The Memory Tree Read online

  ‘Do you think finding out Hester was her mother was what tipped Ivy over the edge?’

  ‘I don’t think so. How could she have found out after all that time? There’s no clue in the archive. Hester even lied in her diary, so I think she would have covered her tracks pretty thoroughly.’

  ‘Maybe there was something, but it got destroyed in the fire.’

  ‘Well, even if there was, why would Ivy start a bonfire? She loved Hester. She owed her comfortable upbringing and her career to Hester, who paid for her training.’

  Phoebe narrowed her eyes. ‘Clutching at straws here . . . Maybe she was angry that the blood relationship was never acknowledged?’

  ‘That’s possible, but Ivy must have realised she hadn’t missed out in any real way. After all, Hester made Ivy her heir. If she did discover the truth at the eleventh hour, I don’t see why she’d have wanted to destroy the evidence, not to mention the rest of the archive.’

  ‘So the mystery remains unsolved.’

  ‘Afraid so. In fact, it just got more complicated.’ Ann stirred again on the sofa and a little moan escaped her lips. ‘I think we’re disturbing her,’ Connor whispered. ‘Perhaps I’d better get back to the servants’ quarters.’

  ‘Oh, no, must you? This is such fun! Stay and have some cocoa.’

  Connor raised an eyebrow. ‘Late night cocoa, eh? I’ve heard about women like you.’

  Phoebe snorted with laughter, then clamped her hand over her mouth. ‘Come on,’ she whispered. ‘Let’s adjourn to the kitchen and leave Ann to sleep in peace. Cocoa calls.’

  Seated at the kitchen table, nursing her mug, Phoebe said, ‘Why are you so obsessed with the past, Connor?’

  ‘I’m not really, I’m obsessed with family. My family. But my family are all dead, so I don’t actually have a family any more. And I’m unlikely ever to have another.’

  ‘Why do you say that? You’re young. You might be head of the family now—’

  ‘More like last man standing,’ he said with a wry smile.

  ‘Indeed. But there’s no reason why you shouldn’t found a new dynasty of Grenvilles.’

  Connor shifted in his chair. ‘Actually, there is.’

  ‘Oh dear . . .’ Phoebe set down her mug. ‘Have I put my great big foot in it?’

  ‘No, I don’t mind talking about it. Especially with someone who might understand what I’m talking about.’

  ‘Are you sure? It won’t have escaped your notice that I’m not the most tactful of people.’

  He laughed. ‘Yes, I had noticed! It’s one of the things I like about you, Phoebe. You take no prisoners.’

  ‘That’s because bloody cancer took me prisoner years ago,’ she growled. ‘What people don’t realise is that even if you’re cured, it’s still a life sentence. A life sentence of fear and in some cases, a life sentence of after effects.’

  ‘Yes, I know.’ There was something about the way he said the words that made Phoebe look up and search his face. Connor met her eyes and said, ‘I do know, Phoebe. You remember when you talked about the children who kept you going? Kids having chemo? Well, that was me. They saved my life when I was seven, but I’ll never have children of my own and I’ve always known that. It’s never really bothered me, but when my brother was killed, Dad was doubly heartbroken. We lost Kieran – who was engaged to a lovely girl, very keen to start a family – and Dad lost his future grandchildren. He was left with me – the runt of the litter and a waste of space as far as he was concerned. I didn’t even want to be a soldier.’

  ‘Oh, Connor, I’m so sorry . . . I’m kicking myself now for going on and on about my problems. Me and my big mouth!’

  ‘Don’t apologise. You have every right to talk about what happened to you. You’re still suffering the after effects.’

  ‘So are you. No children . . . That can be a very big thing in a man’s life, as I know to my cost.’

  ‘Sylvester?’

  ‘He wanted a big family. He was Madeiran. Family was sacred to him. I lived with the pain of a man who desperately wanted children and eventually I gave in.’ Phoebe reached across the table and laid a hand on Connor’s arm. ‘Don’t underestimate what you’ve been through. Children unborn, unthought of . . . they can still have a powerful effect on the mind.’

  ‘I’m not going to argue with you, Phoebe.’

  ‘But, you never know, you might marry a woman with children. You might acquire a family.’

  ‘I might, but it’s not something I want. Not consciously anyway. I’ve known the score since I was a teenager, so I’ve never even thought about being a father. I found it tough enough just being a son.’ He stared gloomily into his mug, then set it down. ‘A family is something I know I can’t have and probably couldn’t afford. But as I got older, I thought a lot about my own family. My roots.’

  ‘Perhaps it was because you went into horticulture,’ Phoebe said, smiling at her own pun.

  ‘Yes. The other family business, apart from war. Did I tell you, Ivy trained at one of the first horticultural schools to admit women? She was very proud of that. We had a lot in common: a love of gardens and a consuming curiosity about the past, who we were, where we’d come from. When she died, there was unfinished business and I want to get to the bottom of it if I can – not just for Ivy, for me. I want to get to grips with the past.’

  ‘Can one ever really do that?’ Phoebe asked softly. ‘Can’t say I’ve had much success in that department.’

  ‘Well, the past is past. It’s known. I mean, it can’t change, can it? But the present and future . . . Well, who knows? I’m not anxious about my future. I’ll take what comes. When you’ve been that sick as a child, you grow up quickly and learn to count your blessings. But I suppose it’s my tidy nature. I like to clear things up. Gardens. Family trees. Disorder bugs me. Meaninglessness bothers me. I know why my brother died, but what did he die for? Did his death make a difference to anyone apart from his family and his mates in the army? I don’t know. Don’t suppose I’ll ever know. So I look for meaning, for cause and effect. And I continue in my valiant and probably doomed efforts to subjugate Nature,’ he said with a cheerful grin, ‘because I need order. I need to feel as if I have some control, even though I learned when I was very young that we don’t, we really don’t. Control is just an illusion. Your own body can turn on you and your big brother can be blown to bits, just doing his job. So I like to create something out of nothing. A garden from a wilderness. I also like answers. Solutions to mysteries. Stories that have a beginning, a middle and an end.’ He leaned back, clasped his hands behind his head and sighed. ‘Did that make any sense at all?’

  ‘Perfect sense,’ Phoebe said, nodding vigorously. ‘Have you talked to Ann about all this?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘You should.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because it’s her issue too. She’s not childless by choice, you know. She and Jack tried for years. Tried everything. She was prepared to adopt, but he wouldn’t hear of it. Wanted his own flesh and blood. And now that’s what he’s got – which must make Ann feel even worse, I should imagine.’

  ‘She doesn’t talk about it?’

  ‘Not to me. But then I’ve never been the kind of mother a daughter could confide in. Too wound up in my own selfish concerns. Ann’s a much nicer person than me. Takes after her father. She accepted the limitations life imposed on her. I didn’t. I was greedy. I wanted it all.’

  ‘And did you have it all, Phoebe?’

  ‘Most of it! But other people sometimes paid the price for my fun and games. And for my career. I was no good as a wife or mother, no good at all. But I think I was quite a good artist. For a single parent, anyway.’

  ‘Was? You still are, surely? Don’t talk about yourself as a has-been. Who knows, maybe the best is yet to come.’

  ‘Which reminds me . . . Are you still drunk enough to agree to sit for a portrait? I want to paint you. Be warned though – it’s hard physical work being a
model and I’m a tyrant. I go on and on until I get what I want.’

  ‘How can I refuse? Sounds like it will be a laugh a minute.’

  ‘Thank you! But don’t think I’ll have forgotten by the morning. Your fate is sealed, I’m afraid.’

  ‘I won’t have to take my clothes off, will I?’

  ‘You can if you wish, but I shall only be painting your face.’

  ‘You’re on.’

  ‘Excellent! Now, I’m off to bed. I need my beauty sleep. You can let yourself out, can’t you?’

  ‘Of course. Will Ann be all right on the sofa?’

  ‘Oh, yes, I should think so. Best not to disturb her.’ As Phoebe struggled to her feet, Connor stood up to assist her. She laid a hand on his arm and said, ‘Do me a favour, will you, Connor? Keep an eye on Ann. She’s . . . unsettled. Unhappy, I think. Not sure why . . . It could be something to do with this divorce business, I suppose. But I’d like to think there’s someone else looking out for her.’

  ‘Of course. You can count on me.’

  She patted his hand. ‘I know I can. Thank you for a wonderful birthday.’

  ‘It’s been my pleasure, Phoebe.’ He bent and kissed her on the cheek. ‘Sleep well.’

  ‘Oh, I shall, don’t worry. I shall take one of my magic pills. I just hope Ann sleeps too. She really needs it.’

  ‘I’ll leave a lamp on in the sitting room, so she knows where she is if she wakes, then I’ll let myself out. ’Night, Phoebe.’

  ‘Good night, Connor.’ She turned away and began the slow and painful climb up the stairs.

  When, some time later, Connor woke, he had the distinct impression there was someone in the studio with him. His heart juddered, then common sense reasserted itself. Sitting up, he called out, ‘Phoebe? Is that you? Is something wrong?’ When no one answered, he tried – more in hope than expectation – ‘Ann?’

  As his eyes grew accustomed to the darkness, he noticed a pale face at the window, looking in. Startled, he clutched at the duvet before he realised it was Ann, solemn-faced, hollow-eyed, regarding him. Wrapping the duvet round him for warmth and decency, Connor got out of bed and approached the window. Ann didn’t react, didn’t appear even to see him. Turning away, she set off across the courtyard in the direction of the beech wood.

  Connor shuffled over to the studio door. Pulling it open, he called out, ‘Ann, are you okay?’ She didn’t look back. Even before he registered the pale soles of her stockinged feet in the moonlight, he realised she was sleepwalking, with no coat or cardigan over her sleeveless dress.

  Connor cast the duvet aside and hurried back to the chair where he’d left his work clothes. He pulled on a pair of jeans and a sweatshirt, then slid his bare feet into wellingtons. Grabbing the torch Ann kept under the sink, he raced out of the studio, slamming the door behind him. He ran through the garden, looking to left and right, but a gut feeling told him Ann would be heading for the clearing in the wood that had so disturbed her, the spot where the Trysting Tree once stood and where all that was left of it now lay.

  That was where he found her, apparently staring into space. Ignoring the carved tree stump, Ann gazed higher, where the tree had once stood. She stood still for several moments, trembling. Connor wondered if she was just shivering with cold or if she was in the grip of fear again. He was about to approach when she wheeled round suddenly and began to walk away, very quickly, towards Connor who was watching from a distance. Oblivious to his presence, Ann broke into a run and would have collided with him, had he not side-stepped out of her path.

  Connor was so surprised, it was a few seconds before he started to run after her, calling her name. He couldn’t remember if it was dangerous to wake a sleepwalker or if that was just one of Ivy’s old wives’ tales, but he knew Ann wasn’t safe running blind, so he ran and overtook her, turned and then blocked her way. She ran straight into him.

  He dropped the torch and enfolded her flailing body in his arms. Holding her firmly, he spoke in a calm, even voice, as if trying to soothe a child. He could see her feet were muddy and bleeding where stones and tree roots had ripped her tights, then her skin. When she stopped struggling, he said evenly, ‘You’ve hurt your feet. They need attention. I’m going to carry you back to the house, okay?’

  Ann gave no sign of understanding his words, but allowed him to lift her chilled body without protest. Settling her securely in his arms, he strode back towards Garden Lodge where he found the back door standing open. Light from the sitting room spilled into the dark kitchen.

  As he entered the house, he kicked off his wellingtons, then carried her in and set her down on the sofa. He grabbed a newspaper and put it under her bleeding feet, then arranged the discarded rug round her shaking shoulders. The stove was still alight, so he opened the door and threw on another log. He turned to look at Ann and said, ‘I’ll be back in a minute.’ She stared into space, white-faced and unresponsive.

  Connor hurried back to the kitchen where he filled the washing-up bowl with warm, soapy water. While the tap was running, he opened cupboards looking for a first aid kit. He thought of calling out to Phoebe, then remembered she’d taken a sleeping pill. He locked the back door, pocketed the key, then took the stairs two at a time.

  In the bathroom he found plasters and a fleece dressing gown hanging on the door. He picked them up and thundered downstairs again.

  When Connor entered the sitting room carrying the washing-up bowl, with a towel over his arm, a pink dressing gown slung over his shoulder and a box of Elastoplast in his mouth, Ann looked up, alarmed. ‘Connor! What on earth is going on?’

  Relieved to see some colour back in her face, he set the bowl on the floor and removed the plasters from his mouth. ‘This is for your feet. You need to wash them.’

  She looked down at her shredded tights. ‘Oh my God, what happened?’ she said, lifting her muddy feet off the newspaper. ‘They’re bleeding!’

  ‘You went walkabout outdoors. I found you sleepwalking in the beech wood. Phoebe and I left you in here, fast asleep on the sofa. We didn’t want to disturb you. You’d dozed off leaning on me hours ago. I don’t suppose you remember.’ He offered her the dressing gown. ‘Put this on. You’re frozen.’

  ‘We drank champagne . . . It’s Phoebe’s birthday, isn’t it? But I saw someone in the wood,’ she added, shivering violently.

  ‘The Green Woman. It was my present for Phoebe.’

  ‘Oh yes . . . But there was someone else. Wasn’t there?’ She looked confused and Connor could see she was close to tears.

  ‘I didn’t see anyone, but I think you did. Or thought you did. Come on, get your feet into this water while it’s still hot,’ he said pushing the bowl towards her.

  Ann ripped what was left of her tights away from her feet and placed one foot gingerly in the water, then the other. ‘You say I saw something?’

  ‘No, there was nothing to see. You just stood there, staring into space. You seemed calm enough to begin with, then you took fright and ran away. I followed and grabbed hold of you. I was worried you’d put an eye out running through the wood in the dark.’

  ‘Dark? But in my mind it was light. Almost light anyway. It was morning.’

  ‘Can you remember what made you run?’

  She was silent for a moment, then her face crumpled. ‘No, I can’t!’

  ‘Do you think it’s something you’ve dreamed up? Or was it something that actually happened?’

  ‘I don’t know! How can I know, Connor? Stop asking me all these stupid questions!’ she said, burying her face in her hands.

  ‘Sorry. I was just trying to help.’

  She reached out and grasped his hand. ‘I know you are. I’m sorry. I’m just . . . frightened. And I don’t even know what I’m frightened of!’

  ‘Nothing can harm you, Ann. You’ve got me and Phoebe looking out for you. What’s the worst that can happen?’

  ‘My memory could come back.’

  For a while he didn’t reply, then he
said gently, ‘You think that’s what this is about? Something bad actually happened – but so bad, you wiped it?’

  ‘I think so.’

  ‘And you think your memory’s coming back?’

  ‘Yes. Something is getting closer. Creeping up on me. It’s as if I’m being stalked by my own memory.’ She covered her face. ‘Is this what it feels like when you’re losing your mind? Please help me, Connor. I can’t bear it!’

  He dropped on to his knees in front of her and she launched herself at him, throwing her arms round his neck, her feet still immersed in the bowl of water. She clung to him, sobbing, so he held her until she was calm again, then he reached for a box of tissues and placed it beside her.

  She grabbed a handful and began to mop up. ‘I’m sorry to blub all over you like this.’

  ‘Don’t worry about it.’

  ‘I haven’t slept in days. Well, not properly for a couple of weeks now.’

  ‘Yes, Phoebe said.’

  ‘So I suppose I must be overwrought.’

  ‘I imagine so.’

  ‘Now I’ve started sleepwalking, everything seems so much worse. I’m afraid to go to sleep. Phoebe offered to lock me in my room, but I can’t bear the thought of being trapped . . . And with these thoughts!’

  ‘I have a suggestion to make. Just for tonight.’ Ann looked up, her eyes so full of apprehension, Connor wanted to hold her again. Instead he lifted her feet out of the water and started to pat them dry with the towel. ‘Now, don’t go getting the wrong idea here, but what I suggest is, you allow me to stay in your room, with the door locked and the key in my pocket. If you’ve got a spare duvet, I’ll kip on the floor, but don’t worry if you haven’t. I can sleep anywhere.’ He opened the box of plasters, extracted a few and began to apply them to the cuts on her feet. ‘You won’t be able to get out, but hopefully you won’t feel too bad about that because you won’t be alone. Chances are, you’ll go out like a light as soon as you get into bed after all your nocturnal wanderings. You might actually get a good night’s sleep – well, what’s left of the night. What do you think?’