my eyes, he said, ‘I won’t, thanks. There’s still loads of stuff I need to do for the website launch and I really need to get on top of paperwork. It’s a busy time of year and I’ve got more jobs than I can handle at the moment.’

  ‘Well, that’s a nice problem to have. Are you launching the website soon?’

  ‘In a few days probably.’

  ‘So shall we celebrate? Next weekend? I dare say Phoebe will insist on more champagne.’

  ‘Okay. That sounds great,’ he said, attempting a smile.

  ‘I think the garden’s just about ready for me to take over now, so we should celebrate the end of the project. Take some photos. Raise a toast.’

  His smile was a bit more convincing this time. ‘Yes, let’s do that. Next weekend it is.’ There was an awkward pause in which Connor looked uncomfortable. Staring down at his muddy wellingtons, he said, ‘Ann, you do know it’s nothing to do with . . . what happened last night?’

  ‘Of course. I just wish now I’d kept my big mouth shut about Ivy. I wasn’t thinking how it would affect you. I’m so sorry.’

  ‘No, I’m just overreacting. She meant such a lot to me.’

  ‘I know, and to think of her in such a state of turmoil, alone and so very angry . . . It’s horrible! But, you know, I could be wrong. There might have been another reason. Maybe you should try to believe there was.’

  ‘But you can’t really do that, can you? Un-know something. Forget what you don’t want to remember. Isn’t that why Ivy burned the archive?’

  ‘Would a man without memory be a happy man?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘That’s what Hester wrote in her diary. I wonder if William was happier before his memory returned?’

  ‘I don’t know, but I’ll never be able to look at a photo of Ivy without thinking how she might have felt during those last few days in hospital . . . She was so proud of her family. She loved them so much. She didn’t remember much about Violet, but William and Hester were her world.’