The Memory Tree

by Tess Evans

  That first box was always her favourite, though. Whenever she held it, she could feel a soft brush stroking her hair and smell her mother’s perfume.

  There’s another box in that attic. It’s a cream, embossed cardboard box, lined with pink tissue paper. Inside are my baby photos. Me with my mother, my father, with Grandad, with Mrs McLennon and a tall black man. Me with seventeen-year-old Sealie, my pretty young aunt. She hasn’t opened this box in a very long time.

  The round room was my father’s. It wasn’t exactly round, but it had a curved outside wall and was known from the beginning as the round room. It was on the house’s ‘off-side’, and the window looked out onto the neighbour’s fence so it was a gloomy room even in summer. Paulina first used it to store an old sofa, a table and some broken chairs and then left it to itself, airing it a couple of times a month. Zav found this room ideal, providing him with a place to play with his mates on rainy days. In later years, they gathered there to smoke forbidden cigarettes and discuss girls and football.

  Like Sealie, Zav used his room to store his ‘stuff’ as he called it. Unlike his sister, however, his stuff could not be contained. The floor, the table, the chairs were festooned with books, jumpers, meccano pieces, flashlights, toy cars, footy cards, toffee papers and comics, while the walls were home to cricket bats, tennis racquets, camping equipment, bike parts and a large, unidentified metal ‘thing’ that he had rescued from a neighbour’s hard rubbish collection. You never know when something like this might come in handy, he explained when Hal saw him struggling with it up the path.

  And Hal? His place, his space was at Paulina’s side. After she died, he tossed in their bed, embracing the nightgown she left under her pillow. Her perfume lingered for a few precious nights, gradually dispersing into the darkest corners of their room before it dissolved into nothingness. When he was sure that Paulina’s spirit had gone, Hal left the cold bed, took his clothes from the wardrobe and went out, shutting the door. He padded softly to the guest bedroom and slid under the covers of the single bed, pulling the quilt up to his chin. The bed was too small for his large frame, but from then on, he slept in it every night until the day they took him away.

  The room was austere, with a wardrobe, a chest of drawers, an armchair and a side table with a reading lamp. He asked Mrs McLennon to tidy the other bedroom, but not to move any of Paulina’s things. She looked doubtful, but did as he asked. Hal kept the door shut and visited the room occasionally as one might visit a shrine. On their wedding anniversary, and on Paulina’s birthday, he filled the room with flowers. But he steadfastly refused to commemorate her death and was at pains to treat that day as ordinary.

  For the first few years, Mrs McLennon took the children to Mass on their mother’s anniversary. There they would pray for the repose of her soul, travelling afterwards on the bus and train to place flowers on her grave. Sealie made little gifts for her mother—a drawing, a plasticine statue and in the third year, a matchbox covered in Easter egg foil. With impulsivegenerosity, she put her blue feather inside on a nest of cotton wool and tied it with a yellow hair-ribbon.

  Looking at her handiwork with pride, she skipped up to the grave.

  Mrs Mac was shocked. ‘Selina! Show a little respect. This is no place for leaping about like a jumping jack!’

  Sealie stopped short. It was the best present she’d ever given her mother. She couldn’t understand why Mrs Mac sounded so cross. Her lip trembled and her joy evaporated.

  An appalled Mrs Mac hugged and petted her. ‘I felt that ashamed,’ she confessed to her sister, Alice, later. ‘Poor little thing. She put her present down all quiet and guilty looking— and she’d been really happy.’ Mrs Mac’s own face fell. ‘I try that hard to do the right thing, but you can’t replace a mother.’

  The truth was that Sealie’s memory of her mother was fading. The little girl knew from photographs that Paulina had been a beautiful woman, and her own memory was of them dancing together, her mother borne on air, like a cloud-wisp or a spiralling autumn leaf. Sealie remembered Paulina in a pale blue evening gown, dark hair brushing her shoulders. She remembered her in a shiny red coat, laughing as they ran hand-in-hand in the rain. And she remembered her mother’s perfume as she came in to say goodnight. As the years went by, these memories became more stylised, like illustrations in a book of fairytales. As she matured, Sealie wondered what her mother was really like. She had no memory of scoldings or being forced to eat her vegetables or to clean up her room, although she knew these things must have occurred. Having a saint for a mother was all very well, but she would have given anything to be the daughter of a real, live, fallible, flesh-and-blood woman.

  Zav was older, and his mother more established in his memory. Unlike his sister, he missed a real woman. His mother was like everyone else’s, but special—not because she was a saint or a beauty, but because she was his.

  As for me, I find it difficult to call Paulina grandmother. I can only think of her as a beautiful, young ballerina. Poor woman. I idealise her too.

  4

  MY GRANDFATHER HAL WAS OBSESSIVE by nature and Paulina had been his grand passion. Her death left him bereft, and he couldn’t let her go. He had been raised in a Catholic family, and while turning to the church in his initial sorrow and loneliness, he soon detected a hollow ring in the formulas. What was the church up to? All this praying for her soul would not bring his wife back. They were lying. If Paulina’s death was God’s will, then God was not the loving Father they all pretended he was. This so-called God had taken his wife, the mother of his children, and expected to be repaid with love and veneration. What a joke that was! A sinister, evil joke; a lie created by the church and perpetuated by mendacious priests who refused to hold their God accountable. In his anger, Hal challenged the hapless Father Murphy.

  ‘You’re in pain, now,’ the priest reasoned. ‘We can’t hope to understand God’s ways in this life. Open your heart and you’ll find comfort in Jesus and His Blessed Mother.’

  Hal looked at the old man with contempt. ‘It’s easy for you to say. What would a priest know about losing a wife?’

  ‘I understand human pain, Hal. I grew up in a family. The love between a husband and a wife is . . .’

  ‘Nothing to you.’

  The priest bridled. ‘I’m sorry, but that attitude is uncalled for. If you can’t accept the consolation of the church, then I’ll say no more.’ He gathered up his cassock and stalked away. ‘I’ll pray that you find peace,’ he said grudgingly over his shoulder.

  ‘Don’t waste your time on me,’ Hal shouted after him. ‘Save your prayers for the poor buggers who believe in all that crap.’

  Hal’s knuckles were white as he gripped the wheel and the drive home from church was charged with his anger. The children sat very still, not daring to speak. Their dad had been arguing with a priest! They turned to Mrs Mac for help, but she appeared to be focused on her gloves.

  She looked up just in time. ‘Red light!’

  Hal braked, the tyres squealing. He drove more carefully then, and when they were safely parked at home, they all dispersed to avoid further embarrassment.

  Sealie stopped her big brother as he bolted towards the round room. ‘Why was Daddy so cross?’

  ‘Because he’s an idiot. That’s why.’ And Zav slammed the door to his private space before Sealie could follow him.

  Hal had had enough. Sealie and Zav were squabbling again about whose turn it was to do the dishes.

  ‘Keep it down,’ he roared. ‘I’m listening to the news.’

  ‘Zav pushed me,’ Sealie whined.

  ‘Did not.’

  ‘Did so.’

  ‘Did you push your sister?’

  ‘She pushed me first.’

  Hal’s head began to throb. I can’t take much more of this. ‘She’s five years younger than you. Can’t you at least try to be more mature?’

  Hal banged the door to his room and sat on the bed, fuming. All he wanted was a little pea
ce. Not too much to ask, surely?

  A day few days later, when Mrs McLennon went to clean his room, she found a new lock on the door. That evening, she asked for the key. So I can finish the cleaning and change your sheets, she explained unnecessarily.

  Hal frowned. ‘I’ll clean my own room from now on,’ he said. ‘That way I can keep everything in its place.’

  Mrs McLennon stared at him in disbelief. His room was so bare. How could she leave anything out of its place? His dressing-gown hung behind the door. His hairbrush and library book were aligned on his bedside table, along with his wallet and keys. His slippers were under the bed. That was it—apart from his clothes hanging in the wardrobe. And you couldn’t count those. After laundering, Mrs McLennon had always hung them herself. With some justice, she bristled at Hal’s implication.

  ‘I’m sorry if my work is unsatisfactory, Mr R. I can only do my best.’

  Hal was contrite but firm. ‘You have enough to do, Mrs Mac. What with the children and all. I’m just trying to—pull my weight.’ He smiled what he hoped was a conciliatory smile.

  ‘I’ve never heard of a man doing for himself,’ said the housekeeper in a huff. ‘But if that’s what you want—just make sure you leave the laundry out on Tuesdays.’

  Every Monday she’d leave fresh clothes and linen in a basket outside his door. And every Tuesday she would find clothes and used sheets folded neatly in the same basket. On Saturdays, Hal disappeared into the room with duster and vacuum cleaner, emerging after a period of whirring and banging to return each to its proper place.

  ‘It seems to be working out,’ Mrs McLennon told her sister as they sat over their weekly afternoon tea. ‘What with the children and all . . .’ She sounded less than convinced.

  Alice shook her head. ‘You’re a saint, Eileen. An honest to God saint.’

  ‘We all do our bit,’ her sister replied. ‘But I think the world of those kids. And I feel that sorry for poor Mr R.’

  Meanwhile, ‘Poor Mr R’ was deceiving his loyal housekeeper. He may have called his former faith crap but he had old religion buried deep in his genes. In his mind Paulina merged with the Catholic Mary to become a sort of female deity. He sent his children to expensive schools and made sure they were well cared for. He went to parent–teacher interviews and acted like anyone else’s father. He ran his several businesses with competence and just enough flair. But underneath all this, he became more and more convinced that it was his quest in life to find a true religion that would return his wife to him.

  This was confirmed when he was visited by a messenger from God.

  A Voice spoke out of the darkness of his grief. At first it was no more than an indistinct murmur and Hal could sometimes be seen to shake his head, as if to dislodge an insect from his ear. When he moved from the marital bed, the murmur became a whisper, but the words were still beyond his reach.

  ‘I can’t hear you. Speak up.’ Even as he said this, Hal was wondering if he were imagining the presence.

  One night, however, as he was turning down his bed, the Voice spoke with clarity and purpose. You have lost your wife. It is your task to bring her back.

  This was, without a doubt, the voice of a separate entity. It was as real as a voice he might hear on the radio.

  ‘How? How can I bring her back?’

  You must find a way or you’ll never be free. Acknowledge your evil and bring her back.

  Acknowledge your evil and bring her back. The Voice returned every night, pounding at him until he despaired of ever finding a way. Hal became withdrawn, and took to sitting alone in his study, staring out at the magnolia.

  ‘I’m sure I don’t know what to do,’ Mrs Mac told Eileen. ‘He goes through the motions, but it’s as though we’re not really there.’

  Zav pretended there was nothing wrong, but Sealie, so much younger, seemed to sense his need. In the twilight before dinner, she’d patter into the study and climb up on his knee, leaning her head into his chest. Sometimes she’d pat his arm with a comforting little hand.

  Despite his withdrawal from the world, Hal always put his arm around her so she wouldn’t fall. He felt the butterfly pats brush the ragged edges of his pain and a lump came to his throat. He’d give her a kiss before she slid down and somehow, briefly they both felt a little safer.

  At the moment of his deepest despair, he suddenly understood what he must do. Paulina was a spirit now and he had to call to her in a special way. All at once, the shadow lifted and he set about gathering as many photographs of Paulina as he could find. Next he sought images of the Virgin Mary.

  I have to admit that his taste was eclectic. He was especially fond of Raphael prints, but interspersed them with cheap, saccharine images he found in church supply shops. He set a plaster statue with a blue cloak and a gormless smile beside a valuable old wood carving of the Madonna and Child that his great-grandmother brought with her from Peru.

  He worked furiously, banging in nails and smoothing down sticky tape and when one wall was completely covered, he stepped back and grinned. How’s that? He addressed the Voice but it remained silent.

  I’ll show you!

  Poor Grandad. At that stage he believed the Voice could be placated.

  The next time he sat back to review his work, every wall in that room, every spare shelf, even the windowsill, displayed an image of Paulina or Mary. Central to it all was a large poster of the Melbourne Ballet with a black-and-white photograph of a scene from Swan Lake. Paulina was there, but from a distance it was impossible to tell one swan from another. To Hal though, they were all multiples of his Paulina. Every swan, every Madonna, was a portrait of his lost wife.

  After dinner each night, he would talk for a while with the children and then retire to his room, ostensibly to read. The book soon fell from his hand and he’d stare at the wall, immersing himself in the images, willing Paulina to come to him. He wanted to see her dance just one more time. To hold her. To tell her he loved her. But the images stared back at him with blank eyes.

  Hal became impatient. He needed to do more. He had to somehow invoke her presence. In the pearl-covered prayer book she carried on their wedding day, he found the beginnings of his liturgy. He carefully copied passages from the Litany of Mary—Mirror of Justice, Throne of Wisdom, Cause of our Joy, Mystical Rose, House of Gold, Morning Star, Queen of Peace . . . what richness to describe a woman beyond compare!

  He feverishly turned the pages of the Bible until he found Solomon’s Song of Songs—Who is she who cometh forth as the morning rising, bright as the sun, fair as the moon, terrible as an army in battle array. He baulked at the army reference. He couldn’t envision Paulina in army fatigues. Not to worry. It was his liturgy. He’d just leave the battle bit out. Finally, in the beautiful Canticles he found the words of invocation. Draw me . . . that is with thy grace: otherwise I should not be able to come to thee. Show me, O thou whom my soul loveth, where thou feedest, where thou liest in the midday . . .

  On Sunday mornings, when Mrs McLennon and the children went to Mass, Hal began to perform his own ritual in the room behind the locked door. He lit the candles and the incense; he spoke the words; he knelt before the poster. Finally he offered libation from a bottle of good quality claret. He never really understood why he did this, but it felt right. He was careful not to pour it all away and finished the bottle with his Sunday roast. With his new cunning, he always smoked a couple of cigarettes before the family returned. He had to mask the smell of incense that lingered so inconveniently around the doorway.

  Hal managed to keep his secret for a few weeks before Mrs McLennon found him out. She was inclined to stand and talk after church, but this Sunday it was raining and she came straight home in time to hear the end of Hal’s ritual. She couldn’t make out the words but he seemed to be talking to someone in his room. There was a strangely familiar smell, too.

  When he came out for lunch, she asked casually if he’d had a visitor.

  ‘No. Why do you ask?’
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  ‘Just thought I heard you talking to someone.’

  ‘Must’ve been the radio,’ Hal mumbled. And the subject wasn’t mentioned again.

  Mrs McLennon was only human and she began to wonder about the locked room. Finally, with the pretext of cleaning the windows she climbed a ladder and worked her way along to Hal’s retreat. The curtains were not drawn, and after staring in disbelief, she climbed back down, her face puckered.

  ‘Pictures of her everywhere. And holy pictures. All of Mary.’ Mrs McLennon appealed to her sister. ‘What should I do, Alice? It’s not natural.’

  Alice poured the tea thoughtfully. ‘He’s in mourning, remember. I’ve heard of other people doing the same sort of thing. Remember when the Morgans lost Ben in that car accident? Maura was telling me that they left his room exactly the way it was. Just closed the door and left it. Didn’t even tidy up first.’ She bit into her vanilla slice. ‘People do funny things when they’re grieving.’

  ‘So you don’t think I should say anything?’

  Alice was the pragmatic one. ‘It’s his business, Eil. You’ve got a good job there. And what about the kids? If he thinks you’ve been snooping around . . .’

  So Mrs McLennon said nothing and Hal became haggard as he sat in his chair each night, waiting for his wife. The Madonnas, the photos of Paulina, all were remote. Indifferent. They looked down at him with empty eyes, mocking his grief. One night, he couldn’t stand it any longer. He leaped to his feet and began to pull down the pictures, clear away the statues. One by one, he flung them into a cardboard carton. Finally, he reached up to the poster, but his hand fell to his side. No. He couldn’t bring himself to take that down. That picture held Paulina’s essence.