THE TRYSTING TREE

by Linda Gillard

  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. Until her marriage, Ivy had been known as Ivy Mordaunt. Ivy Hatherwick had been her name before she was adopted as an infant by Hester Mordaunt.

  Curious now, she opened the envelope 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. When she’d finished reading, Ivy crumpled 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.

  Ivy got to her feet and staggered towards the fireplace. Setting the fireguard aside, she threw the 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 onto the fire. As she gathered up the orderly piles of photos and consigned them to the blaze, she began to weep again, but she stood and watched as the photos buckled, then burst into flames.

  As she turned away, Ivy tripped over one of the albums on the hearth rug. She lost her balance and flailed, reaching out for the mantelpiece, but she fell, banging her head on a corner of the table. Stunned, she tried to get up on to her knees, but found she had no strength in her arms or legs. She lay helpless on her sitting room floor, like a felled tree.

  Burning letters tumbled from the grate and Ivy watched in horror as they ignited a paper trail of scattered photos leading from the hearthstone to the rug where she lay. She began to shout, calling for help, but her voice was frail and the walls of her cottage were thick. She clutched at her skirt, hoisting it away from the flames. As the rug began to smoulder, Ivy reached up for the corner of the tablecloth and tugged. There was a vase of flowers on the table. Connor had brought a bunch of chrysanthemums and arranged them for her. The water in the vase might be enough to douse the burning rug.

  She pulled steadily and felt the tablecloth slide, bringing the vase to the edge of the table. As the cloth travelled, more photographs fell from the table, fluttering into the air before landing on the rug where they curled and smouldered. Coughing, blinded by smoke and tears, Ivy propped herself on one elbow and reached up for the vase. She grasped it and threw the contents at the burning rug. There was a hissing sound and smoke filled the room. Choking now, she dragged herself across the carpet, towards the telephone, thinking of her grandson. The dear boy had taken pity on her ancient eyes and useless fingers and had bought her a special phone with big buttons, saying it would be easier for her to use “in an emergency”.

  When someone answered, Ivy managed to gasp the word, “Fire” and the first line of her address before she passed out.

  ANN

  Connor earned his tea. It must have been a gruelling story for him to tell, even though he’d gone over the few known facts with the police and in his own mind many times. Ivy had died in hospital of smoke inhalation and although he’d been at her bedside, she’d been unable or unwilling to speak to him.

  He’d rescued what he could of the family archive. Some was untouched by the fire, but much of it was burned or damaged by smoke and water from the vase Ivy had emptied in an attempt to put out the fire.

  ‘Do you know for certain that she actually started it?’ Phoebe enquired. ‘Perhaps it was just a dreadful accident.’

  ‘The firemen said it was clear a considerable amount of paper had been put onto the fire. And the fireguard had been set to one side.’

  ‘I see. That doesn’t sound like an accident, does it?’

  Connor shook his head. ‘There seems little doubt Ivy dumped a load of material onto the fire, most of which burned, but some must have fallen out onto the hearth. The only significant damage was to the rug and Ivy’s clothing, but she seems to have doused that pretty effectively when she realised the fire was getting out of hand. But the paper must have continued to smoulder and fill the room with smoke. And at some point she must have fallen.’

  ‘How do they know that?’ Phoebe asked, her eyes bright.

  ‘She had a bad bruise on her forehead. She hit something hard, something sharpish. Knowing the layout of that room, I’d say she keeled over and hit the corner of the table.’

  ‘So,’ Phoebe said, summing up. ‘You’re convinced she was trying to destroy the archive.’

  ‘Well, yes, I am, if only because I know my grandmother. If there’d been some kind of accident, if a spark had landed on some photos and they’d started to burn, Ivy would have put out the flames with her bare hands rather than lose them. So it had to be her doing. For some reason she was trying to destroy something that, up till then, had meant all the world to her.’

  ‘Apart from you?’ I asked.

  Connor looked up, surprised. ‘Yes, she was very fond of me. I was like the son she never had. My mother died when I was quite young, so my grandmother stepped in. Dad was in the army and abroad a lot, so it was Ivy who raised me really. She’d always treated that archive with the utmost respect. Reverence, almost. But something must have caused a change of heart. Unless it was some kind of brain storm.’

  ‘Why did she destroy it?’ Phoebe asked.

  I sighed and wondered if she’d dozed off briefly. ‘That’s what we don’t know, Mum. That’s the mystery.’

  ‘No, I mean why did Ivy destroy it? Why not just hide it? Put it away in a box on top of the wardrobe. Or in a safe deposit box in a bank. Why did it have to be destroyed? And why was she trying to destroy all of it?’

  Connor and I were silent for a moment or two. I must admit, I was impressed with the clarity of Phoebe’s thinking. Years of watching Murder, She Wrote had evidently paid off.

  ‘Well,’ Connor said, considering, ‘if she suddenly wanted to restrict my access to her stuff, it would have been awkward to explain.’

  ‘Was she the type of woman who could lie convincingly?’ Phoebe asked. ‘Make up some story to fool you?’

  Connor laughed. ‘Definitely not! Ivy would have been the world’s worst poker player.’

  ‘So she didn’t want to lie to you and she didn’t want you to see something.’

  ‘See something?’

  ‘Oh, yes, don’t you think so?’ Phoebe was well into her stride now. Despite the tragic subject matter, I could tell she was enjoying herself. ‘Your grandmother might just have had a change of heart, I suppose, but I think it far more likely she found something – a note, a photograph, something she’d never seen, or never seen in a particular light before. Perhaps it was a letter she’d never read properly. Something must have made her change her mind. And then her immediate response must have been, “Destroy the evidence.” But why all of it? Why not just destroy the offending article?’

  ‘Because she was angry,’ I said.

  Connor and Phoebe turned to face me. ‘Angry?’ Phoebe frowned. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I mean, if Ivy had read something awful or looked at a particular photo and realised something shocking, she might have burned it. Maybe torn it up and hurled the pieces on the fire. That’s what you’d do, wouldn’t you? But Ivy went on and on, burning stuff, adding fuel to the fire. So I think she must have been very angry. Or in the grip of some other strong emotion.’

  Connor frown
ed. ‘So you mean it wasn’t just that she didn’t want me to know—’

  ‘She didn’t want anyone to know. Ever. Which makes me think it was something she hadn’t known and really didn’t want to know.’

  ‘But what?’ Phoebe said, gazing into space, her eyes narrowed.

  ‘I don’t see how we can ever know. Ivy’s dead and most of the archive was destroyed.’

  ‘Well, that’s not quite the case,’ Connor said leaning forward in his chair. ‘I told you she’d burned a great deal of stuff, but some survived and it’s still mostly legible. And there are copies of a lot of photos and documents on my laptop.’

  ‘The trigger can’t have been anything that survived though, can it?’ I said. ‘That would have been the first to go, surely?’

  ‘Oh, yes, of course,’ Phoebe said with a groan.

  ‘But whatever it was,’ I conceded, ‘Connor might still have a copy.’

  ‘I might, but if I do, Ivy had already seen it because she was the one who gave it to me.’

  ‘Damn!’ Phoebe exclaimed. ‘Just when I thought we were getting somewhere!’

  ‘You see what I mean,’ Connor said, looking at me, ‘about a three-pipe problem?’

  ‘I certainly do. But you now have my mother on the case and she’s not one to give up easily. Nor, I suspect, are you. Perhaps between us we might be able to piece the story together. Or maybe a new piece of evidence will turn up. You never know.’

  ‘I certainly feel encouraged,’ Connor said, beaming at Phoebe. ‘Some sort of picture is beginning to emerge.’

  ‘If not the one Ivy burned,’ Phoebe murmured. She sat back and slapped her palms on her thighs. ‘Well, this has been first rate entertainment, but I can’t do any more brainwork on an empty stomach. We need sustenance, Ann.’

  ‘Mum, you’ve eaten half a packet of chocolate digestives!’

  ‘No, that was mostly Connor.’

  ‘Guilty as charged,’ he said, raising his hands in submission. ‘I missed lunch, so I’m afraid I put away quite a few.’

  ‘Time for something more substantial then. Will you stay for supper, Connor? I doubt Phoebe will let you go until she’s squeezed the last drop of information out of you, so you might as well give in gracefully. It’s chicken and leek pie.’

  ‘If it doesn’t mean short rations for the ladies, I’d love to join you.’

  ‘Good!’ said Phoebe, clearly delighted. ‘Now while Ann is busy in the kitchen, you can make yourself useful with the drinks tray. Help yourself. Mine’s a large gin.’

  ‘Is that with tonic?’ Connor asked getting to his feet.

  ‘Just wave the bottle in the general vicinity of my glass.’

  ‘One large gin coming up, madam.’

  As he poured her drink, Connor exchanged a conspiratorial look with me. He seemed to be enjoying himself and, as I stood in the doorway, listening to the banter, it occurred to me, he would be good with old ladies. He’d been raised by one and perhaps still missed her.

  I went to the kitchen to fetch some ice. Taking a lemon from the fruit bowl, I began to slice it. It was touching to see Phoebe so engaged, enjoying her second favourite pursuit: flirting with young men. She was enjoying herself, using her brain, laughing, chatting, being useful to someone. She was in her element and pain was temporarily far from her mind.

  Connor’s untidy head appeared round the door. ‘Phoebe’s calling for ice and a slice. Can I help?’

  I handed him a tumbler full of ice cubes and a dish of lemon slices. As he took them, I found myself unable to say any more than a heartfelt ‘Thank you’, but I wasn’t thanking him for collecting the ice.

  ~

  A week later I was in the kitchen preparing lunch when the phone rang. I always left it with Phoebe in case she felt like calling someone for a chat – something she declined to do, even though I was sure she would have loved someone to ring her. She’d put Connor’s number on the fridge, “in case anything turns up” and I sensed she’d been brooding about his three-pipe problem.

  To judge from the tone of her voice, the call was business rather than pleasure. I wondered if it was another buyer wanting to view the house. I quickly rinsed my hands in case Phoebe handed me the call, but she finished speaking and after a moment, the door opened. She limped into the kitchen with an odd look on her face, something between a grimace and a grin.

  ‘Guess what? We have an offer for Garden Lodge.’

  ‘You’re joking! Are they buying blind? No one’s viewed it.’

  ‘Connor Grenville has. And he’s made an offer.’

  ‘But—’ I stared at her, astonished. ‘But he can’t possibly afford— and he said he wasn’t a serious buyer!’

  ‘Well, he’s made a serious offer. Four hundred and fifty.’

  ‘That’s not a serious offer, it’s an insult!’

  ‘Hardly, Ann. No one else has been to view in months. The price is obviously much too high.’

  ‘It’s the winter. The agent said there would be little interest until the spring.’

  ‘She was just covering herself. People move all year round, don’t they? Disasters happen. Death. Divorce. I suspect four hundred and fifty is much nearer the mark.’

  ‘You’re not going to accept?’

  Phoebe paused before replying, then, looking very guilty, said, ‘I have accepted.’

  ‘Mum, that’s not how it’s done! You say you’ll think about it and then you haggle. That won’t be his best offer.’

  ‘Oh, I think it probably is. He didn’t strike me as the kind of man who plays games. I suspect that’s all he can manage. And of course he’d expect me to turn it down. Yet he still put the offer in. He must want it quite badly, don’t you think?’

  ‘I suppose so, but that’s no reason to accept. I can’t think what possessed you… Without even consulting me.’

  ‘It’s my house,’ Phoebe replied, sounding petulant. ‘And I knew you’d try to persuade me to reject the offer.’

  ‘I certainly would!’

  ‘Because you want the best for me, don’t you?’

  ‘Of course I do.’

  ‘Just as I want the best for you,’ Phoebe said, studying a point on the wall over my right shoulder.

  ‘Mum, I don’t see what—’

  ‘It’s high time you got on with your life, Ann. Stopped worrying about me. I need to get shot of this place and move on.’ She looked down and regarded her shabby carpet slippers. ‘I wasn’t much of a mother to you, but I’m damned if I’ll be a burden.’

  ‘You aren’t, Mum. I’ve enjoyed spending time with you. I think it’s done us both a world of good. I love working in the studio and the garden and I quite enjoy looking after you. It’s taken my mind off Jack and the divorce and… well, all the past. Please don’t feel you have to sell up because you’re a burden. I do understand how you feel about Garden Lodge. I love it too. I had no idea just how much.’

  Phoebe was looking at me, but her expression was hard to read. ‘My God,’ she said softly. ‘You don’t actually want me to sell, do you?’

  ‘Of course I do!’ It was my turn to avoid her eyes. ‘But only at the right price.’

  Phoebe pulled out a kitchen chair and sank onto it. ‘Come on, Ann. Be honest. When you arrived, you wanted me to get rid of it, didn’t you? But now you’ve settled in. You’ve spent so much time in the garden… worked so hard… you’ve invested something in the old place. And I suppose you must feel closer to Sylvester out there too.’

  I couldn’t speak. Blinking furiously, I said, ‘Not just Dad. I feel closer to you now. I just… I just didn’t think we’d be selling up so soon. I was going to carry on renovating the garden, so we could have one last summer here. To say goodbye. Then move on.’

  Phoebe nodded. ‘That’s when Sylvester went... You won’t remember.’ She looked up and searched my face. ‘You don’t, do you?’ I shook my head. ‘It was autumn. He always got depressed in the autumn. As soon as the days began to get shorter, he’d pan
ic. It was the thought of winter, you see. It used to get him down every year.’ She sighed and said, ‘Shall I ring the agent? Tell her I’ve changed my mind?’

  ‘Do you want to sell up, Mum?’

  ‘I don’t know now. I thought I did. But I certainly like the idea of one last summer. Time to make our peace with the old place and say goodbye… I think perhaps I’ll ring back and do my batty old woman act. Tell her I’ve had second thoughts. But can I ask a favour, Ann?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘If she’s already spoken to Connor, would you ring him and apologise? I don’t think I can bear to speak to him. I feel bad, messing him about. Would you do that for me?’

  ‘Yes, of course.’

  ‘Right then. You get lunch on the table and I’ll be back in a jiffy.’ When she got to the door, she turned and said, ‘I’m glad we got all that sorted out. After all, there’s no need to rush into anything, is there? But we know where we stand now.’

  She went back to the sitting room and closed the door. After a few moments I heard the magisterial tones she used when speaking to unco-operative tradesmen. It was an impressive performance and I found myself feeling sorry for the agent.

  Phoebe said a curt goodbye, then I heard a whooping noise. She re-appeared in the doorway, brandishing her stick. ‘The deed is done! Let’s have a drink. I’ve never turned down half a million before. For that matter,’ she said, taking a bottle of white wine from the fridge, ‘I’ve never turned down a good-looking young man. Poor old Connor… Never mind. We’ll raise a glass to him – and his three-pipe problem.’

  ~

  I felt obliged to ring Connor straight after lunch. It wasn’t often Phoebe was conscious of behaving badly, so I wanted to set her mind at rest. I left her with a cup of coffee and took the phone up to my old room.

  My mother never had any truck with children’s wallpapers. I wasn’t allowed ballerinas, ponies or a creature called Holly Hobby. Disney was anathema to her and I grew up understanding that merchandising was exploitation of both parent and child. I knew better than to argue with Phoebe who, as far as I could tell, was always right about everything. She was certainly infallible on the subject of waste-of-space boyfriends, not that I ever admitted it. So I asked her how to decorate my room, avoiding the evils of commercial exploitation. I must have been all of twelve. She said, ‘Have nothing in your houses which you do not know to be useful or believe to be beautiful.’