THE TRYSTING TREE

by Linda Gillard

  May 12th

  There is no news of Eddie who is being cared for in a Belgian field hospital. I long to go and visit him but I doubt Mother would manage without me, nor can I readily ask her permission to travel since she does not acknowledge that Father and Arthur are dead, nor that Eddie is wounded. She is at least calm nowadays, unless I cross her. Calm, but unhinged. Her conversation is directed not towards me, but to her absent husband and sons. This is how Mother’s poor shattered mind copes with unspeakable loss: she does not speak of it.

  Instead she plays the music we all used to play together – trios, quartets, quintets – but she plays only the piano part, so the music makes little sense. I cannot bear it and refuse to enter the music room now, but occasionally I stand outside and listen. It is pitiful to hear her accompany music only she can hear. Sometimes she even stops to admonish Eddie for not keeping time, as if he were in the room.

  I have tried in earnest to pray for Eddie, but I am losing faith in the power of prayer and derive no comfort now from the exercise. I feel rather like Mother, talking to myself, rambling on, irrationally, but there are days when I envy Mother the solace of her madness. Is that very wicked of me?

  May 16th

  My dear brother Edwin is dead. They say he did not suffer. I wish I could believe it. I have not told Mother yet. I dare not.

  No more.

  I have no more words.

  ANN

  Connor closed the journal slowly and said, ‘Poor Hester.’

  Phoebe blew her nose. ‘Very affecting. It’s extraordinary how involved you can get with people you’ve never met and never will. I mean, it’s not even fiction, it’s just a diary. But it really brings it home to you, doesn’t it? The personal cost of the war. Such a pointless war too.’

  ‘All war is pointless,’ Connor said firmly, setting the diary aside.

  ‘You think so?’ I asked, refilling our glasses.

  He leaned back on the sofa. ‘Well, this one was called “the war to end wars”, but it just set the stage for the next. And I don’t think anyone disputes that the Treaty of Versailles contributed to the rise of Nazism. How can any problem ever be resolved by fighting? Right won’t necessarily prevail. Might will. Haig said, “Victory will belong to the side which holds out the longest.” What a pathetic admission!’

  ‘But surely,’ I said, ‘some things are worth fighting for?’

  ‘Oh, yes, things are worth fighting for, but the fighting itself is pointless unless you’re on the winning side. Might – or sheer endurance – will carry the day. Haig was absolutely right. The Allies didn’t win because we occupied the moral high ground, we won because the Germans lost.”

  ‘I imagine you and your father didn’t exactly see eye to eye over this issue,’ Phoebe said, with a mischievous twinkle.

  Connor laughed and shook his head. ‘Dad and I nearly came to blows over my pacifism. It was an embarrassment to him. He thought it was unmanly and un-British and he would never accept that my views in no way dishonoured the fallen, even though my brother was one of them, as was my grandfather. You can acknowledge bravery and self-sacrifice, but still see war as a terrible waste of lives and resources. Dad thought that was a betrayal. It was bad enough I wasn’t prepared to follow in his footsteps, but being a pacifist as well… I used to quote Churchill back at him,’ Connor said with a wry smile.

  ‘Churchill?’

  ‘When Siegfried Sassoon spoke out against the war in 1918, Churchill responded with, “War is the normal occupation of man. War – and gardening.” ’

  ‘Oh, touché!’ Phoebe exclaimed, delighted.

  Connor leaned forward and picked up Hester’s journal again and leafed through the pages. ‘Would you like me to carry on? Or have you had enough for tonight?’

  ‘More please!’ Phoebe said, settling back in her armchair and hoisting her feet onto the leather pouffe.

  Connor shot me a look of enquiry.

  ‘Can you bear to indulge us a little more?’ I asked.

  ‘Happy to.’

  And so he resumed his reading.

  HESTER

  September 26th, 1915

  It is many weeks since I wrote in this journal. My father is buried in the shade of the village church, but my dear brothers lie in foreign soil. They died protecting a country I have never visited. When I do go, it will be to tend their graves.

  With no bodies to bury it is still hard to believe they are dead. I have created a little shrine in my room to my brothers’ memory, with photographs, fresh flowers and the last letters they sent home. It occurred to me that many of the Beechgrave staff are in the same unfortunate position, mourning loved ones buried or lost on foreign soil, so I have let it be known that flowers, pot plants and any kind of personal memorial can be left in front of the summer house. There is a paved area that is suitable and easily accessible to all. It is my intention that this will become a Garden of Remembrance, open to all and at all times of day. I think it is important that Beechgrave should honour and mourn all its dead and that we should do that together.

  I wear deep mourning still and am glad of it. What to wear is one decision I do not have to make each morning – and there are so many now. At twenty-three I am effectively head of the household. Mother is incapable of making any decision, however small. Even menus are beyond her, so Cook comes to me now. Nothing was actually said, but the Beechgrave staff – the few men who have not enlisted and the women who did not desert us for more lucrative work in factories – have, with palpable relief, shifted their allegiance to me. I run the house and I am also nominally responsible for the gardens and the saw mill. If I stopped to think about any of this, I should be terrified. Before Father died my only responsibilities were reading to Mother and tidying her music. The only things I organised were the dried flowers in my herbarium.

  Mr Hatherwick Snr. can be left to his own devices in the garden, although he is so short of men, drastic changes are called for. Food production must be our priority next year and he has agreed to employ some women for the menial tasks.

  Fortunately for us and for him, Mr Evans was too old to enlist and he continues to manage the saw mill as he did when Father was alive. He has fewer men, but they are prepared to work longer hours and I am prepared to pay them. The mill is a source of income and the gardens a source of food, but the house itself is a drain. Heating it, cleaning it, maintaining its aged fabric costs a great deal of money. Since there is only Mother to consider, I wonder about selling the house or leasing it, but who would want a great big house – and a very old-fashioned one – in wartime?

  I have no uncles to advise me, only two widowed aunts, so I have written to Walter to ask what he thinks I should do. After we are married things will surely be easier. His family business is importing tea and I am sure trade will flourish once again after the war. I doubt Walter would wish to live at Beechgrave. He can never have expected I should inherit, nor do I think we could afford to live here, but I fear Mother will not survive removal to a new home. She leaves her room only to play the piano. All meals are taken up to her and some days she does not even dress. Her friends ceased to call once they realised she was no longer capable of lucid conversation. Some continued to write, but Mother does not open her letters, let alone reply. She has immured herself in a solitary world of grief and madness, but I have saved all her correspondence in case she should recover one day and wish to read it.

  Yet Mother is not, I believe, as lonely as I, for she conducts animated conversations with Father, Arthur and Eddie. She does this even when I am in the room. In the intermittent silences, I find myself straining to hear the words my dead loved ones are supposed to utter. Sometimes it is all I can do to refrain from asking, “What did Eddie say?”

  I have now shut up many of the rooms. They sleep under dust sheets and behind closed shutters. I long to join them. More than once I have considered hiding beneath a dust sheet in one of those distant rooms to make myself invisible, unavailable to Cook, Mr
Hatherwick and Mr Evans. I wonder how long it would be before I was found?

  I have made a provisional inventory of articles that could be sold. If we owned less silver, there would be less of it to clean. However I can do nothing without Mother’s consent unless I act independently and therefore improperly. Since Mother does not even know half the house is closed, how could she miss its contents? I wish to do the right thing, but these days it is not at all clear what is the right thing.

  I wander round the house, gazing at artefacts I was never meant to own. All this should have been Arthur’s, or in the event of his early demise, Eddie’s, never mine. How I should like to sell Eddie’s gun collection, or even just give it away! I cannot bear to see any agent of death in this house, so his guns have been packed away, along with all the fishing rods and tackle. I cannot even bear to see mousetraps laid.

  Sometimes I fear my mind is no more robust than my mother’s. There has been so much death. I spend every spare moment in the garden now, even when it rains. I do not care. I simply stand under an umbrella and watch things grow.

  October 1st

  The garden is dying. I cannot bear it. I can smell autumn on the wind and know winter cannot be far behind. I have gathered dahlias, chrysanthemums and seed heads to arrange indoors. The colours are welcome, but scarcely lift my spirits.

  I have seen some terrible sights in the streets. Broken boys in wheelchairs, men with faces so disfigured, one cannot help but flinch at the sight. I am ashamed of my weakness, ashamed of this war. How can anything be worth this sacrifice?

  January 1st, 1916

  I have decided to begin the New Year by resuming my journal. The days are long and dark and my lethargy is such, I find it hard to move away from the fireside. I should knit, I suppose, but I prefer to write, though increasingly the activity seems pointless. Nevertheless, I derive an odd sort of comfort from it. Writing imposes order on my chaotic thoughts and feelings. Without this, I fear I might resort to conversing with the dead, like Mother.

  Mr Hatherwick is ill. His bronchitis is no better and for several days he has been unable to leave his bed. Fortunately there is not a great deal to do in the garden at this time of year and the staff need little guidance.

  When I visited him I took some of Cook’s excellent beef broth and some stems of flowering witch hazel that I had gathered from the garden. We came to an understanding after Father died that I should be allowed to pick flowers whenever I wanted and arrange them myself. I was dismayed to see his deterioration and insisted on sending for Dr Maguire. Mr Hatherwick protested and said he would soon be on his feet again.

  The look in Violet’s eyes told me she was as anxious as I. Apart from natural concern for her father, she must be concerned for her future. Garden Lodge is allocated to the Head Gardener, so in the event of their father’s demise, she and William would lose their home.

  While Mr Hatherwick was preoccupied with one of his many coughing fits, I asked Violet to send one of the boys with a message to Dr Maguire. When she returned, her father and I were discussing William’s eligibility for promotion to Head Gardener. I proposed a new, less demanding post for Mr Hatherwick which was to plant and maintain new woodland which, we both agreed, was a job that has been neglected for many years.

  Mr Hatherwick’s mind was thus happily engaged with plans for the future. He said he was relieved to know his children would continue to have a home, though he said he was sure a pretty girl like Violet would soon find herself a husband “when all the lads come home”. Violet blushed so furiously, I wondered if she already had a candidate in mind.

  Mr Hatherwick expressed pride in his son’s achievements and pointed out that, as Head Gardener, William would then be able to marry. He shook his head and said, “He’s lost his heart to some lass, I’m certain of it, but he’s not saying who. He’s a close one is our Will!” His wheezy chuckles led to yet another coughing fit, so I made my excuses and left.

  It had of course occurred to me that an intelligent and personable young woman like Violet must have a sweetheart. Since I took over the household, I have perforce become acquainted with the romantic entanglements of Beechgrave’s female staff. Cook insisted I dismiss one girl who had apparently brought the household into disrepute. I was not altogether clear what she meant. Cook, though outraged, was vague in her denunciation.

  When I interviewed Sarah, matters were no clearer. She told me between sobs that her young man had promised to marry her and that she had just wanted to send him off to the Front happy. This seemed to me an admirable goal. I asked if he lived still and she said, yes, as far as she knew. I enquired whether it was still his intention to marry her on his return and she assured me it was and that he was “very pleased about the baby”.

  Light dawned and I finally understood why Cook was so affronted. However, even she admits Sarah is a good, reliable worker and replacement kitchen staff are hard to come by nowadays. I told Sarah I would have a word with Cook and see if we could come to some arrangement. The poor girl almost prostrated herself at my feet. It was most embarrassing.

  Cook threatened to give notice, which I had expected. I countered by saying, my mother’s only remaining interest in life was food; that she looked forward to the tempting trays that were delivered to her bedside several times a day and that I thought it likely Mother would choose to starve to death rather than partake of inferior fare. While Cook preened, I pleaded with her to stay and – the coup de grâce – I offered to increase her wages. The combination of flattery and bribery proved effective and Cook returned to work, grumbling, but mollified.

  I suppose somewhere in the village or even at Beechgrave, a young woman must be praying fervently that William Hatherwick will return home safely. When I left Violet and her father this morning, I took the liberty of asking her if she knew to whom Mr Hatherwick had referred. Violet looked a little confused and said she had no idea.

  “A close one” indeed, if even his sister knows nothing of his affairs of the heart.

  January 27th

  Thanks to Dr Maguire’s ministrations and a strong constitution, Mr Hatherwick is much better, but by no means fit for work. Full recovery might take some time, especially at his age and so today I wrote to William Hatherwick to tell him that I should like to appoint him Head Gardener on his return. What began in earnest as a business letter took a more sentimental turn when I decided to thank him for the loan of his books which have been such a source of comfort and distraction in these dark days of grief. I also told him I had come to depend on Violet, whom I now regard as a friend. There was a great deal more I wanted to say, but I did not know how to express it, so I closed my letter by saying I had been delighted to hear about his trench garden and admired his enterprising spirit.

  After I had sealed the letter, I lay my head down on my arms and, still seated at my desk, wept for several minutes. Why, I do not know. I enjoyed writing the letter and was sure it would bring comfort and peace of mind to its recipient. Exhausted and perplexed, I wiped my eyes, took up my pen again and inscribed William Hatherwick’s name on the envelope. As I did so, it occurred to me that however cheerful the letter, however much good news one includes, it is hard not to wonder if the addressee will ever read it. One might be writing to a dead man.

  When I went downstairs, I found a new letter from Walter. It was short, as his letters always are. It told me little more than that he was still alive. I suppose that is all that matters.

  January 30th

  Violet is so happy! William is coming home on leave. She almost danced round the parlour in her excitement. I know how much she loves her brother, but something about her manner suggested to me that someone else might also be coming home, someone who perhaps means as much to Violet as William.

  It is a pity she cannot confide in me as perhaps a sister would. How I have longed for a sister to help me shoulder the burden at Beechgrave! I would not wish for another brother. That would seem disloyal and I should not wish to sacrifice another
brother to this interminable war, but a sister who would confide in me and in whom I could confide would be a blessing indeed.

  Violet said William had received my letter but had had no leisure to reply and now he is on his way home. She says I must visit while he is at Garden Lodge.

  I shall like that very much.

  February 13th

  I attended church today, alone as usual. Mother rarely leaves her room now. The rest of the house might have burned down and she would not know.

  William Hatherwick is much changed. I did not recognise him this morning. I assumed the tall young man in uniform escorting Violet must be her sweetheart, but when he removed his cap, I realised who it was. He looks years older.

  I think I must have changed too, for when our eyes met there was a moment of blankness in his before he nodded. I really should not have stared so, but I could not believe a man would change so much in so short a time. One hears stories of the horrors our men experience and the casualty lists reveal how much death they see, but until I saw William’s face today, I had not the faintest notion what the war does to the men who survive. I had only considered what happened to the dead. Indeed, I have been much preoccupied with thoughts of dead men: my brothers, Father, Charlotte’s brother Laurence and the staff we have lost at Beechgrave. Today, when I met the Hatherwicks, I almost felt as if I were addressing a dead man. William talked and smiled occasionally, but with such reserve, such an air of detachment that I was put in mind of a quotation from “Romeo and Juliet”, the scene where the mortally wounded Mercutio jokes with Romeo. He says, “Ask for me tomorrow and you shall find me a grave man.” That is how William Hatherwick seemed to me. A grave man.

  When I arrived home, I sat at my dressing table and studied myself in the looking glass. Were the deaths of my father and brothers graven on my face? I cannot say. I can hardly recall a time before the war, let alone what I looked like then. I know I am thinner, for grief is a great killer of appetites, but I am not as pale as I used to be. Hours spent walking in the woods and garden have banished my ladylike pallor. If he were alive, Father would complain that I have become a hoyden. How I miss his grumbling and the way his bushy brows used to shoot up in shocked disapproval.