THE TRYSTING TREE (17 page)

Authors: Linda Gillard

Phoebe looked at Connor and narrowed her eyes. ‘You’ve got a theory, haven’t you?’

‘Well, it’s more of a hunch,’ he said, tipping the contents of another shoe box onto the table. He retrieved some envelopes bound together with a black ribbon. ‘These telegrams announced the deaths of the Mordaunt brothers and the news that William Hatherwick was missing in action in 1916, but he was back home again by the spring of 1917. I think these could be
his
sketchbooks. Maybe he saw this château in France and drew it from memory. Beechgrave too, perhaps, when he was in hospital.’

‘What about this building?’ Ann asked, showing him another page. ‘It’s not Beechgrave and it’s not ruined. It looks like a stately home.’

‘Could have been a military hospital. That’s what they did with a lot of the big houses. Hester eventually turned Beechgrave into a convalescent home for Tommies.’

‘Did she never say who the sketchbooks belonged to?’

‘I never asked. I didn’t find them until after her death.’

‘It’s odd that all the sketches are dated meticulously but not signed,’ Ann said as she flipped through the pages. ‘No name at the beginning either. The work is strangely anonymous.’

‘Yes, that’s what struck me. And if you compare the sketchbooks with the diaries, you’ll see Hester has her name and address at the front of each of them and every entry is carefully dated.’

‘So you’re saying, if these sketches were Hester’s, she would have recorded what the buildings were, or where they were. She was methodical, wasn’t she?’

‘Exactly.’ He beamed at Ann with frank admiration.

She smiled back uncertainly. She wanted to help Connor, who had done so much for Phoebe and Garden Lodge, but the quantity and variety of archive material seemed almost overwhelming. Ann turned her attention to the photographs, her thoughts disordered.

‘Connor, this envelope’s empty,’ Phoebe announced. ‘Where are the contents?’

‘Search me.’

‘So why have you kept an empty envelope?’

‘Because it seemed like a significant empty envelope.’

‘How so?’

‘Well, look who it’s addressed to.’

Phoebe read out the name. ‘
Ivy Hatherwick.
What’s remarkable about that?’

‘That wasn’t her name. I mean, that was her birth name, but by the time she could read, she’d been adopted and was known as Ivy Mordaunt.’

‘But why on earth would she have saved an empty envelope,’ Phoebe asked, ‘however it was addressed?’

‘I doubt she did. She could have destroyed the
contents
in the fire.’

‘Ah, the plot thickens!’ Phoebe said gleefully. She looked up from the empty envelope to see Connor looking past her. He appeared to be watching Ann, but his brow was contracted into a frown. Turning, Phoebe saw Ann staring, white-faced, at a photograph she held between her fingers. As Phoebe watched, it fluttered to the floor as Ann gripped the back of a dining chair for support.

‘Ann? Are you all right?’ Phoebe bent to retrieve the photo, but Connor ducked and got there first. It was a photo of his great-grandmother, Violet, pictured with her young daughter, Ivy. The child was standing on a swing, which hung from a branch of a large beech tree.

‘Are you feeling unwell?’ Phoebe asked. ‘Sit down for a bit. You’re looking quite peaky.’

‘No, I’m fine. I just felt a bit… peculiar, that’s all. I don’t know what came over me.’

‘Was it something to do with this?’ As Connor held out the photo, Ann shrank back.

‘I don’t know. I think it might have been.’

‘Here, let me see,’ Phoebe said tersely. Connor handed over the photograph without taking his eyes off Ann.

Phoebe examined the photo. ‘Ah, this is the old beech! The one that came down in the storm. Do you remember that night, Ann? It was terrifying! I expect that’s what upset you. Remembering all that. It would give anyone a nasty turn. Delayed shock, that’s what it is,’ Phoebe said emphatically. ‘And I dare say you could use some lunch. We all could. Connor, be a love – go and put the kettle on. I’m gasping.’

Surprised by the endearment, Connor turned to look at Phoebe but she avoided his eye. As he left the room, she quickly shoved the photo under a pile of letters, then turned to Ann, inviting her to admire another sketchbook.

ANN

I ate very little while Connor and Phoebe tucked in to quiche and salad. She was more voluble than usual, compensating perhaps for my silence. I didn’t mean to be a spectre at the feast, but my brain couldn’t process their chatter. Connor would throw back his head and laugh and I’d realise I had no idea what Phoebe had said. Everything seemed distant somehow. Or maybe it was just me. Connor and Phoebe got on so well now, I felt like a spare part – a mere baker of quiches and dresser of salads.

The morning’s archive session had depressed me and I didn’t know why, but these days I wandered round in a state of tired confusion. I worked hard during the day, designing, gardening, cooking and cleaning, but I wasn’t sleeping well at night.

Jack’s girlfriend had given birth to a baby girl and he’d emailed me a photo of her. I appreciated his tact in sparing me a portrait of mother and baby doing well and was genuinely very happy for them all, but their bliss seemed only to increase my sense of isolation. I put this down to loneliness, months spent looking after an elderly parent, adapting my life to fit in with hers. I’d become a carer and knew I should make more effort to get out and see my friends. They sometimes invited me to do things at weekends, but I always declined. Weekends were when I helped Connor with the garden, when I took photos and helped him design his website. My days were full.

On the face of it, we were all having a very pleasant time and Phoebe was flourishing under the new regime, yet persistent nightmares and insomnia made me wonder at times if I was losing it. I seemed to have become two different people. With a comfortable life, a thriving business, friends, freedom, I had almost everything a woman could want. But there was another me, an
alter ego
who felt frightened, almost desolate at times, as if I’d lost everything that ever mattered. But I hadn’t. My marriage had failed and I was childless, but I’d come to terms with those sad facts years ago. I’d filled my life with other things, determined not to want what I couldn’t have.

Sometimes I got up in the middle of the night and poured myself a glass of wine, hoping it would send me off to sleep. I would sit at the kitchen table, brooding. After the second glass, I’d ask myself whether the problem was really quite simple, simple and insoluble. I asked myself if the problem was Connor.

When he was around, I felt awkward, confused as to the footing on which we stood. When he wasn’t around, I felt as if I was waiting until he was. He was a friend, a quasi-employee, my project manager, a tonic and companion for my aged mother. Connor had become many things to us, but not what I wanted him to be, which meant he’d been added to the list of things I was determined not to want.

It seemed determination was not enough.

After lunch I declined Connor’s customary offer of help and loaded the dishwasher myself while he and Phoebe returned to sifting through photos and letters. I tidied the kitchen, then wiped down all the worktops. It was when I found myself sweeping the floor – very thoroughly – that I realised I didn’t want to go back into the sitting room.

I put my head round the door to ask if anyone wanted tea. There were no takers, so I said I was popping out for a breath of fresh air and shut the door without waiting for a reply.

As I headed for the beech wood, I resolved to keep Connor at a professional distance, whilst doing all I could to help with the restoration of the garden and solving the Mordaunt mystery. I thought I might even take on a little project of my own: researching shell shock and memory loss, to see if I could account for the anonymity and subject matter of the sketchbooks, which intrigued me. The artist had drawn Beechgrave many times. It was clearly an obsession. Would William Hatherwick have missed his old home and job to this extent? If so, what prevented him from returning after he’d gone missing? Was Beechgrave more to him than his job, his home, his sister? Did it represent something he wanted, but couldn’t have? Happier times? Lost memories?... Or did Beechgrave represent a
person
William wanted, but couldn’t have? And was that perhaps why he’d stayed away?

I came to a halt beside the upended stump of the fallen beech. I studied the knotted root plate and marvelled at the complexity of a tree’s life support system. How tenaciously those roots had clung to the soil, burrowing down, wider and deeper, grounding the massive trunk and canopy above. Nevertheless it had been felled, not by man, but by the wind. Age and weather had weakened the ancient beech until one day its strength gave out.

I couldn’t help thinking of Phoebe. My mother could still walk, but she had to lean on a stick. She still worked, but cancer, trauma and pain had worn her down. Even before that, she’d struggled as a single working mother. As far as I knew, Sylvester had never sent us any money. We never even got a Christmas card from him, but at least he hadn’t laid claim to his half of the marital home.

As I wandered on through the wood, I tried to think what I could actually remember of my father, as opposed to what I’d been told, or what I’d gleaned from looking at old photos. It wasn’t much. I thought I could remember standing on a swing, like the young Ivy Hatherwick, with Sylvester standing behind me, pushing the seat gently, as I swung back and forth. I remembered feeling quite safe, even though I was standing up on the swing, because I knew my father was right behind me.

‘I’ve brought you some tea.’

I spun round, my heart pounding, to see Connor holding two mugs, one of them extended towards me.

‘Oh! You startled me.’

‘Sorry. Thought you’d have heard me coming.’ He handed me a mug and I drank gratefully, comforted by the heat of the tea.

‘I was miles away. Thinking about when I was young and used to play here.’

‘Your very own wood. Lucky girl.’

‘I suppose so. I had no one to play with though.’

‘Did you talk to the trees?’

I looked up surprised. ‘Yes, I did, actually. I’d forgotten until you said that, but now I remember, I did. I think I even had names for some of them. I used to sing to them too,’ I added, rather embarrassed. ‘And dance sometimes.’

‘I bet they enjoyed that.’ He looked round, surveying the trees, but I saw no hint of mockery on his face.

‘There used to be a swing.’

Connor turned to look at me. ‘Like the one in the photo?’

‘Yes. I can hardly remember it now. It wasn’t there when I was older. I remember climbing trees, but I don’t remember sitting on a swing.’

‘Rope rots eventually. Maybe someone thought it was dangerous and took it down.’

We drank our tea in silence until Connor said, ‘Something’s bugging you, Ann. Is it me?’

‘
You?
’ Tea spilled from my mug and scalded my hand.

‘Well, our project. The garden. Or is it all my family stuff? You must be getting fed up with it by now. And it’s not as if we’re actually getting anywhere.’ He waited for me to reply but I didn’t know what to say. ‘The garden’s almost finished, so we can call it a day soon. Then if you wouldn’t mind letting me come back to take a few seasonal photos…’ He paused and searched my face again. ‘Or you could take them yourself and email them to me if you prefer. I can be out of your hair in a few weeks’ time if the weather’s kind. Then you’ll get your life back,’ he added with one of his wide smiles, but it looked pasted on. Above, his eyes looked disappointed.

‘Phoebe won’t know what to do with herself at weekends. She keeps talking about painting you. Don’t be surprised if she asks you to come back and sit for her.’

Connor’s face brightened. ‘I’d be happy to. If that’s all right with you.’

‘Why wouldn’t it be?’

He shrugged. ‘Just checking. I don’t like to presume. And you’re pretty hard to read.’

‘Am I?’

‘Well,
I
find you hard to read.’ He raised his mug and swallowed some tea. ‘Quite confusing, in fact.’

‘Really?... Maybe that’s because
I’m
confused.’

‘What about?’

‘Oh, everything… What to do about Phoebe. Selling the house. Getting a divorce. Getting older. You name it, I’m confused about it.’

‘Do you still have feelings for your husband?’

‘Only friendly ones. We split up years ago but we didn’t bother with divorce. Neither of us was a big fan of marriage and we didn’t expect to marry again. No, it’s just… well, I suppose it’s a watershed, isn’t it? I’ve arrived at a point in my life where some things have come to an end. Youth. Marriage. My childbearing years. And now I have to decide whether to become a carer for my mother or whether to farm the job out to someone else.’

‘I think Phoebe wants you to have your own life. And she’d never forgive you if you gave up your work. She could probably manage on her own with some help, couldn’t she? I’d be happy to look in now and again.’

‘Thank you, Connor, you’re very kind, but I think I’d still worry about her living alone.’

He gave me a stern look. ‘We both know how much Phoebe would hate to hear you say that.’

‘You’re right. She’d be furious.’ His smile seemed genuine this time, but I looked away and said, ‘Sometimes I wonder if it’s not so much that Phoebe needs looking after, as I need someone to care for.’

‘I think you need someone to care for
you
, Ann. Care
about
you.’

‘Do you?’

‘Do I
care
?’

‘No, I mean, is that what you think? About me? That I–– I’m sorry, I’m not explaining myself very well.’ I glared at the ground. ‘Oh, what is the
matter
with me?’

Connor put down his mug, then took mine. He set it down and said, ‘May I?’ and took hold of one of my hands. I felt rooted to the spot, as if I was being pulled down into the earth, like one of the trees that encircled us.

‘May I?’ he asked again. Lifting one of his big, strong hands, he placed it behind my head, cradling my neck and threading his warm fingers through my curling hair. I managed to raise my eyes as far as his chest and stared at a moth hole in his Fair Isle sweater. I noted the colours – dove grey, moss green, burnt umber – and resolved to look for them in my work basket. Mending. That’s what you did when you looked after people. You mended things. Toys. Sweaters. Broken hearts. You made them whole again. I wanted to do that. Mend things between me and Phoebe. Between me and my father. But I’d never be able to do that because I didn’t know where he was. Nor did Phoebe. There was just a gaping hole, a hole where my father had been. A hole in my life, even a hole in my memory.

Connor was kissing me and I didn’t know what to do other than kiss him back, so that’s what I did. I don’t know how long that might have gone on if it hadn’t started to rain.

He pulled away and said, ‘Let’s get you inside before you get soaked.’

‘Connor—’

‘It’s okay. I’m not going to assume anything. I’m just glad you weren’t angry. Or offended.’

‘No. I was… pleased.’

‘You don’t look it,’ he said with a laugh.

‘Don’t I? How
do
I look?’

‘Confused.’ He raised a finger to my mouth and touched it. ‘But beautiful as ever.’ He looked up. ‘It’s really coming down now. Let’s get back to that stove.’

He took my hand again and pulled me through the wood, back towards the house. As we ran I called out, ‘Connor, wait!’ I let go of his hand and turned, looking back the way we’d come.

‘What is it?’

‘I don’t know. Something…’ I looked round at the trees, searching. I’d no idea what for.

‘Did you leave something behind?’

‘No. But I remember that I
did
leave something here, a long time ago… And I remember coming to look for it.’

‘You didn’t find it?’

‘I don’t remember. I just have an awful feeling…’

‘About the thing you lost?’

‘No. About something that happened.’

‘Here?’

‘I think so.’

‘Something bad?’

‘Yes.’