The Wedding Cake Tree (2 page)

‘
Yes,’ I said vaguely, fingering the letter. I wasn’t sure how I felt about a letter from a dead person, even Mum.

‘
You photograph celebrities, film stars and so on? Must be very exciting.’

I looked up
.

‘
No, not really.’ I knew where he was going with this.

‘
I think your mother felt your artistic talents were somewhat wasted on that kind of photography. I understand you were trained in the opera at the London Academy of Music?’

‘Briefly, yes,’

He sighed, defeated.

‘
Look, I’ll leave you to read the letter and you will, no doubt, see what I’m trying, albeit fairly badly, to say.’

He stood,
took the tortoise and placed it back in its pen, then returned to touch my arm in a kind gesture.

‘
I’ll make you a coffee.’

Chapter Two

Hello Grace
, my love.

I have started this letter several times but keep crossing things out. I decide to write something else, but then the page is a mess and now there is a significant pile of scrunched up paper by the bin. So this time, I’m just going to keep on writing – if only for the sake of a small Scottish forest.

First of all, please don’t read this letter as a missive from the grave. Yes, the fact that you are reading it means that I’m dead and gone, but right now, as I’m writing, I’m sitting in the garden room. It’s July. The garden looks beautiful, Grace. The ‘Bishop’ is such a good doer this year but I do fear for rosa ‘Alan Titchmarsh’, I’m afraid he’s lost his bloom, but hopefully you will see him make a remarkable comeback next spring. Anyway, perhaps you could see it as a long distance phone call, but with quite a long pause between what is said and when it is heard.

I know you will be upset that I didn’t tell you the whole truth about my illness. When I told you about the cancer several months ago I kept the details deliberately vague and fairly positive. What I didn’t tell you was the cancer was diagnosed late (you know I don’t like to go to the doctors) and it is aggressive. The chemotherapy and radiotherapy has achieved very little. Last month, I was given the news that there is nothing more to be done: it’s bloody horrible. I cry, then I’m angry and frightened, and then I’m melancholic. I was always going to have to bugger off eventually, but I confess another ten years would have done me fine. It would have been nice, at least, to see the wedding cake tree put on another layer.

I didn’t have the heart to tell you the severity of the prognosis for several reasons: firstly, I didn’t want to believe it myself, and decided to fill my head with positive thoughts (no bad thing), but I was blocking out the reality of what I knew in my heart would be the eventual outcome. Secondly, if I told you my time left was limited, then you would have rushed up the motorway like a mad woman every week and I simply haven’t wanted to burden you with the stress of it all. I’m desperate to see you, of course, but what if you had a car accident because you were overly tired? Also, you have your own life to live, and you need to live it; every single day is precious.

And so, as difficult as it is, I’ve decided to let the next few months run their course. I’m not expected to make it as far through the year as Christmas and I’m hoping that, on the odd occasion you pop home during the coming months, I can pass myself off as having a bad day. If you turn up unannounced and guess the truth, or if you decide to visit during the final weeks, then my plan will have been scuppered.

It all boils down to the fact that I will not put you through the horror of watching me die. We have a lifetime of wonderful memories and that is what I want you to hold on to. I suppose I feel any time spent with you in the future would be tinged with unbearable sorrow. Saying goodbye each time would be soul-destroying – not knowing if it was to be the last. And so I shall simply disappear from your life, and I hope I will have saved you from several agonising months of unnecessary grief; when you have a child of your own, perhaps you will understand.

Right. Enough self-indulgence. Down to business. Unless Grimes has cocked up my instructions you will have heard by now that my name is really Frances Heywood. You will find out later why I had to change it. That brings me to another point Grace: don’t try to jump ahead of yourself with the information passed to you over the next ten days or so – relax and try to enjoy it. Anyhow, continue through your life thinking of me as Rosamund; it’s lovely to choose your own name, especially when you name yourself after your favourite flower … ‘rosa mundi’.

By now you must be wondering what on earth I am blithering on about and getting pretty cross. Well, I want you to go on a little trip – see it as a holiday. In fact, here is an idea, see it as the holiday I hinted we take earlier this year but you were too busy with work to go.

There’s so much about my life you are not aware of and I realise there is a great deal I want you to know … in fact, need you to know. I always thought there would be time to tell you – eventually – in the right way. Well, life has conspired against me, so I have concocted a plan that allows me to tell you all the things I want you to know, and show you all the places I want you to see, without actually being there with you. I also want you to scatter me as you go. I have fallen in love with the notion of having a little piece of me scattered in every place that has been significant in my life. I hope if I reveal my previous life to you in stages – if you walk in my footsteps, so to speak – then you might understand why I made some of the decisions I made, and why I kept you in the dark regarding my life before you were born.

Anyway, I’m afraid I must insist that you take the next ten days off work. Being freelance, this shouldn’t be a problem. Don’t come up with some excuse about a ‘tip off’ or a celebrity wedding. I’m sorry to have added the caveat that the will cannot be finalised until you have carried out my wishes. It is blackmail of sorts I know, but I only do this as I’m certain it’s the right thing for you to do now – more certain than I have been of anything. I could have called you back to Devon, sat you down at the kitchen table, and told you everything, but my mind is made up that this is the best course of action – for everyone.

I’m going to take you to places that will set your heart on fire, and hopefully rekindle your creative ardour in the process. You travel the world photographing famous people, living their peculiar lives with them, but what of your own life? I have worried for some time now that you are no longer seeing the beauty around you in this wonderful country of ours – if you took beautiful photos it would be different, but you don’t. I ought to mention that you won’t be travelling alone, that would be dreadful. To that end, I’ve asked a good friend of mine – Alasdair – to go with you. He’s a Royal Marine and completely dependable. I should also add that I’ve been worried about him for some time, as I believe him to be on the brink of exhaustion. Put it this way, he needs a holiday more than you can possibly imagine, so please don’t fob him off. I know you hate company to be forced on you but just this once, go with it. Oh, one last thing, while on your travels I wonder if you might placate me and perhaps rethink sharing your beautiful voice in some capacity. You have a wonderful gift, try not to waste it, love. Grimes will fill in the rest of the details. Be excited! I wish I was setting off on an adventure at thirty-one.

Well, where did the time go?
Robin keeps staring at me from the bird table through the open window. I think he wants me to dig up some worms just as I have always done. It has just this second struck me as I gaze out into the garden that I will die in the autumn or winter; it would have broken my heart to have gone in the spring, just as new life begins once more. That’s why I want you to scatter me in May, when I can be part of the newness of it all, one more time.

All my love,

Mum

X

I read the letter once more
, and traced my fingers over the words ‘Hello Grace’ just as the first teardrop landed onto the paper. There was no doubting it was written in Mum’s precise hand, and who else could nag so successfully from the grave?

In silent
reverie I sat nursing the coffee – lukewarm by then – that Grimes had given me. Before reading the letter, I had been determined to storm out of the office, hire another solicitor, and contest the will. But, reading her words made me believe she was there again, albeit for a fleeting second. Typical Mum; even in death she couldn’t resist nagging.

Grimes reappeared and sat down at the desk.
No doubt realising I needed to be rescued from my sorrowful inner monologue, he passed me a box of tissues and I managed to dab the rim of my lashes to stem the flow.

‘
So, Grace,’ he said, ‘what comes next is up to you. You know where you stand regarding the will and your mother’s request. What are you going to do?’

Despite the clarity of the letter,
I was unsure whether or not I should adhere to Mum’s request. Did I really want to discover new things about her? Although I wanted to inherit my childhood home, I didn’t particularly care about any money. But there was the matter of the ashes. No matter what, I couldn’t refuse that request. It was her trump card, and I had to smile at the image of Mum as she thought up that little ruse. She was right about the tip-off though, I did have a lucrative shoot arranged for the following day.

I
gazed around the tatty, ramshackle room, looked down at Terry (who seemed to shrug, as if to say, ‘What have you got to lose?’) and sighed.

‘
Give me your instructions, Mr Grimes. It looks like I’m going on a journey.’

Chapter Three

Nestled between an eleventh century church at the top of the lane and an ancient ford at the bottom, there stood a stone cottage. It had a slightly crooked front door framed by an open porch. Blue-tits nested in the porch eaves, content and undisturbed, as the door, swollen with the paintwork of many generations, was too stiff to open. Casement windows sat in perfect symmetry on either side of the doorway – just as a child would draw – and an exquisite flower border, heady with sweet aroma, was bedded down under the front windows. It was a cottage that sat so comfortably in its position
–
surrounded by rolling Devonshire hills, wild flower meadows and twinkling streams
–
only a flash of divine inspiration could have created it.

For half a millennium the cottage ha
d taken on many guises. It had stood fast amid fertile soil in times of famine, provided a constant flow of water in times of drought, and a haven of peace in times of war. Whatever material changes that had been made to suit the needs of the various occupants, however, one facet remained the same – the name. The house was called St Christopher’s Cottage, named after the church that sat in protective vigil on the rise above it.

My mother moved to St Christopher’s around the time I was born, and from the moment I had independent thought I knew she had chosen perfection.

Most of all I loved to play in the ford that
sat twenty yards or so down the lane from the cottage. There was something so playful and adventurous about the ford. Mum squeezed flowers into every crevice of the garden. Flora and fauna had to battle it out at St Christopher’s, bustling with and nudging at each other for a little extra shoulder room. Not even the tiniest car could be driven down to the cottage because the lane that led from the road to the house was too narrow and overgrown. A Devonshire hedgerow towered high above the lane on each side, the uppermost branches met like a gothic archway in the middle. Very few people were aware a house actually existed at that spot, which made the atmosphere at St Christopher’s all the more idyllic.

Her cutti
ng garden was phenomenal. We had bouquets of cut flowers in every windowsill from April to November. The garden had a wild feel but it was always beautiful, even in the depths of winter. Snowdrops were the first to raise their optimistic little shoots, of course. Then bluebells in the meadow, self-set aquilegia just about everywhere, and pots and pots of tulips appeared in April and early May. Mum grew many different varieties, but in terracotta pots rather than directly into the border. ‘They do better in pots here,’ she would say. I looked forward to when their little green heads appeared – waiting to be coloured in – and made an annual pilgrimage home to mark the occasion. We called it the
Tulip Festival and decorated trestle tables with pretty tablecloths and draped bunting around the summer house. I knew that the Tulip Festival was Mum’s way of ensuring I travelled home at least once in the year. Despite my adoration of St Christopher’s, I had become so embroiled in my life in London that I barely returned to Devon, and if I could have been granted any wish after she was gone, it would have been to turn back the clock and travel home more often – I thought time would never run out.

Her favourite tree had been given pride of place in the
garden. She had even made a seating area opposite in order to view the tree at its best. It was the only Latin name for a plant I could ever remember –
Cornus Controversa Variegata
– the wedding cake tree. So called because, as the years pass, it sends out fresh branches in tiers, hence, a wedding cake. Mum said she bought it when I was born to celebrate my birth, and so it was always known as Grace’s tree. She said the tree was a symbol of my life. That – like the tree – my roots would always be firmly entrenched at St Christopher’s. Mum loved planting trees. She planted a whole orchard shortly after arriving at the cottage, and over the years established a mini arboretum – she cherished those trees.

Mum
was thirty when I was born and, despite being a single parent, she was easy-going and epitomised hippy chic. As a child I asked many questions about the identity of my father, but she was a closed book. Sometimes I wished she would just lie to me and make something up. But with no information forthcoming, I assumed I was the product of either a one-night stand, a bit of a fling or an affair with a married man. Whatever the case, my biological father wasn’t around, so by the time I entered into adulthood and moved to London, the matter was closed for good. I asked questions about her family: where she was from? Where had she lived before I was born? But she only revealed that she was from Yorkshire, that there was ‘no one left’ in the family, and ‘Please, Grace, just leave the subject alone’. And so Mum remained an enigma to me – a loving, beautiful, happy-go-lucky, yoga-loving, spiritual enigma, who provided a wonderful home that I cherished.

Mum set up a
retreat at the cottage when I was a baby, converting the stables into basic but comfortable accommodation. She encouraged her guests to meditate in the meadow and paddle in the cleansing waters of the River Heddon as it meandered – late in its journey – through the pasture and her beautiful garden. It was impossible not to step into perfect harmony with the world at St Christopher’s.

When I reached an age of understanding,
Mum explained that, shortly after opening, she secured a contract with the Ministry of Defence. They had asked her to set aside a considerable number of weeks per year for military personnel, and so St Christopher’s was a home to battle-weary soldiers. 

The soldiers established a
trendy commune around the old wooden stables. A veranda was built on the south side and planted with vines and fruit. The couple of acres of land surrounding the house were tended in such a way we were practically self-sufficient in terms of vegetables, fruit and poultry. Guests would enjoy helping out with the chores, which meant much welcomed free labour. In the endless summers of my childhood, visitors cooked on open fires and ate their meals al fresco while soulful tunes from an acoustic guitar gently filled the night air. I would lay in bed with my window open and hear them going about their quiet business, the faint sounds of their industry would lull me into a secure sleep – I always slept soundly at St Christopher’s.

Individuals would come and go.
Just as I got to know one of them, he or she would leave and might not return for a year or so, if ever. One particular individual came and never left – Jake. A retired soldier, he had been around at St Christopher’s for as long as I could remember; it was his guitar I heard so often as a child. He and Mum were partners – lovers. To a certain extent she kept him at arm’s length (Mum liked her own space) but there was no doubting how much he adored her.

On the 14th of November I received a phone call from Jake at my London flat urging me to hurry home to see my mother. She had been too weak to talk when I arrived, but she was aware that I was there. I leaned my head towards her, quietly sobbing into the chest that had become so frail so quickly. She gathered enough strength to smile at me – her familiar smile that said, ‘I’m glad you are here, my love’. I loved my mother’s smile because she smiled with her eyes as much as with her mouth. They were big brown eyes, surrounded by wrinkles that emerged across her tanned face like deep tracks. When she greeted me after any time spent apart she would hold my face in her hands and say, ‘My beautiful, perfect child.’

I had known about the cancer for a year. I had intended to travel home monthly but work commitments always got in the way. Two months before she died I spent the weekend in Devon and, despite her efforts to be cheerful, she looked frail. When questioned, she explained her chemotherapy had started again, and it had knocked her back a little, but she would be fine, the prognosis was optimistic. If only she had told me the truth I would have travelled home more often and finished my job to care for her. I discovered from Jake that she had kept the real prognosis from me all along, the reason finally being explained to me in the details of her first letter of course.

Despite the ag
onising pain cancer can bring, she passed away in peace in her old wooden bed that had been moved into the garden room. Within a moment I had gone from having the subconscious contentment a child has – knowing a parent’s love is available when needed – to the realisation that the warmth and security I felt knowing she was there – in her cottage or garden – was gone.

Within moments of her passing
, I pushed open the stiff garden room doors and walked towards the end of the lawn to look back at the house. I didn’t feel the icy grasp of the November night embrace me, I suppose I was numb. It was a beautiful evening. The house shone brightly in the moonlight and the sky was alight with a million twinkling diamonds. If she was on her way to heaven, I thought, she had chosen the perfect night to get there.

I felt a sudden chill and wrapped my arms around my shoulders to stop t
hem shaking. Looking across the cutting garden towards the retreat I saw that Jake and some guests had established a night vigil around a campfire. He started towards me but, as he grew closer and returned my gaze, he realised she had gone. He ran into the garden room and I heard him exhale a moan of sheer grief as he lifted Mum’s limp body into his arms and rocked her.

I
wanted to run to Jake and take comfort in the big old chest that had provided so much support over the years. Nuzzling into him was wonderful because he would listen to my stories and nod gently while I fretted over some teenage angst – but he would say absolutely nothing. The creases of his hands were ingrained with years of tending the land, and there was an aroma of pure earth about him that acted like a calming pheromone of sorts; anyone close to a person who tends the land would understand.

I
walked back into the house and paused at the doorway, trying – and failing – to take in the scene. Jake lay Mum down, stepped towards me and tried to offer comfort, but despite the closeness we had built over the years, I felt betrayed and simply couldn’t bring myself to fall into his open arms.

Instead,
I sat on the edge of her bed and tuned into the music that had been playing quietly in the background to soothe her; I held her hand as my tears fell freely onto her skin as it turned cold. The track was one of her favourites,
Abide with Me
. Eerily, it was also one of the hymns she chose for her funeral, and I hoped as I held her hand that I would not live a life that facilitated the choosing of my own funeral accompaniment.

I stayed in Devon for a week. The guests at the retreat (I discovered Jake had taken over the running of the place once Mum’s condition deteriorated) stayed on. They all knew Mum personally and rather than depart early, decided to stay for the funeral. Although I knew it would hurt him a great deal, I still found it impossible to turn to Jake for comfort. The day after she died I directed all of my anger at being kept in the dark regarding Mum’s condition at him. ‘She was
my
mother,’ I yelled, ‘you should have told me earlier!’ I simply could not understand why he had waited until she was almost gone to contact me. Jake tried to explain that Mum had been sitting up in the garden only the day before she died; that the sudden turn of her illness had taken them all by surprise.

After my
initial tirade, the anger became exhausting. I calmed a little and eventually sat with Jake on his veranda and talked for a while. But it was stunted, factual talk – the banal detail of death.

W
aiting for the funeral left me desolate and numb. Even the house seemed to be in mourning. Curtains hung like wilted flowers while family photographs seemed to be of faceless strangers. As I wandered aimlessly from room to room running my fingers over Mum’s knickknacks, cushions and little treasured possessions, it was as though I was another person altogether, looking in, and watching the all-encompassing sadness from the outside. Nothing looked or felt the same now she was gone.

I kept to the garden.

Autumn was shifting down a gear into winter. I considered lifting the tender plants and over-wintering them in the greenhouse, but I hadn’t the heart, there didn’t seem to be much point. Even the weather, with only a gentle breeze and washed-out sunshine, seemed to be respectful of Mum’s passing.

I remembered
one of my childhood haunts – the ford, next to which there was a giant of an old oak tree that paddled its long toes in the stream. It had a perfect hollow at the base, plenty big enough for me to crawl into as a child. The beauty of the hollow was this: I could see anyone walking on the footpath down the lane from the house and over the ford, but they could not see me – it was perfect. Having stumbled upon a stash of children’s books under the stairs, and having chosen a different one for each day, I returned to the tree, wrapped myself in a blanket and read – every day until the funeral. Not surprisingly, the hollow was a tighter fit, but I could still wriggle in there, just.

On the second day a man appeared on the footpath.
I didn’t recognise him but assumed he must be a newcomer to the retreat. He was a strange kind of fellow. His age was difficult to determine as his face was almost entirely obscured by a beard. He stopped by the ford and sauntered around the base of a nearby hornbeam, systematically picking up bits of old branch only to assess and then discard them. Eventually he found what he was searching for – a small coppiced branch, roughly four-foot long with a curve at one end and thin enough for the span of his hand to grasp around. He sat on the bridge that crossed the stream and seemed to enjoy the dappled sunlight twinkling in the water where he waggled the soles of his boots. We would have been no more than ten feet apart, so I used all my powers of concentration to sit very still and avoid detection. He took a penknife out of his pocket and started to carve the wood: slowly, methodically, carefully.