The Memory Garden (18 page)

Soon, strands of laurel mingled with the rhododendron, and after a while thick tangles of the dark shrub made progress impossible.

‘Let’s try round this way,’ suggested Patrick, and he surged deeper into the banks of rhododendron. Mel limped to where he had forced a way through the bushes. Now she was lost in thick shiny green leaves that scratched her face.

‘Patrick,’ she called, ‘where are you?’

‘Here,’ he shouted back, and she shoved through the greenery in the direction of his voice. Dry branches scraped her face and leaves rattled. She was blinded. ‘Patrick, tell me where you are!’ His answering voice seemed further away. The greenery seemed to be pressing in on her like some malevolent creature. She tripped again and nearly fell. Panic welled. ‘
Patrick!
’ she cried again.

‘Mel? Come on,’ he said, somewhere up ahead. ‘I’ve found something.’

‘What? Ouch. Where are you?’

‘This way.’ And suddenly, she emerged into a small clearing. There he was, sitting on a little bench, and it was all right again. The laurel rose around them like green walls of a castle keep, open to the sky. The bench was made of stone, with scrolled arms and a low back.

‘Is there room for me?’ she asked, and squeezed thankfully onto the seat beside him.

‘How’s your foot?’ In a hesitant gesture he put his arm around her.

‘Not too bad.’ She felt herself relax into him.

‘Good.’

‘Where on earth are we?’ she said. ‘I completely lost my sense of direction.’

‘A secret world at the centre of a maze. No one in the world knows we’re here. Fun, isn’t it?’

They sat together in companionable silence, listening to the birds singing, noticing the distant cracks of twigs and the rustle of the wind in the leaves.

‘No giant spiders, thank God,’ remarked Mel.

‘That grab you and wrap you up tight,’ Patrick joked, and hugged her quickly. She gave a little scream, and this immediately started up the urgent
chik chik chik
of several blackbirds. Then an eerie silence.

Mel and Patrick sat frozen, all senses alert. The shadow of a cloud fell across the grove and the air turned chill. Patrick removed his arm. Mel shivered, then remembered something.

‘Patrick, your gardener said something odd. I wonder whether he was hinting that someone was buried in the garden. I’m not sure – I couldn’t make him explain.’

He looked at her, perplexed. ‘That’s weird. What did he say?’

‘Well, it’s not exactly what he said. Just that “She’s still hereabouts” and he told me not to go digging.’

‘Who was he talking about?’

‘An old Mrs Carey, I think, but I’m not sure. As I say, I couldn’t get him to explain. Perhaps he’d be more helpful with you.’

Patrick stood up; his face looking troubled. ‘This place is suddenly giving me the willies,’ he said. He glanced at his watch. ‘Heck, I’ve got to be in Penzance in three-quarters of an hour. Come on.’ He reached for her hand and pulled her up. For a moment they stood looking at one another. Then he squeezed her hand gently and said, ‘Shall I go first again?’

***

He said to meet him at the bench in the laurel maze, but I’ve waited and waited and he hasn’t come. Now the shadows grow long and it’s getting cold. I’m tired of pacing up and down and Aunt Dolly will be looking for me. But what can I do? Evening is falling and this secret place is full of eyes. Why hasn’t he come? The scrape of boots on gravel. Leaves clink. Is this him at last . . .

***

When they emerged from the rhododendrons they saw the weather had changed. The sky was steel-grey, the wind was up. The air rang with the threat of thunder.

‘May I . . .’ Mel reached up to pull a twig from Patrick’s fleece.

‘Thank you,’ he said. But he seemed distracted.

‘Is something the matter?’ she asked.

He shrugged. ‘Not really. I was thinking about what the old bloke said. And . . . just the strangeness of it back there. Like passing into another time. I’m glad we’re out.’

‘Me too,’ she said, stuffing her hands into her jacket pockets. ‘There is a strong atmosphere about this place. It’s as though someone is here . . .’

‘An echo,’ ventured Patrick , turning to look up at the house. ‘That’s what Val used to say. He had a favourite theory about ghosts. That perhaps we can leave a kind of imprint of ourselves. But perhaps he just spent too much time alone.’

Perhaps we do, too, thought Mel sadly, thinking that she and Patrick were haunted by their ex-pasts.

‘What are you doing later?’ asked Patrick hesitantly. ‘Having supper at Irina’s,’ replied Mel. ‘What about you?’

‘I was half-thinking I’d go to see my parents. Stay the night. Yes, perhaps I’ll do that.’

She merely nodded, disappointed. Perhaps he wouldn’t have gone if she had been free.

‘Well, I’ll see you very soon then,’ he said.

‘Yes. Hope it goes well in Penzance.’

‘Thanks,’ he said, and, slowly lifting one hand, he made a motion as though to brush her cheek. Then he turned the gesture into a wave. ‘Goodbye,’ he said simply.

She watched him walk away to the house as though he had already forgotten her very existence.

That evening, when Mel walked down to the cove to have supper with Irina, she hardly noticed the silver mist-wreathed beauty of the valley; her mind was occupied with thoughts of Patrick and of the unquiet atmosphere in the garden.

After Patrick had left she had retreated indoors and sat down at her laptop to reshape the opening paragraph of her book, but she felt too muddled. She sat in a daydream remembering his arm around her again. Had he just been friendly? And had the sudden shift of mood in the garden merely been a change in the weather?

When she reached Irina’s cottage, her knock was answered so quickly she was taken unawares.

‘Are you all right?’ said Irina. ‘You look . . . dazed.’

‘Do I? Sorry, I was woolgathering.’

‘What?’ Irina asked, baffled. She still looked tired and strained, Mel saw.

‘Daydreaming,’ Mel explained. ‘Too much time alone with my thoughts. I’m becoming thoroughly unfit for human company.’

‘Oh, I’m sure that’s not true. Come in, please.’

Mel handed over the bottle of wine she had brought.

‘Thank you. Come into the kitchen. Lana has her friend Amber here. They’ve been helping me with the cooking.’

The two girls were sitting together at the table scraping out a mixing bowl with teaspoons. Lana looked up and smiled at Mel with her spaniel eyes. Where Lana was dark, Amber was Nordic blonde, with skin so fair the veins showed through the delicate lids of her pale blue eyes. An ice queen, perhaps. But no, Amber’s ‘Hi,’ was warm enough. The fragile princess on the pea then.

‘We’ve made torta,’ said Lana, licking her spoon.

‘I hope you’ve left some for me,’ said Mel.

Lana laughed. She seemed less wary, more like a normal child today. ‘It’s in here,’ she said, and a blast of hot air filled the tiny room as she pulled open the oven door to reveal a cake rising.

‘Close it quick, Lana dear,’ called Irina, who was pouring some wine, ‘or it won’t rise properly. Now, why don’t you take Mel into the sitting room while I finish here.’

In the sitting room, Mel was instantly drawn to the window to stare out at the darkening cove. What a wonderful view it was, even on a foggy evening like this. No moon was visible tonight. A light from a passing boat twinkled through the mist. She shifted position to see the quay and the cliffside better and knocked into something metal and spiky, sending papers drifting to the floor.

‘Sorry,’ she said, righting the music-stand and bending to rescue the scores. ‘Is it you who plays the violin?’ she asked Lana. She remembered Irina talking about music lessons. Lana, curled up on the sofa, nodded.

‘She’s really good,’ cut in Amber. ‘Aren’t you, Lana?’

Lana shot her friend an embarrassed frown but told Mel, ‘I’ve got my exam soon, so I’ve got to be good. I’ve been practising for simply hours and hours.’ She rolled her eyes in theatrical fashion.

‘I’d love to hear you play, Lana. Would you?’

‘Okay.’ She said this clearly, without either the airs or the reluctance that most children exhibit if asked to perform for their elders. A violin case was pulled from under a cabinet by the mantelpiece. Taking out the instrument, Lana tuned it with quick fingers.

The
thwuck thwuck
sound took Mel back to school days, her brother sawing away at his instrument behind the shut door of the dining room but, as Lana placed the instrument under her chin, closed her eyes and began to play, Mel was amazed. Instead of the expected wail of a strangled cat that constituted William’s usual performance, a beautiful voice leaped from Lana’s instrument, in some wild folk dance that expressed first laughter then yearning, tragedy and finally, exaltation. It was an astonishing performance.

When the music finally ceased, she and Amber clapped until Irina’s voice sounded from the door. ‘Well done, Lana.’ Her tired face was transformed by pride in her daughter. ‘That’s the best you’ve played it.’

‘She’s really good in front of other people,’ Amber confided to Mel. ‘I go all wobbly on my recorder when all the mums and dads are there.’

‘I don’t notice them once I start,’ shrugged Lana, some of her watchful reserve returning. ‘I think about the music.’

Later, after their meal of peppers stuffed with meat and rice and the delicious chocolate torta, Irina suggested to the girls that they take a ‘midnight’ feast of sweets from the store cupboard and put themselves to bed. When they had said goodnight and tramped upstairs, Mel watched Irina make coffee in a brown pottery jug before joining her at the table.

‘I don’t know what to do about Lana,’ she said, lighting a cigarette. ‘Sorry, do you mind? I try not to, but tonight I feel like it . . .’ She sighed.

Mel shook her head. Although she had not smoked since her early twenties she secretly still liked the smell and she was surprised by a sudden desire for one. She resisted. Irina poured syrupy black coffee into two tiny cups.

‘What do you mean, do about Lana?’ prompted Mel.

‘You heard her play before supper.’

‘She’s incredible,’ said Mel.

‘Yes. I want to be encouraging – not pushy, you know. She herself wants to play, she really does. But she must have the right opportunities and I don’t think she can find them here in Lamorna. It’s the one thing that worries me about being here.’

Mel, sipping her coffee, nodded slowly.

‘She has a good teacher at the moment,’ Irina went on. ‘Mr Winterton – the old man who died, I mean, not Patrick – bought the violin and, I told you, left money for lessons. Soon I’ll have to find the money myself, but it is difficult, and there will be a time when she needs a better teacher.’

‘Mmm. Surely there are bursaries for promising pupils? What does the teacher think?’

‘The same as you. But there are expenses, even if she was lucky enough to win a scholarship to a school or college where she would get special tuition. And we might have to move up country. Nine is still very young, but maybe next year or the year after.’ Her voice had been passionate but now it turned leaden. ‘Her father might pay.’

‘Her father?’ It was hard for Mel to keep the curiosity out of her voice. ‘Does Lana see him?’

Irina shook her head violently. ‘No,’ she said, stabbing out her cigarette half-smoked in an ashtray and immediately lighting another.

Mel waited. Irina’s vitality had drained away. Her skin appeared sallow, dull. She picked at the cuticles of her nails which, Mel had noticed earlier, were bitten down to the quick. Eventually she looked up.

‘I met him in Dubrovnik, during the fighting. There were . . . reasons why I could not stay. He – his name is Gregory – an Englishman. He was wealthy, had powerful connections. He helped me escape, took me to London. He was in love with me, he said. I thought he was safe and I was grateful to him. I loved him a little, too.’ She laughed. ‘He is very good-looking, very . . . he has charisma. It was more than a convenient marriage. I wanted to stay in England, yes, but I wanted to stay with him.’ She took a long pull on her cigarette.

‘So – we married and lived in a nice house in London, in Chelsea. He had rescued me and looked after me and I was grateful, though I missed Dubrovnik and my parents. Then Lana came along. Everything seemed all right – a happy ending. But I must have been in shock all that time, I think, because one day I woke up and realised I didn’t love Greg at all. I had discovered the kind of man he was. He was kind to us, yes, but he could be ruthless, too. It was like he was two people. He became very dominating, very jealous. If I went out he would want to know where I was going, who with. I don’t know what he thought – that I was seeing another man? And we started to argue and then I told him I didn’t love him and after that he knew he was losing me. He would try to control everything I did. Sometimes he would lock me in the house. He didn’t ever hit me and he never touched Lana, thank God, but I feared all the time that he would. He seemed to think he owned me, that he could do what he liked because he had rescued me. It was a terrible time, but I was so afraid to leave him. I spoke little English. I thought Lana might be taken away from me and that I would be sent back to Croatia without her. That’s what he threatened would happen.

‘Many months passed and I – is this right? – I came to my senses. We took Lana to the doctor’s once for her injections and when I used the bathroom there I saw an advertisement about women like me, women who are afraid of their men, and one evening when Greg was out at a business appointment I rang the number. And so I found people to help me leave Greg and begin life without him.’

‘Irina. That’s so terrible.’ Mel reached out and laid her hand over the other woman’s, stilling her nervous play with the plastic lighter on the table.

What must it be like, being alone with a young child in a strange country, trying to find the means to survive? Mel wondered fleetingly why Irina didn’t go back to Croatia, but as she was framing the question Irina rushed on.