The Memory Garden

by Rachel Hore

  The heat rolled in heavy waves across the garden, the midday sun beating down so brightly it was hard to see. But when she reached tset in the kit

  Chapter 31

  ‘Do you remember, Paddy, when we stayed at Lois’s cottage that time? And Lois left the brake off on her car and it ended up in the sea and you and Geoff had to haul it out? It was so funny, Mel. You wouldn’t believe how cross he was, weren’t you, Paddy?’

  Mel merely continued eating her baked potato, which tasted like ashes in her mouth.

  Bella turned out to be one of those people who can prattle amusingly about anything, without allowing the conversation to deepen. At first Mel had thought she was doing it deliberately, trying to exclude Mel by reminiscing about the past, but it only took her a short time to realise that Bella wasn’t really interested in Mel. Mel’s role was audience, and she had to grin and bear it.

  She could hardly bring herself to look at Patrick, who was laughing and joshing Bella with his own stories, though every now and then he would ask Mel if she was all right.

  Bella really was very attractive, Mel had to admit to herself, taking little glances at her from time to time, noticing her small high breasts, her lovely neck and glossy hair, and trying not to dwell on the thought that she, Mel, needed to visit a hairdresser, and was wearing faded jeans. The only comfort Mel could find was that, now Bella had taken her sunglasses off in the pub, the shape of her nose and the set of her pale blue eyes gave her the look, just very slightly, of a surprised sheep.

  Bella had asked only two questions of Mel during lunch. One, what she did for a living, and the other, how long she proposed staying in Cornwall. Otherwise the conversation had been about things she and Patrick had done together, news of people they had known, funny stories about people buying and selling property in Chelsea where her offices were. Occasionally she would draw in Patrick, touching his arm and asking, ‘Paddy thought it was hilarious, didn’t you, Paddy?’ or, ‘Do you remember Hugo in the office, Paddy?’ and chasing off after some new anecdote.

  Mel, stirring a cup of coffee, longed for the meal to be over. Finally, it was, and Patrick suggested they walk down to the cove.

  ‘I’d love to but it’s so hot a#enQ in frontnd I’ve only got these stupid shoes,’ sighed Bella, flexing a pretty ankle. Mel, whilst contemptuous of the fashionable sandals, had to agree with her about the heat and so they laboured their way back up to the Hall to where Bella had parked her Clio behind the tree surgeon’s lorries.

  They stared in fascination at the wide area of garden already cleared of trees and undergrowth. ‘I’m planning a lawn here, you see,’ Patrick interjected between the noises of the machinery.

  ‘It’s all changed so much since I saw it last,’ replied Bella, as they went into the house. ‘Do you know,’ she said to Mel, ‘it was such a dump. I simply couldn’t imagine anyone wanting to live here, let alone me.’

  ‘I love it,’ said Mel in a dull voice.

  ‘Oh, it’s going to be beautiful – I can see that now.’ Was her expression wistful, or merely polite? ‘Well, it’s been so nice, Paddy, but I really have to go. We’re due over at Rick Stein’s restaurant this evening.’

  ‘Bit of a trek, isn’t it, Padstow?’

  ‘I know, but it’s Lois’s birthday and she booked it months ago. Do you remember, you were going to come. Before . . .’ She trailed to a halt, meaningfully.

  ‘Of course, her birthday, I’d forgotten.’ Patrick’s distress seemed genuine. ‘Send her my love, won’t you, Bella?’

  ‘I will. Mel, if you don’t mind, is there any chance Paddy and I could meet, you know, for a drink later in the week? I’d really appreciate a proper chat with him.’

  Patrick turned to Mel and said in a casual tone, ‘We’re not doing anything much, are we? Would it be all right, Mel, if I went?’

  ‘Up to you,’ said Mel, shrugging.

  ‘I don’t suppose you’re free tomorrow, Paddy?’ said Bella. ‘We’re going to a play at the Minack Theatre the following evening, and I think there’s a meal out planned the night after.’

  ‘Sure. Where should we go?’

  Mel said abruptly, ‘Nice to meet you, Bella. I’d better be getting on,’ and slipped out of the front door. When Patrick came to the cottage shortly afterwards, she had gone out for a long walk. When she returned she found a note that said, Supper at eight. Px.

  That evening, as Patrick was cooking, Irina rang. After a moment he passed the receiver over to Mel.

  ‘Where are you?’ Mel asked.

  ‘Home,’ said Irina. ‘Lana’s here, too, watching TV in the other room. We’re going to meet Greg at the hotel for dinner. Listen, I wanted to say thank you both for helping these last few days.’

  ‘That’s okay. How did it go earlier?’

  Irina sighed. ‘He has been most reasonable. Says he’s sorry for everything. That we can work something out. He seems to have changed. More gentle. What can I say?’

  ‘He seemed, well, very genuine about missing Lana.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘So, what have you agreed with him?’

  ‘It’s difficult,’ Irina said. ‘I am still nervous. But Lana wants to see him, so what can I do? I can’t risk her turning against me.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘So we have dinner together and I see how things go. But . . . I feel tired of"; font-weight: bold; sais ces running now. I have run from my family in Dubrovnik, I have run from my husband. Now I want the quiet life and I want Lana to be happy. Maybe it will work.’

  ‘I hope so.’

  ‘Thank you, Mel.’

  ‘It seems a happy ending might indeed be in sight there,’ Mel said, putting down the phone.

  ‘Thank heavens for that,’ was all Patrick said from the stove where he was furiously stirring a roux. He seemed distracted this evening, and had made no reference to Bella’s visit. Bella was like a sheathed sword between them.

  Mel watched him as she sipped her wine, noticing afresh the sure movements of his body as he reached for utensils or crouched down to check the pie baking in the oven, the unconscious way he would stroke the back of his neck whilst thinking. Just as she was recognising fully how dear he was to her, he seemed to be growing further away, absorbed as he was in his own thoughts, hardly looking at her. A lump swelled in her throat. She knew instinctively it was the wrong moment to speak. But in the end, it was no good, she couldn’t stop herself.

  ‘Patrick,’ she said hesitantly, ‘do you have to go out with Bella tomorrow?’ The blade, drawn from its scabbard, flashed menacingly.

  He looked up from stirring, his blank expression unnerving. ‘Well, that’s the arrangement, yes,’ was all he said. His voice was strange. He moved the saucepan off the heat and turned to face her, arms folded.

  ‘You could ring her, couldn’t you, say you’re busy after all?’

  ‘Why should I do that?’ he said. ‘What’s this all about, Mel? You weren’t exactly friendly to Bella today. She was a bit upset about it. You’re not still jealt-dress, kitte

  Chapter 32

  Looking back on that night many weeks later, Mel was to wonder if she had somehow sensed, even then, that it was to be the last time she and Patrick were to hold one another. There was a deep sense of sadness, of urgency about their lovemaking, as though they had been told the world was about to end. At"; font-weight: bold; t.isDJ5 the time she had put these feelings down to grief, the knowledge on both their parts that she and Patrick were captives of their own pasts, clinging together for comfort. Of course, they were mature adults; they had learned from experience the motions they had to go through to plaster emotional wounds, to find closure, to go on with life. That night, however, they seemed as vulnerable and needy as young children.

  How then, after the intensity of that experience, could the events of the very next evening ever have taken place?

  The day started normally enough – if you can call being woken at 7.30 a.m. by rumbling lorries and the screech o
f mechanical saws normal – though Patrick was very quiet. Mel came downstairs to find him standing at the kitchen window, staring unseeing across the garden. She caressed his shoulder briefly as he made way for her to fit the kettle under the tap. She filled it to the brim, realising he hadn’t yet made tea for the workers.

  ‘Better go into work today,’ he muttered, pouring himself some cornflakes. ‘Do you mind being catering manager today?’ He nodded his head towards the front of the house, where the noise was reaching teeth-jarring level.

  ‘Should be all right. I’m planning chapter thirteen today,’ said Mel, buttering toast. ‘About the arrival in Lamorna of Alfred Munnings and Augustus John.’

  ‘How many chapters are there?’

  ‘Fifteen. Then lots of fiddly stuff. Appendices, footnotes, that sort of thing.’

  ‘You’ve nearly finished, then?’

  She had considered how long it would take her once she returned to London, visiting the British Library, and a couple of museum libraries, a conversation she needed to have with a curator at the Tate. A month’s concentrated work, she calculated. But that would be if she could find everything easily. Waiting for people to answer emails, especially in August, was frustrating enough. And once she returned to work, the teaching would intervene.

  In addition, there was an important visit to make, to Ann Boase, Pearl’s granddaughter, to see other pictures by Pearl, to find out what more Ann knew about her grandmother, to learn Ann’s own story. No, she certainly couldn’t consider her paper finished until she had spoken to Ann. Yesterday she had tried ringing the number Richard Boase had given her, but it just rang and rang without ever awakening an ansaphone. Possibly Ann was away. She visited the States a great deal, her brother said.

  Wasn’t it funny, was her gloomy thought, how everything was conspiring to draw her back to London? Rowena’s recent call had seemed at the time a slight annoyance, but even that was worrying her now. Rowena, it seemed, would still be teaching at the college next term. Why?

  Kissing Patrick goodbye quickly – ‘I’ll get some food in on the way home,’ he said – she walked down to the cottage, immediately wilting in the scorching heat. There, after debating the relative demerits of heat or noise, she opted for the sound of the saws and opened both front and kitchen doors to get some air moving through the house. The computer was feeling the heat, too – it took ages to boot up – and while she waited, the feeling of dread that had ebbed and flowed inside her all morning, swirled into a ghostly manifestation. Bella.

  Why did she feel so anxious? Patrick would see Bella tonight, and at the end of the week, she would be gone. But as she called up her own Inbox she thought of two nights ago, when Bella’s name had shown up on Patrick’s computer. What had she written to Patrick? If only Mel had"; font-weight: bold; rememberis ces looked.

  Even Bella was momentarily forgotten as two emails popped into her box. The first one was from Chrissie, the second from Jake.

  She stared at Jake’s name for a moment, then looked at the heading. NEWS, it said. It had to be for her only, not a round robin this time, as this was her personal email address.

  He’s either getting married again or he’s got another job, she thought. That’s why he’s writing. Bracing herself, she double-clicked on his message. It seemed an age before it opened up and she read:

  ‘Hi, Mel,

  Are you still in the back of beyond? Hope you’re having a wild time, whatever. Must send you this as it’s so funny, I can hardly believe it myself. Anna and Freya are great – would send you their love if they knew I was writing. Helen’s taken them to Spain with her new man.

  Good for Helen, thought Mel, genuinely pleased for her. She read the website link Jake had sent her. It was for a publishing magazine and when she opened it up she read:

  Sirius Books wins British Dan Brown. Yesterday, Sophie Wright of Conway & Eaton Literary Agency concluded a ‘high six-figure’ deal for two thrillers by poet and Creative Writing lecturer Jake Friedland, based on a partial manuscript and synopsis. Sirius Editor Bill Meek describes the first of these, Deciphering Delacroix, as ‘an intriguing and fast-paced tale about an international art conspiracy that puts Dan Brown in the shade.’ Sirius plan to publish . . .

  Mel closed the link, the initial sense of surprise fading and a smile spreading across her face. He had done it. Good old Jake. Two thrillers, eh? Well, there would be a certain amount of twittering in the staff bar, about it being commercial fiction rather than the erudite satire of the art world he had been working on for so long, but there would be envy, too, she knew. A high six-figure sum. That meant at least several hundred thousand pounds. How many years’ salary was that for most of her colleagues? Even she was being paid only a pittance for her book. It was extraordinary!

  Clicking on Reply, she tapped out a quick but heartfelt message of congratulation. She squeezed her eyes shut as she pressed Send, and when she opened them, immediately regretted what she had written. What devil had possessed her to suggest a celebratory drink in the same message?

  Slightly cross at her recklessness, she stabbed the mouse twice on Chrissie’s email, which turned out to be mostly about some paperwork connected to their mother’s affairs that needed Mel’s signature, then finished: Can we come for a few days in August when the day nursery is closed? She replied to that, agreeing to do the first and promising to check with Patrick about the second.

  She sighed. In some ways it would be lovely to see Chrissie and the boys. And yet she also wanted to be on her own with Patrick. Which made her think of the intruder. Bella.

  Concentrate, girl, she told herself, and forced herself to open up the document labelled Lamorna book.

  Two hours later, she became aware that the sound of the saws had ceased, glanced at the time and cursed. She had forgotten the next tea break. She could feel the sun burn through her on the short journey round the house to check that the men hadn’t all died of dehydration.

  Patrick arrived ho_keis cesme in the early evening, hot and irritable, with several carrier bags of shopping. Mel mentioned Chrissie’s request, and he seemed pleased at the idea of seeing her. Then she was able to tell him that Irina had rung again.

  ‘It still seems unbelievable, but apparently she and Greg have sorted everything out. Or rather, Lana has.’

  ‘Lana?’

  ‘Yes. She instructed her parents at dinner last night that she wanted to live with Irina, but go to stay with her father often. And since her parents were both sitting there at her mercy, and neither wanted her to view them as responsible for further conflict, they agreed. Oh yes, and he’s happy to pay for her music. Voilà. Sorted. Irina sounded very proud of her.’

  ‘Out of the mouths of babes and sucklings . . . wisdom. She is an unusually mature little girl, isn’t she? Still, I’m surprised Greg agreed to it just like that.’

  ‘Yes, he’s a tough nut, isn’t he? Though, if Lana is really his little princess, perhaps she winds him around her finger.’ Like someone else I know, Mel thought resentfully of Bella but just said, ‘So what time are you going out tonight, O Master?’ If she made a joke of it, perhaps the whole thing would turn out to be as inconsequential as he pretended.

  ‘Meeting her at eight at some pub in St Ives.’

  ‘You’d better get a move on then. It’s seven already.’

  When he left, he kissed her lightly, but once he was over the threshold, Patrick didn’t look back.

  Mel drifted around the house and wondered what to do with herself while she counted the hours until his return.

  Ten to eight. He’ll be nearly there now.

  Five to eight. He’ll be finding somewhere to park. Patrick had left a T-shirt draped over the back of a chair in the kitchen. Mel cuddled it to her and breathed in the smell of him – earthy, slightly sweaty.

  Eight. He’ll be meeting her, unless she’s late. Was Bella the sort who would be deliberately late? Mel thought she might be.

  She tidied up, stuffed a great heap
of clothes in the machine, did some ironing, taking particular care over anything of Patrick’s. After that she tried to read a novel, but couldn’t concentrate so she gave up. Switching on the television, she watched the first twenty minutes of a romantic comedy, but she’d seen it before and, anyway, the repartee didn’t seem funny any more. Love going wrong and right again. Why should it be the subject of such amusement? She knew all about love going wrong – the feelings of rejection, desolation, the death of hope, the sense that the future has been taken away. There was nothing funny about any of it.

  She slouched into the darkening hall, intending to make yet another cup of coffee. Or she might see if there was an open bottle of wine in the fridge.

  But as she turned towards the kitchen, her eye was caught by a strange glow in the dark recesses of the hall and her heart gave a jolt. It only took a second or two for her to realise that Patrick must have left a light on in his study.

  She took several steps down the corridor, telling herself she would just turn off the light and march straight back on her mission to the fridge, but when she looked into the doorway of the old estate office, she saw that the light was from Patrick’s computer, which he had failed to shut down properly.

  A little nagging voice inside her, that she tried very hard to shut out, started shouting at full volume. Lo expression on his faceger of ok at the emails, look at the emails!

  It would be wrong. She would hate it if Patrick turned on her machine and started going through her Inbox – saw those messages from Jake and jumped to the wrong conclusion. She cringed at the thought, whilst a priggish part of her stridently protested that there was nothing of blame in her correspondence.

  But if there was something going on with Bella, really going on, she had to find out – didn’t she? Her sanity was at stake.