The Memory Garden

by Rachel Hore

  How many generations had sat here, where she was, in this once-lovely garden, hearing the wind in the trees, the call of the rooks, finding succour in this mellow walled haven filled with the scent of flowers . . . She looked down, shuffling the bindweed under her feet.

  Then two things happened at once.

  Her foot snared itself in some wire.

  And someone called, ‘Ah, here you are.’ It was Irina.

  ‘Hello,’ Mel called, bending and pulling the wire off her foot. It was the skeleton of something metal. An umbrella. The curved handle was covered in slime and when she rubbed it with her glove it gleamed yellow. Ivory, perhaps.

  She raised her head and was struck to see Irina’s expression. There was something wrong. Irina looked . . . anxious, hurt. The woman darted little looks from Patrick to Matt, to Mel.

  ‘I was on my way back from taking Amber,’ Irina addressed Mel in a small voice. ‘I came to see if you were in.’

  ‘Patrick thought we should start on the garden.’ Mel held the umbrella skeleton towards her. ‘Look, treasure,’ she said, and laughed. Irina looked uncertain.

  She feels left out, thought Mel suddenly. Or is it that I’m here with Patrick? She glanced at Patrick who fortunately caught her meaning.

  ‘Fancy helping?’ he said pleasantly. ‘There’s plenty to do.’

  Irina smiled delightedly.

  ‘It’s nearly lunchtime, actually,’ Patrick went on. ‘I’ve got some bread and cold meat . . .’

  ‘Then I can cut us all some sandwiches,’ Irina said happily.

  ‘Sounds great,’ said Matt. ‘I didn’t have breakfast.’

  ‘Didn’t get breakfast,’ said Irina in a mock-horrified voice, hands on hips. ‘You should never miss breakfast, you know.’

  ‘What is it about women?’ moaned Matt to Mel. ‘They can’t stop trying to be my mother.’

  ‘It’s because you’re such a boy,’ said Mel, laughing.

  Later, as the sun began to sink, Matt and Irina left at the same moment, Matt to walk back down the hill to the hotel to help serve dinner, Irina to drive up to Paul to collect her daughter from Amber’s house.

  ‘I expect I can come next weekend if you want me,’ Matt had said. ‘I enjoyed it.’

  ‘And me,’ said Irina. ‘I will try to come, too.’

  ‘You are mad,’ Patrick said. ‘Completely crazy – I’m so grateful to both of you.’ He watched them go then turned back to Mel. ‘And you. You’ve been a real trooper,’ he said. ‘I can’t believe we’ve achieved so much in so short a time.’

  ‘Nor me.’ Mel was exhausted. ‘A hot bath for me, I think.’

  ‘Me, too, after I’ve put all those tools away. No, no, you’ve done enough today.’

  They stood looking at each other, hesitant. I can’t ask him what he’s doing later, she thought. I&re and the est

  Chapter 15

  At half-past seven they stood gazing up at the statue of Sir Humphry Davy, inventor of the lamp that saved so many miners’ lives, where he looked down Penzance High Street to the promenade beyond and the sea. Above, in the gloaming, a few seagulls circled.

  ‘Bet you wish you’d handled Sir Humphry’s portfolio,’ said Mel. ‘Where’s your office? Is it round here?’

  ‘No,’ Patrick said. ‘It’s a few streets away, beyond the park. There’s a tiny industrial estate with workshops and offices – it’s one of those.’

  They walked slowly down a side street lined with restaurants, leading to the great bulk of St Mary’s Church overlooking the bay and eventually, after peering into windows and scanning menus, they selected a small Italian restaurant.

  ‘Something filling is what we need after all that gardening,’ Patrick said as he pushed open the door. Even on a Sunday evening it was half-full, but the waitress led them over to a corner table by the window.

  When Mel peeled off her short coat and scarf and handed them over to the waitress, she couldn’t help noticing Patrick’s appreciative glance at her gauzy blouse cinched with a heavy silver buckled belt over a gypsy skirt. He chose to keep on his black moleskin jacket and she thought how smart it looked against his white grandad shirt.

  They ordered wine and pasta and Mel said, ‘Would you really have come out on your own to eat – if I hadn’t been here, I mean?’

  ‘Sure, why not?’ He shrugged. ‘It’s much nicer to have company but I don’t mind being on my own. I’d have brought a book.’

  ‘I wouldn’t like it. Of course, I’ve had to sometimes, if I’ve been away on a research trip, but I always feel so self-conscious, as if everybody is looking at me and thinking I’m a bit sad.’

  ‘That nobody loves you, you mean? Do you suppose people think that about men on their own?’

  ‘I don’t,’ said Mel, taking a gulp of the wine the waitress had poured for them. ‘I assume they’re on business or that they’re on their way somewhere and need to eat first. Silly, isn’t it?’

  ‘Well, let’s face it, some men are unashamedly predatory. When they see an attractive woman on her own they regard it as an opportunity.’

  ‘That must be it. Women are frightened of that.’

  ‘How are you finding being down here, locked away in the country when you’re so used to the city?’

  Mel bit into a breadstick and considered the question. ‘It is lonely,’ she said finally. ‘It’s partly the quiet and the darkness – it gets very dark, doesn’t it, when there’s no moon?’

  ‘I love it,’ Patrick said fiercely. ‘It’s so wild, so elemental. I g"; font-weight: bold; haQ in fronto out walking sometimes at night. Only places where I’m sure of the way, but it’s amazing what you see. Badgers and foxes, yes, all sorts of animals, but also the shape of the land in the moonlight. And sounds carry. Not just natural sounds, unfortunately. You can hear a car engine miles away.’

  ‘Don’t you miss other people?’

  ‘Do I feel lonely? Sometimes, yes – yes, I do. Especially since . . . well, there can be too much time to think. But I’m used to being by myself. I’ve lived on my own in London on and off for years. And being brought up in the country I’m used to everything being remote. London crowds in on you, forces you to look upon everybody else having fun, paired off, going out somewhere noisy “for a laugh”. And yet there are so many truly lonely people there, people who hate going home because there’s nothing for them there, people who are frightened of being beaten up if they walk alone from the bus stop. Not that the countryside is crime free or that people aren’t lonely here, it’s just my own experience. I feel . . . in touch with myself, to use that horrible phrase.’

  ‘You must have deep inner resources then,’ Mel laughed. ‘If we’re talking horrible phrases.’

  ‘I think a lot and I read. And there’ll be the garden, especially over the summer. And I do know people down here. I have family – Mum and Dad, and my brother Joe over near Truro. And there are a few other friends from school scattered around the county. I suppose I must invite one or two over sometime when I’m more organised.’

  Their food arrived and they were silent for a bit as they ate. After a few mouthfuls, Patrick looked up and smiled at her. ‘I have to say, I’ve not felt at all lonely lately, with you living in the garden,’ he said shyly.

  ‘You make me sound like a fairy!’

  ‘You’re supposed to be flattered.’ He touched her hand in a tentative movement.

  ‘Oh, I am,’ she said hastily.

  ‘We have a lot in common, don’t we?’ he said. ‘The garden, a sense of the past, all sorts of things.’

  And our own pasts, she thought, struck by his air of sadness. She wondered what had not happened for him, whether it was only his broken relationship that had made him retreat down here, to lick his wounds.

  ‘What is it you intend to do down here?’ she asked suddenly.

  ‘Do?’ he said, narrowing his eyes, defensive. ‘My work. Live quietly, rebuild the house and the garden. Enjoy the peace and see what happens. Why,
what do you want to “do” where you live?’ He poured them both another glass of wine.

  ‘Only, shouldn’t life have more . . . purpose?’

  ‘Do we need to be useful, do you mean?’

  ‘Well, yes, possibly. Or creative.’

  He thought, then nodded. ‘There are many different ways of doing that. They don’t all have to be done as part of a community, do they? I’m not really a group person.’

  ‘Perhaps you’re right. Do you feel your way of life is fulfilling?’

  He put down his fork and considered this. ‘No,’ he said simply. ‘Not at the moment. I suppose I’m in limbo or undergoing some sea-change. I’m waiting to be carried by the next tide.’

  ‘Yes,’ she echoed, feeling the sudden weight of her grief. ‘That’s a bit like me.’

  The waitress came to clear their plates. Mel licked ice cream from a long-handled spoon while Patrick drank cup after cup of syrupy espresso, watching her. A noisy crowd claimed the table next to them and they gave up trying to talk much. Finally Patrick asked for the bill and when it came the waitress left a small bowl of amaretti – almond biscuits wrapped in tissue paper.

  It was dark when they stepped out into the still evening, munching their amaretti. Patrick gently clasped her hand and they walked downhill past the church, towards the sea. They stood on the promenade, looking out across the bay to the lighthouse winking in the far distance and the lights of little ships slipping through the distant darkness. All was quiet except for the whisper of the waves below.

  Patrick leaned over the railing, staring down into the black water, deep in his own thoughts. ‘Do you ever feel as though it’s sucking you down, drawing you in?’ he asked quietly. ‘They’re treacherous, these seas.’

  ‘And thrilling and beautiful, some of the time,’ she replied, thinking of how exhilarated she had felt at Porthcurno only a couple of days before. The sea was much calmer tonight.

  ‘And like the powers of hell in a storm,’ he said. ‘But today they’re just lurking, biding their time.’ There was something bitter in his tone. It was beginning to rain now, very slightly. Fired by some angry energy, Patrick grabbed her hand and pulled her back up the hill. She could hardly keep up with him. ‘Patrick, don’t. Wait,’ she gasped. ‘My shoe . . .’

  ‘Sorry.’ He stopped under a streetlight in the marketplace and waited for her to slip the strap back over her heel, his breath coming hard. She looked up and was fascinated by the pulse beating wildly in his throat.

  ‘Sorry. What a brute I am,’ he whispered, and took her hand more gently this time, leading her up along the road to the car.

  He didn’t speak as he drove, far too fast as usual, back through the narrow lanes to Merryn Hall, and Mel didn’t like to break into his thoughts for fear of disturbing his concentration. Why was he like this, a man who could be so peaceful and then suddenly tormented? She was slightly frightened, yet drawn to him at the same time.

  By the time they bumped down the drive of Merryn Hall, the rain was falling steadily. ‘Come on in,’ urged Patrick as they hurried across the courtyard. She huddled under the porch as he fitted the key into the lock. Deep inside she could hear the telephone. The door swung open, ring ring, louder and louder, ring ring, and he crossed the hall into the kitchen to answer it.

  Left in the hall, Mel tried not to listen, but her hearing did that trick that dogs have, of tuning into a sound that interests them, even through a cacophony of others. She knew she ought to walk away, into the drawing room, but she froze, her face reflected ghastly white in a mottled oval mirror.

  ‘No, it’s difficult to talk,’ came Patrick’s voice. The kitchen door started to close as though pushed, but then swung open again by itself. ‘I’ve got someone here . . . The person who’s renting the cottage.’

  Someone. The person? Tears prickled.

  ‘Look, you’ll be okay. Take some deep breaths . . . yes, that’s right. You’ve got to ring him, you must. Right away. As soon as you come off the phone. I’ll call you in the morning. Are you okay? . . . Don’t be like that.’ This, gently. ‘No, that"; font-weight: bold; m is ces’s not fair . . . I’ll ring you back, promise. Look, for goodness’ sake call him then go to bed. I’ll speak to you in the morning . . . Goodnight.’

  Mel found she could suddenly move and slid inside the drawing room just as Patrick emerged from the kitchen. She sat down quickly on one of the sofas. The room was dark, cheerless, smelled of ash. The grate was cold.

  The door opened and Patrick walked slowly in. Mel stared at him, noticing at once his agitation. He passed a hand over his mouth, then seemed to recover.

  ‘Sorry about that. Now – would you like some coffee or something stronger?’

  ‘Patrick, are you all right?’

  ‘Yes – yes, of course. Why?’

  ‘You don’t seem it.’

  ‘I’m fine. Honestly. I was going to open a bottle of wine myself.’

  ‘I’d rather have a cup of tea, I think.’

  After a moment she followed him out into the kitchen, pulling her cardigan close against the chill in the air. Patrick was standing by the stove. In one hand he held a bottle, but he hadn’t bothered to look for the corkscrew. He was staring into the distance. When he saw her he checked himself and yanked open a drawer. ‘Would you mind putting the kettle on?’ he asked, his voice toneless.

  ‘Patrick,’ Mel said, drawing up her courage. She walked over and touched his arm. ‘What’s happened?’

  He shut the drawer slowly and put the bottle down on the table.

  ‘Really . . .’ he started to say, looking away, then in a forced voice, ‘It was Bella on the phone.’

  ‘Bella? You mean . . .’

  ‘My fiancée. Ex-fiancée, obviously. I suppose Chrissie has told you all about her?’

  ‘I don’t think Chrissie’s met her, Patrick, so no, she hasn’t told me anything.’

  His eyes met hers at last and she saw he was a hair’s breadth away from tears, his face pale and pinched. He pushed impatiently at the hair falling across his forehead like a small boy, so she gently put her arm around him, as she would do to comfort a child. They stood like that together for a moment, she gently rubbing his shoulders, feeling his body quiver with distress.

  ‘Oh Mel,’ he said, raising his head. ‘I’m sorry, this is pathetic.’

  ‘It’s all right,’ she said soothingly. ‘It’s all right.’ But the words seemed useless. ‘What did she want?’

  ‘She was having a panic attack. She gets them occasionally, especially when she’s on her own.’

  ‘On her own where?’ The Sahara Desert?

  ‘She’s in her flat. In Clerkenwell.’

  ‘Oh,’ Mel said flatly.

  ‘I know. It sounds odd, but I’m used to it.’

  ‘Look, sit down, let’s open this bottle.’ Mel fished the corkscrew out of the drawer and passed it to him then went to lift a glass, no, two – forget about tea – glasses out of the cupboard. She sloshed wine in both and pushed one towards him. ‘Drink,’ she commanded, sitting down opposite. ‘Now tell me all about it.’

  It was a familiar tale. A man approaching forty, ready to settle down, meeting a woman ten years his junior who is flattered by his attentions.

  ‘Bella works for Connyngham and Hall – you know,"; font-weight: bold; ITGo the estate agents? We met through a mutual friend. I thought she was an extraordinary person. I still do. She’s so warm and lively, interested in people. We had similar backgrounds – do you know, her father was a farmer, too, but in Devon. We were good together – or so I thought. And she is very lovely.’

  Here he hesitated, then pulled out his wallet from his inside jacket pocket and leafed through the notes and cards, finally drawing out a small photograph, which he passed to Mel.

  She gazed at the pretty tanned face, the fine, naturally fair hair pushed back by the pair of dark glasses on her head. Bella was relaxed, laughing, a soft sweater tied loosely round her shoulders. She might hav
e been on a yacht, or drinking iced tea after tennis. A Grace Kelly girl. A sort men fall for hook, line and sinker. Mel laid the photo on the table between them without a word.

  ‘I knew I had finally met the right person. Isn’t that odd? How wrong one can be.’

  ‘What happened?’ She felt overwhelmed by this golden vision of Bella.

  ‘She didn’t, in the end, feel the same certainty I did, I suppose is the answer. You know, we had talked everything through. The life we wanted together. We both agreed we hoped for children – or so she said – but she didn’t want to work all the hours of the day that she had to with her job and have to combine that with kids, so we talked about downshifting. Moving out of London, her getting a less demanding job. Then, eight months ago, Val died, and suddenly this place entered the equation.’ He gave a shuddering sigh.

  ‘I brought Bella down here. It was wrong from the start. She was horrified at how remote it was, how much needed to be done to the place. I said we could keep a house in London, why not? Do up Merryn gradually as a second home until we felt sure about it.’

  ‘It would have been quite a culture shock to move down here if you weren’t used to living in the wilds,’ Mel admitted. ‘I know it would be for me.’

  ‘Yes, I appreciated that. But she had been brought up deep in the Devon countryside. And, if you think about it, she’d be nearer her family here than when she was in London. Anyway, it wasn’t as though I insisted on us moving here. I’d have sold it if she had said the word, but she just wouldn’t make up her mind about anything. This place became a catalyst – it forced certain decisions about our relationship.’ He paused and took another large gulp of wine, as though to anaesthetise his feelings.

  ‘And then she told me. She had met someone else. Actually, she had re-met him – an old flame from law college.’

  Mel was touched by the lines of pain and tiredness etched into his features. The light flickered and she looked up. A moth was dashing itself against the bare bulb.

  Patrick didn’t notice. He was staring sightlessly into the dark shadows of the scullery. ‘What was most awful was that she couldn’t decide between us. I couldn’t stand it, I felt . . . stripped of my sense of self. In the end I broke it off. It was the only way to keep sane.’ The expression on his face was almost crazed now, desolate, hopeless. Mel fought to think of any words of comfort. With a moment of sudden clarity she remembered the phone call.