The Memory Garden

by Rachel Hore

  ‘Has she accepted your decision?’ she whispered. ‘Is it hers also?’

  ‘At the time she agreed it was the right thing to do,’ Patrick said dully. ‘I know the other bloke has moved in with her. But he works late sometimes and she hates being on her own . . .’

  So she"; font-weight: bold; lier of ’s got the best of all worlds, thought Mel scathingly, but she kept her mouth shut. Patrick would have to see this for himself. But then Mel could hardly talk, could she? She asked herself what she would do if Jake contacted her out of the blue, suggested that they start over again. Damn, was it the wine or Patrick’s misery that was making her cry, too.

  Her chair jerked back with a teeth-jarring squawk as she went over to the sink and yanked a wad of kitchen paper off a roll lying on the windowsill to blow her nose. Against the black hatched glass she could see the hideous underbellies of a dozen crawling insects, moths, flies, beetles, drawn by the light. She shuddered.

  ‘You’re freezing,’ said Patrick, half rising from his chair.

  ‘No, no, I’m fine,’ she said, but he picked up their glasses and touched her elbow.

  ‘Let’s turn on the electric fire in Val’s sitting room,’ he said. ‘It’s a bit late to make up one in the drawing room.’

  They moved through and Mel stood watching him fiddling with the switches on the double-barred fire until it began to glow red. Where should she sit – the chair or the sofa? The strange misery rose in her chest, threatening to choke her.

  He solved the problem for her. ‘Come next to me here,’ he said, sinking onto the sofa, so she sat down as close as she could without touching him and took her glass.

  ‘Would you like a blanket?’ he said anxiously, seeing her shiver despite the fire now blazing away. He leaned towards her, put an arm around her shoulder and pulled her close, rubbing her arm vigorously to warm her.

  ‘No, I’m all right,’ she said quietly. After a while, he was still again and athinking she laid her head onto his shoulder.

  They were silent for a minute, then Patrick said in a low voice, ‘Thank you for listening. It was a shock, her ringing like that.’

  And you’ve got to ring her back tomorrow, thought Mel, but she didn’t feel like reminding him.

  ‘I . . . I know I shouldn’t ask about your situation, what happened to you. Chrissie just said your relationship had broken up.’

  ‘I know it’s only fair that I tell you,’ she said in a tight voice. ‘We were together four years. Jake’s a lecturer at the college where I teach. It . . . it got to the point where we had to decide. About getting married, I mean, having kids – the whole show. And there we stalled. He’d done all that once, you see, and he wasn’t ready to try it again. I suppose that’s it in a nutshell.’

  ‘Poor you.’ Patrick squeezed her arm gently. She lay, eyes closed, resting on his shoulder, enjoying the warmth, the peace, waiting for the misery to ebb away. It didn’t. Talking about Jake made her long for him again, brought home the fact that the fascinating closeness of Patrick didn’t feel like Jake. Patrick seemed bigger, fleshier, more reassuring, whereas Jake’s coiled-up energy was challenging, exciting. Even Patrick’s jacket smelled different – not unpleasant, just as if it had been kept at the back of an airless wardrobe. They took getting used to, these differences. She sighed and her warm breath on his neck made him turn his head towards her, then he shifted his whole body. He regarded her, calm now, and gave a sleepy smile. It was strange seeing someone’s face this close. How naked and vulnerable he seemed, how touchingly unfinished were his features.

  It would be so easy . . . to let him lean forward and kiss her, to allow him to run his hands over her body. She wanted "; font-weight: bold; m is cesto, badly, but somewhere inside a voice cried, ‘No, it’s no good, not like this.’

  With a great effort of will she smiled at him and moved slightly, to put a little distance between them.

  ‘You are beautiful, you know that?’ She watched the soft movements of his lips as he slurred ‘beautiful’.

  Beautiful. Belle. Bella.

  ‘Thank you,’ she said, her smile feeling pasted on. ‘And now, I really must stop drinking.’ She leaned forward to place the glass on the table.

  ‘Me too,’ he said wistfully, crumpling back against the sofa with a sigh. Then he laughed. ‘What a sorry old pair we are.’

  ‘Aren’t we?’ she said. ‘You know, I ought to be getting mlmost without

  Chapter 16

  On a Monday morning, eight days later, the sound of clanking and grinding dragged Mel out of troubled sleep. She opened her eyes to bright daylight flooding through the gap in the curtains. Rolling onto her back, which ached after too much gardening, she lay awhile, staring at the shadows flickering across the ceiling.

  Only five more days at Merryn – well, six, if she counted Saturday, but she ought to leave before nine to miss the traffic, so five really. And after that she might never see Patrick again. A thought which brought back ragged trails of last night’s dream, something about running and getting nowhere . . . no, it was gone.

  There was another clunk, a whoosh of airbrakes and the teeth-jarring sound of metal being dragged across stone. She sat up, remembering what it was. The skips Patrick had ordered must have arrived.

  And she must get up if she was to make her appointment in St Ives at ten.

  Since that miserable Sunday evening, Patrick had thrown himself into a frenzy of activity. Mel watched from the sidelines, where she felt firmly placed, acutely aware of his unhappiness but unable to breach his wall of polite friendliness.

  First he arranged for the landscape architect to visit, then he rang round several firms of tree surgeons. He told Mel he had earmarked the front garden of the house as the next area for clearance, which would involve serious industrial work, and finally decided on a roofer who, depending on the weather, would be starting work during August.

  Mel comforted herself that leaving really was for the best. Merryn might not be a peaceful place to stay and work for long. On the other hand, the cottage would be empty. Patrick told her he would not be trying to let it to anyone else if the estate was going to become a building site. It would stand vacant, and the thought saddened her.

  But there was another reason why it was sensible to go.

  Since that moment of intimacy over a week ago, their relationship had undergone a profound change. It had become self-conscious, forced, though they had tried to carry on as normal. She had helped Patrick in the garden several afternoons and they had worked in silence or talked about safe subjects – how Patrick should go about reconstructing the greenhouses, or what the school was like where his brother Joe taught. There was an unspoken awareness of something between them like a great solid lump that couldn’t be touched or, it seemed, even mentioned. All the physical ease they had shared had gone, too. He would stand back courteously if Mel passed him in the kitchen and deliberately take an armchair if she sat on a sofa. Either he was repulsing her, or something else was going on. Maybe he was protecting her or himself.

  Part of her was readying itself to leave now, to escape this dreamy backwater and to dive back into the busy currents of normal life, but another part of her knew she would be leaving something valuable behind.

  Now she was simply trying not to dwell on this, to be businesslike. of Newlyn and LamornabownLast week, she had worked hard on the early chapters of her book. She had visited the Records Office again and would meet with the art historian in St Ives this morning, finish the remaining bits of research she needed to do in Lamorna and go. The detailed plan for her book was ready. She even had a title: Radiant Light: The Artists of Newlyn and Lamorna. She would write it in London over the coming months.

  ‘I had an email from Jonathan Smithfield last night,’ she had said to Patrick yesterday afternoon after another hard bout of gardening. Matt had been helping, too, but had left in response to a summons from his mother to help with a large party of German tourists. Now Mel and Patrick were lol
ling in a couple of rickety old steamer-chairs that Patrick had found in a stable, and drinking ginger beer. ‘You know, the art historian who lives in St Ives. I’m going to see him tomorrow. Shall I show him your paintings – P.T.’s, I mean?’

  ‘That’s a good idea,’ said Patrick. ‘Which ones would be best?’

  ‘I thought your oil and two or three of the flowers. What I’m hoping is that he’s seen other work by the artist. Or, at least, he might be able to cast some light on P.T.’s identity, or have a suggestion about how to find out.’

  ‘I wish I could come with you,’ he said casually, crushing his drinks can in a single, cruel movement, ‘but I don’t have the time. The computer man’s coming tomorrow.’ Mel watched him toss the can in a perfect over-arm movement to land on a pile of garden rubbish and wondered why she felt as if she were the can.

  As well as all his work in the garden, Patrick had been making progress with his new office, installing equipment and interviewing two candidates whom the local Job Centre had sent along for the post of administrative assistant.

  Considering how much time he had spent at the office it was amazing really that they had achieved as much as they had in the garden.

  It was a warm day for the tail end of April. Mel finished the dregs of her drink and looked around. Most of the Flower Garden was cleared now and Patrick had been digging hard in preparation for planting. They had bought dozens of trays of bedding plants, pots of herbs and seedlings, from a local garden centre. Already, Mel had bedded in several rows, which she regarded with satisfaction. Now she leaned back in her chair and closed her eyes, enjoying the sun on her face.

  When she opened them again, it was to find Patrick sitting up, arms folded over bent knees, watching her, an expression of such unhappiness on his face that pity surged through her. She smiled at him and he smiled back then looked away, suddenly distant again.

  She remembered this now as she ate breakfast, and considered what it might have meant. What were his feelings for her really – deep down? He was impossible to read.

  He hadn’t mentioned Bella again. Had he rung her back the following day as he had promised? Mel hadn’t dared to ask, but once during the week she wondered whether she had interrupted such a conversation. Hearing his car in the drive – she guessed he must have been at the office all day – she had walked up to the house to give him a parcel the postman had left with her. When Patrick answered the door he was on the portable phone, halfway through some intense conversation. He finished the call quickly but he seemed distracted as he took the parcel from her and thanked her formally. She hadn’t stayed.

  Jonathan Smithfield lived in a terraced house near the new Tate Gallery in St Ives, in a road overlooking one of the be_ger of aches. Out of his back window Mel could see some of his sculptures, stone figures, reclining like sleeping Buddhas, frosted by the same yellow algae that touched the roofs of so many buildings in the little town.

  Jonathan himself was a tall, gangly individual in his mid-fifties, who gestured enthusiastically with his long arms when he talked about his lifetime’s study of Cornish artists, his own creative work and his involvement with the community of artists in his native town.

  For a while they discussed the Lamorna painters and Mel was relieved when he was able to corroborate certain parts of her theory about one painter’s influences, suggesting new lines of enquiry for another, directing her attention towards one or two of Laura Knight’s less well-known paintings.

  Then she brought out P.T.’s pictures, first the two flower studies she had taken from the cottage, and then the oil painting of the young man.

  Smithfield dismissed the flower paintings with a, ‘Nice.’ But he was interested in the oil painting. ‘This is quite distinctive,’ he said. ‘Not by someone who’s been classically trained, I should say. But there’s a naturalness here, a joie de vivre. And the impasto – the brushstrokes . . . I can see why you might think there is a link with Dame Laura. Though it’s not, of course, by her at all,’ he added. ‘There’s not the draughtsmanship.’

  When Mel pointed out the painter’s initials and spoke of Charles Carey, Smithfield tapped his fingers thoughtfully on the table. ‘Yes, Carey is a name I recognise,’ he said, ‘though I don’t think I’ve ever seen anything by him. But this . . .’ He set the painting up against a wall and stood back to look at it from a distance. ‘I like it. It has something, don’t you think?’

  He listened attentively as Mel explained about her find in the archive, the reference to Pearl Treglown.

  ‘It seems unlikely, don’t you think – a servant who painted? But not impossible. I tell you what, are there any other papers belonging to the family from the period? I know you’ve searched the archive, but maybe there’s something they’ve kept back.’

  ‘I am fairly sure there isn’t anything in the archive.’ Mel thought for a moment, remembering her visit last week in which she had combed the collection again, taking some more photocopies of documents relevant to the garden. ‘I think Patrick has written to the family’s solicitors to ask, but I don’t believe he’s heard back yet.’

  ‘It’s the right line of enquiry. You’d be surprised what turns up sometimes in the loft amongst the broken birdcages and Great-Aunt So-and-So’s love letters. Well, I’d have to say good luck with everything, my dear. I’d be pleased to cast an eye over the proofs of your book in due course.’

  ‘Oh yes, I’d be so grateful,’ said Mel. ‘If it’s not too much bother.’

  ‘It would be a pleasure. And if your friend Winterton needs a dealer to look at this picture and give an opinion, tell him to be in touch and I’ll suggest one or two names. Not that I feel it would be worth a lot, mind, but it might have a market.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Mel. ‘I will.’

  Patrick was still out when she returned to Merryn at lunchtime, so she brought the pictures in from the car then made herself a large cheese sandwich, which she took out into the garden by her flowerbed. The grass had been cut, she noticed"; font-weight: bold; cher of suddenly, breathing in the lovely smell. The old man must have been again while she was out.

  After the sandwich and a cup of coffee she must have dozed off in her chair, because when she came to, it was to realise with a shock that someone was standing a few feet away watching. It was a relief to see it was just Matt.

  ‘Oh, hello,’ she said, sitting up and running a hand through her tangled hair. ‘How long have you been there?’

  ‘Only a moment,’ he said softly, hunkering down before her. ‘I didn’t want to wake you.’ He plucked a grass stalk and slipped it between his teeth. White, even teeth, she noticed for the first time. ‘I’ve a message from Mum. She’s busy all this week at the hotel, but when she’s free, Aunty Norah can see you both any day except Thursday.’

  ‘Oh, thanks.’

  He plunged on. ‘Also, I was on my way to Porthcurno beach again. Wondered if you wanted to come along?’

  Their eyes met. He was close enough now that she could see the faint dusting of freckles on his smooth tanned skin. He was smiling slightly, but there was a tension there too. If she wanted, she could put out her hand and discover the feel of his short spiky hair, explore the dimple at the side of his mouth. He was lovely, this young man, full of life but at the same time disarmingly vulnerable, his dark eyes shy beneath the long lashes. A boy. So different from Patrick. Or Jake.

  A long, long second passed and it was Patrick who reasserted himself in her mind. What, after all, did she and Matt have in common? They were worlds away from one another.

  She said carefully, knowing a thoughtless word would crush him, ‘Normally, I’d have loved to have come with you, Matt, but I promised Patrick I’d help him here this afternoon. I don’t know where he is, actually, he’s late.’

  ‘Oh, that’s a pity.’ Matt slowly stood up. ‘Another time then.’

  ‘Yes, another time. But, Matt, listen, I won’t be here much longer. I’m going back to London on Saturday. In fact
, tell Carrie it looks as though I won’t have time to visit your great-aunt after all.’

  ‘I see. That’s a shame. It’s meant something to me, coming here.’

  ‘You can still come. Patrick will need lots of help.’

  ‘I didn’t mean that . . .’

  ‘Matt . . .’ He looked at her and she shook her head very slowly. He stood up and, was the sudden brightness in his eyes her imagination?

  ‘Okay,’ he said. ‘I’d best be getting along.’ But he loitered forlornly, looking around at the garden.

  Mel watched him and said, ‘Matt, what’s wrong? You’re not your usual self at all.’

  ‘Oh, nothing,’ he mumbled. Then, when she waited, he turned round and added, ‘Oh, I’m just kind of confused at the moment.’

  ‘What about?’

  ‘I’m not sure which way life is pulling me. Mum needs so much help here, and I’m bored with the shop. I don’t feel it’s getting me anywhere. It’s funny – I didn’t used to mind, but recently . . . Then last night, Toby – you know, my friend the artist?’

  ‘Oh yes.’

  ‘Tells me he’s getting married. Toby . . . I can’t believe it.’

  ‘I expect it’ll happen to you sometime.’

  He shook his head. ‘Y_ger of ou know, there’s never been anyone serious. I’ve always thought life’s supposed to be fun, but just now it seems full of responsibilities. And then you came along, and . . .’

  They looked up at the sound of a car in the drive beyond the house.

  ‘Patrick,’ said Mel, standing up quickly. She forgot what Matt had been saying now, busy as she was shuffling on her shoes. Damn, her hair needed a good brush. ‘I hope I’ll see you before I go home, Matt.’