The Memory Tree Read online

  I carried the flowers through and he followed with the champagne. Phoebe clapped her hands as we entered and beamed while we toasted her good health. Then Connor cleared his throat rather self-consciously and said, ‘Ladies, would you care for an evening stroll? There’s something I’d like to show you.’

  ‘What – now?’ Phoebe asked. She looked at me. ‘Will dinner keep?’

  ‘Oh, yes. It’s mackerel pâté for starters and I haven’t put the Beef Wellington in yet.’

  ‘Isn’t it getting a bit dark, though?’ Phoebe asked, looking puzzled.

  ‘We can take a torch,’ Connor answered. ‘And I shall lend you my arm. We shan’t be going far.’

  I stared at Connor, dying to know what was afoot. His smile was teasingly enigmatic.

  ‘Should we take our glasses?’ Phoebe asked.

  ‘Definitely. Right, follow me, ladies. There’s someone I’d like you to meet . . .’

  Connor led the way through the garden with Phoebe on his arm. We all carried a glass of champagne and I brought up the rear with a torch which we didn’t need while we were close to the house, but as soon as we moved away from the lighted windows, the darkness closed in.

  We moved through the shrubbery in the direction of the fallen beech. I smelled sawdust and my heart began to beat faster as I tried to guess what Connor had been up to.

  He stopped, turned to me and swapped his glass for the torch, which he kept directed at the ground. He took Phoebe’s arm again and asked her to close her eyes, then he led her to a spot which he appeared to choose precisely. Lifting the torch, he shone it straight ahead and revealed a massive wooden face.

  ‘You can open your eyes now, Phoebe. Happy birthday!’

  The flat, cut surface of the upended tree stump had been carved and a face – a smiling, almost laughing face – peered out through sculpted foliage that formed a rampant mane framing the face, so that the creature appeared to be half-human, half-vegetation.

  ‘My God,’ Phoebe said. ‘It’s a Green Man!’

  ‘Green Woman,’ Connor corrected her. ‘Look at it carefully . . . Remind you of anyone?’

  Primed with the knowledge of the photographs, I’d seen the resemblance straight away, but Phoebe wasn’t far behind.

  ‘It’s me!’ she squealed. ‘Ann, do you see? It’s me as a Green Woman! Look at that nose. Couldn’t be anyone else, could it?’ She looked up at Connor and, sounding almost accusatory, said, ‘You did this?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘Chainsaw. Chisel. Ann lent me some photos.’

  Phoebe approached the face, as big as a table, and laid her hand reverently on a sharp cheekbone. ‘I don’t know what to say . . . And I can tell you,’ she said, turning and wagging a finger at Connor, ‘that’s a first!’

  ‘You don’t have to say anything, Phoebe. I just hope you don’t mind me vandalising your tree stump.’

  ‘Mind? I adore it. To be commemorated in this way . . . as an ancient spirit of rebirth and regeneration . . . This is just wonderful!’ She turned to us and said, ‘I wish to make a libation.’ She raised her glass. ‘To the spirit of this venerable tree, which isn’t really alive and isn’t quite dead. Rather like me,’ she added with a wink. ‘I now bless this sculpture, this beech wood, my daughter and my friend,’ she said, tipping her glass towards Connor. ‘Long may they all flourish!’ With that she poured champagne over the forehead of her wooden alter ego. Connor stepped forward and did likewise, saying, ‘Happy birthday, Phoebe’, and then I emptied mine.

  ‘Happy birthday, Mum. May you have many more.’

  We watched as the liquid trickled down over the Green Woman’s brow, into her eyes and out again, as if she wept, but wept for joy.

  Phoebe sniffed noisily and said, ‘Well, I think we all need another drink. Several, in fact. Let’s go back now and eat Ann’s lovely dinner.’ She reached for Connor’s arm again and leaned on him, more heavily this time. He raised the torch to light the way.

  I hung back to take a last look at the Green Woman. It was difficult to see much detail now. She was just a pale face looming out of the darkness, but this was no unfriendly spirit to be feared. This was just my mother, laughing in the moonlight, delighted with her new incarnation.

  A good deal of food and wine was consumed, after which we subsided happily on to the sofa and armchairs. I put Phoebe’s favourite Cole Porter CD on and we sat in companionable silence. I thought she was too exhausted to talk, but Phoebe surfaced to say, ‘I’ve had such a lovely time . . . Lovely food, lovely wine, lovely company – and as for my presents! So very thoughtful, both of you. Thank you so much. And when I think I said I didn’t want to celebrate . . . You know what? I’d like to do it all over again! I wouldn’t even mind braving that idiot hairdresser again. And I could certainly drink all the champagne again. One birthday is not enough,’ she announced. ‘Not when they’re this much fun. Wouldn’t it be nice to have two birthdays, like the Queen!’

  ‘Ivy had two birthdays,’ Connor said. ‘But she only celebrated one.’

  ‘Your Ivy?’

  ‘Yes. Her official birthday – the one she celebrated – was the ninth of February. But if you look in the Hatherwick family Bible, you’ll see it’s recorded as October sixth the previous year.’

  ‘How very odd.’

  ‘Do you know how the confusion arose?’ I asked.

  ‘Not really. Ivy said the Bible was wrong, but no one liked to correct it. Hester told her it was Violet’s mistake. She was the one who recorded the Hatherwick “hatched, matched and despatched”, but for some reason she was way out with Ivy’s birth.’

  ‘That’s very odd,’ I said, considering. ‘How do we know it was Violet who was wrong?’

  ‘Hester showed Ivy the entry in her own journal recording the birth.’

  Phoebe frowned and shook her head. ‘How could Violet have made a mistake like that?’

  ‘Maybe she was ill. Puerperal fever or something. Women had a rough time of it in those days, didn’t they?’

  I leaned back in my chair and closed my eyes, struggling to make sense of the latest piece of the puzzle. ‘Was October the sixth someone else’s birthday? William’s? Or Hester’s?’

  ‘No, not as far as I recall.’

  ‘So why on earth did Violet get it wrong?’

  ‘Search me.’

  ‘Well, much as I like Hester,’ Phoebe said, ‘I think that was out of order, insisting she was right and Violet was wrong. I should think a mother would know when her own child was born!’

  I opened my eyes and sat bolt upright. It was as if Phoebe’s last words had flipped a switch in my brain, turning on a light. ‘She would, wouldn’t she . . . ? I think Ivy’s mother was right.’

  ‘So why did Hester get it wrong?’

  ‘She didn’t.’

  Connor and Phoebe looked at each other, then stared at me, their faces blank.

  ‘You’ve lost me,’ Connor said. ‘Why did Violet get it wrong then?’

  ‘She didn’t.’

  ‘Oh, don’t be maddening, Ann!’ Phoebe said, losing patience. ‘Whatever do you mean?’

  ‘There were two babies.’

  ‘What?’ Connor and Phoebe spoke in unison.

  ‘There must have been two. Violet and Hester both gave birth, one in October and one the following February.’

  After a stunned silence, Connor was the first to catch on. ‘And one of the babies must have died,’ he whispered, his eyes shining. ‘Hester’s, I suppose. Then for some reason she adopted Violet’s baby . . . then gave her the birthday of her own child.’

  I shook my head. ‘No, that wouldn’t have worked. There’s a discrepancy of four months in the dates. I think Violet’s baby died in October and I presume she didn’t tell anyone. Perhaps it was a late miscarriage or more probably a stillbirth. It must have been for her to record it in the Bible.’

  ‘So you’re saying Violet lost her baby and recorded the day of its birth – and
death – in the family Bible?’ Phoebe said. ‘Meanwhile Hester was still pregnant – pregnant with a child she would later adopt!’

  ‘Perhaps that was the real reason Hester shut up Beechgrave,’ Connor said. ‘She was pregnant and needed to go into seclusion.’

  ‘Of course! And her mad mother wouldn’t have noticed what was going on!’ Phoebe announced. ‘The two young women must have hatched a plot to pass off Ivy as Violet’s child. Extraordinary!’

  ‘So Violet would have had to fake pregnancy until Ivy was born. That would be easy enough, I suppose,’ Connor said. ‘But why did she agree to it?’

  ‘Money? Or gratitude perhaps. Hester didn’t turn her out when she discovered she was pregnant. Violet was working up at the big house by then, looking after Mrs Mordaunt. And who else could she have turned to but Hester? Her father was dead; William was away fighting. Maybe the father of her baby was also away at the Front. Is a father named on Ivy’s birth certificate?’ I asked, looking at Connor.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Very likely killed, then.’

  ‘So, let me get this straight,’ Phoebe said carefully. ‘You think Violet was so grateful for Hester’s support, she was prepared to pose as Ivy’s mother in order to save Hester from disgrace.’

  ‘Well, that’s my theory, but I think there could have been another, more personal reason.’ Phoebe and Connor looked at me expectantly. ‘Hester’s baby was Violet’s niece.’

  ‘William’s child!’ Phoebe exclaimed.

  ‘Who else? No man features in Hester’s diary after Walter’s death. But it’s full of William. She promoted him in his absence. She fetched him home from hospital. And don’t forget the love letters we found in the biscuit tin. Written on seed packets. Addressed to My dear H and signed W.’

  ‘You know, there’s probably a way to prove all this,’ Connor said, getting up from the sofa and going to the corner of the sitting room where we kept the box of archive material. ‘If you’re right, Ann, William must have been home on leave about nine months before Ivy’s birth date, the one Hester gave her.’ He took out a volume of Hester’s journal and started leafing through the pages. ‘Got a calendar?’

  I jumped up from my chair and almost ran to the kitchen where I grabbed the calendar. As I returned, Phoebe beckoned me to come and sit beside her on the sofa. ‘Quick, quick, quick! I can’t stand the suspense! Count back forty weeks from – what was it, Connor? February the ninth?’

  ‘No, Mum, it’s thirty-eight weeks from conception. Trust me, I know about these things.’

  Phoebe threw an arm round my shoulders and squeezed. Flipping over calendar pages, we counted back the weeks, then had to refer to the small printed box of last year’s calendar.

  I looked up at Connor, whose tall, waiting form loomed over us, his face eager. ‘If Hester’s baby went to term and William was the father, he must have been home on leave around the end of May or the first week of June, 1916.’

  ‘He arrived home on the twenty-fourth of May,’ Connor said, his eyes shining. ‘And on May the twenty-seventh Hester wrote, Something has happened that never should have happened. Something terrible. I am lost, quite lost.’

  Phoebe let out a jubilant cry and hugged me. ‘Oh, you clever, clever girl! Isn’t she marvellous, Connor?’

  ‘Yes . . . Yes, she is.’ He shut the journal and lifted a large hand to watery eyes. Wiping them, he said, ‘I don’t suppose you have another bottle, do you, Ann? I think I’d like to raise a glass to my great-grandmother. My real great-grandmother. To Hester Mordaunt . . . God bless her.’

  HESTER

  July 13th, 1917

  I have been much occupied with plans for the new Beechgrave Convalescent Hospital and the task of engaging suitable staff has left me little leisure to write my journal. However, I have made some important decisions which affect the lives of several souls at Beechgrave and I wish to record the circumstances that led to them.

  Violet has for some time pleaded with me to be allowed to return to live at Garden Lodge so she can care for her brother. William is in good physical health, apart from being a little hard of hearing. However, he is very troubled mentally. His attacks of melancholia, though intermittent, are severe. According to Violet, the worst problem is his nightmares in which he appears to relive his terrible experiences on the Somme battlefield.

  Matters came to a head when William handed her their father’s shotgun and asked her to keep it here at Beechgrave. He gave no reason for this request and Violet says none was needed. She believes he is in danger of taking his own life.

  William’s sense of isolation must be acute. He lives alone and still remembers nothing at all about his life before he was wounded in France. He is not mentally fit to return to the Front, yet feels he should be ‘doing his bit’, even though he is in charge of food production here at Beechgrave – vital employment now.

  Violet is very concerned. She suspects William is not eating properly and thinks she should be present in the house at night, when his attacks are most likely to occur. I suspect she wishes to make sure he is locked in overnight. We know he walks around the grounds when he cannot sleep – I have seen him from my bedroom window when I too am similarly afflicted – and Violet thinks he shows an unhealthy interest in the lake for a man who cannot swim.

  I can spare Violet, but I should miss little Ivy a great deal. I also question the wisdom of removing an infant from her home to take her to live with someone prone to nocturnal fits of screaming and sobbing. I cannot think Ivy will thrive under such conditions and Violet does not disagree. It would surely be better for Ivy to continue to live at Beechgrave with daily visits from Violet. I have no reservations about this arrangement since Violet and I have shared Ivy’s care since she was a baby.

  I wish to do all I can to support the Hatherwicks and keep the family together. It has been a source of consolation to Violet – and to me – that Ivy has a loving uncle determined to be as good as a father to her. To see William, himself so weak and vulnerable, cradle that little child has been one of my chief joys. I will never deprive them of each other’s company, but I believe the best thing for Ivy would be for me to become her legal guardian. I shall never marry now and have no relative likely to outlive me. I should therefore like to make Ivy my heir by formally adopting her and giving her my name. In the event of my dying before Ivy reaches her majority, the Hatherwicks would become joint guardians. I shall make financial provision for all of them.

  I intend to stipulate these conditions in my will and I do not expect Violet to raise any objection. She knows how much I love Ivy and I am sure she will be relieved to know that the child will be provided for, for life. I have therefore made an appointment to discuss these matters with the family solicitor. I anticipate surprise, disapproval and idle assurances that I might yet marry, even though the few able-bodied men who survive the war will have their pick of young, healthy, even wealthy women. I am twenty-five and under no such illusions, nor do I care to marry. The Hatherwicks are the only family I have now apart from Mother, who on her worst days has no idea who I am and addresses me as if I were one of the servants we dismissed in 1916.

  Mother is living in the past and so, for much of the time, is William, but Violet and I must look to the future. Ivy’s future.

  CONNOR

  ‘Should we wake her?’ Connor said, looking down at the dark curly head resting on his shoulder.

  ‘No, she looks perfectly comfortable. Let her sleep,’ Phoebe said. ‘The poor girl’s shattered. She’s been cooking and cleaning all day and she hardly sleeps at night.’

  Connor looked up. ‘Chronic insomnia, she says. And sometimes she sleepwalks.’

  ‘Really?’ He lowered his voice. ‘Is there something on her mind?’

  ‘I suppose so.’

  ‘Do you know what’s bothering her?’

  ‘No idea. Is that bottle really empty?’ she asked abruptly.

  Connor smiled. ‘It was the last time you asked me. I’ll s
ay this for you, Phoebe, you can certainly hold your liquor.’

  ‘Oh, pain keeps me sober,’ she grumbled. ‘The amount I’ve put away tonight would fell the average woman, but the first bottle just takes the edge off for me. After a few more drinks, I’m ready to party!’

  Ann stirred and Connor looked down at her again. ‘She should be in bed.’

  ‘No, don’t disturb her. Let her sleep on the sofa. Come and sit over here,’ Phoebe said, tossing him a rug. ‘And cover her with that. The fire’s dying down now. She might wake if she gets chilly.’

  Connor struggled out from under the dead weight of Ann’s sleeping body and lowered her gently on to the sofa. He removed her shoes, lifted her feet up, then covered her with the rug, tucking it in around her.

  Settling into an armchair, Connor said, ‘Do you know the present I would really have liked to give you, Phoebe?’

  ‘No, what? What could possibly top that brilliant carving? I can’t wait to get out there in daylight to have another look at it.’

  ‘What I really wanted you to have was one pain-free day. One day when you could throw your stick away and stand and paint all day.’

  ‘Well, that’s jolly decent of you, but do you know, given the choice of one pain-free day and the Green Woman, I’d take the Green Woman – no question! That will last and give me pleasure for years. As for painting . . . Well, I can still do it. I’m an old hand and I know how to cut corners. Cheat honourably. But there’s little joy in it now.’ She sighed. ‘Painting was never easy for me – it’s damned hard work! – but the struggle used to be worth it. I had faith in the enterprise, it wasn’t just about endurance . . . But today,’ she said, brightening, ‘has been about lots of other things. And all so exciting! That news about Hester . . .’ Phoebe whistled. ‘It knocked you sideways, didn’t it?’

  ‘It did. When I began this research, I didn’t think there’d be any big revelations for me. I’m still struggling to take it all in. We’ve got no proof, of course, but it all adds up.’