‘I think she was so full of adrenalin that she kept on the move, which probably saved her. Anyway, you go downstairs and have your supper. I’d better wait for her here.’
Tor nodded and left the room. David sat down heavily on the bed and ten minutes later, Greta emerged from the bathroom in her robe.
‘Have you stopped shivering yet?’ he asked, studying her expression to try and gauge how she was feeling.
‘Oh yes. I don’t feel cold at all.’
‘How do you feel?’
‘I don’t know . . . I’m not sure. I . . . remembered some more things in the bath, and what I need to do is try and put them in some kind of order. Maybe you can help me with that, David?’
‘Of course I can.’
‘But not tonight. I’m going to stay up here and try to put the pieces together a little bit more. You go downstairs with the family. The last thing I want to do is ruin everyone’s Christmas Day or be a bother, which, unfortunately, I have been already.’
‘Greta, don’t be silly! This is a huge moment for you. Surely I should stay?’
‘No, David. I need to be by myself.’ As she said the words, they glanced at each other, both understanding their significance.
‘Okay then. There’s some tea by your bed and a hot-water bottle in it. Shall I bring up a tray? You should eat something.’
‘Nothing for now, thank you. Oh David, even though I’m shocked and confused at the moment, isn’t it amazing?’
David looked at her lovely blue eyes, and saw them – for the first time in twenty-four years – shining with life.
‘It is, Greta, it is.’
The following morning Greta came down for breakfast and was hugged and congratulated by her family.
‘I do apologise for it all happening in such a dramatic fashion,’ she said guiltily, looking at Tor.
‘Do you know what triggered it?’ asked Ava, fascinated not only by what had happened but also the visible physical change in her grandmother. It was as if she really had been frozen inside for years and now the thaw had begun, her eyes sparkled and her cheeks were tinged with pink.
‘I had the tiniest flashback when I first stepped out of the car on Christmas Eve, and another when I looked down from the upstairs landing and saw the Christmas tree in the hall. And then of course, I went for a walk in the woods, randomly, because I couldn’t remember where to go, and found myself by Jonny’s grave. Maybe something was leading me there, but that was the beginning of it. Please don’t ask me just now what I remember and what I don’t, because it’s all a bit of a mix-up in my head. But at least this morning when I saw Mary I knew exactly who she was. And also how kind she’d been to me when I first arrived at Marchmont. And you, David, of course.’
‘Have you got to me yet, Granny?’
‘Give her time, Ava,’ David admonished her gently, seeing a momentary flicker of fear cross Greta’s face. ‘I’m sure that now it’s begun, Greta, and the metaphorical door has been unlocked, the memories will continue to come back.’
‘Perhaps you should go and see a psychotherapist, Greta,’ Tor commented. ‘I don’t know much about this sort of thing, but it might be a bit overwhelming for you.’
‘Thank you, but for the moment I’m coping well. Now, I’m going to take a short walk whilst the sun is still shining. I promise I won’t get lost this time,’ she added with an ironic smile.
David was about to offer to go with her, then thought better of it.
‘I said I’d go and help Mary prepare lunch. She looks exhausted,’ said Tor, also rising. ‘I vote we give her the rest of the day off. I’m sure we can cope without her.’
‘And, if no one minds,’ said Simon, ‘I’m going to head off to my music studio. I’ve still got two songs to write for Roger’s new album.’
‘Of course not, darling,’ said Ava. ‘Stay there as long as you want.’
‘You make sure you rest.’ Simon kissed his wife and left the room.
‘So the studio’s working out, is it?’ asked David.
‘God yes, so much so I think Simon would like to sleep in it as well.’ Ava chuckled. ‘I know I always seem to be saying thank you to you, Uncle David, but it really was a brainwave to convert one of the barns for him. All the recording artists love coming here because it’s so peaceful and beautiful. And the Gate Lodge is going to work brilliantly for accommodation, now Simon and I have moved out. He’ll pay you back, you know, and probably sooner than you think. The studio’s fully booked for the next six months.’
‘Which must be a blessing and a curse for you.’
‘Yes,’ Ava agreed, comforted by her uncle’s intuitiveness. ‘I could have done with Simon on hand for the next few months, but there we are. The good news is that he’s happy. And you must be, too, given Granny’s Christmas-night revelation.’
‘To be honest, I’m still struggling to take it in. After all these years, it’s quite a shock.’
‘It is, but for the first time just now I got a glimpse of how she must have been before the accident. And I think that Tor is probably right about her seeing someone. I know Granny’s on a high at the moment, but if her memories are starting to return, as she says, it’s going to be a difficult time for her. Especially with what she still has to remember,’ Ava said quietly.
‘I know, but at least she’s here with us and we can all support her.’
‘She said she’d remembered up to her life at Marchmont this morning. And there were some difficult times back then. To suddenly know that you had a three-year-old son who died is dreadful enough.’ Ava shuddered and put a protective hand to her bump. ‘But the rest . . . well, I only hope she can cope with it.’
‘Yes, but after the half life she’s been living, surely it’s better this way?’
‘Well, the thing is, Uncle David, even if she does remember the night of the accident, perhaps she needn’t ever know the whole truth about it?’
‘I understand what you’re saying, Ava,’ David agreed, ‘and I think the answer is that we’ll all have to suck it and see, as they say. The one thing I do know about Greta is that she’s a survivor. And, if anyone can deal with this, she can. Anyway, you’re not to worry about your granny. I’ll look after her. You concentrate on taking care of yourself. Right, I’m going to brave it in the Land Rover and see if I can get into the village and buy a Telegraph.’
Ava watched David leave the room and wondered if she was the only one of the gathering who could see how he felt about Greta. For Tor’s sake, she hoped she was.
Later that day David walked into the drawing room, and found Greta alone, staring into the dying embers in the grate. ‘Can I join you? Everyone else is either out or has gone for a nap.’
‘You could certainly perk this fire up for me.’ Greta smiled at him.
‘Of course. How are you feeling?’ he asked her, as he busied himself with logs and kindling.
‘Would it be all right if I said I really don’t know just now?’
‘I think it would be fine. I doubt there are any rules for what you’re going through. And if there are, I’m sure it’s okay to break them.’ David sat down opposite her and watched the fire reignite merrily in the grate. ‘I’m here to listen, not judge, and to help you in any way I can.’
‘I know, David,’ Greta said gratefully. ‘I have just one question for you, actually: why didn’t you tell me about Jonny, and that he’d died when he was so young?’
‘The doctors told me not to say anything that might traumatise you. Forgive me, perhaps I should have done, but . . .’
‘Please don’t apologise. I know you were trying to protect me,’ Greta said hastily. ‘As you can imagine, it makes me a little scared to think about what else I have to remember beyond all this. But really, David, you’ve been wonderful to me. I’ve remembered what you did for me when I was pregnant and desperate and . . . thank you. The truth is, apart from the fact that I’m feeling I have to grieve all over again for the son I lost, when I went back
to Jonny’s grave today, more memories started to flood in. About’ – Greta gulped – ‘afterwards.’
‘Such as what?’
‘Cheska. David, can you help me remember, even if it’s painful for me to hear? I need to piece everything together. Because so far, nothing makes sense. Do you see?’
‘I think so,’ he replied cautiously, ‘but don’t you think you should let it all happen naturally? I mean, maybe we should take advice from a professional on what’s best for you?’
‘I’ve dealt with shrinks and all manner of trick-cyclists for years, so please believe me when I say that I know my own psyche far better than anyone else,’ Greta replied firmly. ‘And, if I didn’t feel I could cope, I wouldn’t be asking you to fill in the missing links. Believe me, I can already tell you a lot of it. For example, I know, or believe I know, that Owen was a drunk and I had to leave Marchmont with Cheska. I went to London, and I remember quite a bit about what happened there; things I did that I can’t say I’m proud of. But if you could tell me – and I mean the absolute truth – it really would help me. Please, David, I need to know.’
‘If you really feel you’re up to it, then I will, yes.’
‘As long as you swear to me that it will be everything. No holds barred. Only then will I be able to believe it is real, and not my imagination playing tricks on me. The whole truth, please,’ Greta entreated. ‘It’s the only way.’
David wished he could have a whisky, but as it was only three o’clock in the afternoon he resisted. Greta must have sensed his reluctance, because she said, ‘And I know already that some of it’s dreadful, so there’s no need for you to worry about shocking me.’
‘Okay, then.’ David capitulated with a sigh. ‘So you’ve said you remember coming to London. Do you also recall me getting Cheska an audition for her first film?’
‘I do, yes. Go from there, David, because that’s where it all begins to get hazy . . .’
Cheska
London, June 1956
17
Sometimes Cheska would have a dream. It was always the same dream, and she would wake shaking with fear. The dream always took place in a big, dark wood with lots and lots of tall trees. There was a little boy in the dream who looked just like her, and she played Hide and Seek with him through the trees. There was sometimes an older man there too, who always wanted to hug the little boy but never her.
Then the dream would change and it would become night. The older man, whose breath smelt horrid, would force her to look inside a coffin at the little boy. The little boy’s face was white and his lips were grey and she knew he was dead. The man would remove the boy’s clothes then turn to her, and the next thing she knew she was wearing the clothes. They smelt fusty and a big spider would climb up the front of the jacket towards her face. Then there was a tap on her shoulder and she’d turn round and stare into the frozen eyes of the small boy, who seemed to appear from the shadows of a small fir tree, his body shivering with cold as he reached out to her . . .
Cheska would wake up with a cry and reach out for the lamp that sat on her bedside cabinet. Switching it on, she’d sit upright, staring around at the familiar, cosy room, reassuring herself that everything was exactly the same as when she had gone to sleep. She’d find Polly, who’d usually be on the floor by her bed, and hug her, her thumb going guiltily into her mouth. Mummy kept telling her that if she continued with such a babyish habit her teeth would stick out and her career as a famous film star would be over.
The dream would eventually fade, and she would lie back on her pillows and stare at the pretty white lace canopy that hung above her. Her eyes would close and she’d drift back to sleep.
She didn’t tell Mummy about the dream. She was sure Mummy would say she was being silly, that dead people couldn’t come back to life. But Cheska knew they could.
At the tender age of ten Cheska Hammond was one of the best-known faces in Britain. She had just completed her seventh film, and in the past three her name had been above the title. Film reviewers had nicknamed her ‘The Angel’ early on in her career, and it had stuck. Her new picture was due to be released in four weeks’ time and Mummy had promised she would buy her a white fur coat to wear to the premiere at the Odeon in Leicester Square.
Cheska knew she should enjoy the premieres of her films, but they scared her. There were always so many people outside the cinema when her car drew up and big men had to escort her inside very quickly through the surging crowd. Once, a lady had grabbed her arm and tried to pull her away from her mother. She had been told later the lady had been taken away by the police.
Mummy was always telling her what a lucky girl she was: she had as much money as she’d ever need, a beautiful apartment in Mayfair and a mass of adoring, devoted fans. Cheska supposed she was, but then she didn’t really know any different.
During the making of her last film, Little Girl Lost, which was set in an orphanage, Cheska had made friends with one of the children who played a minor role. The girl, Melody, spoke in a funny accent and Cheska had listened in fascination as she told her about her brothers and sisters. She said she slept with her sister in the same bed because there wasn’t enough room for separate ones in their small flat in East London. Melody told her of the naughty pranks her four brothers got up to and of the big family Christmases they had. Cheska listened, enthralled, thinking of the elegant – but rather dull – festive lunches she and Mummy usually spent with Leon and Uncle David.
Melody introduced her to some of the other little girls and she discovered that they all went to stage school and had lessons together. It sounded like fun. Cheska herself had one crusty old tutor called Mr Benny, who taught her as often as her filming commitments allowed. She’d sit with him in her dressing room at the studio or in the sitting room at home, writing out reams of sums and learning dreary poems off by heart.
Melody gave her bubblegum, and they’d had a competition behind one of the scenery flats to see who could blow the biggest bubble. Cheska thought Melody was the nicest person she’d ever met. She’d asked Mummy whether she too could go to stage school with the other children, but Mummy had said that she didn’t need to. Stage school taught you how to be a star and she – Cheska – was one already.
Melody had asked her once if she’d like to come back for tea at her house. Cheska had been so excited, but Mummy had told her she couldn’t go. When she had asked why not her mother had set her mouth in a hard line, the way she did when Cheska knew her mind was made up. She’d told her that film stars such as Cheska couldn’t make friends with common little extras like Melody.
Cheska wasn’t sure what ‘common’ was, but she knew it was what she wanted to be when she grew up.
Melody’s time on the film set had ended and she had gone back to school. The pair had swapped addresses and promised to write to each other. Cheska had written numerous letters and given them to Mummy to post but had never received a reply. She missed Melody. She was the first friend she’d ever had.
‘Come on, darling, time to wake up.’
Mummy’s voice broke into her dreams.
‘We’ve got a busy day today. Lunch with Leon at twelve, and then to Harrods to pick up your new coat. That’ll be fun, won’t it?’
‘Yes, Mummy.’ Cheska nodded half-heartedly.
‘Now.’ Her mother walked towards the large fitted wardrobe that took up an entire wall of her large bedroom. ‘Which dress would you like to wear to lunch?’
Cheska sighed. Lunches with Leon were long and boring. They always went to the Savoy and she had to sit quietly while Mummy and Leon discussed important business matters. She watched as her mother opened her wardrobe door to reveal a selection of thirty party dresses, all handmade for her from the finest silk, organdie and taffeta and wrapped carefully in polythene. Her mother pulled one out. ‘What about this? You haven’t worn it yet, and it’s so pretty.’
Cheska stared at the pink dress with its layers of net petticoat peeping out from underneath th
e skirt. She hated wearing these dresses. The net made her legs itch and left red marks round her waist.
‘You’ve got a pair of pink satin slippers somewhere that will match beautifully.’ Greta laid the dress on Cheska’s bed and went back to the wardrobe to hunt for them.
Cheska closed her eyes and wondered what it would be like to have the whole day to herself to play. The exquisite doll’s house with its beautifully carved wooden family sat on the floor of her room, but she never seemed to have a moment to enjoy it. When she was making a film she was driven to the studio at six o’clock in the morning and they would rarely arrive home before half past six at night, when it was time for tea and a bath. After that, Cheska had to finish her homework, then practise her lines with Mummy so she was word perfect the next day. Mummy had said it was the gravest sin to forget a line on a take and, so far, Cheska had never ‘dried’, as so many of the adult actors did.
‘Chop, chop, young lady! Your porridge will get cold.’
Greta pulled back Cheska’s bedcovers, and the girl swung her legs over the side of the mattress. She put her arms inside the dressing gown her mother was holding out for her and followed her from the room.
Cheska sat at her usual place at the large, polished table in a corner of the sitting room and surveyed the bowl of porridge in front of her.
‘Do I have to eat this, Mummy? You know I hate it. Melody says her mother never makes her have breakfast and . . .’
‘Honestly,’ said Greta, sitting down opposite her daughter. ‘All I ever hear is “Melody this” and “Melody that”. And yes, you do have to eat your porridge. With your busy life, it’s important you start off the day on a full stomach.’
‘But it’s yucky!’ Cheska stirred her spoon in the thick mixture, picked up a dollop and let it drop back into the bowl. It splashed onto the table.
‘Stop that, young lady! You’re behaving like a little madam. You’re not such a star that I can’t put you over my knee and give you a good hiding. Now eat!’
The Angel Tree Page 16