The Memory Garden (38 page)

‘I’m not going back to her, I’m not. I’m . . . confused, that’s all. I need time to sort myself out.’

‘Well, I’m not hanging around to see what happens. Can’t you see through her, Patrick? Can’t you? She’s the sort who’ll bleed you dry.’

‘Don’t talk about her like that. You make her sound like a kind of vampire.’

‘My point exactly.’

‘She needs me. She thinks she might have made a mistake in leaving me. We’ve still got things to work out.’

‘And what about me? Don’t I need you?’

‘Not in the same way. You’re a survivor, Mel. That’s one of the things I love most about you. You’re your own person.’

‘Of course I’m a bloody survivor. That’s what being grown up is all about. That doesn’t mean I don’t need you. I do.’ Her voice cracked suddenly.

‘Mel, I’m sorry, this is so difficult and I’m not putting it well. You wouldn’t understand about Bella and me. I’ve known her so long. She’s like a part of me. It’s very hard to walk away from her.’

‘Why? She’s mucked you around so much.’
I read those emails
, Mel wanted to say, but she didn’t dare admit to it. Phrases from his responses drifted into her mind. He had tried to be strong:
I’m with someone else now, Bella . . . I want you to meet Mel . . . She’s very special to me.
But Bella had been insistent. And now, it seemed, she had won.

‘Patrick, I don’t have the strength for this,’ she said in the darkness, trying her hardest not to cry. ‘I’m not going to wait for you to sort yourself out. I have my pride. It’s her or me, you can’t have both.’

‘Mel, it’s not as simple as that.’

‘It is. Her or me. If you want to be with me, you mustn’t see her again.’

‘Mel, don’t be silly, I can’t do that. Not at the moment. Really, if you were to see her, she’s very distressed. She’s finished with Ed and—’

‘She seemed fine yesterday.’

‘She was putting up a front. She’s good at that. But this evening she was able to let down her guard . . .’

‘Patrick,’ she broke in. ‘We can go round in circles, but I’ve had enough tonight, I’m shattered. You don’t want me to say something we will both regret.’ She finally located the key and jiggled it into the lock. ‘We’ll talk about it tomorrow.’ And she went inside and shut the door, leaned against it.

‘Mel.
Mel
. Please.’ He rattled the door. ‘Don’t be like that. Open the door, for God’s sake. Mel, I love you.’ He waited.
Inside, Mel slid down the door to the floor. After a long moment she heard his footsteps, uncertain, on the gritty path, and a curse, then silence.
She covered her face with her hands and cried in the stuffy darkness until she could cry no more. Then she crawled up the stairs and lay on her duvet, too exhausted even to undress. Seconds later she fell into a sleep like oblivion.

******
‘I can’t, I can’t, don’t make me.’
‘Lie down, girl, sshh, I won’t hurt you.’
‘No, no, the baby, you’ll hurt the baby.’
‘Ah, the baby.’
He sighs; his body , huge and heavy, hangs over me, not like Charles at all – a stranger, this man, another country. Then he gives up , crushes my thigh as he rolls away. He struggles, panting in the darkness, then rests, the pulse of his blood pounds in the silence. I lie flat, still, willing myself invisible like a hare in the grass. An ocean lies between us, an ocean I do not wish to cross and he cannot. My husband. No, I cannot say it.
Aunt Dolly , shaking me. ‘You’ve got to do it, girl. Take him. There’s no choice, and you could do much worse.’
‘I don’t love him.’
‘You can be kind. All the pretty talk in the world is no good if there’s no kindness. And believe me, I know.’ What happened to Mr Roberts? She never speaks of him, but before I can ask she rushes on, ‘It would have come to nothing, Pearl. Even if Miss Elizabeth hadn’t found out.’
‘Miss Elizabeth?’
‘Aye, it was her told the mistress. Who did you think?’
Not spying Miss Cecily, then. Miss Elizabeth, who wanted him too. Now we’ve both lost him. Charles. My whole body aches for him. And now the tears come, slowly, silently at first, then faster, a torrent, the sobs racking my body, cries of anguish rising in my throat.

Mel couldn’t breathe, struggled her way up towards the surface and awoke with a cry. It had been as though a great satanic beast lay on her chest, growling, its eyes glinting inches from her own. Was it still there? She closed her eyes and pushed at it in panic – the bunched-up duvet unfurled and her sweltering body was free. She lay motionless, heart thudding, her skin prickling all over. Outside, thunder rumbled once more.
A cry. Someone was crying. Where? Was there someone else in the room ? The darkness pressed in, mummifying her , smothering her very breath. Suddenly lightning flashed and she squeezed her eyes tight as the brooding hulks of furniture lit up around the room. The cry rose to a wail – inhuman, terrible.
Patrick!
she screamed in her head. Patrick, help me! But he wasn’t here. He’d gone away, far away. Like Charles. Charles. The crying rose to an unholy shriek. There was someone, something else in the bed. She could feel their heat beside her. Thunder crashed and lightning flickered on her closed eyelids. Don’t open your eyes.

Charles.

Patrick.
Good Lord, deliver me, Good Lord, deliver me.
A sob rose in her throat, but was stifled by another sound. Whispering, pattering. Rain on the roof, tapping on the window, hissing through the trees. Gentle cooling blessed rain.
Gradually, the pressure of the hot darkness lightened. Outside, a bird began to tune up.
The ginger cat gave up yowling to come in and slunk off amongst the trees.
Inside, Mel lay sleepless in the old double bed, gripped by the certain knowledge of what she had to do.

Very early the next morning, exhausted and tearful, she tumbled all her possessions into cases and boxes, packed up the car and set off back to London. It was like driving down a tunnel into a deep black hole. Cornwall was where she had lost herself. She left without saying goodbye.

‘You can’t switch courses without going through the appropriate channels, you must know that,’ Mel told the arrogant-looking young man in the green fedora whose name was not on her register. ‘Go and see Gina in the Enrolments Office as soon as the seminar’s over and get the forms signed.’

And I suppose you
must
wear that awful hat in class, she was tempted to add, but didn’t. She had long ago learned that commenting on student apparel was dangerous territory. Combating ringing mobile phones and private conversation in class was a more essential use of her energies, anyway.

‘This handout describes the programme for the term.’ And she handed a sheaf of paper headed ‘
Symbol and Psyche – the Origins of Surrealism
’ to the intense young Asian woman on her left and waited as the twenty students passed the depleting pile from hand to hand. One boy’s hair fell across his forehead just like Patrick’s . . .

A dull pain gnawed at her stomach and for an instant her mind went blank. ‘Are you all right, miss?’ asked a pale girl who handed back the spare sheets. Mel looked up. Twenty pairs of eyes were staring at her.

‘Yes, just a headache. Now if you’ll look at next week’s session . . .’
Keep talking. It was all right when she was talking.

It was the first day of the autumn term.

‘Are you sure you should be going in?’ Chrissie had said on the phone last night. ‘Can’t that Rowena person do it instead?’

‘I refuse to give her the pleasure,’ Mel said. ‘Anyway, I told you, it’ll be good for me. Get me back into the routine.’

‘Well, if you’re sure . . .’ Chrissie said doubtfully. ‘But I bet the doctor would sign a sick note for you without any hesitation.’

‘I’ve had enough of doctors,’ said Mel.

She could hardly remember the journey back from Cornwall, six weeks ago, just that she had pitched up at Rob and Chrissie’s late at night, having somehow made her way through the terrible August traffic, denting the front of the car badly in a lapse of concentration just outside Exeter. She hadn’t been injured, but she was wild-eyed and quivering by the time she reached Islington and when Rob hauled her off the doorstep and half-carried her to the living-room sofa, she collapsed into its yoghurt-and-chocolate-stained cushions and burst into hysterical sobs.

Neither Chrissie nor Rob could get out of her what was the matter. Rob went to find the car to bring in her luggage and to check she was legally parked, fingering the dented bonnet in puzzlement. Chrissie finally coaxed Mel to drink some sugary tea and they put her to bed in the small guest room.

In the morning they couldn’t wake her, and when she finally came downstairs mid-morning, she still wouldn’t say a word, but sat staring into the distance, hardly noticing Rory who had climbed into her lap.

‘Hello, Aunty Mel. You look sad today.’

‘She’s not very well, Rory,’ said Chrissie, disentangling him. Mel merely slumped over the table, still dressed in yesterday’s clothes.

Chrissie rang their brother William for help, but could only reach his secretary. On the basis of her advice, however, Chrissie soon afterwards contacted her own GP.

‘It’s a natural reaction to too much psychological stress,’ the doctor told Chrissie. ‘The mind shuts down for a bit to distance itself. We’ll leave it a day or two and see how she is.’

Then she rang Patrick.

Chrissie thought over their conversation.

‘She just took off,’ he said. ‘We’d had . . . an argument, you see. I expect she’s told you.’

‘She’s told me nothing,’ snapped Chrissie. ‘She hasn’t said one word since she got here. If you’ve dumped her, and so soon after Jake . . .’

‘I didn’t dump her, as you so sweetly put it. It wasn’t like that. She didn’t like me seeing—’

‘What?’ said Chrissie, smelling a rat.

‘Bella came down,’ Patrick said shortly.

‘Ah. And Mel got the wrong idea. Or was it the right one? Patrick, if you’ve mucked her about, I’ll kill you, you know.’

‘It really wasn’t like that, Chrissie. I can’t explain exactly. It’s just . . . a misunderstanding. Chrissie – I want to speak to her. I rang her flat. I hadn’t realised she was with you – I should have thought. Can I come up?’

‘Don’t think there’s a lot of point at the moment, Patrick. I’ll let you know when she’s a bit better.’

When she put down the phone, Chrissie’s hand was shaking. The bastard. How could he have done this to her little sister, he of all people? Chrissie always thought of Mel as ‘little’, had always looked after her. And she’d look after her now. And that meant keeping Patrick out of Mel’s way if necessary. She felt no hesitation about doing that.

She had explained all this to the doctor in a low voice when he had arrived.

‘She’s been recovering from our mother’s death, and from the break-up of her relationship. She was on the rebound, really, going out with this old friend of mine, and she’s obviously gone in too deep.’

The doctor nodded as though he’d heard it all before, many times, but his expression was compassionate.

‘I think you’ll find she will be all right,’ he said, ‘but she must have someone with her. Can she stay here with you?’

‘Yes, of course. I’ve rung up work. They’ll let me have the time off.’

On the second day, Mel slept late again. She ate half a piece of toast and a chocolate biscuit, but her eyes showed she was still far away, somewhere deep inside herself. She slept on and off most of the day, Rory watching her anxiously.

Patrick rang again, but Chrissie was short with him, told him she’d call when she had some news.

On the third day, Mel was still tired, but she watched television for short stretches, ate a light meal and mouthed words like, ‘Yes,’ and, ‘Thanks,’ in answer to Chrissie’s enquiries. She smiled at Rory when he chatted to her about his day. Patrick rang again and had a long talk with Rob. When Chrissie took the receiver she advised Patrick not to ring again for the moment – it would only make things worse. She decided not to tell Mel about the phone calls for the time being. Mention of Patrick seemed to send Mel deeper inside herself.

The following afternoon, Mel sat down at the table and helped Rory draw tigers. These he painted with gloopy black and orange paint that ran, making him stamp his foot with rage. Mel painted her own picture, a beautiful garden with smiling flowers and small shy animals. Rory, enchanted, forgot his bad mood.

Chrissie hugged her, elated that she seemed to be returning to the world.

But this proved only the beginning. It was a slow recovery, punctuated by long periods of depression, days when unexplained pain shot through her body and her head ached.

Grief, the doctor said.

Later, as the black periods shrank in length and intensity she took to walking the streets, covering miles in a day, exhausting herself in her efforts to channel all her energies into physical exercise so that she wouldn’t have to think.

By the beginning of September, three weeks after she had arrived, Mel was a thinner, paler version of her normal self, but she was herself again. Aimee had come to supper, and after they had finished eating Mel said, ‘It’s time to go home again.’

‘Are you sure?’ said Chrissie. ‘You’re welcome to stay, you know.’

‘Absolutely,’ added Rob, putting his arm around the back of her chair. ‘We love having you.’

‘I’ll keep an eye on her,’ said Aimee. She only lived a couple of streets away from Mel. ‘She can always stay with me if she feels like it.’

It was Aimee who drove Mel back to Clapham the following evening, in Mel’s car, now mended after Rob had haggled with the insurance company and the garage.

She helped Mel in with her luggage and left her wandering around her garden wilderness while she went down to the corner shop for supplies. When she returned it was to find Cara from upstairs perched on the sofa chattering away while Mel sat at the table sorting the mound of post Cara had brought with her.