The Memory Garden (23 page)

It would be so easy . . . to let him lean forward and kiss her, to allow him to run his hands over her body. She wanted to, badly, but somewhere inside a voice cried, ‘No, it’s no good, not like this.’

With a great effort of will she smiled at him and moved slightly, to put a little distance between them.

‘You are beautiful, you know that?’ She watched the soft movements of his lips as he slurred ‘beautiful’.

Beautiful. Belle. Bella.

‘Thank you,’ she said, her smile feeling pasted on. ‘And now, I really must stop drinking.’ She leaned forward to place the glass on the table.

‘Me too,’ he said wistfully, crumpling back against the sofa with a sigh. Then he laughed. ‘What a sorry old pair we are.’

‘Aren’t we?’ she said. ‘You know, I ought to be getting my little old self off home to bed.’

He reached out and squeezed her hand. ‘Thank you,’ he said again simply. ‘For putting up with me.’

‘Oh, you’re impossible to put up with.’ She had to make it into a joke or she was lost. When she stood up, she found she was drunker than she thought, but she waved away his supporting hand and stumbled out into the hall.

‘Shall I walk you round?’ he said. ‘No,’ she said, scrabbling in her bag.

‘No, really. I brought the torch, look. I’ll find my own way.’

She staggered around the side of the house to the Gardener’s Cottage, the torch beam waving wildly. At first she jiggled the lock with the wrong key, then fumbled the right one until the door opened. She slipped inside, shutting it firmly behind her.

Teeth chattering, the aftermath of drink and emotion, she threw her jacket over the back of a living-room chair and looked round the room. Tonight it gave off a sad , abandoned air. Even the flower pictures seemed lifeless behind their gleaming glass. The silence was sinister.

In the kitchen she drank a lot of water, then dragged her weary body upstairs. Throwing herself upon the bed she pulled the duvet over her head and gave way to her misery.

‘Any moment,’ a little voice inside her said hopefully, ‘any moment he’ll follow you, come down and knock on the door and take you in his arms and comfort you, which is what you wanted him to do all along, wasn’t it? You would have comforted each other.’

But would that have been right? How would they have felt in the morning? Two unhappy, hungover strangers , probably. The risk was too great. This wasn’t a man to trifle with, a one-night stand. He was special. And so, she reminded herself , was she. Still, that didn’t stop her wishing that he would come.

But he didn’t come. And eventually she fell asleep.

In the night she woke to see black shapes leaping outside the window. Just wind tossing the trees, she realised after a moment’s terror , and got up to close the curtains. Drifting off again she dreamed of being lost in thick fog. Her mother was calling, but when she tried to call back she could make no sound. She fought her way to the surface, waking to feel a terrible sense of grief gouging her throat. She turned on the light, then rolled out of bed to go to the bathroom.

From the side window in the kitchen she could just see part of Merryn Hall. As she sipped some water and contemplated its stern bulk, on the first floor where Val’s bedroom must be, a light came on and Patrick’s upper body was briefly silhouetted in the window.

She wasn’t really alone. He was awake, too.

On a Monday morning, eight days later, the sound of clanking and grinding dragged Mel out of troubled sleep. She opened her eyes to bright daylight flooding through the gap in the curtains. Rolling onto her back, which ached after too much gardening, she lay awhile, staring at the shadows flickering across the ceiling.

Only five more days at Merryn – well, six, if she counted Saturday, but she ought to leave before nine to miss the traffic, so five really. And after that she might never see Patrick again. A thought which brought back ragged trails of last night’s dream, something about running and getting nowhere . . . no, it was gone.

There was another clunk, a
whoosh
of airbrakes and the teeth-jarring sound of metal being dragged across stone. She sat up, remembering what it was. The skips Patrick had ordered must have arrived.

And she must get up if she was to make her appointment in St Ives at ten.

Since that miserable Sunday evening, Patrick had thrown himself into a frenzy of activity. Mel watched from the sidelines, where she felt firmly placed, acutely aware of his unhappiness but unable to breach his wall of polite friendliness.

First he arranged for the landscape architect to visit, then he rang round several firms of tree surgeons. He told Mel he had earmarked the front garden of the house as the next area for clearance, which would involve serious industrial work, and finally decided on a roofer who, depending on the weather, would be starting work during August.

Mel comforted herself that leaving really was for the best. Merryn might not be a peaceful place to stay and work for long. On the other hand, the cottage would be empty. Patrick told her he would not be trying to let it to anyone else if the estate was going to become a building site. It would stand vacant, and the thought saddened her.

But there was another reason why it was sensible to go.

Since that moment of intimacy over a week ago, their relationship had undergone a profound change. It had become self-conscious, forced, though they had tried to carry on as normal. She had helped Patrick in the garden several afternoons and they had worked in silence or talked about safe subjects – how Patrick should go about reconstructing the greenhouses, or what the school was like where his brother Joe taught. There was an unspoken awareness of something between them like a great solid lump that couldn’t be touched or, it seemed, even mentioned. All the physical ease they had shared had gone, too. He would stand back courteously if Mel passed him in the kitchen and deliberately take an armchair if she sat on a sofa. Either he was repulsing her, or something else was going on. Maybe he was protecting her or himself.

Part of her was readying itself to leave now, to escape this dreamy backwater and to dive back into the busy currents of normal life, but another part of her knew she would be leaving something valuable behind.

Now she was simply trying not to dwell on this, to be businesslike. Last week, she had worked hard on the early chapters of her book. She had visited the Records Office again and would meet with the art historian in St Ives this morning, finish the remaining bits of research she needed to do in Lamorna and go. The detailed plan for her book was ready. She even had a title:
Radiant Light: The Artists of Newlyn and Lamorna
. She would write it in London over the coming months.

‘I had an email from Jonathan Smithfield last night,’ she had said to Patrick yesterday afternoon after another hard bout of gardening. Matt had been helping, too, but had left in response to a summons from his mother to help with a large party of German tourists. Now Mel and Patrick were lolling in a couple of rickety old steamer-chairs that Patrick had found in a stable, and drinking ginger beer. ‘You know, the art historian who lives in St Ives. I’m going to see him tomorrow. Shall I show him your paintings – P.T.’s, I mean?’

‘That’s a good idea,’ said Patrick. ‘Which ones would be best?’

‘I thought your oil and two or three of the flowers. What I’m hoping is that he’s seen other work by the artist. Or, at least, he might be able to cast some light on P.T.’s identity, or have a suggestion about how to find out.’

‘I wish I could come with you,’ he said casually, crushing his drinks can in a single, cruel movement, ‘but I don’t have the time. The computer man’s coming tomorrow.’ Mel watched him toss the can in a perfect over-arm movement to land on a pile of garden rubbish and wondered why she felt as if she were the can.

As well as all his work in the garden, Patrick had been making progress with his new office, installing equipment and interviewing two candidates whom the local Job Centre had sent along for the post of administrative assistant.

Considering how much time he had spent at the office it was amazing really that they had achieved as much as they had in the garden.

It was a warm day for the tail end of April. Mel finished the dregs of her drink and looked around. Most of the Flower Garden was cleared now and Patrick had been digging hard in preparation for planting. They had bought dozens of trays of bedding plants, pots of herbs and seedlings, from a local garden centre. Already, Mel had bedded in several rows, which she regarded with satisfaction. Now she leaned back in her chair and closed her eyes, enjoying the sun on her face.

When she opened them again, it was to find Patrick sitting up, arms folded over bent knees, watching her, an expression of such unhappiness on his face that pity surged through her. She smiled at him and he smiled back then looked away, suddenly distant again.

She remembered this now as she ate breakfast, and considered what it might have meant. What were his feelings for her really – deep down? He was impossible to read.

He hadn’t mentioned Bella again. Had he rung her back the following day as he had promised? Mel hadn’t dared to ask, but once during the week she wondered whether she had interrupted such a conversation. Hearing his car in the drive – she guessed he must have been at the office all day – she had walked up to the house to give him a parcel the postman had left with her. When Patrick answered the door he was on the portable phone, halfway through some intense conversation. He finished the call quickly but he seemed distracted as he took the parcel from her and thanked her formally. She hadn’t stayed.

Jonathan Smithfield lived in a terraced house near the new Tate Gallery in St Ives, in a road overlooking one of the beaches. Out of his back window Mel could see some of his sculptures, stone figures, reclining like sleeping Buddhas, frosted by the same yellow algae that touched the roofs of so many buildings in the little town.

Jonathan himself was a tall, gangly individual in his mid-fifties, who gestured enthusiastically with his long arms when he talked about his lifetime’s study of Cornish artists, his own creative work and his involvement with the community of artists in his native town.

For a while they discussed the Lamorna painters and Mel was relieved when he was able to corroborate certain parts of her theory about one painter’s influences, suggesting new lines of enquiry for another, directing her attention towards one or two of Laura Knight’s less well-known paintings.

Then she brought out P.T.’s pictures, first the two flower studies she had taken from the cottage, and then the oil painting of the young man.

Smithfield dismissed the flower paintings with a, ‘Nice.’ But he was interested in the oil painting. ‘This is quite distinctive,’ he said. ‘Not by someone who’s been classically trained, I should say. But there’s a naturalness here, a
joie de vivre
. And the
impasto
– the brushstrokes . . . I can see why you might think there is a link with Dame Laura. Though it’s not, of course, by her at all,’ he added. ‘There’s not the draughtsmanship.’

When Mel pointed out the painter’s initials and spoke of Charles Carey, Smithfield tapped his fingers thoughtfully on the table. ‘Yes, Carey is a name I recognise,’ he said, ‘though I don’t think I’ve ever seen anything by him. But this . . .’ He set the painting up against a wall and stood back to look at it from a distance. ‘I like it. It has something, don’t you think?’

He listened attentively as Mel explained about her find in the archive, the reference to Pearl Treglown.

‘It seems unlikely, don’t you think – a servant who painted? But not impossible. I tell you what, are there any other papers belonging to the family from the period? I know you’ve searched the archive, but maybe there’s something they’ve kept back.’

‘I am fairly sure there isn’t anything in the archive.’ Mel thought for a moment, remembering her visit last week in which she had combed the collection again, taking some more photocopies of documents relevant to the garden. ‘I think Patrick has written to the family’s solicitors to ask, but I don’t believe he’s heard back yet.’

‘It’s the right line of enquiry. You’d be surprised what turns up sometimes in the loft amongst the broken birdcages and Great-Aunt So-and-So’s love letters. Well, I’d have to say good luck with everything, my dear. I’d be pleased to cast an eye over the proofs of your book in due course.’

‘Oh yes, I’d be so grateful,’ said Mel. ‘If it’s not too much bother.’

‘It would be a pleasure. And if your friend Winterton needs a dealer to look at this picture and give an opinion, tell him to be in touch and I’ll suggest one or two names. Not that I feel it would be worth a lot, mind, but it might have a market.’

‘Thank you,’ said Mel. ‘I will.’

Patrick was still out when she returned to Merryn at lunchtime, so she brought the pictures in from the car then made herself a large cheese sandwich, which she took out into the garden by her flowerbed. The grass had been cut, she noticed suddenly, breathing in the lovely smell. The old man must have been again while she was out.

After the sandwich and a cup of coffee she must have dozed off in her chair, because when she came to, it was to realise with a shock that someone was standing a few feet away watching. It was a relief to see it was just Matt.

‘Oh, hello,’ she said, sitting up and running a hand through her tangled hair. ‘How long have you been there?’

‘Only a moment,’ he said softly, hunkering down before her. ‘I didn’t want to wake you.’ He plucked a grass stalk and slipped it between his teeth. White, even teeth, she noticed for the first time. ‘I’ve a message from Mum. She’s busy all this week at the hotel, but when she’s free, Aunty Norah can see you both any day except Thursday.’

‘Oh, thanks.’

He plunged on. ‘Also, I was on my way to Porthcurno beach again. Wondered if you wanted to come along?’

Their eyes met. He was close enough now that she could see the faint dusting of freckles on his smooth tanned skin. He was smiling slightly, but there was a tension there too. If she wanted, she could put out her hand and discover the feel of his short spiky hair, explore the dimple at the side of his mouth. He was lovely, this young man, full of life but at the same time disarmingly vulnerable, his dark eyes shy beneath the long lashes. A boy. So different from Patrick. Or Jake.