THE TRYSTING TREE (7 page)

‘OK, talk to Phoebe and let me know when I can visit. Take your time. I’m not going to put pressure on anyone, but the offer’s there.’

‘Thank you. It’s very generous of you.’

‘Well, that’s the second thing you need to factor in. Remember I said there were two?’

‘What’s the second?’

‘How much I’d enjoy spending time with you and Phoebe, not to mention all the ghosts of Garden Lodge.’

‘Ghosts?’

‘My grandmother, Ivy. My great-grandmother, Violet. Her brother, William Hatherwick and the woman who ended up owning Beechgrave, Hester Mordaunt. They’re my family, Ann. It would be a privilege to restore their garden. I even thought about buying Garden Lodge so I could do that, but now, if you’ll let me, I can do what I’d planned in my capacity as gardener, not owner. It’s an arrangement that could suit everyone.’

‘Let’s hope Phoebe thinks so. I’ll get back to you, Connor, as soon as she’s made a decision.’

‘No hurry. The garden’s been waiting since 1976. A few more days won’t make any difference. Those beeches aren’t going anywhere…’

THE BEECH WOOD

A storm is coming. We sense it. In our roots. In the quivering air. There’s a shrieking on the wind and a deep stirring in the earth, as if the numberless dead are tunnelling, like moles, out of their graves, to rail against the heedless living.

A storm is coming, doubtless. There will be destruction. Consternation. We have seen it many times and we shall see it again. We stand, bearing witness to the centuries, impartial, indifferent, offering shelter to any living thing that seeks solace in our shade.

The ancients among us have learned to yield, to sacrifice a bough – sometimes several. There can be strength in weakness. But the ways of wind and weather cannot be learned in a mere hundred years. The young ones stand tall, shallow-rooted. They break when they should bend.

After the storm has passed, some lie fallen – though some of the fallen live yet.

We endure.

ANN

Phoebe had a ringside seat. She said she liked to watch demolition, so I placed a bench against the south-facing wall of the kitchen garden, where, even in January, the weak winter sunshine made its presence felt. Swaddled in a fleece blanket and quilted coat, sporting her tweed cap and gloves, Phoebe sat and watched as we tore up decades of undergrowth and tangles of ivy, honeysuckle and clematis were cut back to expose the mellow Victorian brick.

As Connor hacked and pulled at unyielding brambles, Phoebe called out to him, ‘You put me in mind of the Prince in
Sleeping Beauty
.’

He looked up and grinned. Removing a dirty glove, he wiped his forehead with the back of his hand. ‘Well, it’s high time this beauty woke. She’s been asleep for nearly forty years.’ He donned his glove again and returned to work, creating heaps of vegetation which I gathered up and put into a barrow, then wheeled out into the lane and emptied into a waiting skip.

As I passed Phoebe, I stopped to ask if she was warm enough and if she still had coffee in the flask beside her on the bench. She seemed touched by my concern and assured me she was thoroughly enjoying herself. ‘There’s something rather soothing about watching other people exhaust themselves. I’ve been studying Connor. He has a method, doesn’t he?’

‘He says he’s following the sun as it moves round. The difference in temperature is quite marked. Do you feel it when the sun goes behind a cloud?’

‘Oh, yes, though I tend to be more aware of changes in light and shade than temperature. Years of working in that arctic studio.’

‘It’s not too bad once you’ve lit the wood burner.’

‘I could never be bothered. Just donned my thermals and fingerless mittens and got on with it. But I think I must be getting soft. I can feel the sun’s warmth behind me, radiating from the wall and I must say, it’s really rather pleasant.’

‘Connor says there’s fruit on that wall behind you. Peaches and nectarines. The sun lovers. Then on the west wall,’ I said, pointing, ‘there should be plums and cherries. On the east wall we should find pears and apples. It’s hard to tell what’s still alive at this time of year.’

‘Nothing grows on the north wall, I presume?’

‘With luck there could be a Morello cherry.’

‘Does Connor know, just by looking at dead twigs?’

‘Partly, but there are also a few labels left. Some are the very old metal labels, but some of the newer ones must have been put there by Dad. And we found a notebook in the shed. His gardening notes. It’s still legible.’

Phoebe looked taken aback. ‘Oh… I never thought to clear out the shed. I went through all his other things…’ Her voice faltered.

‘Looking for clues as to why he left us?’ I asked gently.

Ignoring the question she said, ‘Do you know, he kept a rosary in there. In the shed! Great long thing. It hung from a beam, coiled, like a snake. Gave me the heebie-jeebies.’ Phoebe shivered and rearranged her limbs on the bench. ‘We never saw eye to eye about religion. Well, about anything, actually. Lord knows why we married. And as for taking on
this
place…’ She made a dismissive noise. ‘But Sylvester was always happy in the garden. Well, happier. He never learned to live with the British climate, though oddly enough he didn’t mind snow. Said it protected the garden while it slept, like a white blanket. Honestly, to listen to him, you’d think he was talking about a child, not a garden! But then he adored children.’

I watched my mother, anxious that she’d waded too far into the past and out of her depth. I was about to change the subject when she said gruffly, ‘He loved you, Ann. Don’t ever think he didn’t. He had no quarrel with
you
. It was me. It was all my doing.’

‘Oh, I’m sure there was fault on both sides, Mum. I didn’t understand when I was young, but I do now. My marriage failed too, you know.’

‘It was
depression
. He loved me. He adored you. But he suffered wretchedly with depression. And I was no use. I didn’t even know what depression was then. I thought it was just a question of pulling yourself together. Having a holiday. A change of scenery. So I encouraged him to travel. Thought it would do him good. And it got him out of my hair... I hated feeling powerless, you see.’ She shook her head. ‘That’s why I disliked being pregnant. The thought of something growing inside me, something I couldn’t control. I loathed the whole damn business. Pity I didn’t loathe sex! That would have saved no end of bother.’ She raised her stick and pointed. ‘I do believe that young man is flagging. Time he was fed. I’ll go in and put the soup on. Go and empty your barrow while I make myself useful in the kitchen.’

As she got to her feet, Phoebe raised her cap and shouted to Connor, ‘I take my hat off to you, sir! You’re a human combine harvester. Tell me, is it satisfying being that destructive?’

‘Very!’ Connor yelled back. ‘But it gives a man an appetite.’

‘Duly noted,’ Phoebe said. ‘Lunch coming up.’ She replaced her cap and tottered back towards the house, humming tunelessly.

Following with an overflowing barrow, I watched my mother’s feet as they shuffled across the worn, uneven paving stones. When she got to the back door, she clutched at the handle and raised her stick in triumphant salute as I passed.

PHOEBE

Phoebe was thoughtful as she heated the tomato soup. She wondered if it was too late to go through the contents of the shed to see what Sylvester might have left behind. She was curious, but also fearful. It wouldn’t do to go stirring things up again after all these years. It was surely best to let sleeping dogs lie. Connor had already roused the sleeping garden. He might wake Ann too…

Phoebe heard laughter outside, then the scraping of boots. She ladled soup into three bowls, spilling some as her clumsy hands shook. Matters were beyond her control now. She could only hope for the best, prepare for the worst.

Connor’s smiling ruddy face appeared at the door and as soon as he entered, the kitchen felt smaller. Phoebe noted he was a whole head taller than Ann – so like her handsome father, especially when she smiled and she was smiling now. Ann was happy. There was colour in her cheeks and she looked alive. Being outdoors had that effect on her. Or perhaps it was Connor. The man’s energy and good humour were infectious.

‘Lunch is served,’ Phoebe announced. ‘Tomato soup. Campbell’s best. Campbell is my cook,’ she added with a wink to Connor. ‘Help yourselves to cheese and ham. I’ve cut plenty of bread, but it’s doorsteps, I’m afraid. That’s all my gammy hands can manage these days.’

‘The only way to eat bread,’ Connor replied, removing his boots and leaving them on the doormat. He went over to the sink and began to wash his hands. ‘After this I’ll be ready to go another ten rounds with Sleeping Beauty out there. I do believe she’s beginning to stir…’

On an impulse, Ann put an arm round her mother’s waist and kissed her on the cheek. ‘Thanks for doing all this, Mum. I’m looking forward to it!’

Thrown by the show of affection, Phoebe bent and grasped her stick. Moving cautiously through the kitchen, she called out over her shoulder, her voice slightly querulous, ‘Would one of you be kind enough to bring my soup through? Oh, and there’s beer and cider in the pantry. Just help yourselves. You’ve earned it.’

ANN

When Connor had finished for the day, cleaned up and gone home, Phoebe and I collapsed for the evening in front of the stove. The wind had freshened and was whining now in the chimney. I must have been dozing when Phoebe suddenly announced, ‘Nice boy, Connor.’

‘Mmm?... Oh, yes, he’s very kind, isn’t he? I hope he manages to make a go of his garden business.’

‘I’m sure he will. All that energy, plus a capacity for hard work. He seems to know what he’s about.’

‘Yes, he trained at horticultural college.’

‘Is he married?’

‘I don’t know. He’s never mentioned a wife.’

‘Girlfriend?’

‘I’ve no idea. He’s got a flatmate. Male. Maybe he’s gay.’

Phoebe shook her head. ‘Don’t think so. My antennae – which have never failed me yet, I’ll have you know – indicate he’s straight. There’s probably a girlfriend somewhere.’

‘Maybe. But when you’re setting up your own business, there’s not a lot of time left for socialising. And the older you get, the pickier you get.’

‘That sounds like the voice of bitter experience.’

‘Well, it’s not easy to find someone who’ll put up with you being married to a business. Jack and I worked really hard at separate careers and we were both very successful, but the marriage went to the wall. Isn’t that what happened with you and Dad?’

Phoebe shrugged. ‘It just wasn’t in my nature to be domestic. Or faithful, I’m afraid. But you mustn’t give up looking, Ann. You’re too young and far too attractive.’

‘I haven’t given up,’ I replied, without much conviction.

‘After all, you’re only forty-three.’

‘Forty-four, actually.’

‘Really?’ Phoebe looked confused as she calculated. ‘Damn. You’ve had another birthday, haven’t you? Sorry, I lose track of time. I suppose I should get a calendar, but really, what
for
? One day is much like another for me.’

‘Mum, you’ve remembered my birthday once in the last ten years,’ I said, laughing. ‘It’s really not an issue. I’ve got to the age where I prefer to forget about birthdays.’

‘Me too. Shall we have a birthday amnesty? No more until further notice?’

‘What a good idea.’

‘But we’ll have to find other reasons to drink champagne.’

‘We need a reason?’

‘That’s my girl!’ Phoebe said, slapping the arm of her chair. ‘Let’s have some the next time Connor’s here. I need him to be in a good mood.’

‘Why?’

‘I’m thinking of asking him to sit for me. Just a few sketches. I have an idea for a portrait, if I ever feel up to tackling it. Do you think he’d do it?’

‘I’m sure he’d feel very flattered to be asked.’

‘Good! We’ll ply him with champagne first though, then catch him off-guard.’

‘You really like him, don’t you?’

‘I do, and for some unknown reason, he likes
me
, so I think he might do it. He has an interesting face, I think. A lot of conflict there. And he’s still grieving for poor old Ivy, isn’t he?’

‘I suppose so. I haven’t really given it much thought.’

‘You don’t have to
think
about it, Ann’, Phoebe said, sounding tetchy. ‘You can see it in his face.’

‘Well,
you
can.’

‘So could you if you looked properly. But I don’t suppose you’ve seen past the pleasing exterior. Can’t say I blame you. Six foot, broad shoulders and a nice arse. He’s very easy on the eye.’

Shocked that my mother’s assessment of Connor so closely resembled my own, I squirmed with guilty embarrassment. ‘I wish you wouldn’t talk about men as if they were
specimens
. Connor is our friend.’

‘It’s my job. I study faces and bodies, but I see past the surface of things. Connor’s a nice-looking chap. Regular features, apart from that long nose. And he smiles a lot, doesn’t he? Makes an effort to be pleasant. There’s almost something angelic about him, all that unruly fair hair and those high cheek bones. Like a Burne Jones angel. But a
fallen
angel… If you ask me, Connor’s angry. He’s suffered loss. And rejection. I can see it in his face.’

‘You can really see all that?’

‘Oh yes, plain as a pikestaff. Anyone who smiles that much has to be pretty miserable, don’t you think? Perhaps some champagne will cheer him up.’

~

Large amounts of fresh air and exercise ensured I was sleeping better than I’d done for years, but that night I was woken by the sound of screaming. I lay in bed, struggling to make sense of the eerie sound that had woken me.

It was the wind. A gale was tearing round the house, ripping off slates, flinging flowerpots from one side of the garden to the other. I recalled the so-called hurricane of 1987. A teenager then, I’d slept through it all and got up the next morning to find trees lying on the ground, like fallen soldiers on a battlefield.

This storm sounded bad. I got up, went to the window, drew back a curtain and looked outside. I didn’t recognise the moonlit landscape. Trees were leaning at a crazy angle but when the wind relented, they sprang back, swaying until the impact of the next powerful gust sent them keeling over again. As I watched, there was a cracking sound like a gun shot and a branch sailed past the window, its smaller twigs scraping the glass. Startled, I stepped back, then leaned forward again to rearrange the curtains, so that if the window broke, the glass couldn’t travel far into the room.

As I drew the curtain, I took a last look at the garden, casting an anxious eye towards the studio. If one of the closer beeches came down, the studio could receive a direct hit. The thought of Phoebe’s unfinished canvases buried under brick dust and rubble made me think of going out to rescue them, but I dismissed the idea as too dangerous. I measured with my eye the distance between the nearest beech and the studio and was estimating its length when, to my horror, I saw the studio door open and a large canvas appear. It appeared to be wrapped in a blanket and was moving very slowly on carpet slippered feet.

I threw open the window, whereupon the wind tried to wrench it from my hand, almost dragging me over the sill. I yelled, “Mum!” even though I knew Phoebe wouldn’t hear me above the din which had now reached a frenzied crescendo. Unable to shut the window, I had to let it go and winced as the draught slammed the bedroom door behind me. Grabbing my dressing gown, I pushed my feet into some shoes, opened the door and ran downstairs, tearing through the hall and into the kitchen where I found the back door open and swinging. I hurled myself into the wind and headed for the studio.

When I reached Phoebe, I put an arm round her in an attempt to keep her upright and yelled, ‘Mum, what on earth are you
doing
? Get indoors! A tree could fall any minute.’

‘I needed to move the canvasses,’ she wailed. ‘Just in case.’

‘Give it to me, I’ll bring it in. Get indoors now. Go
on
! It’s not worth getting killed for a painting – even one of yours. Get inside,
please
.’

She staggered towards the back door, mounted the step with difficulty, then turned to watch as I struggled across the garden. The canvas resisted the wind like a sail and a sudden vicious gust wrapped my dressing gown round my legs, almost lifting me off my feet. I stumbled, but got as far as the step where Phoebe was waiting, arms outstretched to take the canvas from me.

‘Oh, well done!’ she gasped as we both fell into the kitchen. ‘I couldn’t sleep for worrying about it and I had
such
a bad feeling.’ She sank down on to a chair. ‘Thank you, Ann.’

I turned away, intending to shut the back door, but froze as I heard a long, loud groan, punctuated with cracking sounds, like a volley of shots being fired. Alarmed, Phoebe got to her feet. We stood side by side in the open doorway, clutching each other, speechless with terror as we watched the descent of a beech as it described an impossibly slow arc across our field of vision. It just missed the studio but flattened the shed as if it had been a Wendy house. The tree’s crown, a massive tangle of branches, filled the garden where, moments ago, Phoebe and I had been arguing.

We stood gaping at the fallen tree which looked twice as big now it was horizontal. Stunned, tearful, I reached for my mother’s hand and squeezed it, unable to speak. She managed a wheezy little chuckle and said, ‘Well, that was lucky, wasn’t it?’

~

The clear-up took days. When they found the rusty tin in a hollow in the trunk, I set it aside for Connor who I thought might like to see the seed packets. When he came back at the weekend to work in the walled garden, the fallen beech was gone apart from its massive, upended stump, as big as a dining table. Delighted by the hundreds of concentric rings revealed on the cut surface, Phoebe had decided to keep it.

‘It reminds me of Op Art from the sixties. The circles are dazzling, aren’t they? You feel drawn into the very centre.’ She touched the cut wood with reverence. ‘If my hands were any good, I’d have a go at carving something on that surface. A face, perhaps… A Green Man, something like that.’ She looked up at me. ‘Don’t you think so? That’s what it should become. A piece of sculpture. A monument to… something. Don’t know what exactly. But something that old shouldn’t just cease to be, should it, like a mere human being?’

Connor said the beech would continue to live on as a piece of living sculpture because it still had roots in the ground, enough to ensure it would cling on to life. He took a commemorative photo of Phoebe and me, posing in front of the stump, then we all went indoors for tea.

Connor offered to help in the kitchen, so I asked him to set out crockery on a tray. As I reached for the tea caddy, I remembered the old tin and its seed packets. I opened a cupboard, took out the tin and handed it to him.

‘What do you make of this? It was found in a hollow in the tree. Someone must have climbed up to put it there.’

‘You’re kidding.’

‘The men found it when they were disposing of the trunk. There are old seed packets inside.’

‘Really? Well, the seeds could still be viable,’ he said, prising open the lid.

‘Don’t get too excited,’ I said filling the kettle. ‘The packets are all empty.’

He’d taken several out and was turning them over. ‘How do you know they’re empty? They’re all sealed.’

‘You can feel. And if you hold them up to the light, you can see there’s nothing in them.’

‘Yet they’ve all been glued shut.’

‘Yes. I suppose someone wanted to preserve them as art work. A collector of some kind, perhaps.’

‘But why put them outdoors – and in a
tree
– if you wanted to preserve them?’

‘Yes, it’s odd, isn’t it? It seems more likely they were trying to hide them.’

‘Why would anyone want to hide seed packets?’

‘Search me. I thought you might have some ideas.’

He turned a packet over and examined the printed text closely, then looking up, he said, ‘Do you mind if I open one? I’ll do it carefully with a knife, so I don’t tear it.’

‘Go ahead. But I think you’ll find it’s empty.’

As I made the tea, Connor took a knife from the kitchen drawer and slid it under the glued paper flap. He ran the knife gently back and forth until the glue cracked, then he upended the packet over a plate and tapped. Nothing came out. Still refusing to believe it was empty, he looked inside.

‘My God…’

‘What?’

‘Look!’

He handed me the packet and I peered inside. The interior was completely covered with tiny words written in pencil in a copperplate hand. I looked up at Connor who was grinning now and wielding the knife with a determined gleam in his eye.

‘May I?’

‘Please do.’

He slit open the seed packet along its glued edges and smoothed it flat on the kitchen worktop. ‘It’s a letter!’ He pointed to the top left-hand corner of the yellowed paper oblong where someone had written,
My dearest
. ‘There’s no date though. And no signature. No name anyway. Just a letter. Is that a W? It’s very ornate.’

I bent over the packet and examined where he was pointing. ‘Yes, I think that’s a W.’

Connor was already opening another packet. ‘This one’s the same. Every inch is covered with tiny writing. These are love letters!’

‘How do you know?’

‘Read them,’ Connor said, thrusting one into my hand. He was working his way through the packets now, opening them carefully and spreading them flat. ‘They’re all from W.’

‘How maddening that they aren’t signed or dated. I’d love to know who wrote them.’

‘Not to mention why they had to be hidden in a tree. Wait a minute…’ Connor peered closely at one of the packets. Without looking up he said, ‘You wouldn’t have a magnifying glass by any chance?’

‘Phoebe has a magnifying bookmark. She uses it to read newspapers. It’ll be on the table somewhere… Here it is,’ I said, handing him the piece of transparent plastic.