For my sister, Georgia
Contents
Christmas Eve, 1985
1
Greta
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
Christmas Day, 1985
16
Cheska
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
25
26
27
28
29
30
31
32
33
34
35
December, 1985
36
Ava
37
38
39
40
41
42
43
44
45
46
47
48
49
50
51
52
53
54
December, 1985
55
56
Acknowledgements
Author’s Note
The Seven Sisters
1
Christmas Eve, 1985
Marchmont Hall, Monmouthshire, Wales
1
David Marchmont glanced towards his passenger as he steered the car along the narrow lane. The snow was falling in earnest now, making the already dangerously icy road even more precarious.
‘Not far now Greta, and it looks as if we’ve made it just in time. I reckon this lane will be impassable by morning. Does anything seem familiar?’ he asked tentatively.
Greta turned towards him. Her ivory skin was still unlined, even though she was fifty-eight years old, and her huge blue eyes dominated what David had always thought of as her doll-like face. Age hadn’t dimmed the vividness of their colour, but they no longer shone with excitement or anger. The light behind them had disappeared long ago, and they remained as blank and innocent as the inanimate china facsimile she reminded him of.
‘I know I once lived here. But I can’t remember it, David. I’m sorry.’
‘Not to worry,’ he comforted her, knowing how much it distressed her. And also thinking that if he could edit out of his memory that first grisly, devastating sight of his childhood home after the fire – the pungent smell of charred wood and smoke remained with him to this day – he almost certainly would. ‘Of course, Marchmont is well on its way to being restored now.’
‘Yes, David, I know. You told me that last week when you came over to me for supper. I cooked lamb cutlets and we had a bottle of Sancerre,’ she said defensively. ‘You said we were staying in the house itself.’
‘Exactly right,’ David agreed equably, understanding that Greta always felt the need to give him exact details of recent events, even if the past before her accident was inaccessible to her. As he navigated the ice-rutted lane, the tyres struggling to maintain a grip on the slight incline, he now wondered if bringing Greta back here for Christmas was a good idea. Frankly, he’d been amazed when she’d finally accepted his invitation, after years of trying to persuade her to leave her Mayfair apartment and receiving a firm ‘no’.
At last, after three years of painstaking renovation to restore the house to some semblance of its former glory, he’d felt it was the right moment. And for some reason, out of the blue, so had she. At least he knew the house would be physically warm and comfortable. Although emotionally – for either of them, given the circumstances – he didn’t know . . .
‘It’s getting dark already,’ Greta commented blandly. ‘And it’s only just past three o’clock.’
‘Yes, but I hope the light will hold long enough so we can at least see Marchmont.’
‘Where I used to live.’
‘Yes.’
‘With Owen. My husband. Who was your uncle.’
‘Yes.’
David knew that Greta had simply memorised the details of the past she’d forgotten. As if she were taking an exam. And it was he who had been Greta’s teacher, told by the doctors who cared for her to steer clear of any traumatic events but to mention names, dates and places that might stir something in her subconscious and provide the key to recovering her lost memory. Occasionally, when he went to visit her and they chatted, he thought he saw a flicker of recognition at something he mentioned, but he couldn’t be sure whether that was through what he had told her since or what she actually remembered. And after all these years, the doctors – who’d once been certain that Greta’s memory would slowly return, as there was nothing to indicate it wouldn’t on the numerous brain scans she’d had since the accident – now talked of ‘selective amnesia’ brought on by trauma. In their opinion, Greta did not want to remember.
David steered the car slowly around the treacherous bend in the lane, knowing that within a few seconds the gates that led to Marchmont would come into view. Even though he was the legal owner and had spent a fortune on the renovation of the house, he was only the caretaker. Now the restoration was almost complete, Ava, Greta’s granddaughter, and her husband, Simon, had moved from the Gate Lodge to take up residence at Marchmont Hall. And when David died, it would legally pass to Ava. The timing couldn’t be better, given the couple were expecting their first baby in a few weeks’ time. And just maybe, David thought, the past few years of a family history which had gone so badly wrong could be finally laid to rest with the breath of new, innocent life.
What complicated the situation further were the events that had happened since Greta’s memory loss . . . events he’d protected her from, concerned about the effect they might have on her. After all, if she couldn’t remember the start of it all, how could she possibly deal with the end?
All in all, the situation meant that he, Ava and Simon walked a tightrope during conversations with Greta, wanting to prompt her memory but constantly wary of what was discussed in front of her.
‘Can you see it, Greta?’ David asked as he drove the car between the gates and Marchmont came into view.
Of Elizabethan origin, the house sat low and gracefully against the skyline of undulating foothills that graduated into the majestic peaks of the Black Mountains beyond. Below it, the River Usk meandered through the wide valley, the fields on either side sparkling with the recent snowfall. The mellow red brick of the ancient walls rose into triple gables along its frontage, while the intricate panes of glass in the mullioned windows reflected the winter sun’s last, rosy rays.
Even though the old timbers – bone dry as they were – had given the hungry flames of the fire a healthy supper that had resulted in the roof being destroyed, the outer shell had survived. As the fire services had told him, it was partly due to the luck of a huge downpour an hour or so after the first small ember had caught light. Only nature had saved Marchmont Hall from total destruction and there had at least been something left for him to restore.
‘Oh, David, it’s far more beautiful than it looked in the photographs you showed me,’ Greta breathed. ‘What with all the snow, it looks like a Christmas card.’
And indeed, as he parked the car as close to the front door as he could, David saw the warm glow of lamps already lit and the twinkling lights of a Christmas tree through a window. The picture painted was so at odds with the dark, austere atmosphere of his childhood home – indelibly imprinted on his memory – that he felt a sudden sense of euphoria at its apparent transformation. Perhaps the fire had burnt away the past, metap
horically as well as physically. He only wished his mother were still here to see its remarkable rehabilitation.
‘It does look rather lovely, doesn’t it? Right,’ he said, opening the car door and causing a shower of snow to slide off the roof, ‘let’s make a run for it. I’ll come back for the cases and presents later.’
David walked around the car to open the passenger door and Greta climbed out cautiously, her slip-on town shoes disappearing, along with her ankles, into the deep snow. As she looked up at the house and then down at her snow-submerged feet, a sudden memory stirred.
I’ve been here before . . .
Standing stock-still, in shock that this moment had finally come, she desperately tried to grasp the fragment of remembrance. But it was already gone.
‘Come on, Greta, you’ll catch your death standing out here,’ said David, offering her his arm. And together they walked the few yards to the front door of Marchmont Hall.
After they’d been greeted by Mary, the housekeeper who had worked at Marchmont for over forty years, David showed Greta to her bedroom and left her to take a nap. He imagined that the stress of deciding to actually leave her home for the first time in years, coupled with the long journey from London, must have worn her out.
Then he wandered into the kitchen in search of Mary. She was rolling out pastry for mince pies at the newly fitted central island. David cast his eyes around the room, admiring the gleaming granite worktops and the sleek, integrated units that lined the walls. The kitchen and bathrooms had been David’s only concession to modern design when he’d planned Marchmont’s restoration. All the other rooms had been modelled on the original interior, a daunting task that had involved weeks of research and days spent poring over archive photographs in libraries, as well as dredging his own childhood memories. Armies of local craftsmen had been employed to ensure that everything from the flagstone floors to the furniture was as close as possible to the old Marchmont.
‘Hello, Master David.’ Mary’s face broke into a smile as she looked up. ‘Jack telephoned ten minutes ago to say your Tor’s train was delayed because of the snow. They should be here in about an hour or so. He took the Land Rover, so they’ll be fine getting back.’
‘It was good of him to offer to pick her up. I know how hard it is for him to spare time away from his duties on the estate. So, how do you like the new facilities, Mary?’
‘It’s wonderful, bach. Everything is so fresh and new,’ she replied in her soft Welsh accent. ‘I can’t believe it’s the same house. It’s so warm in here these days, I hardly need to light the fires.’
‘And your flat is comfortable?’ Mary’s husband, Huw, had died a few years ago and she had found it isolated in the estate cottage all alone. So, whilst he was working with the architect on the new plans for the house, he had incorporated a suite of rooms in the spacious attic for Mary. After what had happened before, he felt happier having someone permanently on site if Ava and Simon had to go away.
‘Oh yes, thank you. And it has a wonderful view over the valley, too. How’s Greta? To be honest with you, I was amazed when you told me she was coming here for Christmas. Indeed to goodness, I never thought I’d see the day. What does she think?’
‘She didn’t say much,’ said David, not sure whether Mary was referring to Greta’s reaction to the renovations or her return to the house after all these years. ‘She’s resting at the moment.’
‘You saw that I put her in her old bedroom, to see if it would jog her memory. Although it looks so different now even I don’t recognise it. Do you really think she doesn’t know who I am? We went through a lot together when she lived at Marchmont.’
‘Please try not to let it upset you, Mary. I’m afraid it’s the same for all of us.’
‘Well, maybe it’s best if she doesn’t remember some of what happened,’ she replied grimly.
‘Yes,’ David agreed with a sigh. ‘It’s going to be a very odd Christmas, one way and another.’
‘You can say that again, bach. I keep looking for your mother in the house, then realise she’s no longer here.’ Mary bit back her tears. ‘It’s worse for you, of course, Master David.’
‘Well, it’s going to take some getting used to for all of us. But at least we have Ava and Simon, with their baby on the way, to help us get through it.’ David put a comforting arm around Mary’s shoulder. ‘Now, can I try one of your delicious mince pies?’
Ava and Simon arrived back at the house twenty minutes later and joined David in the drawing room, which smelt of fresh paint, and woodsmoke from the vast stone fireplace.
‘Ava, you look wonderful. Positively burgeoning with good health.’ David smiled as he embraced her and shook hands with Simon.
‘I seem to have suddenly ballooned in the past month. I’m obviously having a rugby player, be it a boy or girl,’ Ava answered, looking up fondly at Simon.
‘Shall I ask Mary to make us a pot of tea?’ enquired David.
‘I’ll go,’ said Simon. ‘Ava, darling, you sit down with your uncle and put your feet up. She was called out in the middle of the night to a distressed cow in labour,’ he added to David with a despairing shrug as he left the room.
‘And I hope someone will be there for me when I’m in labour and distressed,’ Ava retorted with a chuckle, sinking into one of the newly upholstered chairs. ‘Simon’s always nagging at me to slow down, but I’m a vet. I can hardly leave my patients to die, can I? I mean, the midwife wouldn’t leave me, would she?’
‘No, Ava, but you’re due to give birth in six weeks’ time, and Simon is concerned that you’re doing too much, that’s all.’
‘When the locum arrives at the practice after Christmas it’ll make things a lot easier. But in this weather I can’t promise I’m not going to get called out to warm up sheep suffering from hypothermia. The farmers have done a good job of bringing them down from the hills before the bad weather set in, but there’s always the odd one that gets left behind. Anyway, Uncle David, how are you?’ Ava had always called him ‘Uncle’, even though they were, technically, first cousins once removed.
‘I’m very well, thank you. I recorded my Christmas show in October and since then, well . . . as a matter of fact’ – David reddened with sudden embarrassment – ‘I’ve been writing my autobiography.’
‘Have you now? That must make interesting reading.’
‘My life does certainly, and that’s the problem. There are parts of it I can’t talk about, obviously.’
‘No—’ Ava’s expression became serious. ‘Speaking honestly, as you know I always do, I’m surprised you agreed to write it. I mean, you’ve always kept your private life scrupulously private.’
‘Yes, but sadly some gutter journalist has decided he’s going to pen the unauthorised version, so I decided I’d better put the record straight first. As far as I can under the circumstances, that is.’
‘Right. Then I can see why you’d want to do it. Goodness,’ Ava breathed, ‘having had a movie star for a mother and a famous comedian as a cousin has made me loathe the thought of celebrity. You won’t mention anything about . . . what happened to me, will you, Uncle David? I’d die if you did. Especially after last time, when I was splashed all over the front page of the Daily Mail with Cheska.’
‘Of course not, Ava. I’m doing my utmost to keep the family out of it. The problem is, that doesn’t leave much to tell. There’ve been no drugs, nervous breakdowns, drink problems or womanising in my life, so it makes for a very boring read.’ David sighed and gave an ironic smile. ‘Talking of women, Tor should be here soon.’
‘I’m glad she’s coming, Uncle David. I’m very fond of her. And the more of us here this Christmas, the better.’
‘Well, at least we’ve finally managed to get your grandmother to join us.’
‘Where is she?’
‘Upstairs, resting.’
‘And how is she?’
‘The same, really. But I’m so proud of her for finding the courage to
come here.’ Car lights flashed beyond the window. ‘That must be Tor. I’ll go and help her in with her luggage.’
When David had left the drawing room Ava mused on his enduring and loyal relationship with Greta. She knew the two of them had known each other forever, but she wondered just what it was about her that appealed to him so much. Ava’s great-aunt, David’s mother LJ, who had died only a few months ago, had said that her son had always loved Greta. And certainly, Greta still looked very youthful, almost as if her memory loss had erased the physical signs of fifty-eight years of living, which normally manifested themselves on a face like an outer emotional map.
Ava hated to admit it, but she found her grandmother rather vacuous and childlike. On the few occasions she’d seen Greta over the years she’d felt it was like talking to a perfectly formed but hollow Fabergé egg. But then again, perhaps any depth and personality she’d once had had been wiped away by the accident. Greta lived like a recluse, rarely venturing out of the front door of her apartment. This was the first time Ava had ever known her to leave it for longer than a few hours.
She knew she shouldn’t judge her grandmother, having never known her before the accident, but at the same time she acknowledged that she had always compared Greta to LJ, whose indomitable spirit and zest for life made Greta – even after everything that had happened to her – seem weak and colourless. And now, Ava thought, biting her lip, Greta is here for Christmas, and LJ isn’t.
A lump came to Ava’s throat, but she swallowed it down, knowing her great-aunt wouldn’t want her to grieve.
‘Best foot forward,’ she’d always said when tragedy had struck.
Ava couldn’t help but wish with all her heart that LJ had been here for a little longer so she could have witnessed the birth of her baby. At least she’d lived to see her marry Simon, and had known when she died that Marchmont – and Ava – were safe.
David came back into the drawing room with Tor.
‘Hello, Ava. Merry Christmas, and all that. Goodness, I’m cold. What a journey!’ Tor said, walking to the roaring fire and warming her hands by it.
‘Well, you made it, and just in time, apparently. Jack told me they’ve cancelled any further trains to Abergavenny tonight,’ said David.
The Angel Tree Page 1
