Hester smiled. ‘We have every reason to be proud of our daughter.’
‘And I’m so proud of her mother – how you managed on your own and took care of Vi.’
‘No, she looked after Ivy and me. And my mother. She was wonderful.’
‘I wish I’d been there to support you.’
‘Never mind,’ she said, squeezing his hand. ‘You came home to us, that’s the main thing.’
‘So you’ll tell Ivy about me… one day?’
‘Of course I will. But I don’t know when. It will be hard enough losing you so soon after I found you again – the real you, William. Allow me to deal with that before I have to confront Ivy with seventeen years of deceit and dissimulation.’
‘She might not see it like that.’
‘I don’t want to take the risk. Not yet.’
William was thoughtful for a moment, then said, ‘I think I’d like to write her a letter.’
‘But, William—’
‘One for you to give her after I’ve gone. Whenever you see fit. If I can’t speak to her as her father, I’d like to write to her.’
‘Yes, of course. I’ll bring you some notepaper. Or would you like to dictate it to me? You shouldn’t tire yourself.’
‘No, I’ll try to write to her myself. I’d like her to have something from me, something more than those old gardening books.’
‘She’ll treasure them, as I treasured them when you went off to war – and for the same reason, William. Ivy and I love you.’
He patted her hand and looked away. ‘You’ll give her my letter then?... When the time seems right?’
‘I will.’
‘Thank you.’ He closed his eyes and sighed. ‘Oh, Hester, I’m so tired.... You’ve given me a great deal to think about and I must sleep on it.’ He opened his eyes and looked at her anxiously. ‘You’ll come again tomorrow?’
‘Of course. Tomorrow and every day.’
‘I don’t think I shall be troubling you much longer. The nurses have stopped nagging me to eat and drink. In fact, they’re being especially kind to me now. That doesn’t bode well, does it?’ he said with a crooked smile.
Hester swallowed a sob. ‘Don’t let’s part speaking of death! We’ve had the gift of another day, another conversation together. I’m sure we shall have another tomorrow,’ she added, unable to keep the note of doubt out of her voice.
‘Let’s hope so,’ he replied, reaching for her hand. ‘Goodbye, Hester. I’m so glad you found me. If I still believed in God, I’d thank him for letting me find you, even if it was seventeen years too late.’
‘They weren’t wasted years, William. In all that time you’ve been my dearest friend – and more, though you didn’t know it. Your friendship was more than I dreamed of when you went off to the Somme, more than I dreamed of when Violet got the telegram telling her you were missing in action. We have so much to be grateful for! We have each other now and we have Ivy. We couldn’t really ask for more, could we?’
William didn’t respond at once, but appeared to consider her words, before saying, ‘When he felt particularly pressed, when there was just too much to do in the garden, my father used to complain about “the smallness of time”. That’s what I’d ask for, Hester. More time. Time to enjoy our blessings.’ Unable to reply, she gripped his thin, frail hand and he closed his eyes again. ‘You’ll look after her, won’t you – my splendid daughter. Does she take after me, do you think?’
‘Oh, yes. She has your eyes,’ Hester said fondly. ‘Those remarkable Hatherwick eyes. Dark and intelligent. Violet had them too. She had no difficulty passing Ivy off as her own child.’
He was already asleep, so she released his hand and studied it as it lay inert on the bedcover. She listened to his laboured breathing for a few moments, then got to her feet. Smoothing his hair away from his clammy forehead, she bent down to kiss him, so gently, he could not have felt it.
Hester walked over to the door, opened it cautiously, then turned back to look at William’s sleeping figure. ‘It wasn’t wrong,’ she murmured. ‘We weren’t wrong. It was the war that was wrong. Goodbye, my love.’
She waited for a response she knew would not come, then closed the door quietly behind her. Still clutching the handle, she leaned her forehead against the cool, painted wood, gathering her strength before setting off briskly along the corridor, her shoulders straight, her head high.
HESTER
October 7th, 1934
I fear William will not be with us for much longer. I suppose it’s selfish of me to want him to live, prolonging his suffering when he cannot be cured and lives a miserable, bedridden existence. He no longer has the strength to walk in the grounds of the sanatorium and when I took him round in a wheelchair, it only exhausted him.
I’ve summoned Ivy by letter and we expect her some time tomorrow. I hope she won’t be too late.
Today William couldn’t stop coughing, so I held his hand and chatted to him about Ivy, trying to soothe him. As I left – under compulsion from that dragon of a ward sister – he handed me a letter. He was unable to do more than give me a speaking look before the uncontrollable coughing started again.
October 8th
Ivy was too late. William died yesterday, not long after I left him.
Ivy is broken-hearted, especially as she wasn’t able to say a last goodbye. She’s staying now until after the funeral and I shall be very glad of her company. We plan to walk together in the beech wood and share our memories of William.
When I saw him last, William was semi-delirious but he said he trusted me to do the right thing. I only wish I knew what that was.
My first duty is, and always will be, to Ivy. She is happy and settled at college and doing well. She will now need time to adjust, not only to the loss of her uncle, but to the final severing of ties with the Hatherwicks and Garden Lodge, which I’ve decided to sell. It will be a very difficult time. We both need time to think and grieve.
ANN
‘You think the tears were William’s?’ Connor looked at me in disbelief, then stood up. ‘We need more coffee. Or maybe you need less, Ann,’ he added, taking the empty coffee pot over to the sink.
As he refilled the kettle and switched it on, Phoebe leaned across the breakfast table. ‘Are you on to something?’
‘I don’t know. Maybe… Connor, when did William receive that letter from Ivy?’
‘A week before he died. She wrote to him from college, but he didn’t reply and they never saw each other again.’
‘How do we know William didn’t reply?’ I asked, watching Connor spoon coffee into the pot.
‘That’s what Ivy told me.’
‘But there’s an envelope, isn’t there? An empty envelope with Ivy’s real name, which you said no one would have used. If William wrote to her after his memory returned, he might have addressed her as his daughter. As Ivy Hatherwick.’
‘That’s a good point! I don’t suppose there’s any way of dating the envelope?’ Phoebe asked.
‘No, there’s nothing on it but her name. It was obviously delivered by hand.’ Connor brought the full coffee pot over to the kitchen table. ‘Shall we adjourn to the sitting room, girls?’
‘Good idea!’ Phoebe said struggling to her feet. ‘I could do with the exercise. My arse was taking root.’
‘Go and see if you can find that envelope, Connor. I’ll bring the coffee through.’
As he headed for the sitting room, Phoebe followed, calling out after him, ‘Tip everything on to the floor. Let’s have a good old rummage!’
I loaded our mugs and the coffee pot onto a tray, deep in thought. By the time I’d warmed some milk in the microwave and carried everything through, Connor had found the envelope and Phoebe was examining it closely.
‘Good quality paper. And lined. A bit feminine, don’t you think? And far too posh for William. He wouldn’t have been able to afford stationery like this.’
‘But Hester would,’ I said, setting down th
e tray on the coffee table.
‘It’s not her handwriting,’ said Connor, seated on the carpet, surrounded by mounds of yellowing correspondence.
‘Do we know whose it is?’ I asked handing him a mug.
‘No. We don’t have any letters from William for comparison.’
‘Yes, we do, we have lots.’
‘We do?’ He blinked up at me, surprised. Despite the caffeine intake, Connor’s lack of sleep and his exertions of the night before appeared to be taking their toll.
‘The seed packets.’
‘Of course!’ He reached across the floor, grabbed a large envelope and tipped out the contents. Opening a packet carefully, he examined the tiny writing. Phoebe peered over his shoulder, while I knelt beside him on the carpet.
There was a tense silence before Phoebe announced, ‘It’s not the same. Damn.’
‘But it’s similar,’ Connor countered. ‘And if you consider this was about twenty years earlier and written in a trench, in pencil, possibly under fire… He was also writing something he never intended anyone to read.’
‘Whereas that envelope,’ I said, pointing, ‘might have contained his final communication with Ivy.’
‘What makes you say that?’ Phoebe asked, sipping her coffee.
‘Well, it’s probably Hester’s notepaper.’
‘I don’t follow.’
‘Why would William be writing on someone else’s expensive notepaper? He must have had his own paper and envelopes at home.’
Connor sat bolt upright. ‘But he wasn’t at home!’
‘No, he was in hospital.’
‘And Hester brought him in the wherewithal so he could write a last letter to Ivy before he died! It all adds up!’ Phoebe said, delighted.
‘Well, possibly… Do you think it is William’s handwriting on that envelope, Connor?’
He examined the two words again. ‘Could be. He was dying. Writing in bed, presumably. It could be the same hand. But if William was writing to Ivy on his deathbed, what would he want to say?’
‘Fond farewells. The usual stuff,’ Phoebe said dismissively. ‘How much he loved her, I suppose.’
‘He must also have told her she was his daughter.’
‘Hang on, Ann – we don’t know that.’
‘Yes, we do. The envelope is addressed to Ivy Hatherwick. Her legal name was Mordaunt. He surely must have been writing to tell her she was his daughter.’
‘Well, in that case,’ Connor said, ‘she never got the letter.’
‘She must have,’ Phoebe insisted. ‘We’ve got the empty envelope here.’
Connor shook his head. ‘Unless you think Ivy was hiding something from me, we know she didn’t have any idea who her real parents were.’
‘That’s right. Not until she read William’s letter.’
‘But she didn’t read it, Ann! Hester can’t have given it to her. My grandmother wouldn’t have lived a lie. She couldn’t. She was a deeply moral woman, a churchgoer all her life. She thoroughly disapproved of Hester’s atheism! And why would she have asked me to research her family tree if she knew there were some dodgy skeletons in the cupboard? Sorry, but you’re wrong. Ivy had no idea whose child she was.’
‘Not until the day she died.’
‘What?’ Phoebe and Connor spoke in unison and stared at me.
‘I believe Ivy must have found this letter on the day she died. I’ve no idea where, but I think it must have turned up somehow after a lifetime of being hidden – by Hester probably. It might have been her notepaper. If so, she must have given it to William. He probably told her why he wanted it. For some reason Hester didn’t hand the letter over, but decades later, Ivy found it, read it and discovered who she was.’
‘And then set fire to the family archive? Why? She adored Hester. And if the “uncle” she’d loved all her life turned out to be her dad – well, why would she be angry about that? It doesn’t make any sense! Having Hester and William for parents was no more shameful than being the lovechild of Violet and some unknown dead Tommy.’
‘Oh, no… That’s what it was. Shame.’ The shock of realisation was so great, I thought for a moment I was going to be sick.
‘Ann, are you okay?’ Connor put an arm round me. ‘What’s wrong?’
‘Don’t you see?’ I swallowed and said, ‘If William told Ivy he was her father… I mean, if he only told her he was her father… Don’t you see? As far as Ivy knew, Violet was her mother!’
‘Oh, Jesus…’ Connor let me go and his arms fell to his sides.
‘Ann, please explain!’ Phoebe said testily. ‘I can’t keep up.’
‘Hester never acknowledged Ivy as her own child. We know Ivy believed she was Violet’s child, of father unknown. William was dying when he wrote. Confused, possibly delirious. What if he didn’t explain who Ivy’s mother was? If he didn’t actually name her? What would Ivy have thought? How could she have made sense of it all? After all, she was in her nineties.’
‘Oh, Lord… I see what you mean,’ Phoebe said.
I was watching Connor, concerned about his pallor. I laid a hand on his arm. ‘You knew her very well. How would she have taken the news that she was apparently the product of brother and sister incest?’
‘She would have been appalled. Completely appalled.’
‘You said she wasn’t one to live with secrets. Suppose she thought she’d discovered that her whole life was one big shameful secret, one her conscience-stricken father felt he must reveal on his deathbed––’
‘She would have destroyed the letter… She might have destroyed everything.’
There was a long and terrible silence in which no one moved, then Connor’s shoulders seemed to sag and his head fell forward. I knelt up and put my arms round him, holding him tight while his body shook with silent sobs. Phoebe struggled to her feet and, leaning on her stick, she lay her free hand on his head and stroked his hair, murmuring.
My mother and I shed tears for Connor while he wept for Ivy Hatherwick who lived and died in ignorance of who she was, who never knew how much her mother had loved her, nor how much she’d wanted to protect her.
IVY
24th November, 2013
Ivy Watson threw another log on to the dying fire and replaced the fireguard. Turning, she picked her way carefully through the photo albums, letters and postcards strewn on the floor of her small sitting room and settled down again in her armchair. She lifted one of the old albums on to her lap and turned its heavy, ornamented pages. She decided Connor must have a picture of the old Trysting Tree, so she removed the photo of the ancient beech, making sure she didn’t bend it with her clumsy fingers.
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. Curious now, she opened it 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.
October 7th, 1934
My dearest Ivy
I understand from Hester that you have been given leave to come home from college. I so look forward to seeing you again, my dear, but I fear I might not, so I’ve decided to write to you. If you are reading this letter, it’s because I am dead and Hester has had to give you my final communication.
I am very ill and preparing to quit this world. Before I go, I must act according to my conscience, which troubles me greatly. I have something to tell you that will cause you great consternation. I wish to acknowledge the truth about your parentage. Your mother didn’t want you ever to know, but now, as time runs out for me, I believe I must tell you the truth, however unpalatable.
The facts are simple, our situ
ation was not. I loved your mother and she loved me, but our love was forbidden. Marriage was quite impossible. On a single occasion, just before I left for France, we succumbed to our mutual passion. You were the consequence.
I recalled nothing of this until a few days ago when my memory returned in its entirety. Since then I have been trying to come to terms with a past that was until that moment unknown to me. When I came home, I was told you were another man’s child and so all these years I’ve loved you as my niece, but I don’t think I could have loved you more, had I known you were my own child.
My strength is failing and I must close now. Remember your loving “uncle” and try to forgive your father’s sin. It was committed in the name of love, in the face of probable death. It is in the face of imminent death that I write to you now, to claim you – finally and proudly – as my child. I deeply regret what happened and how it blighted your poor mother’s life, but I do not and could not regret the great gift of your birth.
My dearest Ivy, please try to find it in your heart to forgive me.
Ever your loving father,
William Hatherwick.
Ivy crushed 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.
She was the child of incest. Violet Hatherwick had been in love with her own brother and it was for this reason no father had been named on her child’s birth certificate. Ivy’s happy, fatherless childhood had been a lie, her parentage an abomination. Hester had evidently tried to shield Ivy from this terrible knowledge by hiding the letter, but truth will out. Oh, why had she not simply destroyed it, so Ivy could die in ignorance of her tainted blood?
THE TRYSTING TREE Page 25