THE TRYSTING TREE

by Linda Gillard

  Miss H. Mordaunt

  Beechgrave

  Setting the book aside, he lit his candle and placed it on the table. Overwhelmed suddenly with exhaustion – his twelve-hour working day had started at six in the morning – William yawned, then dragged a callused hand through his thick dark hair, greasy now with sweat. He opened the window wide, leaned out and inhaled the scents rising from the garden below: lilac, honeysuckle and night-scented stocks. He closed his eyes and almost reeled. A man could get drunk on their perfume.

  As he removed his waistcoat and shirt, he looked again at the dark outline of the beech trees against the night sky. Ignoring the promptings of conscience and common sense, William reached for his sketchbook and picked up the pencil again. He sat down at the table by the window and placed the open sketchbook so it took advantage of the candle and the rising moon. He began to draw quickly and as he drew, he forgot his aching limbs and the nagging pain in the small of his back, aggravated by hours spent scything long grass. He forgot everything. All he remembered was the face he now drew: the silky hair in disarray; the thick, arched brows; the curve of dark lashes on her pale cheek. He hesitated to draw her mouth, not because it was challenging, nor because he’d forgotten it. To draw her mouth accurately, as he had seen it, her lips parted slightly as she slept, the upper lip drawn up so he could see her small white teeth, to record such a thing seemed intimate and intrusive, so he hesitated for a moment, then, grasping the pencil firmly, he completed his sketch.

  He put the pencil down and rubbed his eyes. When he opened them again he examined his drawing by the light of the guttering candle. It was a good likeness. Very good. It was a knack he had, not just to draw, but to be able to draw from memory. Once he’d seen something, he could always remember it. A list of Latin plant names, a building, a face. As a boy he’d seen a child crushed by barrels falling from an overturned dray. He could see it still – the small, twisted limbs and the blood running in the gutter. Having a good memory could be a curse.

  William’s sketchbooks were repositories for his memories. He didn’t draw to record. His brain did that. He drew for the pleasure of re-living an experience. It was over now, but while he’d been drawing her, with the breeze from the window cooling his damp skin, he had felt almost as if he were with her again, in the wood, standing guard, watching and keeping her safe, as if she were a sleeping princess in a fairy tale and he her faithful servant.

  He dated the sketch but didn’t sign it, nor did he write her name, but he said it softly before he fell asleep: “Miss Hester Mordaunt.”

  HESTER

  June 16th, 1914

  William Hatherwick has been as good as his word! I have by my side a copy of Mr Wilson’s book, A Naturalist in Western China, with Vasculum, Camera, and Gun: Being Some Account of Eleven Years' Travel, Exploration, and Observation in the More Remote Parts of the Flowery Kingdom.

  I do believe I was more thrilled to receive this book than Walter’s proposal.

  June 21st

  Our musical evenings are now augmented by another fiddle player and Mother is delighted that we can expand our repertoire. Walter plays the violin and so our piano quartet occasionally becomes a quintet. Mother plays piano, Arthur the ’cello and Eddie the violin, very badly. Although I play the viola, I am more comfortable physically with the violin. However I much prefer the sound of the viola. Years of listening to Eddie torture his E string dulled my enthusiasm for the fiddle.

  Mother has insisted we learn some new music to play together. This has annoyed my wretched brothers. They have welcomed Walter into the family, but would rather he play billiards than music. I for one am grateful for our soirées. They relieve me of the obligation to make small talk. Walter is a dear, kind man, but inclined to be taciturn. I believe he is aware of the defect because he smiles and nods eagerly when others speak, but this only serves to make him look slightly foolish. I suspect Walter finds Mother intimidating. She does little to put him at his ease, even though she admires his playing.

  Undoubtedly Mother is the best musician in the family and undoubtedly Mother knows it. As she plays, she affects a martyred expression, as if conscious she casts musical pearls before swine. Father does not play and Mother claims, when out of his hearing, that he is tone deaf. This might be true. He attends our musical gatherings with little enthusiasm and often falls asleep. Perhaps this is the cause of Mother’s martyred expression. Music is her great love – I sometimes think her only love – and in that respect, she failed to marry a kindred spirit. But that is surely one of the virtues of the married state: it unites those with disparate tastes. Life would be deadly dull if we all shared the same enthusiasms, the same passions. How should we ever learn anything new?

  Mother said an odd thing this evening. After we had finished playing The Trout, she sighed and said, “Such a tragedy that Schubert died so young. Only thirty-one. I shall never reconcile myself to the loss of so much great music.”

  I doubt she expected a response, but Walter, still flushed and smiling from his musical exertions, announced, “Whom the gods love, die young.” Mother must have thought his reply a little glib, for she turned to him and said, “Then I must assume, Walter, that they are not at all partial to me.”

  He stopped smiling and went very red. Arthur managed to control himself, but Eddie choked and had to leave the room, coughing. As the door closed, Father woke up and began to applaud. I avoided Arthur’s eye. He, Walter and I studied our music intently until the sound of Eddie’s paroxysms died away.

  June 29th

  I called at Garden Lodge to return A Naturalist in Western China. I was loath to part with it, but I had had it in my possession for over a week. I read the whole book and copied out some of my favourite passages.

  Violet answered the door to me, her father and brother being at work. She looked very surprised, but offered me a glass of lemonade. As the day was hot and I was thirsty, I accepted her kind offer.

  I sat on a bench outside, sipping the deliciously cool lemonade and inhaling the scent of climbing sweet peas. Violet was busy in the garden with a pair of scissors and I paid her little heed. I was studying the delightful informality of their cottage garden. I decided I preferred it to our extravagant massed bedding.

  When I stood up and handed her my empty glass, Violet presented me with a bunch of sweet peas. She had bound them with a piece of garden twine and apologised for the rough nature of the posy. “But the scent is just heaven,” she said. I was very touched. I asked her to be sure to thank her brother for the loan of his book. She assured me she would and thus we parted on cordial terms.

  I took great delight in arranging my flowers in a small jug. They sit on my bedroom mantelpiece and the room is full of their glorious scent.

  I confess, I have done a foolish thing, but not, I hope, a wrong one. When I returned the book, I wrapped it in the same brown paper in which it was delivered, but I did not return the seed packet that someone – William Hatherwick, I presume – had used as a bookmark. The packet was empty and had contained lettuce seeds, nothing out of the ordinary. I hardly think William or Mr Hatherwick will need to refer to the packet.

  I did not realise I had left it out until after the parcel was made up. I considered undoing the string and inserting the packet, but it hardly seemed worth the trouble. In any case, I found myself strangely unwilling to part with it. I wished to retain it as a memento of the happy hours I spent reading Mr Wilson’s thrilling book.

  I shall use the packet as a marker in my journal. I can always return it at some later date, but I doubt it will be missed. It is just an empty seed packet.

  July 5th

  Yesterday I told Mother I was going into Bristol to attend a lecture with my friend, Charlotte Reid and her brother, Laurence. Unfortunately this was a lie, but I prefer to think of it as a ruse, one with a certain risk attached as Mother occasionally sees members of Charlotte’s family and might enquire about our excursion. I took the precaution of telling Mother the
lecture was being given under the auspices of the Royal Geographical Society, so I think it unlikely she will show any further interest. Mother’s idea of a voyage of exploration would be a stroll along the pier at Clevedon, and then only in fine weather.

  It would have been quite out of the question to tell her I wished to attend a meeting of the Women’s Social and Political Union. The prospect of women’s suffrage fills Mother with horror. I appear to be the only person in my family who does not subscribe to the idea that women are not only the weaker sex, but also an inferior sex.

  The meeting was held at the Victoria Rooms and was apparently a more orderly affair than usual. The newspapers have reported with relish that WSPU meetings have been frequently disrupted by male hecklers throwing missiles: vegetables, rotten fruit, even stones. Surely no one who hurls objects at defenceless women deserves the right to vote?

  Yesterday the women of the WSPU were not quite defenceless. I was told the orderly tenor of the meeting could be attributed to the presence of half a dozen professional boxers, hired to protect the speakers. These redoubtable gentlemen were easy to identify by their fearsome expressions and misshapen noses. For this information I’m indebted to Violet Hatherwick, who attended the meeting with her brother, William.

  Shortly before the meeting began, we found ourselves side by side on the steps of the Victoria Rooms. It seemed contrary to the spirit of the gathering to ignore Violet, who was Mother’s maid until her own mother died and she had to leave us to keep house for her father and brother. So I nodded and smiled and she nodded back. Courting the disapproval of my companions, I struck up a conversation with Violet, who always seemed to me an intelligent girl, wasted, as so many are, in the mindless drudgery of domestic service. It was then she informed me, with a mischievous smile, that the boxers had been engaged. She said William had insisted on accompanying her, though Violet had assured him she was quite capable of looking after herself. Indeed, her lively and combative expression suggested that if a rotten cabbage had sailed in Violet’s direction, she might have caught it and hurled it back.

  William spoke up to say he was eager to hear the speakers and would have attended on his own account in the interests of furthering his education and the cause of universal suffrage. I believe this was the longest sentence I had heard him utter and the first that was not of a horticultural nature. I must have looked surprised, for when he finished speaking, he cast down his eyes and looked uncomfortable.

  I hastened to rescue the conversation by informing them that I had resorted to subterfuge to attend, telling my parents I was attending a Royal Geographical Society meeting. When I mentioned my anticipated difficulty, should anyone enquire about the content of the lecture, William reached inside his jacket and pulled out a carefully folded leaflet. He opened it up, then tore off a corner and handed it to me, saying, “I attended this lecture last week. The speaker’s credentials and the subject of his talk are summarised.’ He then indicated the torn corner. ‘I’ve removed the date. I’m sure a cursory study will enable you to answer any awkward enquiries.” He smiled and I was struck then by his resemblance to his sister, though William is darker and usually of a more solemn countenance.

  The WSPU meeting was splendid! Laurence fell asleep and snored until Charlotte prodded him with her umbrella, but when I left the Victoria Rooms, my mind was teeming with new ideas. I wished I could offer places in the car to the Hatherwicks, but of course it would never do. In any case, I’m sure they would not have accepted.

  As Johnson drove us back to Beechgrave, Charlotte and I studied the Geographical Society leaflet and agreed our story. I remarked that I should have liked to attend both events and Charlotte said, when women achieve full independence, we shall be able to go where we want and do what we want; that the doors of higher education and even the professions will be open to us, when once we have a say in the governing of our country. Charlotte is a passionate and convincing speaker. She could have gone on the stage. Listening to her, my spirits never fail to rally. Laurence however remained unmoved and dozed most of the way home.

  Charlotte is right. The future will be challenging for women, but it cannot fail to be exciting, unless, of course, this wretched war happens. But how, in this enlightened age, can war be necessary? The Germans are our friends and the Kaiser is King George’s cousin. I asked Arthur to explain, but he just said it was all talk, there would be no war, but when I asked Father, he said he thought there would be a war. He declined to explain why, assuring me I would not understand.

  I suppose if we live in a world where grown men throw bricks at intelligent, articulate women, anything is possible.

  ANN

  Phoebe was asleep. Impervious to booze, she’d always been a night owl, partying like someone half her age, but nowadays pain exhausted her. She sat slumped in her chair, her head falling forward, a heap of bony limbs. Connor and I regarded her in companionable silence, then he looked at me and whispered, ‘Perhaps I’d better stop reading.’

  ‘Yes. She’d hate to miss anything.’

  He closed Hester’s diary. ‘Call it a day then?’

  ‘I think so. You must be tired of reading in any case.’

  ‘Not really. It’s nice to have such an appreciative audience.’ He stood up and stretched his long limbs. ‘Ann, I really don’t need to stay over. I can ring for a taxi.’

  ‘No, of course you must stay,’ I said, collecting our wine glasses and placing them quietly on a tray, so as not to wake Phoebe.

  ‘I don’t want to put you to any trouble.’

  ‘It’s no trouble at all, but I can’t promise you’ll be very comfortable. It’s just an old Z-bed. Your feet will probably stick out the end.’

  ‘Oh, I’m used to that.’ Connor opened the door for me and followed me into the kitchen. ‘You’re sure? I mean, you didn’t really get to vote, did you? It was Phoebe’s invitation.’

  ‘She’s your number one fan, you know. If she were ten years younger—’

  ‘And I was ten years older,’ he answered with a grin.

  ‘Oh, no, she’d take you as you are. And younger.’ The glasses slid as I set down the tray and one almost toppled over. As I caught it, I was aware I must have drunk more than I thought. The conversation felt slightly out of control, even indiscreet, but I found I didn’t care. It was nice to have someone to talk to.

  Leaning against the worktop, I said, ‘Age has never really meant much to Phoebe – physically or morally. When I was young, I used to be very shocked, but now I rather admire her attitude.’

  ‘So do I,’ Connor replied. ‘And I’m flattered you think if I played my cards right, I could be in with a chance.’ His face was deadpan, but I must have stared, because he cracked eventually and laughed. ‘Don’t worry, I have no designs on your mother. But I am very fond of her.’ He continued to look at me and said, ‘I’ve grown fond of you both.’

  I smiled, feeling pleased but also awkward. ‘Phoebe’s a person who’s easy to admire, but not, I think, easy to love. There have been times – difficult times – when I’ve asked myself if I actually love my mother, but I’ve never doubted how much I respect her.’

  ‘As an artist or a person?’

  ‘Both.’

  ‘But I shouldn’t think it’s been easy being her daughter.’

  I looked at him, surprised. ‘No, it hasn’t.’ Once again I had that vertiginous feeling. It might have been the red wine or the apprehension that I was saying – and thinking – too much. ‘I’ve always thought I fell short in various ways. She’s never actually said I’ve been a disappointment to her, but…’

  ‘You think you have.’

  ‘Yes… Well, no, not really. I mean what did she expect? That an artist of her calibre would produce another? That just doesn’t happen. And I hardly think she can be disappointed my marriage ended. It lasted fifteen years – a lot longer than hers. She’s never expressed the slightest interest in grandchildren, so I don’t think she holds that against me.’
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  Connor folded his arms and regarded me thoughtfully. ‘So maybe Phoebe isn’t disappointed in you.’

  ‘You mean, I’m just paranoid?’

  ‘Possibly.’

  I laughed, delighted. ‘Come on. Let’s get you settled in the studio.’ I picked up the key to the studio and opened the back door.

  I led Connor out into the darkness. I heard him inhale the night air and I did likewise, glad of the bracing cold after the smoky wine-and-wood burner fug indoors. I stopped and glanced up at the stars, to check they were still there. They were. ‘Perhaps you’re right, maybe I am paranoid. After all, my five year-old brain had to find some reason for my father running away.’

  I unlocked the studio door, opened it and switched on the light. ‘You’re in luck. I always leave the stove ready to light so I don’t have to start my working day laying a fire.’ I knelt down in front of the stove, opened the door, struck a match and lit the firelighters. As I watched them burn, I sat back on my heels and said, ‘I must have thought Dad left because I’d done something very, very bad.’

  Connor was standing behind me and didn’t speak. I imagine he was hypnotised by the flames too, or just tired. It was late and he’d worked hard in the garden. Eventually he said, ‘Did your five-year-old brain come up with anything?’

  ‘No. I was always a very well-behaved child. I didn’t even do much in the way of teenage rebellion. My mother was an embarrassment to me with her bohemian friends and young lovers, so I was rigidly conventional. That was how I rebelled.’

  Connor sat down on the shabby chaise longue. ‘But you thought you must have driven your father away.’

  ‘Something like that. I remember it as a bad time, but I don’t recall any details. I can remember Phoebe shouting. Going ballistic. And there was a lot of crying – hers and mine. But I don’t remember what it was all about. I don’t think anyone actually explained things to me. Dagmar – Phoebe’s agent – came down from London and whisked me away. She took me to her flat where I ate lots of sweets and ice-cream. I can remember throwing up. And she bought me a new doll. I’d never owned anything so lovely. I was almost scared to play with her, she was so beautiful. Dagmar read to me at bedtime, which was a real treat. She tucked me up in a little box room with an old patchwork quilt on the bed and I can remember thinking, “I don’t ever want to go home.” I wanted Dagmar to be my mum.’