The Angel Tree (2 page)

‘She didn’t say much,’ said David, not sure whether Mary was referring to Greta’s reaction to the renovations or her return to the house after all these years.
‘She’s resting at the moment.’

‘You saw that I put her in her old bedroom, to see if it would jog her memory. Although it looks so different now even I don’t recognise it. Do you really think she doesn’t
know who I am? We went through a lot together when she lived at Marchmont.’

‘Please try not to let it upset you, Mary. I’m afraid it’s the same for all of us.’

‘Well, maybe it’s best if she
doesn’t
remember some of what happened,’ she replied grimly.

‘Yes,’ David agreed with a sigh. ‘It’s going to be a very odd Christmas, one way and another.’

‘You can say that again,
bach
. I keep looking for your mother in the house, then realise she’s no longer here.’ Mary bit back her tears. ‘It’s worse for
you, of course, Master David.’

‘Well, it’s going to take some getting used to for all of us. But at least we have Ava and Simon, with their baby on the way, to help us get through it.’ David put a comforting
arm around Mary’s shoulder. ‘Now, can I try one of your delicious mince pies?’

Ava and Simon arrived back at the house twenty minutes later and joined David in the drawing room, which smelt of fresh paint, and woodsmoke from the vast stone fireplace.

‘Ava, you look wonderful. Positively burgeoning with good health.’ David smiled as he embraced her and shook hands with Simon.

‘I seem to have suddenly ballooned in the past month. I’m obviously having a rugby player, be it a boy or girl,’ Ava answered, looking up fondly at Simon.

‘Shall I ask Mary to make us a pot of tea?’ enquired David.

‘I’ll go,’ said Simon. ‘Ava, darling, you sit down with your uncle and put your feet up. She was called out in the middle of the night to a distressed cow in
labour,’ he added to David with a despairing shrug as he left the room.

‘And I hope someone will be there for
me
when I’m in labour and distressed,’ Ava retorted with a chuckle, sinking into one of the newly upholstered chairs.
‘Simon’s always nagging at me to slow down, but I’m a vet. I can hardly leave my patients to die, can I? I mean, the midwife wouldn’t leave me, would she?’

‘No, Ava, but you’re due to give birth in six weeks’ time, and Simon is concerned that you’re doing too much, that’s all.’

‘When the locum arrives at the practice after Christmas it’ll make things a lot easier. But in this weather I can’t promise I’m not going to get called out to warm up
sheep suffering from hypothermia. The farmers have done a good job of bringing them down from the hills before the bad weather set in, but there’s always the odd one that gets left behind.
Anyway, Uncle David, how are you?’ Ava had always called him ‘Uncle’, even though they were, technically, first cousins once removed.

‘I’m very well, thank you. I recorded my Christmas show in October and since then, well . . . as a matter of fact’ – David reddened with sudden embarrassment –
‘I’ve been writing my autobiography.’

‘Have you now? That must make interesting reading.’

‘My life does certainly, and that’s the problem. There are parts of it I can’t talk about, obviously.’

‘No—’ Ava’s expression became serious. ‘Speaking honestly, as you know I always do, I’m surprised you agreed to write it. I mean, you’ve always kept
your private life scrupulously private.’

‘Yes, but sadly some gutter journalist has decided he’s going to pen the unauthorised version, so I decided I’d better put the record straight first. As far as I can under the
circumstances, that is.’

‘Right. Then I can see why you’d want to do it. Goodness,’ Ava breathed, ‘having had a movie star for a mother and a famous comedian as a cousin has made me loathe the
thought of celebrity. You won’t mention anything about . . . what happened to me, will you, Uncle David? I’d die if you did. Especially after last time, when I was splashed all over the
front page of the
Daily Mail
with Cheska.’

‘Of course not, Ava. I’m doing my utmost to keep the family out of it. The problem is, that doesn’t leave much to tell. There’ve been no drugs, nervous breakdowns, drink
problems or womanising in my life, so it makes for a very boring read.’ David sighed and gave an ironic smile. ‘Talking of women, Tor should be here soon.’

‘I’m glad she’s coming, Uncle David. I’m very fond of her. And the more of us here this Christmas, the better.’

‘Well, at least we’ve finally managed to get your grandmother to join us.’

‘Where is she?’

‘Upstairs, resting.’

‘And how is she?’

‘The same, really. But I’m so proud of her for finding the courage to come here.’ Car lights flashed beyond the window. ‘That must be Tor. I’ll go and help her in
with her luggage.’

When David had left the drawing room Ava mused on his enduring and loyal relationship with Greta. She knew the two of them had known each other forever, but she wondered just what it was about
her that appealed to him so much. Ava’s great-aunt, David’s mother LJ, who had died only a few months ago, had said that her son had always loved Greta. And certainly, Greta still
looked very youthful, almost as if her memory loss had erased the physical signs of fifty-eight years of living, which normally manifested themselves on a face like an outer emotional map.

Ava hated to admit it, but she found her grandmother rather vacuous and childlike. On the few occasions she’d seen Greta over the years she’d felt it was like talking to a perfectly
formed but hollow Fabergé egg. But then again, perhaps any depth and personality she’d once had had been wiped away by the accident. Greta lived like a recluse, rarely venturing out of
the front door of her apartment. This was the first time Ava had ever known her to leave it for longer than a few hours.

She knew she shouldn’t judge her grandmother, having never known her before the accident, but at the same time she acknowledged that she had always compared Greta to LJ, whose indomitable
spirit and zest for life made Greta – even after everything that had happened to her – seem weak and colourless.
And now
, Ava thought, biting her lip,
Greta is here for
Christmas, and LJ isn’t
.

A lump came to Ava’s throat, but she swallowed it down, knowing her great-aunt wouldn’t want her to grieve.

‘Best foot forward,’ she’d always said when tragedy had struck.

Ava couldn’t help but wish with all her heart that LJ had been here for a little longer so she could have witnessed the birth of her baby. At least she’d lived to see her marry
Simon, and had known when she died that Marchmont – and Ava – were safe.

David came back into the drawing room with Tor.

‘Hello, Ava. Merry Christmas, and all that. Goodness, I’m cold. What a journey!’ Tor said, walking to the roaring fire and warming her hands by it.

‘Well, you made it, and just in time, apparently. Jack told me they’ve cancelled any further trains to Abergavenny tonight,’ said David.

‘Yes, I must admit I didn’t fancy spending Christmas in a bed and breakfast in Newport,’ Tor said drily. ‘And the house looks wonderful, Ava. You and Simon must be
thrilled.’

‘We are,’ said Ava. ‘It’s so beautiful, and we’re so grateful to you, Uncle David. Simon and I would never have had the resources to renovate it
ourselves.’

‘Well, as you know, one day it will pass to you, anyway. Ah, Simon.’ David looked up as he entered the room. ‘A nice fresh pot of tea. Just what we all need.’

Greta awoke from her nap feeling disoriented and unable to remember where she was. Panicking, she fumbled for a light in the pitch blackness and switched it on. The strong
smell of fresh paint jogged her memory as she sat up in the comfortable bed and admired the newly decorated room.

Marchmont Hall . . . the house she’d heard so much about from David over the years. Mary, the housekeeper, had told her earlier this had once been her bedroom, and it had been in here that
she’d given birth to Cheska.

Greta got out of bed and walked to the window. The snow was still falling. She tried to access the fleeting memory that had been kindled when she’d stood outside the house, and sighed in
despair when her mind stubbornly refused to give up its secrets.

After freshening up in the smart en-suite bathroom, she dressed in a new cream silk blouse she’d bought a few days ago. Adding a dab of lipstick to her mouth, she stared at her reflection
in the mirror, feeling anxious about leaving the sanctuary of her bedroom.

It had taken everything that was left of her to make the decision to join her family here at Marchmont for Christmas. So much so that after she’d said yes, and watched David’s
astonished expression as she did so, Greta had experienced severe panic attacks which had rendered her sleepless, sweating and shaking into the small hours. She’d visited her doctor, who had
prescribed beta blockers and sedatives. With his encouragement, plus the thought of spending yet another miserable Christmas alone, she had managed to pack, climb into David’s car and get
here.

Perhaps the doctors would disagree with her motivation; they would argue in their usual psychobabble that maybe at last she was ready, that her subconscious finally deemed her strong enough to
cope with returning. And certainly, since she’d taken the decision, she’d been dreaming vividly for the first time since the accident. None of her dreams made sense, of course, but the
shock of having what the doctors would term a ‘flashback’ when she’d stepped out of the car and looked at Marchmont Hall a couple of hours ago gave some credence to their
analysis.

She knew there was a lot still to face. ‘Company’, for a start, and for an extended period of time. And among those gathering here for the festive season there was one person she was
particularly dreading spending time with: Tor, David’s lady-friend.

Even though she had met Tor occasionally when David had brought her round for tea at Greta’s Mayfair apartment, she had never spent longer than a few hours with the woman. Even though, on
the surface, Tor had been sweet and polite and seemed to be interested in what she had to say – which wasn’t a lot – Greta had felt patronised, as if Tor were treating her as some
kind of mentally deficient, senile old lady.

Greta looked at her reflection in the mirror. She may be many things, but she wasn’t
that
.

Tor was an Oxford don. Intellectual, independent, attractive – in a practical sort of way, Greta had always thought, and then reprimanded herself for her instinctive female derision of a
rival.

Put simply, Tor was everything Greta wasn’t, but she made David happy and Greta knew she must be happy for that.

At least David had said that Ava would be here with her husband, Simon. Ava, her granddaughter . . .

If anything about her memory loss particularly upset her, it was Ava. Her own flesh and blood, her daughter’s daughter . . . Yet though she’d seen Ava periodically over the past two
decades and liked her very much indeed, Greta felt guilty that she was unable to connect with her granddaughter like a close relative should. Surely, even though she had no recollection of
Ava’s birth, she should instinctively feel some deeper emotional bond?

Greta thought Ava suspected – just as LJ had – that she remembered more than she did and was somehow shamming. But despite years of sessions with psychologists, hypnotists and
practitioners of any other form of treatment for memory loss she’d read about, nothing stirred. Greta felt she lived in a void, as if she were merely an onlooker to the rest of humanity, all
of whom found it easy to
remember.

The closest she felt to another human being was her darling David, who’d been there when she’d finally opened her eyes after nine months in a coma and had spent the past twenty-four
years caring for her in any way he could. If it hadn’t been for him, given the emptiness of her existence, she was sure she would have lost all hope many years ago.

David had told her that they met forty years ago, when she was eighteen and working in London at a theatre called the Windmill just after the war. Apparently, she’d once explained to him
that her parents had died in the Blitz, but had never mentioned any other relatives. David had told her that they had been very good friends, and Greta had surmised that their relationship had been
nothing more than that. David had also said that, soon after they’d met, she had married a man called Owen, his uncle, once the squire of Marchmont.

Over the years Greta had wished endlessly that the friendship David had described to her had been something more. She loved him deeply; not for what he had been to her before the accident but
for all he meant to her now. Of course, she knew her feelings were not reciprocated and she had no reason to believe they ever had been. David was a very famous and successful comedian and still
extremely attractive. Besides, for the past six years he’d been with Tor, who was always on his arm at charity events and awards ceremonies.

In her darkest moments Greta felt she was little more than a liability; that David was merely doing his duty, out of the kindness of his heart and because they were related by marriage. When
she’d finally come out of hospital, after eighteen months, and moved back into her apartment in Mayfair, David had been her only regular visitor. Her guilt at being dependent on him had grown
over the years and, although he told her that popping in to see her was no hardship, she’d always tried not to be a burden, so she often pretended she was busy when she wasn’t.

Greta moved away from the window, knowing she must pluck up the courage to go downstairs and join her family. She opened the bedroom door, walked along the corridor and stood at the top of the
magnificent dark oak staircase, its carved balustrades and elaborate acorn-shaped finials gleaming softly in the light of the chandelier overhead. Gazing down upon the large Christmas tree which
stood in the hall beneath her, she smelt the fresh, delicate scent of the fir and, again, something stirred. She closed her eyes and breathed deeply, as the doctors had told her to, trying to
encourage the faint memory to grow.