The Memory Tree Read online

  ‘Thank you,’ he replied with a slight bow. ‘Violet has spoken warmly of your generosity.’

  ‘Oh, it was nothing. I grew fond of your father. He was an excellent worker and a kind man. He seemed very concerned about Violet’s future, so I did my best to settle his mind. I told him her position at Beechgrave is assured.’

  ‘I fear I can do nothing to repay your kindness other than promise that when I’m able to take up my father’s duties, I shall fulfil them gladly and gratefully, to the very best of my ability.’

  ‘I know you will, William. And I hope that day will come very soon.’

  He didn’t reply and in the silence they shared, both acknowledged privately how remote the end of the war still seemed, how difficult it was to recall peacetime.

  ‘Thank you for your last communication,’ Hester said with a shy smile.

  He looked uncertain. ‘I’m afraid I don’t remember—’

  ‘Your sketch. You sent me a little sketch of your trench garden. I was delighted to receive it. I do miss getting letters from the Front. There used to be so many and so many I had to write. But there’s no one now. My brothers . . . Friends . . . It seems as if everyone’s gone. Your sketch meant you were alive, so I was very glad to receive it. And it was such a charming sketch. I showed it to Violet and we discussed your excellent draughtsmanship.’

  He looked uncomfortable and stared down into his cap. Hester feared she’d embarrassed him with the compliment, but eventually he said, ‘I’m sorry there was no letter to accompany the sketch. It’s difficult to find the time, not to mention the paper. I had to tear a page out of my sketchbook.’

  ‘Yes, of course. I understand. I really didn’t expect a letter. It was very good of you to think of me at all when your father was ill and Violet so troubled. I should not have mentioned it. That was selfish. Please forgive me.’

  William looked up, his expression pained. ‘Miss Mordaunt . . . Hester . . . I did write to you.’

  Her eyes widened. ‘You did? But . . . but I never received any letters.’

  ‘That’s because I never sent them.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘They weren’t the sort of letters that could readily be sent.’

  Hester frowned. ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘If you’d read them you would understand.’

  ‘Where are these letters? I do hope,’ she said, her voice unsteady, ‘you didn’t destroy them?’

  ‘No. I kept them.’

  ‘Where are they now? May I read them? I should very much like to read any letter you wrote me, however old.’

  William said nothing, but slowly extracted the packet from his cap. He stared at it, as if trying to decide what to do.

  ‘Are those my letters?’ Hester asked faintly.

  ‘Yes. But they aren’t proper letters. It was hard to find paper. And in any case . . .’ His voice tailed off, but then he drew himself up and said firmly, ‘They could not be sent. I mean they could not be read.’ He made a derisory sound and looked down at the packet in his hand. ‘They should never have been written!’

  After a long pause in which Hester struggled to order her thoughts, she asked, ‘Why do you have them with you? Were you intending to destroy them?’

  ‘No. I was going to hide them. Here, in the wood. I couldn’t bring myself to destroy them.’

  ‘And you couldn’t bring yourself to give them to me?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘But why?’

  ‘Because it would have been wrong.’

  ‘I don’t understand. If you’ve kept them for so many weeks—’

  ‘Months.’

  ‘Why won’t you keep them any longer?’

  ‘Because I know I shall not return. I feel it in my bones. I cannot explain it, but I know this is the last time I shall speak to you, Hester, the last time I shall see Beechgrave and my home.’

  Tears started into her eyes. ‘You cannot know that! It’s mere superstition. Please don’t say such dreadful things, William. We must never abandon hope!’

  Ignoring her, he continued solemnly. ‘I wished to dispose of anything that might prove an embarrassment to my family after my death, or an embarrassment to you. So I was going to hide these letters in the Trysting Tree. There’s a hole in the trunk, high up. No one would ever have found them there and no one would ever have known. Apart from me.’

  ‘Would you show me the letters? Please.’

  He looked up and fixed her with dark, expressionless eyes. ‘Know that you ask this of a dead man.’ He swallowed and went on. ‘And it is a dead man who complies with your request. Do you understand?’

  ‘I think so.’

  He regarded her a moment longer, then put down his cap and slipped the string off the packet. As he unwrapped the contents he let the oilcloth fall to the ground, then stepped forward and handed Hester some seed packets.

  She was so astonished, she laughed. ‘But these are just seed packets!’

  ‘The ones you sent me,’ he said simply. ‘Open them up. Read the sweet peas first. Violet told me you liked our sweet peas, so that was the first one I wrote.’ As she shuffled eagerly through the empty packets, he laid a hand on her arm and said, his voice low and urgent, ‘Remember, Hester: it is a letter from a dead man. Remember that and forgive.’

  She looked into his face but his eyes were cast down – in shame, she thought. As he turned away, she continued her search. When she found the sweet pea packet, she set the others down. The packet had been opened carefully along its sides so that she was able to open it out like a book. Inside, the paper was covered with small, neat handwriting executed in pencil. The letter began ‘My dear H’. As she peered at the tiny words, all colour left her face. As Hester read on, a whimper escaped her lips and, blinking away tears, she put a hand up to her mouth. When she’d finished reading the packet, she bent and picked up another and read that, then another. In the end she abandoned her reading because she could no longer see through her tears. She let the packets fall and as they fluttered to the ground, she covered her face with her hands.

  William stepped forward, clutching his cap. ‘Forgive me, I would not have made you weep, not for the world! You must understand it was my intention you should never know. And you never would have known if we hadn’t met today.’

  She looked up, her cheeks wet, her expression earnest. ‘Then I thank God we did meet! I thank the God I can scarcely believe in that I met you today, William. That you had the courage to show me these blessed, blessed letters! I thank God I shall not die believing no man ever loved me. But most of all, I thank Him that you will not die before I have told you that your love is requited. That I think of you every day – every hour! That I pray fervently you will be spared, that you will come home to Violet and to me, William, because if the day comes when I cannot look upon your dear face, I shall be a dead woman mourning a dead man.’

  She stooped and quickly gathered up the seed packets and clutched them to her breast, dislodging a little silver brooch in the shape of a daffodil. William saw it fall and bent to retrieve it. As he straightened up, they stood very close, close enough for him to hear how her breath came unevenly, close enough for her to feel the warmth of his upon her face.

  He dropped the brooch and took her face in both his hands, staring at her in mute appeal. He felt rather than saw her nod. As he kissed her, she let the packets fall so she could take him in her arms. She clung to him, sobbing between kisses, forbidding him to leave Beechgrave, assuring him she was his, would always be his, in life and in death, but that he must not – must not – die, not now they had found each other, now that they both knew.

  William buried his fingers in her hair and silenced her with another kiss. Combs and hairpins worked loose, allowing her long hair to tumble down her back. He groaned in ecstasy and took her firmly round the waist, crushing her to him, so he could feel her breasts against his chest. She said his name over and over, pressing her face against his neck, her mouth sear
ching for his skin.

  He took hold of her arms and held her away from him, his eyes wide. ‘Hester, you must go. Now. Leave me here. Go now before we— before it’s too late. Go!’ He released her and stepped back.

  She stood, dishevelled and confused, expecting to feel ashamed, but there was no shame, only a terrible hunger, something as primitive, as all-consuming as the grief and anger she had known when her brothers died. ‘William . . . There is more, isn’t there? Is that what you’re afraid of . . . ? Tell me. Is there more?’

  He hesitated, then nodded. ‘Much more. But it would be wrong, Hester. Wrong in every way you can imagine.’

  She tossed her loose hair away from her face and said, ‘This war is wrong. What happened to my brothers was wrong. And so is what’s happening to my poor mother. Going back to the Front is wrong, William, I know it! I cannot believe anything we do in the name of love can be more wrong than this wicked, wicked war. Can it?’

  ‘No, my dearest love,’ he said with a sad smile. ‘It could not be more wrong than this godforsaken war.’

  ‘Then I am satisfied. And you, I think, are not. If there is more, William, I want it. If we can be more to each other, then that is what I desire, above everything. And I do not care if the world thinks us wicked. It will be a wicked world that judges us!’

  Still he hesitated, a look of agony contorting his features. She grasped his hand and pressed it to her breast. ‘Kiss me, William. Take me in your arms and love me. Love me as if we both might die!’

  He looked into her eyes for a long moment, a moment in which his resolution faltered. He withdrew his hand and stared down at the ground, then he spun on his heel and walked away to the centre of the clearing where he stood and surveyed the circle of beech trees that surrounded them. Hester watched, not breathing, as he gazed up at the tree canopy, then solemnly addressed the beeches, calling on them to witness his vow. He swore to honour and protect the woman he loved for as long as he should live, then he turned, took Hester’s hand and led her, unresisting, to another part of the wood: a sunken dell, thick with moss and bluebells, where light hardly penetrated and the only sound was the gentle rustling of leaves in the treetops.

  THE BEECH WOOD

  Afterwards, he gathered up the forgotten seed packets and pressed them, wordlessly, into her hands. They searched in vain for her brooch and he told her he would give her another, a brooch instead of a ring, something she could wear openly, something to remember him by, if he should— But there she raised a finger to his lips and silenced him.

  We watched as they parted: he agitated, already conscience-stricken; she dazed, unseeing, like one who walks in her sleep. We watched as, hearts and bodies now conjoined, they went their separate ways.

  PART FIVE

  WILLIAM

  October 4th, 1934

  William wept for two days. Even then it was some time before he was able to speak coherently, but the nursing staff had seen this sort of reversal before. They knew what had happened. After seventeen years the poor man’s memory had returned and one of the things he was remembering was the Battle of the Somme in which he’d been wounded. In view of William’s already frail physical condition, it was considered doubtful whether he would survive the shock, so they sent for Hester Mordaunt.

  When she arrived, he lay in bed, skeletal and still, as if the consumption had already wreaked its final havoc, but the doctor said his patient was only sleeping. Hester asked if she could sit by the bed and wait. Permission was granted and she sat in her coat, trying to ignore the cold draught from the open window.

  She removed her gloves and regarded the father of her child, wondering yet again just how much William had remembered. His fits of terror and weeping suggested he remembered the battlefield, but would he remember what had happened at Beechgrave? As she waited anxiously, Hester wrung her gloves in her lap, trying to decide if total recall would be even worse than total amnesia. If, when William woke, she discovered he was still suffering from partial amnesia, how much – if anything – should she tell him?

  William’s dark lashes flickered and he moved his head. His thick curling hair was greying now and his gaunt, scarred face looked much older than his fifty years. As he opened his eyes, Hester leaned forward, smiling with relief. Curbing an impulse to take his hand, she said, ‘How are you feeling? I’ve been so worried about you. They let me sit with you so you’d see a familiar face when you woke.’ He looked confused and gazed around the room in which they’d isolated him out of consideration for other patients. ‘You’ve been moved,’ Hester explained. ‘They thought you needed peace and quiet.’

  ‘I’m not in France, am I . . . ? I was wounded . . .’ His hand travelled to his neck where his trembling fingers found an old scar.

  ‘No, you’re in England. In a sanatorium near Bath. You’ve been here for some weeks now.’

  ‘Ah . . . I remember.’ He began to cough violently and it was some moments before he could speak again. ‘It’s very good of you to come, Hester. Thank you. You come often, don’t you?’

  ‘As often as I can.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Yes, why? Why do you visit so often?’

  ‘Because you’re family, William! You and Ivy are the only family I have left now.’

  He considered this for a moment and said, ‘In what way am I part of your family?’

  Hester wondered if he’d set a trap for her, but she thought it unlikely. She could see the direction the conversation was heading and it would be difficult to avoid telling a lie, but she had no idea if William was ready for the truth or if he had already remembered it.

  ‘I think of you as family because I’m Ivy’s legal guardian.’

  ‘And I’m her uncle.’

  ‘That’s right,’ Hester agreed eagerly, grateful to be spared, if only temporarily, the ordeal of confession.

  A young nurse entered bearing a tray of tea and slices of bread and butter. She put down the tray and helped William sit up in bed. Hester got to her feet and rearranged the pillows behind him with a professional competence. The nurse nodded her thanks.

  ‘You’ve done this before, I think.’

  ‘Oh, yes. I used to work at Beechgrave Convalescent Hospital. I think I still know how to make a bed,’ she added with a smile.

  The nurse settled William back on his pillows and placed the tray in front of him. ‘Now drink your tea while it’s hot, Mr Hatherwick. And eat your bread and butter. I’ve cut it nice and thin for you, so do your best, won’t you?’ Without waiting for a response, she turned away and said in an undertone to Hester, ‘Try to get him to eat something.’

  Hester sat down again. William stared at the cup and saucer as if he wanted to drink, but hadn’t the strength to lift it.

  ‘Would you like me to help you?’ she asked. ‘Can I hold the cup for you?’

  ‘No, please don’t trouble yourself. I’m not thirsty.’

  ‘You should try to eat, though. That nurse will nag you if you don’t.’

  ‘She certainly will.’ His smile was half-hearted, but Hester was overjoyed to see it.

  ‘Try to eat just a little, William.’

  ‘In a moment,’ he replied, shutting his eyes. They remained shut for some time and Hester thought he might have fallen asleep, but he opened them again and, looking directly at her, said, ‘Why did you never marry, Hester?’

  Astonished, Hester found herself answering before she’d considered the possible import of the question. ‘I nearly married. I was engaged at one time, to a sweet young man. Walter Dowding. He was killed in 1916. He was the son of Ursula Dowding, the woman who nursed you at Sharpitor. That’s how we found you. Mrs Dowding recognised your sketches of Beechgrave and wrote to me.’

  ‘And you’ve never loved another?’

  Hester looked away and laughed nervously. ‘Oh, I didn’t love Walter! I thought I did. For a while anyway. But now I don’t believe there was any love on either side. It was just a suitab
le match. Our parents were old friends, you see. Poor Walter’s death saved me from a loveless marriage.’

  ‘You haven’t answered my question.’

  ‘Did I love anyone after Walter?’ Hester looked down at her hands resting in her lap and noticed they shook. Clasping them tightly she said, ‘Yes, I suppose I did. But he . . . he was also lost in the war.’

  ‘Missing in action?’

  ‘That’s what the telegram said.’

  ‘And you loved him?’

  ‘Good gracious, this is quite an interrogation!’ Hester said, still avoiding his eyes. She stood up and removed the untouched tray. ‘Why the sudden curiosity?’

  ‘You loved this man? The one who went missing?’

  Hester took her seat again and studied William’s face, but he was gazing into space now, his expression unreadable. ‘He was the only man I’ve ever loved.’

  ‘If he’d lived, would you have married?’

  ‘We had no plans to marry. I had no idea my feelings were requited. He didn’t declare his love until the day before he left for the Front and by then it was . . . too late.’

  ‘A sad story.’

  ‘Yes, but common enough,’ Hester said briskly. ‘Violet’s sweetheart didn’t come home either and they did have plans to marry.’

  William’s chest rose and fell as he appeared to gather himself. ‘You should have told me.’

  ‘About Walter Dowding?’

  ‘About who I was.’

  ‘I did, William. The day I found you, I told you who you were.’

  ‘But not what I was.’

  She looked puzzled. ‘I don’t understand. I explained that you were my Head Gardener and I promised to reinstate you at Beechgrave. Don’t you remember?’

  ‘Yes, I remember . . . And I remember you lost a brooch.’ As Hester’s hand flew up to her mouth, her intake of breath was audible. ‘It was silver. A daffodil, I believe. The catch was broken. We looked but we couldn’t find it. I found it the following day and took it away to France with me, intending to mend it for you. I don’t know where it is now. I lost it. I’m sorry, Hester. I wouldn’t have lost it for the world.’