THE TRYSTING TREE

by Linda Gillard

  Wiping her eyes, Ivy looked down again at the letter. How dare William ask for forgiveness? She would not, could not forgive such wickedness. His confession had destroyed the pride she took in her family, wiped out all her happy memories. It was all lies!

  But no one else need ever know. Connor must never know. Ivy would make sure of that. When she died, the dreadful secret would die with her. She would protect her beloved grandson just as dear Hester had protected her. But Hester had only hidden the truth. Ivy would destroy it. All of it.

  She got to her feet and staggered towards the fireplace. Setting the fireguard aside, she threw William’s 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 piles of photos and consigned them to the blaze, she began to weep again, but she stood and watched with something like relief as the photos buckled, then burst into flames...

  ANN

  Connor was subdued for the rest of the morning. Upset and, I suspect, embarrassed by his emotional response to what was ultimately just a theory about Ivy’s discovery, he set about packing up the archive into its cardboard boxes. I offered to help and we worked in leaden silence while Phoebe took a leisurely bath. Afterwards he went out into the garden to do a few maintenance jobs and I cleared away the breakfast things.

  Some time later, he put his head round the back door and said, ‘I think I’ll call it a day, Ann.’

  ‘But you’ll stay for lunch?’

  Avoiding my eyes, he said, ‘I won’t, thanks. There’s still loads of stuff I need to do for the website launch and I really need to get on top of paperwork. It’s a busy time of year and I’ve got more jobs than I can handle at the moment.’

  ‘Well, that’s a nice problem to have. Are you launching the website soon?’

  ‘In a few days probably.’

  ‘So shall we celebrate? Next weekend? I dare say Phoebe will insist on more champagne.’

  ‘Okay. That sounds great,’ he said, attempting a smile.

  ‘I think the garden’s just about ready for me to take over now, so we should celebrate the end of the project. Take some photos. Raise a toast.’

  His smile was a bit more convincing this time. ‘Yes, let’s do that. Next weekend it is.’ There was an awkward pause in which Connor looked uncomfortable. Staring down at his muddy wellingtons, he said, ‘Ann, you do know it’s nothing to do with… what happened last night?’

  ‘Of course. I just wish now I’d kept my big mouth shut about Ivy. I wasn’t thinking how it would affect you. I’m so sorry.’

  ‘No, I’m just over-reacting. She meant such a lot to me.’

  ‘I know, and to think of her in such a state of turmoil, alone and so very angry… It’s horrible! But, you know, I could be wrong. There might have been another reason. Maybe you should try to believe there was.’

  ‘But you can’t really do that, can you? Un-know something. Forget what you don’t want to remember. Isn’t that why Ivy burned the archive?’

  ‘Would a man without memory be a happy man?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘That’s what Hester wrote in her diary. I wonder if William was happier before his memory returned?’

  ‘I don’t know, but I’ll never be able to look at a photo of Ivy without thinking how she might have felt during those last few days in hospital… She was so proud of her family. She loved them so much. She didn’t remember much about Violet, but William and Hester were her world.’

  ‘She might have died with her love for Hester intact.’

  ‘You think so?’

  ‘Well, she still thought of her as a protective adoptive mother.’

  ‘Who’d colluded with covering up incest.’

  ‘Maybe she didn’t think that. But even if she did, knowing why she destroyed the archive allows you to move on, Connor. It’s an ending to the story. We don’t know if it’s the real ending, but it is an ending. Without it you’d spend the rest of your life wondering, trying to make sense of what happened. And I really can’t recommend spending another forty years trying to come up with motives for apparently inexplicable actions.’

  ‘You mean Sylvester?’

  I nodded. ‘I wish I could have got inside his head somehow, even it turned out he was a lying, cheating scumbag with a second family in Madeira. Maybe if we’d ever known the truth, Phoebe and I would have been closer. Fonder. We could have shared the hurt.’

  ‘You really think she doesn’t know?’ I looked up, astonished. ‘Forgive me for pointing this out, Ann, but you only know what your mother’s told you.’

  ‘Just like Ivy…’ I murmured.

  ‘Just like Ivy.’

  An uncomfortable silence was broken by Phoebe calling out from upstairs.

  ‘I’d better go and see what she wants. Come back at the weekend, Connor. We’ve got lots to celebrate.’

  ‘I’d like that. I don’t have to wear the tux again, do I?’

  ‘Not unless you want me to struggle to keep my hands off you.’ Phoebe called out again, more impatiently. I took a step towards him, stood on tiptoe and kissed his mouth, then turned and ran upstairs.

  ~

  Long before he turned up for the champagne celebration, I knew Connor was up to something. I was searching for a book in the studio, a compendium of William Morris designs and it wasn’t on the bookcase where I kept all the volumes currently in use for work. There was no gap where the book should have been – would have been if I’d just taken it off the shelf – which struck me as odd. It looked as if someone had closed up the books to disguise the fact that one was missing.

  I went back into the house and found Phoebe extracting pages from her most recent sketchbook.

  ‘Ah, there you are! Come and tell me which of these poses you think would be best for Connor’s portrait. I’ve made up my mind, but I want to see if you agree.’

  She showed me three sketches, allowing me time to consider each one.

  ‘Is it going to be a portrait in oils?’

  ‘Oil pastel. Quicker and easier for me.’

  I nodded and studied the sketches again. ‘Well, they’re all good.’ Phoebe allowed herself a satisfied smile. ‘I’d reject the full length pose though. His height distracts from his face.’ After more consideration I said, ‘The profile, I think. That’s all you really want. Head and shoulders. You need the set of his shoulders – it’s so Connor. But profile is good because you see all the determination in the nose and jaw. You can see he’s a fighter. The full-face sketch just looks…’

  ‘Handsome.’

  ‘Yes. And Connor’s so much more, isn’t he?’ Phoebe beamed. ‘I take it I picked the right one?’

  ‘I don’t know, but you picked the same one as me. You have a good eye, Ann, I’ll say that for you. Years spent drawing all those finicky plants, I suppose.’

  Ignoring the slur, I said, ‘Actually, that was why I came in. Have you borrowed one of my Morris books?’

  ‘No. That would be Connor.’

  ‘Connor?’

  ‘He asked me if he could borrow a book, just for this week.’

  ‘Why did he ask you and not me?’

  ‘It’s a surprise.’

  ‘What is?’

  ‘Whatever he’s making.’

  ‘Mum, what are you talking about?’

  ‘Well, you aren’t supposed to know, but he’s working on a present for you. He wanted to borrow a particular book on Morris, so I said he could. You’ve got so many, I didn’t think you’d miss one.’

  ‘What’s he making?’

  ‘He wouldn’t tell me. Said I’d blab,’ she added indignantly. ‘But the Green Woman will be a hard act to follow. I suppose we’ll find out on Friday night.’ She turned her attention back to the sketches. ‘The profile is definitely the one. Heroic, but still vulnerab
le... Can’t wait to see what he comes up with for you. Bound to be something interesting.’

  ~

  Even before I learned Connor was making me a present, I knew what I wanted to give him: a photo album filled with pictures of Garden Lodge and the restoration of the walled garden. In addition to the usual Before and After shots, I included a photo of Phoebe on a garden bench, sketching, wrapped in a blanket and sporting her tweed cap. There was one of Connor with a muddy face, grinning at the camera, brandishing his spade. Others showed the Green Woman, the beech wood and distant Beechgrave up on the hill, taken from my bedroom window. I’d recorded winter turning into spring, from bare branches against a pale sky, to trees smothered in snowy blossom. In the final photo, taken by Phoebe, I stood beside the massive stump of the fallen Trysting Tree, holding the rusty tin that contained William’s love letters.

  I printed out the photos, arranged them in the album, then inscribed it. I could have just given him a USB stick, but I thought Connor of all people would appreciate an album recording the last few months. I hoped it would compensate a little for the sad conclusion to Ivy’s story.

  When he arrived on a fine April evening, we were ready with champagne, a special gift and – for what we trusted would not be a last supper – his favourite fish pie. Connor turned up with two large holdalls and a carrier bag full of narcissi.

  ‘I couldn’t resist. The supermarket was practically giving them away, so I bought the lot. Hope you’ve got enough jugs and vases,’ he said, handing over the flowers. ‘Now, ladies, you must excuse me for a while. I have some business to attend to.’

  ‘Business?’ Phoebe asked.

  ‘Secret business. I’ll be back shortly to collect you.’

  ‘What’s going on?’ I asked with a laugh.

  ‘It’s a surprise. This time it’s for you, Ann.’

  ‘For me?’ I said, feigning surprise. ‘Well, as it happens, we have something for you too. Shall we save it for later?’

  ‘Yes, I need to get to work before the light goes.’

  ‘We’ll see you later then. For bubbly and surprises.’

  He set off up the garden path, carrying his bulging holdalls. I was just about to shut the front door when he wheeled round suddenly. ‘Can I borrow a ladder?’

  ‘It’s in the garage. I’ll come and unlock it.’

  Connor wouldn’t allow me to accompany him to his mystery destination, so I left the ladder propped up against the garage door and returned to the house, where I found Phoebe arranging flowers.

  ‘Aren’t they gorgeous? Wonderful to have them in such profusion. The house will be full of their scent soon.’ She buried her face in some blooms and inhaled. When she emerged, she said, ‘Shall we take a picture?’

  ‘Yes, let’s.’ I looked round for my camera, but it wasn’t on the shelf where I normally left it, so I went to look in the kitchen. It wasn’t there either. I ran upstairs to see if I’d put it in my room. Drawing a blank, I came down again, calling out. ‘You haven’t seen my camera, have you?’

  Phoebe appeared in the doorway. ‘Did you leave it on the hall table?’

  ‘No. I can’t find it anywhere.’

  ‘You took it out yesterday, didn’t you?’

  ‘Yes, but I’m sure I wouldn’t have forgotten it.’

  I spent the next few minutes checking every room again while Phoebe searched the sitting room thoroughly, but to no avail.

  Putting my head round the sitting room door, I said, ‘I’m going out to look for it before it gets dark.’

  ‘Perhaps Connor will have spotted it.’

  ‘Hope so,’ I said, pulling on my coat. ‘Could you put the oven on for the pie? I’ll be as quick as I can.’

  I closed the back door and headed over to the walled garden where I’d taken some shots the day before. One circuit of the path established that my camera wasn’t there, so I went over to the studio and had a scout round, even though I was beginning to suspect I’d left the camera in the wood. I remembered putting it down to take a phone call, then, when it had started to rain, I’d headed back to the house, still on the phone. I reassured myself the camera was safe inside its waterproof case and should have come to no harm.

  The light was fading fast and when I got there the wood seemed gloomy, almost forbidding. As I re-traced my steps to the spot where I thought I’d taken the call, I heard a sound that stopped me in my tracks, a sound that was familiar, yet I knew I hadn’t heard it in a very long time. Decades, possibly. It was the slow, rhythmic creaking of a branch of a tree. When the sound stopped suddenly, I set off in that direction, intrigued. I spotted the silver glint of the ladder, propped up against one of the beeches and hurried over to the clearing to ask Connor if he’d seen my camera. As I skirted round the Green Woman, something else caught my eye.

  A swing was hanging from a horizontal branch of a tree and a man was standing on it, his back towards me, his head bowed.

  I began to shake uncontrollably, then my knees gave way beneath me. As I sank to the ground, a sob rising in my throat, I saw what I had seen. I knew – finally – what I had always known.

  I saw my father and I knew that he was dead.

  THE BEECH WOOD

  It was early when the child wandered into the wood. Dew still lay on the ground, but by then it was all over.

  She had come to retrieve the doll she’d left by the swing, propped up among our tangled roots, so it could observe her as she swung back and forth, serenading us with nursery rhymes.

  When she arrived in the clearing, the child’s eyes were cast down, but watchful. She wished to avoid the gleaming, black slugs, as big as her father’s thumb. But she wasn’t afraid. This was her wood. The only other person who came here was her father. He’d hung a new swing for her when the ropes of the old one finally frayed.

  The doll was where the child had left it, but it had fallen over, dislodged by some nocturnal creature. She didn’t see the doll. Long before she reached the foot of the tree, she sensed she was not alone and looked up to see her father standing on the swing. She ran towards him, delighted to have company.

  She stopped when she realised something was wrong. He was wearing his dressing gown and he was floating, like an angel. His slippered feet didn’t touch the seat of the swing and his arms weren’t holding the ropes, they hung loose at his sides. She couldn’t see his face because his back was towards her, but his head hung forward, as if he were very sad.

  The child stood still and waited for her father to move. When he didn’t, she called his name in a small, high voice, then again, louder. The silence was broken only by startled crows, flapping their wings in protest.

  She began to back away from the swing. Stumbling over a tree root, she regained her balance, then turned and started to run, with no thought for her abandoned doll, nor care for the slugs she crushed underfoot.

  Not until she was out of sight did we hear the first of many screams.

  PHOEBE

  Someone was banging at the back door. Phoebe had just closed her eyes for a few moments while she waited for Ann to return and the loud noise had startled her. Annoyed her too. Why was Ann knocking on the door when it wasn’t even locked?

  Groaning, she hauled herself out of her armchair and reached for her stick. ‘All, right, all right! I’m coming,’ she grumbled as she shuffled into the kitchen. Yanking the door open, she protested, ‘Why on earth didn’t you—’ but the question died on her lips as Connor almost fell into the kitchen carrying Ann, who was whimpering, her eyes wild. ‘For God’s sake, Connor, what happened! Is she all right?’

  His face almost as pale as Ann’s, Connor gasped, ‘She knows! Her memory’s come back. She knows, Phoebe! And you know too, don’t you?’

  She blinked at him, unsure whether he was angry or just afraid. ‘Yes. I know,’ she admitted. ‘I hoped Ann never would.’

  Connor staggered into the kitchen and shut the door behind him with a vicious kick. ‘Call a doctor. She’s in shock. I’m p
utting her to bed and I’m going to sit with her until a doctor’s seen her. Make a hot water bottle. And some tea. But ring for a doctor first.’ He didn’t wait for a reply, but pushed past Phoebe and mounted the stairs, carrying Ann.

  Phoebe fetched the phone from the hall and sat at the kitchen table to make the call. Someone took her message and said a doctor would ring back shortly. She laid the phone down, went over to the sink and filled the kettle. As she leaned against the worktop, waiting for the water to boil, her eyes fell on the fish pie Ann had made.

  Phoebe turned the oven off and buried her face in her hands.

  ~

  By the time the doctor came, Ann was calmer, but still unable to speak, so Connor described what had happened. Phoebe explained that she thought her daughter had probably experienced a flashback to the time she found her father’s body hanging in the wood.

  The doctor administered a sedative and said Ann would need rest and, when she was ready, she might benefit from counselling. He assured them that she had suffered no physical harm, but her mind would need time to recover. Registering Phoebe’s infirmity, he asked if she would be able to cope on her own. She scoffed at his concern until Connor intervened to say he would ensure both women had all the help they needed.

  He saw the doctor out and when he returned to Ann’s room, he found Phoebe sitting slumped by the bed, gazing at her daughter’s face. As he arranged a chair on the other side of the bed, Phoebe whispered, ‘This will be the first decent night’s sleep she’s had in ages. Poor thing.’ She lifted a hand towards Ann’s head, but appeared to change her mind. ‘Better not disturb her,’ Phoebe whispered. ‘The doc said she needs to rest.’

  ‘I’m going to sit up with her all night, so if you want to get some sleep, that’s fine by me. I can call you if she wakes.’

  ‘I’m not tired. I want to be here if she wakes up. That’s the least I can do,’ Phoebe added ruefully. ‘There’s a fish pie downstairs. Are you hungry?’