The Memory Tree Read online

  ‘You’ve done all you could, Ann. You’ve tried to be a good daughter, but the fact is, Phoebe just didn’t want one.’

  And that was it in a nutshell. Phoebe wasn’t the least bit maternal. I was her only foray into motherhood and it was a disaster – for her, for me and apparently for Sylvester, who deserted us, leaving no forwarding address.

  I assume he’s dead now, but a part of me wonders if he’s still alive, if he remembers anything about the little girl he abandoned to the care of a reluctant mother. I spent years missing him, then years hating him. Finally, I tried to forget him. Now I just wonder, where did he go? And why? And why would Phoebe never talk about it?

  My mother ignored my letter, so I rang. I got the answering machine for several days but I kept leaving messages until one day, she finally picked up. I enquired after her health and asked if I could pay her a visit. I told her I had some news.

  ‘Good God, you’re not pregnant, are you?’

  ‘No, of course not. I’m forty-three. I gave up on all that years ago.’

  ‘So why do you want to see me?’ she asked suspiciously.

  ‘Well, as I said, I have some news. About Jack.’

  ‘Is he dead?’

  ‘No! Look, Mum, could I just come and visit? I’d really like to see you. I’m concerned about you living alone.’

  ‘How do you know I’m living alone?’ Phoebe snapped. ‘Has Dagmar been telling tales?’

  ‘Not at all, but she’s concerned about you too.’

  ‘I’m fine. Couldn’t be better. There’s a constant stream of visitors – some of them young, male and good-looking, so you don’t need to worry about me. I’m in the pink! Now, if you don’t mind, I’d like to get on. I’m very busy.’

  I shouldn’t have asked, but I did. ‘Are you painting again?’

  There was a brief pause, then Phoebe said ‘No’, and hung up.

  PHOEBE

  From where she lay in bed, Phoebe Flint could see her easel, with its blank canvas, her paints, brushes, oily rags, all the paraphernalia of an artist’s life. When she used to be able to work, Phoebe would lock up the studio at the end of the day and stroll across to Garden Lodge, where, with paint-stained hands, she’d pour herself a large gin with very little tonic. She was happy to forget her work for a few hours, knowing she’d make the journey in reverse the following day and the next. Work was the great cure-all. It didn’t mend broken hearts or bodies but, like gin, it dulled the pain.

  There was a rhythm and a routine to Phoebe’s days and friends and lovers knew it shouldn’t be disturbed. But Sylvester hadn’t understood. Sylvester had been unpredictable, emotional, romantic – in a word, foreign. He expected Phoebe to drop everything to meet him at the airport. He liked to go out to dinner when she’d forgotten to cook. As a Madeiran, he didn’t share her enthusiasm for buttered cream crackers and a lump of stale cheddar.

  Ann had proved to be another distraction. The child expected Phoebe to play games and read stories, especially after Sylvester had gone, but once Ann was settled at school, Phoebe established a routine again, one that lasted decades, until it was disrupted by the discovery of a lump that turned out to be malignant. Surgery and punishing chemotherapy confined Phoebe to bed or a wheelchair for months. The loss of a breast and lymphoedema in her right arm made work impossible. In any case, her hands and feet hurt too much for her to work at an easel. Even sketching was difficult.

  Phoebe’s condition was notoriously difficult to treat. The disabling side effects of chemo were usually temporary. Her oncologist assured her many patients suffered, but most made a full recovery. Phoebe didn’t. Her GP referred her to a pain clinic, but nothing from their pharmacopeia soothed her damaged nerves, apart from drugs that reduced her to a swollen, confused heap, slumped in front of the TV, too exhausted to reach for the remote. Phoebe preferred to live with her pain.

  Her dogged efforts to paint were never witnessed by friends or even Dagmar. Phoebe’s humiliating failures were a private affair. She stopped complaining about her disability when several well-meaning friends cited Matisse and his famous paper cut-outs, executed from his wheelchair using a pair of wallpaper shears. Phoebe vowed privately that all she’d be executing with wallpaper shears would be the next person to mention Henri bloody Matisse.

  Her attempts to produce new paintings yielded work so disappointing she felt compelled to destroy it in case she dropped dead and some future art historian came upon these daubings and concluded they were a new departure in her final years, one rather less successful than Matisse’s cut-outs.

  To reduce the number of footsteps she was required to make, Phoebe moved into the studio. She refused to accept her painting days were over and, as a staunch atheist, she declined to pray for a miracle, but she didn’t stop hoping for one. Sometimes she dreamed of waking full of energy and pain-free, able to swing her legs out of bed and stand without wincing. In dreams she strode over to her easel, picked up a brush and palette and wielded them deftly, confidently, her brain and hand so closely connected, it was as if she only had to think the brush strokes for them to appear on the canvas.

  Phoebe lay still and stared at her easel for a long time before attempting to get out of bed. As soon as she moved, she knew the overnight miracle had not occurred. As the duvet grazed her damaged toes, she braced herself for the worst part of her day: the moment when she placed both feet inside her thickly padded slippers and stood, putting her whole weight on the ground.

  She grunted and, stiff with inactivity, lurched across the floor like Frankenstein’s monster, aiming for the kettle she’d filled the night before, when her hands still worked. She flicked a switch and hobbled over to a chair, eager to take the weight off her feet.

  ‘It gets better,’ she told herself. Mornings were always bad, but she would loosen up as the day wore on. She’d get used to the pain which had become her constant companion and things would seem brighter after the first cup of coffee. Once it had been filter, but nowadays Phoebe settled for instant. Last thing at night she would tip a generous spoonful of Carte Noir into a mug, ready for the morning. Every little helped . . .

  Phoebe wondered what it was about chronic sickness and pain that brought out the clichés in people. If ever a situation required imagination and ingenuity, it was surely one like hers. Matisse knew what he was doing. You had to think laterally. There was more to art than paint.

  Already Phoebe felt tired. Maybe she’d go back to bed. She obviously wasn’t going to be doing any painting. Not today. As the kettle came to the boil, she looked up longingly at the mug beside it, then her eyes swivelled across the room to her tiny fridge. She estimated the number of footsteps, then remembered the powdered milk stored on the shelf above the kettle. Finally – thinking laterally – she considered drinking her coffee black.

  Tired of her deliberations, Phoebe opted for the shortest route. She kicked off her slippers and clambered back into bed. She’d get up eventually, but not now.

  As she fell into a doze, Phoebe wondered if there was a thermos flask in the house. If she made a flask of coffee before retiring and left it on the bedside table, she could get a caffeine fix without setting foot on the floor. Her spirits rose until she realised she would have to negotiate the uneven path and several steps on the way back to Garden Lodge. Even if she still had one, the flask was probably on the top shelf in the scullery, which would mean climbing on to a chair.

  Life drove some hard bargains.

  ANN

  Some weeks later Dagmar contacted me to say Phoebe was in hospital. She’d fallen in the garden, putting the rubbish bin out on a rainy morning. She hadn’t broken anything, but she’d twisted her ankle and had been unable to get up again. I suppose she might have died of exposure if one of the bin men hadn’t heard her calling for help.

  Phoebe was admitted to hospital for observation and gave Dagmar as her next of kin. Brave Dagmar took it upon herself to ring me and, with her usual efficiency, informed me of the visiting
hours.

  She also wished me luck.

  Phoebe was sitting up in bed wearing silk pyjamas and a man’s tweed cap. I saw her before she spotted me and was able to study her face before surprise rearranged it. I’d steeled myself, but the sight of her wrung my heart. I suppose one always remembers parents as younger and more vigorous, but Phoebe looked a decade older than I was expecting. She was thin and pale, like a plant deprived of sunlight. She lay collapsed against her pillows and gazed, apparently aimlessly round the ward, but I knew my mother. She was observing with her artist’s eye details, lines, textures. She would be recording them in the sketchbook of her mind, maintaining the habit of a lifetime.

  I was at her bedside before she registered my presence, so when she turned her head, she was startled.

  ‘Good God! Who sent for you? Is there something they aren’t telling me? Should I expect a visit from the chaplain next?’

  ‘Hello, Mum. How are you feeling?’

  ‘Lousy. But you didn’t need to come. I really don’t know why they kept me in.’ She started to cough violently, demonstrating why they’d kept her in.

  ‘Dagmar said you’d had a fall, so naturally I was concerned.’

  ‘Dagmar should mind her own bloody business.’

  ‘Well, fortunately for you, she doesn’t. She knew they’d let you out of here sooner if you had someone to look after you at home, so I’ve volunteered. But of course, if there’s someone else you’d rather ask . . .’

  Phoebe stared stonily into space, but her eyes were misty. ‘It’s been a hell of a year for death . . . Dodie went, finally. And Jim just dropped down dead one day. He was only fifty-six! And Peter’s in a nursing home now, poor old thing. Dementia.’

  ‘Uncle Peter? I didn’t know he was still alive.’

  ‘Sebastian’s in prison. Not sure what for. Art forgery, probably. He was very good at it. Though not good enough, obviously.’

  ‘Sebastian? Wasn’t he your—’

  ‘Assistant. That’s what I used to call them. My assistants.’ She turned and glared at me. ‘You didn’t bring any flowers then?’

  ‘You aren’t allowed to these days. Health and Safety regulations.’

  Phoebe swore and the woman in the next bed looked up and sighed audibly. I shot a conciliatory smile in her direction.

  ‘But I did bring you some chocolates,’ I said, changing the subject. ‘I didn’t bother with fruit because I knew you wouldn’t eat it.’

  ‘What kind of chocolates?’

  ‘Belgian.’

  ‘Good! Thank you,’ she added as an afterthought, without looking at me. ‘But your services as a babysitter will not be required.’

  ‘Mum, I think you need someone staying with you for a while. Till you get back on your feet.’

  ‘Ha!’

  ‘Sorry, but you know what I mean. I don’t rate your chances of getting through a winter on your own.’

  ‘Well, there’s a first time for everything.’

  ‘I know, but I’m offering to come and look after you for a while. Until we can arrange something suitable.’

  ‘I’ve shut up the house,’ she announced. ‘I’m living in the studio now.’

  ‘But why?’

  ‘Fewer footsteps. It’s easier to heat. And cheaper.’

  ‘Have you considered selling up?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Why not?’

  Phoebe treated me to a withering look. ‘Because it would mean conceding my painting days are over. Admitting that bloody cancer has won!’ The woman in the next bed tutted and turned the page of her magazine with a theatrical flourish.

  ‘On the contrary,’ I said, playing my hand carefully. ‘Rejecting ancient bricks and mortar in favour of a comfortable, modern flat would demonstrate you still meant business. That you were moving forward after . . . a setback.’

  My mother didn’t miss a beat. ‘And where would I paint?’

  ‘Well, you’re living in one room now, so you could rent or buy something open-plan. One of those exciting warehouse conversions in Bristol, perhaps? Bare brick and loads of character. Or you could opt for a conventional layout and just turn the biggest room into a studio. There are some lovely waterside flats in Portishead and Clevedon. Good for the light.’

  Phoebe eyed me suspiciously. ‘You’ve obviously given this some thought.’

  ‘I’ve done more than that. I’ve been to some estate agents in Bristol.’ I reached into my bag and brought out a large box of Belgian chocolates and a sheaf of estate agents’ brochures which I placed on the bed. Phoebe ignored the leaflets and started to rip open the chocolates, saying, ‘I can’t afford to move.’

  ‘Mum, you can’t afford to stay. And Garden Lodge is a desirable country property – or would be, if we tarted it up a bit.’

  ‘And what about you?’ Phoebe asked, chewing, her words indistinct. She set about selecting a second chocolate before she’d even swallowed the first. ‘Don’t you have a job? A home?’

  ‘You know perfectly well I do. But my work is all freelance now. I can work anywhere. Until we get you sorted out anyway. I’ve got a friend staying in my flat at the moment. She needed a place for a few months so I said she could have the spare room. She’ll keep an eye on things while I’m here. But I’ve been thinking about moving anyway. I fancy a change. Getting away from all the old haunts.’

  ‘From Jack?’

  ‘I hardly ever see Jack.’

  ‘But that’s what you meant, wasn’t it? Get away from Jack. The clinics. The hospitals. All the memories.’

  ‘You are so tactful, Mother.’

  ‘Should have done it years ago. No point in waiting for men to come back,’ she added, shaking her head.

  ‘I wasn’t waiting. We parted amicably and we’ve both had other relationships since. Which is what I wanted to tell you about. Jack and I are getting divorced. He wants to marry his girlfriend. She’s pregnant.’

  Phoebe narrowed her eyes and sneered, ‘So Jack finally gets to be a daddy.’

  ‘Yes. And I’m very pleased for him.’

  ‘After all you went through? When he wouldn’t even consider adoption?’

  ‘Jack wasn’t desperate for a child, Mum. Why should he compromise? He held out for what he wanted. And eventually he got it.’

  ‘Life stinks.’

  ‘It doesn’t, Mum. We just don’t get everything we want.’

  ‘And sometimes,’ she said, rounding on me, ‘we lose the things we had! Life stinks.’

  She was probably talking about painting, but she might have been talking about her health, or even Sylvester. I thought it best not to enquire and, after a pause, said, ‘Why are you wearing a hat? Are you cold in here? Shall I have a word with the nurses?’

  ‘It’s the hat I wear when I have to go outdoors. To do the bins. I was wearing it when they brought me in.’

  ‘But why are you wearing it now?’

  Phoebe looked a little shifty and lowered her voice. ‘My roots need doing.’

  ‘Your roots?’

  ‘My hair. Most of it’s Copper Flame, but the roots are white. And there are some damned fine-looking doctors in this place, so I keep my hat on. I like to look my best,’ she added, adjusting the cap to a jaunty angle. ‘Haven’t been to a hairdresser for months and I can’t do it myself. Bloody arm doesn’t work.’ By way of illustration, she raised an arm in the air as far as it would go, then let it fall. ‘Useless.’

  ‘I can do it for you. Or let me take you to a hairdresser. Whatever you want. You only have to ask.’

  ‘Thank you. That’s very good of you,’ she added grumpily.

  ‘Mum, it’s what families do. Stand by one another. Try to help.’ Phoebe said nothing but pressed her lips together, as if she disapproved. ‘But I must say, I do like the cap. It’s very stylish. I think you should continue to wear it after we’ve fixed your hair.’

  ‘You do?’

  ‘Yes, I do. It’s very you, somehow. Very Phoebe Flint.’
>
  My mother looked at me and smiled for the first time since I’d come on to the ward.

  Ignoring her lamentations, I evicted my mother from her studio and installed her comfortably indoors, but not before I’d hired someone to clean up. It looked as if Phoebe had moved out to the studio when there was no longer any room in the kitchen to prepare food. Every surface was covered in empty wine bottles, mouldy milk cartons, dirty glasses and plates. I’d seen nothing like it since my student days. But perhaps I did her a disservice. Maybe she threw a gigantic party before moving out, but I suspect the domestic detritus had accumulated over weeks. Without consulting her, I ordered a small dishwasher. I forestalled any protests by telling her she needed to save her hands for work, not washing up.

  I left downstairs to the cleaners and dealt with the upstairs rooms myself, then moved back into the bedroom I’d occupied until I left home. Though small, it enjoyed a view of the garden, the studio and the wooded grounds of Beechgrave, once a Victorian merchant’s grandiose country home, now recycled as a rehabilitation centre for alcoholics and drug addicts.

  Phoebe grumbled about the move back to the house, but showed every sign of enjoying regular meals, TV and a comfy sofa on which she frequently dozed. I was relieved she no longer had to confront her disability as she did in the studio. My mother probably missed painting more than sex, youth and pain-free walking, but at least she could now blame someone else for her failure to work. She liked to claim she’d been bullied into leading the life of an elderly invalid. If that helped her come to terms with her difficulties, I didn’t mind being her scapegoat. I was used to it.

  Phoebe liked to see herself as the tragic victim of unplanned motherhood and a wastrel husband who never understood her, but that was only half the story. She’d fought cancer like a fiend, refusing to make any concession to rest or even slowing down, driving herself until the brushes dropped from her ruined hands. Phoebe might rant about the visual illiteracy of British culture, but she never complained about pain. To acknowledge it openly would have been to acknowledge defeat.