The Memory Garden (9 page)

‘It feels a bit like it, but I’m meant to be doing research.’ She explained about her work.

‘People are always asking about the artists,’ the young man said. ‘But you’re actually writing a book about them. Wow!’

‘Not as glamorous as it sounds,’ she said with a grimace. ‘It’s unlikely to be a best seller. I think you’re so lucky to have been brought up here surrounded by the scenery the artists painted.’

‘Can’t argue with you there,’ he agreed. ‘Beautiful, isn’t it? But West Cornwall’s pretty listened attentively TU cut off. Most of my schoolmates have moved away, up country. There weren’t proper jobs for them here.’

‘I suppose there’s work in tourism.’

‘Yeah, but the trouble is, it’s seasonal. There’s not much farming now either, or fishing, and the mines are nearly all gone. Anyway, my mates don’t want those kind of jobs any more. Everything’s changed. Take this valley, for instance. So many houses belong to incomers – retired people or second homers. Mum says the sense of community has gone.’

Mel glanced down at the catalogue he had given her – Tobias Walters, the artist was called – and went over to look at the pictures she had liked best, higgledy-piggledy cottages from the Newlyn back streets, and the photographs. After a moment she returned to the table and handed back the catalogue.

‘Your friend has a good sense of colour.’

The man laughed. ‘I take it that means you’re not tempted,’ he said.

‘Not today,’ she said, judging him to be someone who appreciated honesty. ‘But I really do like your photos.’

‘Thanks, that’s nice, especially from an art historian like yourself. Well, if you’re in Lamorna for a while, perhaps I’ll see you around. Where are you staying?’ When Mel told him, he became animated. ‘Really?’ he said. ‘Mum’s always going on about that old place. There’s some family link from way back.’

‘Do you know Patrick Winterton, the man who owns it? I haven’t met him yet, you see.’ She explained who Patrick was.

‘I heard the old bloke had died. Mum will be interested to hear who lives there now. Look, my name’s Matt. Matt Price. You’re . . .?’

‘Mel. Melanie Pentreath.’

‘A Cornish name.’

‘Yes, my parents came from near Falmouth. But they were part of the great exodus you’ve talked about, I’m afraid. They moved to London in the 1960s. I’ve never lived here myself.’

‘Ah well, I hope you have a great stay. Good luck with the book. Maybe we’ll bump into one another again.’

She was still thinking about Matt when she reached the Post Office. There she met Irina coming out, a straw shopping bag on her arm and a shy-looking girl of about eight in tow.

‘I’ve been wondering how you were getting on,’ said Irina, brushing her hand quickly across Mel’s forearm in a warm gesture. ‘Have you time for coffee? This is my daughter, Lana.’ She drew the small girl forward.

‘Thanks, I’d love some. Hello, Lana. Are you on holiday from school?’ Lana nodded, her dark eyes huge and liquid in her small pointed face. She was a more solemn miniature version of her mother.

From the outside, Irina and Lana’s house was a fisherman’s cottage like any number of others, but inside, a bright modern pine kitchen and breakfast room contrasted sharply with the living room crammed with elderly furniture. Irina had disguised the shabby upholstery with coloured cushions and, here and there, were intriguing hints of her origins – an icon on the wall, a couple of painted wooden dolls on the mantelpiece, a photograph of a smiling middle-aged couple, the woman with a headscarf tied under her chin, in front of a stone-built house with green shutters.

Mel leaned back in a deep leather armchair, hugging a cushion. The scent of the rough wool material reminded her of her father ’s overcoat, and her earliest memory of him rushed back. Her three-year-old self swept up into his arms and hoisted high in the air until she screamed in joyous terror.

She was returned to the present by Irina coming in with the coffee. Lana slipped in, catching her mother ’s eye as she stole a glass of squash from the tray and disappeared upstairs.

‘You were looking at the photograph. My parents,’ said Irina, nodding at the couple. ‘Taken in Dubrovnik, before the troubles. They look so . . . contented, don’t they? My father still lives there in our hotel, but now the tourists are coming back it is very busy, too much for him. He wrote to say my brother has become the manager.’

‘And your mother?’

‘She died five years ago after being ill with her diabetes for a long time.’ Irina concentrated on the ritual of pouring coffee and offering Mel milk and sugar.

‘I’m sorry to hear that,’ said Mel quietly. ‘My mother died last year.’ She brushed at her eyes, astonished as ever by the sudden tears. ‘Cancer. It took her fast.’

‘How terrible. I am so sorry.’ Again, the other woman reached out and touched Mel’s arm. ‘And your father? Is he still alive?’

‘Yes,’ she said, suddenly encouraged to confide in Irina. ‘He’s a heart surgeon. Or rather, was. He’s retired now. But my parents divorced when I was five. Dad lives near Birmingham with his second wife. We – my brother and sister and I – hardly saw him after he went. I think it was difficult for him, he felt guilty.’ That was how her mother had explained it and so Mel had built a wall in her mind to keep her feelings shut away.

‘I wasn’t able to go back to Croatia for my mother ’s funeral.’ Irina’s eyes narrowed. ‘I was married then, here. It was complicated. A shaggy dog tale, as you would say.’

‘How did you end up in Lamorna?’ asked Mel.

Irina stood up and walked over to the window, looking out across the bay. She turned, and Mel couldn’t see her face against the light.

‘I came here to get away from London. My marriage was over and Lana and I, we were living somewhere horrible. Bars on the doors, rubbish everywhere. I read in a magazine about a job. The old man, Mr Winterton at Merryn Hall, wanted a housekeeper and when I told him about Lana he said he liked the idea of a child about the place. And it was by the sea. I missed the sea, you know. In Dubrovnik, well, my parents’ hotel is right on the harbour.’

‘When did you come?’

‘Two years ago. Mr Winterton was unwell for a long time. After I had been there a year there was talk of him moving to a nursing home, but he wouldn’t go, so Nurse Wright came and we both took care of him. He was a big man and it took the two of us to lift him. It was a bad time watching him die, bad for Lana, too. He had been very kind to her. He was in a lot of pain. And then, after he had gone, we found he had looked after us.’

‘Looked after you – what do you mean?’

‘He left us some money. It was very good of him, I am so grateful. It meant we could find the deposit to rent this house and pay for Lana’s music lessons. What about you, Mel? Are you married or . . .?’

‘No, I’ve never found the right person,’ Mel said, carefully placing her empty cup on the tray. ‘My family despairs of me.’ And she explained briefly about Jake.

‘I thought I’d found the right one,’ said Irina sadly. ‘Two times. But it was not to be. So, now I’m happy with Lana, just Lana and me, aren’t I, darling?’ she said, spreading her arms to hug her daughter who had sidled back into the room, her hands busy knitting together long strands of coloured plastic that Mel remembered from her own childhood.

There was something about the child, thought Mel, a sort of wariness, a vulnerability. She looked delicate, troubled.

‘Can we ring Amber, Mummy? I want her to come and play.’ She was as light as a bird, Lana. Mel watched her weave the lengths of plastic with her long sure fingers.

‘In a little while, angel.’

‘Where do you go to school, Lana?’

‘At Paul,’ the girl said. ‘Amber lives there, too.’

Yes, thought Mel, Lamorna was beautiful but, as Matt had said, very isolated. Living here must be difficult for a child yearning to belong.

‘I haven’t asked you,’ said Irina. ‘Are you finding the cottage comfortable?’

‘Oh yes,’ said Mel. ‘I’m getting used to it now. Though it’s very cut off, isn’t it, particularly when there’s no one at the Hall?’

Irina nodded. ‘That’s what I felt. Lana and I lived in your cottage for a few months, before old Mr Winterton became so ill.’

‘I thought there was a ghost, didn’t I, Mum?’ said Lana.

‘It was just the furniture creaking, darling. We never saw anything,’ said Irina firmly. ‘Patrick asked if we would like to live there after Mr Winterton died, but I preferred to come here to the cove.’

‘You do at least have neighbours around.’

‘Mummy didn’t like the garden either,’ piped up Lana. ‘It was so—’

‘Come now, Lana, ssh. You’ll frighten Miss Pentreath.’ She looked at Mel. ‘The garden feels a little desolate, that’s all. We liked helping Mr Winterton when he was alive, but now it suits us better here, doesn’t it, Lana darling?’

‘And the view is lovely,’ said Mel, standing up to look out of the window. ‘Do you feel Lamorna is home now?’

‘More so than we did. I have a reception job at one of the hotels, and I clean for Patrick and look after two of the holiday homes here. You know, clean after people have left , sort out problems. It is not easy to make friends, though. Many of the houses here are just for holidays and there are no families. More live up at Paul where Lana goes to school.’

‘Such a change after London,’ Mel murmured.

‘London was the loneliest place in the world for me,’ said Irina. ‘Here I feel free.’

Which do I feel – free or lonely? Mel asked herself as she walked back up the hill to Merryn.

She might still be held captive by her grief but at least, in Irina, she had perhaps found a friend. She didn’t see the metallic blue sports car parked in front of Merryn Hall, sparkling in the sun.

That afternoon, deep in her task, Mel didn’t notice the tall figure of a man coming down the path from the Hall.

‘If you’ll excuse the gardening pun, what on earth are you doing?’

The voice right behind her sounded amused rather than angry, but Mel, crouched in her flowerbed, levering out an ivy root, was so startled she missed the root and flipped soil in her eyes. The weeding fork clattered on the stones and she staggered back on her heels, blinded and crying out.

‘Oh blimey, I’m sorry,’ said the man. ‘Hang on, I’ve a hanky somewhere. Here I didn’t mean to creep up on you.’ The handkerchief was soft linen and smelled of wool and soap. When, through her tears, Mel could focus on its owner, it was to see him hunkered down beside her, a concerned frown creasing his forehead. He was broad-chested with hazel eyes and a squarish, cleanshaven face, too pale, as though he spent all his time indoors. His red-brown hair was neatly cut but for a cowlick that fell boyishly across his forehead. He was dressed in an elderly Barbour jacket with a wool scarf looped round his neck.

‘You nearly gave me a heart attack,’ she breathed as he helped her up and pocketed the handkerchief. ‘I was miles away.’ She bent and picked up the fork, then smiled at him. ‘There’s a garden under here,’ she said. ‘Let’s say I’m liberating it.’

The man gave a reluctant lopsided smile and regarded the results of her work, arms folded across his chest. ‘I admire your energy,’ he said, ‘but I’m afraid I’m reminded of King Canute trying to hold back the sea.’

‘Perhaps you’re right. But that’s no reason not to try, is it?’

The smile was replaced by a look of resignation as he gazed out across the jungle. ‘It’ll take more than one woman – even a very determined one – to clear this garden. An army of mechanical diggers and the team from Heligan, I reckon. It’s a wreck, isn’t it?’

When he turned, she noticed his sweater – an inoffensive plain blue – and remembered her joke about Mark Darcy’s reindeer design. The penny dropped.

‘I don’t suppose you’re Patrick, are you?’ Mel said cautiously.

‘Yes, sorry, should have introduced myself.’ He put out his hand to shake hers. ‘And I know you’re Mel. You look so much like Chrissie.’

‘No, I don’t,’ she said indignantly, almost dropping his hand. ‘We’re completely different. She’s fair-haired and two inches shorter. And . . . everything.’ She stopped, realising she sounded petulant.

Patrick’s laugh was uneasy. ‘Sorry. I shouldn’t expect you to be like Chrissie, should I, just because you’re her little sister. Not,’ he added hastily, his glance taking in her five feet nine, ‘that you look little . . . It’s just you have the same smile and . . . I don’t know.’ He peered at her. ‘Cast of features, I suppose. Anyway,’ he changed the subject, noting Mel’s frown, ‘how are you finding the cottage?’

‘It’s great, thanks. I’m glad it’s not restored to within an inch of its life like so many of these places. It feels . . . comfortable. Well, except there’s no teapot. And the light in the kitchen has a horrible hum and flickers. Drives me crazy.’

‘I’ll give it a twist for you. That usually fixes them. And I’m sorry about the teapot. I’ll see if I’ve got a spare. Anything else?’

‘No, just the garden that needs attention.’

Patrick looked down at what she had done, then, choosing his words carefully, he said, ‘It’s very good of you to have a go, but I shouldn’t worry too much, if I were you. That’s my problem, I’m afraid.’

He paced up and down, hands in the pockets of his cords, then turned to look up at the big house. Mel saw gloom settle on his features. It was as though he had forgotten she was there. From his expression she gauged that Patrick was seeing not the romance of the old house but the financial liability. Some of the slate roof-tiles were missing, others, thick with gold lichen, were broken. Many of the windowsills looked rotten, and here and there between the all-embracing creepers, she could see the mortar was crumbling. The house looked sad, today, rather than brooding. Abandoned, full of echoes.

‘How old is it?’ she asked, after a moment. ‘Georgian?’

‘Mmm, 1819, according to the deeds. Built by a chap called Carey. Made a packet out of mining and bought the kudos of being a big landowner. He snapped up a lot of farmland round here, by all accounts.’

‘An ancestor of yours?’

‘No, not at all. My great-uncle bought it from the estate of a Miss Cecily Carey in the late seventies, but its glory days were long gone then. The house had been empty for a couple of years and Uncle Val picked it up for a song.’