THE TRYSTING TREE Read Online Free PDF Page B

just the way I’m made.’
    ‘You weren’t a lousy mother,’ I lied. ‘And I’m sorry if I’ve depressed you with all this talk of selling up. Just give it some thought and let me know what you decide. When you’re ready. No pressure.’
     
    ~
     
    As the year wore on and the trees surrounding Garden Lodge shed their leaves, the house and garden became lighter. As a child, I would take myself off to the wood in autumn and lie under the beeches, gazing up at their golden leaves. Sometimes I’d pretend I’d been abandoned – not a huge leap for my imagination. I’d lie there, feigning death, waiting to be buried under a blanket of leaves by robins, like the Babes in the Wood – a vain hope, since beeches retain their leaves until the spring. In the end cold and hunger would effect my resurrection and I’d run back to the house in search of warmth and food, wobbling inside my oversized Wellingtons, glad to be alive.
    When I was older, I liked to watch from my bedroom window as autumn stripped the other trees and their dark outlines emerged, stark against a pale, wintry sky. As the leaf canopy fell, trees became easier to draw, I could spot birds and the occasional foraging squirrel, so I rather liked the West Country winter, despite what seemed at times to be perpetual rain. My father fled to Madeira whenever he could and found excuses to linger. He wasn’t like Phoebe or me. We observed the weather with our artists’ eyes or we ignored it, carrying on in our phlegmatic, British way. But Sylvester must have suffered.
    Autumn was made bearable for him by his dahlias. Bold flowers with no scent, they collapse at the first frost, but they’re the last big colourful blooms before the onset of winter, gaudy and short-lived, like a firework display. Sylvester gathered bunches of them and brought them into the house where, to Phoebe’s horror, they would shed earwigs. Whenever I see them now – dahlias or earwigs – I think of my father.
    There’s a photo of me, standing gap-toothed next to a cactus dahlia, its flowers as big as my head. For many years I wondered if, whenever he saw one, Sylvester thought of the shy, smiling child who’d posed beside one of his giant blooms. I liked to think that he did.
     
    ~
     
    Phoebe caved eventually and agreed – “just out of curiosity” – to have Garden Lodge valued. Two agents told us it was difficult to price, but suggested we test the market at around £495,000. They also warned us there would be little interest until the spring. Nevertheless Phoebe agreed to put the house on the market, reassuring herself, ‘I don’t have to accept an offer. I’d just be interested to know, that’s all. Half a million for this place seems bloody ridiculous to me. I’m sure it’s just greedy estate agents, trying to boost their commission.’
    It was a start. My mother was at least thinking about her future.
     
    ~
     
    Weeks passed and we heard nothing. Phoebe said, ‘I told you so.’ We discussed reducing the price, but the agent advised us to hang on until the spring when things would apparently get moving again, but I sensed Phoebe was disappointed. She was also irritated by my continuing attempts to keep the house tidy for potential buyers, so in the end I gave up and turned my attention to the neglected garden.
    Phoebe had let the walled garden become completely overgrown. Renovating it was beyond my modest capabilities, but I’d cleared the paths and swept up fallen leaves so people could at least walk round and see the size of the plot.
    The cottage garden, as we called it, was situated at the back of Garden Lodge, enclosed by old outbuildings and glasshouses, a shed, the studio and a gate that led to a rutted lane and the outside world. It had once been riotous with colour and crammed with plants. I could vaguely remember its decline in the years after Sylvester’s departure. The roses had persisted, as did the shrubs. Marigolds, cornflowers and nasturtiums had