The Memory Garden (14 page)

‘Mmm, the lesbian affair does sound more fun.’

As she helped Patrick decant the leeks, carrots and potatoes she had prepared into the faded serving dishes of Val’s elderly dinner service, Mel tried to bring to mind the picture of the young man in the garden. ‘That’s partly why I’m so interested in P.T.’s work,’ she told Patrick. ‘The picture upstairs, it’s from the right period, or slightly later, judging by the man’s clothes. But I can’t think of any local artist with those initials. Still, I am intrigued.’

Sitting at the table watching him carve the joint, an idea occurred to her. ‘Do you suppose the Carey descendants might have other works by P.T.? Or know who he or she was? I’m assuming the pictures belonged to them, rather than being something your uncle bought?’

‘Not Val’s cup of tea, I assure you, despite him knowing about Lamorna Birch. It’s possible they might know something,’ he said, and frowned slightly as he passed her the plate. ‘I’ve got an address for the family’s solicitors somewhere. I’ll dig it out and contact them if you like. There we are,’ he said, refilling her glass. He raised his own. ‘Here’s to the garden – and P.T. – the success of two projects.’ They smiled at one another and drank.

Later, Patrick reached into the fridge for a bottle of dessert wine to drink with the early strawberries and clotted cream.

‘Just half a glass, thanks,’ Mel murmured, feeling distinctly mellow after a huge first course and the heavy red wine.

One arm along the back of an empty chair, Patrick poured with the dexterity of a
maître du vin
. She watched him lazily, admiring his relaxed enjoyment of the moment. Despite the air of aloofness, he was a peaceful man to be with, entirely present for her.

He looked up and his eyes crinkled in a smile. ‘Here you are,’ and for a moment, their fingers touched. There was no spark exactly, but they looked at one another appraisingly and there was vulnerability in his eyes. She felt a rush of warmth towards him and smiled back shyly, then lowered her eyes, glad to turn her attention to the strawberries. They were small and slightly tart, despite the coating of sugar.

‘I was thinking,’ she said after a silence. ‘Stop me if I’m getting too keen.’ His eyebrows rose and she felt her face grow hot.

‘Go on,’ he said.

‘When I’m at the Records Office next week, if there is anything useful for you about the Carey family and the gardens here – old maps or photographs – I could order copies and we could work up a sort of master-plan of the garden.’

‘That would be great, Mel. Would you really have time?’

‘It depends how much there is, doesn’t it? But I’ll try.’

‘You know,’ said Patrick, stretching back in his chair, that now familiar teasing expression on his face, ‘it seems to me that you’re getting as excited as I am about Merryn.’

‘An historian’s interest,’ she said, worried that he might think her intrusive, ‘fired by the Flower Garden and looking at the diaries this afternoon. The place weaves a strange spell on you, don’t you think? The sense of a lost world in an enchanted sleep. Waiting to be woken.’ She remembered something. ‘Do you know that Lana talks about the place being haunted?’

‘I know they felt uncomfortable about living in the cottage, but I thought that was because it was too isolated for them.’

‘There is an atmosphere. I’m not sure that it amounts to a haunting. Just a strong feeling of the past.’

‘Yes, I know what you mean. It’s surprising, though, given that the Careys mean nothing particularly to me. They weren’t family.’

‘No, but that doesn’t matter. It’s funny, you know. It’s a difference between people – what they see. Take Chrissie and me. When she was helping me look for a flat, ages ago, she would walk into those lovely old Victorian places and be looking to change them all around to suit. You know: “If you knock down that wall you’d have a walk-through living room” or, “Pave over the garden and build a conservatory”. Whereas I would be happy with places as they were, even if they were inconvenient. Chrissie says I have no imagination but I don’t think she has enough sometimes.’

‘You mean you look at a place and see the layers of the past and she looks at it and sees the needs of the present and the possibilities of the future?’

‘I suppose so, yes.’

Patrick said reasonably, ‘Yes, she’s very practical, isn’t she? Perhaps, ideally, one should be both. After all, our ancestors weren’t so sentimental. They would raze buildings to the ground and build new wonders. Look at Castle Howard, for instance.’

‘I wonder whether you’ll decide to come down here permanently?’ Mel asked now.

Patrick looked confused for a moment, then he said, ‘Until recently, I had decided to make it my home. A family home.’

A home for a family. His family. His children. ‘Oh,’ said Mel.

‘But not now.’ He picked up the bottle of dessert wine. ‘Have some more.’

Mel placed her hand over her glass in a sudden, defensive gesture.

He put the bottle down again and turned it, studying the label intently as though it were of sudden absorbing interest. He was silent, so Mel asked gently, ‘What happened?’

‘An all-too-familiar story of love’s labours lost.’ He stopped then growled, ‘I’m not really up to talking about it.’

‘Sorry.’

‘No, it’s me that’s sorry,’ said Patrick, taking another large gulp of wine. ‘It’s selfish of me. Chrissie told me something similar had happened to you recently.’

‘Oh, did she?’ said Mel. So Chrissie had been as indiscreet as she feared. But suddenly she couldn’t bear for the evening to descend into an alcohol-fuelled morass of self-pity and gloom. ‘It did, but I’m trying not to think about it. Let’s have some coffee. I’ll make it if you’ll show me the right cupboard.’

After that, the conversation returned to safer pastures – Patrick’s upbringing in a rambling farmhouse in the central part of the county, arguments about books they had read and films they had seen.

When it was time to go, Patrick turned down Mel’s offer of help with the washing-up and reached for his jacket as he came with her to the door. He looked tired and slightly the worse for wine.

‘I’ll walk down with you,’ he said.

‘No, I’ll be fine . Look, I’ve bought the torch.’ Mel pulled it out of her coat pocket.

‘I have to go back to London tomorrow,’ said Patrick, as he opened the front door.

‘Oh.’

‘But I’ll be down again Friday evening, if I can.’

‘I’ll have had half my stay by then,’ Mel said softly.

‘Mmm,’ said Patrick, then paused. ‘It’s not let after you go, you know. I keep forgetting to do something about an ad.’

‘Oh,’ said Mel.

‘So you can stay on if you like.’

‘How kind,’ she said formally. ‘I’ll think about it, whether I need more time here.’

‘Well, you know you’re welcome.’

‘Thanks, and thank you for a delicious meal,’ she said, her voice a little too bright. ‘Perhaps I can return the favour sometime.’

‘Sure, maybe next weekend.’ He gave a mock bow and watched her go. ‘Oh, and good luck at the Records Office.’

‘Thanks.’

At the corner of the house she glanced back. He was standing on the steps, arms folded, staring out across the drive, looking so dejected she almost stopped and walked back.

Sundays, Mel reflected the next morning, padding downstairs in her nightgown, her head throbbing from too much wine, felt different from any other morning in the week. Perhaps it was the quiet. Even the birds hadn’t woken her this morning. Of course, in London, the difference was more marked. The build-up of cars began later on a Sunday, there were no workmen’s drills, no doors slamming followed by urgent footsteps echoing down the street at 7 a.m.

So the rev of a car engine, heard through the open bathroom window, came as a rude interruption of the peace. She listened to the sound recede; 8.30 Patrick was already on the road back to London. She was alone again. She splashed cold water on her skin and buried her face in her towel for comfort.

As she dressed, she tried to rationalise her feelings. You’re in a vulnerable state, she told herself severely. Just because you have a moment of – what was it, friendship, closeness? – with Patrick doesn’t mean he owes you anything or that it’s going to turn into more than a passing acquaintance. He’s obviously in no state to start a new relationship and neither are you. You’ve been on your own plenty of times before and survived, and you’ve just got to get used to it. All over again.

For there had been other men before Jake, of course there had. The longest-lasting had been Steve, with whom she had lived for five years in her twenties. Early passion cooled to something more comfortable and then they came to take each other for granted. Mel loved him, he was kind and easy to love, but in her heart of hearts she knew that wasn’t enough, and after thinking about it for many sleepless nights, she told him it was over. Afterwards she wondered whether she had done the right thing, whether a pleasant relationship with a good man was all she could realistically expect. Perhaps she was turning out like her father? Not a stayer, once the romance was gone . . .

It had been hard starting over again. It was the year she turned thirty and, Saturday after Saturday, so it seemed, she had to turn up alone to friends’ weddings, to wish them well and scatter confetti with a cheerful smile on her face, before returning home to her shabby rented flat. After a few months she bought her own place and tried to exorcise her loneliness by burying herself in her work and social life, spending all her spare time decorating and making curtains and cushions, choosing furniture, having people round to dinner endlessly.

In retrospect it was not an unhappy time, but a period of adjustment, learning to rely on herself, having her own space, focusing on her job, being free to go where she wanted when she wanted. For a while she feared she was walking a psychological tightrope and mustn’t look down, but then her confidence returned.

She should, in time, be able to enjoy being single now, after Jake. But, brushing her hair in the mirror and snatching at several silver threads that glistened in the cruel daylight, she was suddenly weary of it. Meeting new men could be exciting though, as Aimee frequently told her, she treated the whole business too seriously, expecting relationships to deepen quickly or, the opposite fault, not bothering to try to get to know someone if they didn’t attract her strongly from the outset.

Where did Patrick fit into this pattern? Was she just latching on to the next attractive man who came along for fear of being alone? Would she have been drawn to him if they had met in London? She tried to imagine bumping into him at a party, perhaps thinking he was attractive, quietly charming, but not someone who would have struck an instant spark like Jake. Did that make her a superficial person? She hoped not.

There was something about Patrick that touched her. She remembered the gentle curve of his mouth, his strong hands working the penknife or opening a bottle and pouring wine in a steady movement, thought of his stillness when he listened to her. Yes, she already looked forward to his return. She laid down her brush and went downstairs.

When she was filling the kettle, a familiar miaowing began outside the back door. She turned the key in the lock and yanked open the door.

‘Just you and me again, cat,’ she said. Seeing its hesitancy she stood back from the doorway. The cat placed one paw over the doorsill then the other, and looked around the kitchen carefully. Then it lost courage and daintily withdrew once more. ‘Make your mind up, can’t you?’ Mel said mildly, going back to the sink. But she left the door open on account of it being such a sunny day.

A pile of books lay on the table from yesterday and as she waited for the toaster to pop she slid one off the top and started flicking through it. It was a catalogue of the works of Laura Knight. She turned the pages and it struck her not for the first time how much painting from this fruitful part of Laura’s long career represented the holiday side of Cornwall. Young Edwardian women in loose flowing dresses perched on a clifftop gazed out at the glorious shining sea spread out below; chubby children played on a beach dappled by a tracery of sun and shadow; sun-worshippers, daringly half-naked, basked on rocks. A Golden Age, before the wings of war cast their dark shadow. Once again she was struck by the liberating contrast to the sober moral realism of the Newlyn painters.

Mel frowned as she stared at the picture on the clifftop. There was something in the choice of palette, the texture of the paint, the Impressionistic way heat and light seemed to radiate from the scene that reminded her of P.T.’s painting of the man in the garden. Which of the many artists who had passed through Lamorna at the time could P.T. have been? How could she find out? It would mean rereading the memoirs of other artists, combing through papers related to the house, digging amongst documents of local history.

After breakfast she worked in the garden. The size of her flowerbed was expanding fast, but today she tore away at the undergrowth in a half-hearted manner, feeling tired and clumsy. With a sigh she picked up the heavy garden fork and plunged it into the space she had uncovered. It bounced off something hard with a clunk . She crouched down to see what she had hit, scrabbling through the surface layer of dead creeper and leafmould with her gloved fingers. To her surprise, the entire layer peeled back like a piece of matting, revealing a path of hard-packed earth lined with gravel and white sand. A path to where?

Her interest was tinged with sudden frustration. There might be a whole network of paths lying buried under this jungle, a secret pattern waiting to be discovered. But it needed more than her pathetic efforts to find them. To reclaim this garden Patrick needed to organise a whole taskforce of people equipped with proper tools. One woman with a fork and an ancient pair of secateurs was hardly going to make much impact.

She stood up to go, jabbing the fork into the earth, where it stuck quivering.

Later, she walked down to the cove and then west up a dry narrow rabbit-path that scampered along the edge of the cliff. The coconut smell of flowering gorse blended with the scent of grass and the salty tang of the air. The sun was beating down now and she was soon panting with the effort of the climb, having to watch her every step on the stony earth.