‘Yes, I must admit I didn’t fancy spending Christmas in a bed and breakfast in Newport,’ Tor said drily. ‘And the house looks wonderful, Ava. You and Simon must be thrilled.’
‘We are,’ said Ava. ‘It’s so beautiful, and we’re so grateful to you, Uncle David. Simon and I would never have had the resources to renovate it ourselves.’
‘Well, as you know, one day it will pass to you, anyway. Ah, Simon.’ David looked up as he entered the room. ‘A nice fresh pot of tea. Just what we all need.’
Greta awoke from her nap feeling disoriented and unable to remember where she was. Panicking, she fumbled for a light in the pitch blackness and switched it on. The strong smell of fresh paint jogged her memory as she sat up in the comfortable bed and admired the newly decorated room.
Marchmont Hall . . . the house she’d heard so much about from David over the years. Mary, the housekeeper, had told her earlier this had once been her bedroom, and it had been in here that she’d given birth to Cheska.
Greta got out of bed and walked to the window. The snow was still falling. She tried to access the fleeting memory that had been kindled when she’d stood outside the house, and sighed in despair when her mind stubbornly refused to give up its secrets.
After freshening up in the smart en-suite bathroom, she dressed in a new cream silk blouse she’d bought a few days ago. Adding a dab of lipstick to her mouth, she stared at her reflection in the mirror, feeling anxious about leaving the sanctuary of her bedroom.
It had taken everything that was left of her to make the decision to join her family here at Marchmont for Christmas. So much so that after she’d said yes, and watched David’s astonished expression as she did so, Greta had experienced severe panic attacks which had rendered her sleepless, sweating and shaking into the small hours. She’d visited her doctor, who had prescribed beta blockers and sedatives. With his encouragement, plus the thought of spending yet another miserable Christmas alone, she had managed to pack, climb into David’s car and get here.
Perhaps the doctors would disagree with her motivation; they would argue in their usual psychobabble that maybe at last she was ready, that her subconscious finally deemed her strong enough to cope with returning. And certainly, since she’d taken the decision, she’d been dreaming vividly for the first time since the accident. None of her dreams made sense, of course, but the shock of having what the doctors would term a ‘flashback’ when she’d stepped out of the car and looked at Marchmont Hall a couple of hours ago gave some credence to their analysis.
She knew there was a lot still to face. ‘Company’, for a start, and for an extended period of time. And among those gathering here for the festive season there was one person she was particularly dreading spending time with: Tor, David’s lady-friend.
Even though she had met Tor occasionally when David had brought her round for tea at Greta’s Mayfair apartment, she had never spent longer than a few hours with the woman. Even though, on the surface, Tor had been sweet and polite and seemed to be interested in what she had to say – which wasn’t a lot – Greta had felt patronised, as if Tor were treating her as some kind of mentally deficient, senile old lady.
Greta looked at her reflection in the mirror. She may be many things, but she wasn’t that.
Tor was an Oxford don. Intellectual, independent, attractive – in a practical sort of way, Greta had always thought, and then reprimanded herself for her instinctive female derision of a rival.
Put simply, Tor was everything Greta wasn’t, but she made David happy and Greta knew she must be happy for that.
At least David had said that Ava would be here with her husband, Simon. Ava, her granddaughter . . .
If anything about her memory loss particularly upset her, it was Ava. Her own flesh and blood, her daughter’s daughter . . . Yet though she’d seen Ava periodically over the past two decades and liked her very much indeed, Greta felt guilty that she was unable to connect with her granddaughter like a close relative should. Surely, even though she had no recollection of Ava’s birth, she should instinctively feel some deeper emotional bond?
Greta thought Ava suspected – just as LJ had – that she remembered more than she did and was somehow shamming. But despite years of sessions with psychologists, hypnotists and practitioners of any other form of treatment for memory loss she’d read about, nothing stirred. Greta felt she lived in a void, as if she were merely an onlooker to the rest of humanity, all of whom found it easy to remember.
The closest she felt to another human being was her darling David, who’d been there when she’d finally opened her eyes after nine months in a coma and had spent the past twenty-four years caring for her in any way he could. If it hadn’t been for him, given the emptiness of her existence, she was sure she would have lost all hope many years ago.
David had told her that they met forty years ago, when she was eighteen and working in London at a theatre called the Windmill just after the war. Apparently, she’d once explained to him that her parents had died in the Blitz, but had never mentioned any other relatives. David had told her that they had been very good friends, and Greta had surmised that their relationship had been nothing more than that. David had also said that, soon after they’d met, she had married a man called Owen, his uncle, once the squire of Marchmont.
Over the years Greta had wished endlessly that the friendship David had described to her had been something more. She loved him deeply; not for what he had been to her before the accident but for all he meant to her now. Of course, she knew her feelings were not reciprocated and she had no reason to believe they ever had been. David was a very famous and successful comedian and still extremely attractive. Besides, for the past six years he’d been with Tor, who was always on his arm at charity events and awards ceremonies.
In her darkest moments Greta felt she was little more than a liability; that David was merely doing his duty, out of the kindness of his heart and because they were related by marriage. When she’d finally come out of hospital, after eighteen months, and moved back into her apartment in Mayfair, David had been her only regular visitor. Her guilt at being dependent on him had grown over the years and, although he told her that popping in to see her was no hardship, she’d always tried not to be a burden, so she often pretended she was busy when she wasn’t.
Greta moved away from the window, knowing she must pluck up the courage to go downstairs and join her family. She opened the bedroom door, walked along the corridor and stood at the top of the magnificent dark oak staircase, its carved balustrades and elaborate acorn-shaped finials gleaming softly in the light of the chandelier overhead. Gazing down upon the large Christmas tree which stood in the hall beneath her, she smelt the fresh, delicate scent of the fir and, again, something stirred. She closed her eyes and breathed deeply, as the doctors had told her to, trying to encourage the faint memory to grow.
The residents of Marchmont Hall woke up on Christmas morning to an idyllic, snowy scene outside. At lunchtime, they tucked into a goose, and vegetables grown on the estate. Afterwards, they gathered in the drawing room by the fire to open their gifts.
‘Oh Granny,’ said Ava as she unwrapped a soft white baby blanket, ‘that will be so useful. Thank you.’
‘Also, Tor and I would very much like to buy you a pram but, given that neither of us has a clue about all those new-fangled contraptions parents use these days, we’ve written you a cheque,’ David said, handing it to Ava.
‘That’s more than generous, David,’ Simon said, topping up his glass.
Greta was touched by Ava’s gift of a framed photograph of the two of them, taken when Ava was a tiny baby and while Greta was still hospitalised.
‘That’s just to remind you of what’s to come,’ Ava said with a smile. ‘My goodness, you’ll be a great-grandmother!’
‘I will, won’t I?’ Greta chuckled at the thought.
‘And you look barely a day older than the first time I met you,’ David commented gallantly.
>
Greta sat on the sofa, watching her family with pleasure. Perhaps it was the effect of far more wine over lunch than she was used to but, for once, she didn’t feel unwanted.
After the presents had been unwrapped, Simon insisted he take Ava upstairs for a rest, and David and Tor left for a walk. David asked Greta to accompany them, but she tactfully declined. They needed time together, and three was always a crowd. Greta sat by the fire for a while, dozing contentedly. Coming to, she glanced out of the window and saw that the sun was now low but still shining, the snow glittering beneath it.
On impulse, deciding she could do with a breath of fresh air, too, she sought out Mary and asked if there were any boots and a thick coat she could borrow.
Five minutes later, dressed in a pair of wellingtons that were far too big for her and an old Barbour, Greta strode out across the virgin snow, breathing in the wonderful, clean, crisp air. She paused, wondering which way to go, hoping some inner instinct would guide her, and decided to take a stroll through the woods. As she walked, she looked upwards at the deep blue sky above and a sudden joy filled her veins at the sheer beauty of the scene. It was such an unusual and rare feeling that she almost skipped as she zigzagged her way through the trees.
Arriving in a clearing, she saw a majestic fir tree standing in the centre of it, the rich green of its bushy, snow-laden branches a contrast to the tall, bare beech trees that made up the rest of the wood. Walking towards it, she noticed there was a gravestone beneath it, the inscription covered by snow. Surmising that it was almost certainly the grave of a family pet – perhaps one she had known – Greta reached down and scraped away the hard, icy flakes with her gloved hand.
Slowly, the inscription began to appear.
JONATHAN (JONNY) MARCHMONT
Beloved son of Owen and Greta
Brother of Francesca
BORN 2ND JUNE 1946
DIED 6TH JUNE 1949
May God guide his little angel up to Heaven
Greta read and reread the inscription, then fell to her knees in the snow, her heart pounding.
Jonny . . . The words on the gravestone said that this dead child was her son . . .
She knew Francesca – Cheska – was her daughter, but there’d never been any mention of a boy. The inscription said he’d died at just three years of age . . .
Weeping now with frustration and shock, Greta looked up again and saw that the sky was beginning to darken. She gazed around the clearing helplessly, as if the trees might speak to her and give her answers. As she knelt there, in the distance she heard the sound of a dog barking. An echo of another moment created a picture in her mind; she’d been here in this place once before and had heard a dog . . . Yes, yes . . .
She turned and focused on the grave. ‘Jonny . . . my son . . . please let me remember. For God’s sake, let me remember what happened!’ she cried, half-choking on her tears.
The sound of the dog’s bark faded away and as it did so she closed her eyes and immediately saw a vivid image of a tiny baby wrapped in her arms, nestling against her chest.
‘Jonny, my darling Jonny . . . my baby . . .’
As the sun dipped below the trees and into the valley below, heralding the arrival of night, Greta’s arms reached wide to clasp the gravestone as, finally, she began to remember . . .
Greta
London, October 1945
2
The cramped dressing room in the Windmill Theatre smelt of Leichner No. 5 panstick perfume and sweat. There weren’t enough mirrors, so the girls jostled for space as they painted on lipstick and teased their hair into curls on top of their heads, fixing the elaborate styles with spritzes of sugar water.
‘I suppose there’s something to be said for appearing half naked; at least you don’t have to worry about laddering your nylons,’ laughed an attractive brunette as she checked her reflection and deftly arranged her breasts to better advantage in her low-cut, sequinned costume.
‘Yes, but carbolic soap doesn’t exactly leave your skin looking as fresh as a daisy after you’ve scrubbed the make-up off, does it, Doris?’ replied another girl.
There was a sharp knock at the door and a young man peered into the dressing room, seemingly oblivious to the scantily-clad bodies that met his eyes. ‘Five minutes, ladies!’ he shouted before retreating.
‘Oh well,’ sighed Doris. ‘Another shimmy, another shilling.’ She stood up. ‘I’m just thankful there’s no more air raids. It was bloomin’ freezing a couple of years ago, sitting in that bloody basement in not much more than your undies. My backside turned positively blue. Come on, girls, let’s go and give our audience something to dream about.’
Doris left the dressing room and the others drifted out behind her, chattering amiably, until there was only one girl left, hurriedly applying red lipstick with a small brush.
Greta Simpson was never late. But today she’d overslept until after ten, even though she was due at the theatre at eleven o’clock. Mind you, it had been worth having to run the half-mile to the bus stop, she thought dreamily as she stared into the mirror. Last night with Max, when they’d danced until the small hours then wandered hand in hand along the Embankment as the sun came up over London, made it all worthwhile. She hugged herself tightly at the memory of his arms around her and his passionate kisses.
It was four weeks since she’d met Max in Feldman’s nightclub. Usually, Greta was too exhausted after five shows at the Windmill to do anything other than go home to bed, but Doris had begged her to come and help celebrate her twenty-first birthday, and in the end she’d agreed. The two girls were chalk and cheese; Greta quiet and reserved, Doris brash and blowsy with a loud cockney twang. Yet they’d become friends of sorts and Greta hadn’t wanted to let her down.
The pair had treated themselves to a taxi for the short journey to Oxford Street. Feldman’s was packed with demobbed British and American servicemen, as well as the cream of London society who frequented the most popular swing club in town.
Doris had bagged a table in the corner and ordered a gin and It for each of them. Greta glanced around and thought how the atmosphere in London had changed since VE Day, just five short months ago. A sense of euphoria pervaded the air. A new Labour government had been elected in July, with Clement Attlee at the helm, and their slogan ‘Let us face the future’ summed up the fresh hopes of the British people.
Greta had felt suddenly light-headed as she’d taken a sip of her cocktail and soaked in the club’s atmosphere. The war was over after six long years. She’d smiled to herself. She was young, she was pretty and it was a time of excitement and new beginnings. And God knew, she could do with one of those . . .
It was as she was looking around that she’d noticed a particularly handsome young man standing with a group of GIs at the bar. Greta had remarked on him to Doris.
‘Yeah, and he’ll be randy as they come, I’ll bet. All them Yanks are,’ Doris had said, catching the eye of one of the group and smiling boldly at him.
It was no secret at the Windmill that Doris was free with her affections. And five minutes later a waiter arrived at their table with a bottle of champagne, ‘With the compliments of the gents by the bar.’
‘Easy when you know how, dear,’ Doris had whispered to Greta as the waiter poured the champagne. ‘This evening won’t cost either of us a penny.’ She’d winked conspiratorially and instructed the waiter to tell the ‘gents’ to come over so she could thank them in person.
Two hours later, high on champagne, Greta had found herself dancing in Max’s arms. She had discovered that he was an American staff officer working at Whitehall.
‘Most of the guys are on their way home, which is where I’ll be headed in a few weeks,’ Max had explained. ‘We just got a few things to tidy up first. Boy, I’m gonna miss London. It’s a swell city.’
He’d looked surprised when Greta told him she was in ‘show business’.
‘You mean you’re on the stage? As an actress?’ he’d said, his
brow creasing into a frown.
Greta had sensed immediately this wasn’t something that was going to impress him and she’d quickly changed her story. ‘I work as a receptionist to a theatrical agent,’ she’d added hurriedly.
‘Oh, I see.’ Max’s features immediately relaxed. ‘Show business sure doesn’t fit with you, Greta. You’re what my mother would call a real lady.’
Half an hour later Greta had extricated herself from Max’s arms and told him she must go home. He’d nodded politely and walked her outside to find a taxi.
‘It’s been a wonderful evening,’ he’d said as he helped her inside. ‘Can I see you again?’
‘Yes,’ she’d replied, before she could stop herself.
‘Great. I could meet you here tomorrow night?’
‘Yes, but I’m working until half past ten. I have to see a show one of our clients is in,’ she’d lied.
‘Okay, I’ll be waiting for you here at eleven. Night, Greta, don’t be late tomorrow.’
‘I won’t.’
As the taxi had driven her home, Greta found that her mind was a mixture of conflicting emotions. Her head told her it would be futile to begin a relationship with a man who had only a few weeks left in London, but Max seemed like a gentleman, and that made such a pleasant change from the often rowdy male audience that frequented the Windmill.
As she’d sat there, she’d thought sombrely of the circumstances that had landed her at the stage door of the Windmill barely four months ago. In all the magazines and newspapers she’d read as a teenager ‘The Windmill Girls’ had always seemed so glamorous, dressed in their beautiful costumes with an array of British celebrities pictured smiling between them. Having had to make a hasty exit from the all-too-different world she’d previously occupied, the Windmill had been her first port of call when she’d arrived in London.
The Angel Tree Page 2
