Wild Wood

by Posie Graeme-Evans

  “Well, Tudor is not quite my era, but I’d have to agree.” His eyes glint with the avarice of the scholar.

  Touching the top, Alicia says, “It’s hard to imagine this was ever a living tree.”

  Brian twinkles. “Do you think it knew, as it grew, that fate would turn it into a table?”

  “If a tree actually ever thinks. Please, do sit.” Alicia gestures to her guests. “The oak was cut on the estate. The family got wind of a visit from Queen Elizabeth one summer in the 1570s, and a frenzy of improvements began. This had been destined as a shipbuilder’s oak for Deptford, but it was sacrificed for her. And all for just two days and one night.” Alicia drops into a tapestry-seated chair at one end of the table—a massive thing of black oak and gilded studwork. “Sic transit gloria mundi. ‘So passes the glory of the world.’ ”

  Elizabeth and Brian exchange a glance.

  Brian says, “Did she actually come?”

  Alicia stares at him. “No. She didn’t. And it’s fair to say that all those ‘improvements’ to Hundredfield for the visit that never happened began the process that, in the end, beggared my family.” Her voice falters. “And here we are today, as you see. Poorer but not wiser. Definitely not that.”

  With some sympathy, Elizabeth says, “But this room will certainly bring visitors, Alicia, especially with all of the original furniture. You are so fortunate the collection has remained intact. So many are broken up for the money. And of course, the connection with Good Queen Bess is a guaranteed crowd-pleaser.”

  Alicia smiles politely.

  “ ‘Good’? I think you may find that’s open for debate considering contemporary research.” Brian doesn’t quite sniff.

  Elizabeth ignores him. “And just think, if she’d come, she might have sat in your actual chair, Alicia. It’s certainly grand enough.”

  “And they’d have hung the monarch’s cloth of estate from a canopy above, nothing surer.” Brian gestures. “Do you know if it still exists? Restoration could still be possible.”

  “Possibly. We’ve never really gone through the attics or the cellars in a systematic way.”

  Elizabeth Humboldt clears her throat. “Alicia, perhaps now is as good a time as any to walk you through how surrendering this property to the trust could actually work; you should know our requirements and your potential undertakings and obligations. Brian?”

  “Yes, indeed.” Brian extracts a number of folders from his briefcase. He passes one to Alicia, another to Elizabeth. “All very straightforward and expressed in plain English. We find people appreciate that.”

  He smiles, Elizabeth smiles, and two pairs of bright eyes settle on Alicia’s face as she opens the document.

  Like crows, she thinks, waiting for something to die.

  Jesse speaks up over the noise of the Saab’s engine. “ ‘She must return the mother’? What does that mean?”

  Rory flicks Jesse a glance. “I don’t know. The message was for you. You heard her.” He’s deeply, deeply uncomfortable talking about her.

  “ ‘Some people can believe ten impossible things before breakfast. I can’t.’ Alicia said that. You and she are so alike.”

  Rory shifts down rather than comment. But Jesse’s right. A night’s sleep and the questions begin; this whole situation could be career suicide if he pursues it. “What time did you make the appointment for?”

  “I didn’t.”

  Rory switches attention from the road. “He might not be able to see you. Mornings are rush hour in any doctor’s surgery.”

  “How well do you know Alistair Nicholls?”

  A signpost flashes past. Five miles to Newton Prior. “Very well. And I owe him a lot. When I went for the scholarship to Edinburgh, he was one of my referees.”

  “He was here when you grew up?”

  Rory nods. “But he practiced in Edinburgh as a gynecologist before he came to Newton Prior. That’s why I asked him.”

  “He’s a GP now, though?”

  “Being a specialist can be stressful.”

  Jesse murmurs, “ ‘He said with feeling.’ ”

  The sound of the engine fills up the silence.

  A glance at Jesse’s wan face and Rory says, “I’m still not happy about this.”

  “I’m not physically ill, Rory.”

  “I’m not talking about your body.”

  They’re in the outskirts of the village; the square’s not far.

  “Where will I find you?”

  “I’ll meet you at the Hunt.”

  “When?”

  Jesse snaps, “You are not my brother.”

  “No, I’m your doctor.” Rory can be just as stubborn. He guides the Saab into a parking space. Turns the engine off. “Let me come with you, Jesse. It might be safer.”

  “Nothing’s safe. Or certain. I’ll find you when I’ve done what I have to do.” Jesse gets out and walks away.

  “I need to ask you a question.”

  The little Madonna in St, Michael’s Church is smiling at Jesse. She’s smiled for hundreds and hundreds of years.

  “Is it you? Did she mean you?”

  “I’m so glad you like her.” Fred materializes from the side aisle of St. Michael’s.

  Jesse jumps. “You’re just like a ghost. Has anyone ever said that?”

  “It’s the black clothes. I tend to blend in. May I join you?”

  The murmur of prayer comes from near the main altar. “Who’s on the bridge?”

  A quiet chuckle. “My new curate, logging sky miles. Special morning service today—the Mothers Group.” Fred sits beside Jesse and contemplates the Madonna and her son. “She might be homely, but so many, many people have found comfort in her presence.”

  Jesse stares at the Madonna’s face. “She loves her baby. That makes her beautiful.”

  They sit in silence as the voice of a single child sings the twenty-fifth psalm, rising like birdsong into the rafters.

  Fred murmurs, “We’re very proud of our choir.”

  Jesse turns to him passionately. “There’s so much that’s glorious in the church. But”—she gestures at the mural behind the altar—“all that terror, all the suppression of feeling. And what they did to women? Look at that stuff!” Jesse glares at The Harrowing as if it’s personal, the naked women being tormented by devils, the terrified girls being herded to hell.

  “The church has always been frightened of women. You make life in your bodies. An echo of God, that.”

  “But nothing changes. Madonna or whore. Is that all there is? Depressing. Seriously.” Did they call you a whore, Mum? Jesse shakes herself. “Sorry, Fred. I actually came to thank you. Your friend, Sister Mary Joseph. She’s a wonderful person.”

  “Was it a useful meeting?”

  Jesse struggles. “I know more now, but I’ll never meet my mum.”

  His silence is kind.

  “Sister Mary was there when I was born. She remembers that night. There was a young doctor, an honorary, on duty.” Jesse stares at the little Madonna. “Do you know Dr. Nicholls?”

  The priest smiles. “This is a village, Jesse.”

  “Is he a good man?”

  “He’s a very good doctor.”

  That’s not quite the same thing. “I’m going to try to see him. Just to ask.”

  “If he was the doctor on duty?”

  She ducks her head. “Yes.”

  Fred says gently, “Sometimes, wishing for something can distort reality.” He gestures at the Madonna. “I am very fond of her, but in the end, she’s just a statue. She can’t grant wishes.”

  Jesse looks at him curiously. “But you’re a priest. You believe reality-bending things every day.”

  “Maybe that’s why I’m guaranteed to understand the worst that belief, and faith, can do.”

  “Is that a nice way of saying you think I’m wrong?”

  “Alistair’s not the only doctor in the borders.” A faint smile.

  “Of course. But he asked me to visit
him if I needed help, so that’s what I’m doing.” There’s the feeling of a fist clenching and unclenching in Jesse’s stomach. Wrong or right, she’s doing this. She stands quickly. “Even if she is just a statue, it’s been helpful to talk to her. And to you. You both give me courage.”

  “Oh, I’d say you’ve got bags of that all by yourself. Come back when you need to. I’m always here.”

  “That’s what Alicia said about Rahere.”

  “Oh?”

  “Yes. A colleague of yours. In London. He helped me a lot.”

  “Pleased to know that. Pass on my regards, next time you see him.”

  “I might do that.”

  The Madonna’s still smiling as Jesse leaves.

  43

  MUM?” RORY knocks at the closed door of his mother’s office.

  “It’s not locked.”

  He swings around. Helen’s in the corridor behind him. She’s not defrosting in a hurry. “What do you want, Rory? I’ve got quite a lot of work to do.” She opens the door and strides ahead of her son to her desk.

  Helen’s office is in what’s left of the main priory building. It’s a modern room inside an ancient shell, and oak beams, thicker than bridge supports, cross the ceiling and vein the walls, but the fourth wall is made entirely of glass, looking out into a cloistered garden. It should feel like a peaceful place.

  “What I want is not to leave things as they are. Why does this happen, Mum? We’re always pleased to see each other, but then . . .” Rory shrugs painfully as he sits opposite his mother.

  Helen blinks. She hesitates. “When you were little, when it was just you and me, we looked after each other. We were close then.”

  He leans forward. “What changed?”

  “I think,” Helen says with some care, “you did. Boarding school. You were different after that—all your posh friends. I thought you were ashamed of me.”

  “All my . . .” He stares at her. And shakes his head. “I didn’t want to go, did you know that?”

  She nods reluctantly. “But when Alicia’s dad made the offer, I knew it would give you the start in life I couldn’t. I thought you’d get over it.”

  It’s an effort to speak. “I thought you’d stopped loving me. That”—Rory swallows—“you hated me and sent me away because of that.”

  Helen visibly deflates. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “I tried. You don’t have the words when you’re seven. And you’d met Charley. I didn’t want to get in the way after so many years of struggle and unhappiness. But then, when I came home, there was no more Hundredfield. That broke my heart, Mum.”

  “That place!”

  “It was our home.”

  “It was a trap! It’s always been a trap for people like us. And the Donnes . . .” Helen doesn’t finish the sentence. Jerkily, she puts carbon copy between two sheets of paper and winds them into the typewriter.

  Rory says quietly, “They were good to us. They didn’t have to be so kind. The house, paying for the school—”

  Helen’s face flushes. “Kind?” She starts to type, hitting the keys hard.

  Rory grabs one of her hands. “Don’t do this, Mum. Let it go.”

  She snatches her hand back. “They’re with me every single day of my life, every time I look at you. Let it go? I still dream about Hundredfield, all those long, terrible years.” Her agitation is painful.

  Rory’s shocked. He’s never seen her like this. “I just want to make things better between us.” He goes around the desk and, though it’s awkward, puts his arms around her shoulders.

  Helen cannot cry. “I was all alone. I had no one, except you. He was wicked, that man. Wicked! He thought he could do anything he liked. And then he just ignored us—as if we didn’t exist.” Words force themselves out of her mouth as if they’ve been torn.

  “You don’t have to talk about Dad. I stopped thinking about him years ago.”

  She clutches his arm. “You don’t understand. Your father, he . . .” She stops.

  “If I don’t understand, tell me why. I don’t even know what he looks like. You must have kept something, Mum. A photograph. Surely you’ve got a photograph somewhere?”

  “It’s done.” Helen clamps her lips tight as she goes back to the typewriter. She says with forced calm, “I need to get on.”

  “Do you know why I became a doctor, Mum? I wanted to help people. You can’t do that unless you understand, unless you can get to the truth.” Rory’s not going away. He stands there with his hands on her shoulders, raising his voice over the peck of the keys. “That’s what my work is, what all my research is about. There’re always reasons why we are the way we are, there’s always history. People cannot heal unless they come to terms with the past.”

  Helen’s face is haggard. “That girl.”

  “Alicia?” He’s puzzled.

  “The other one. You talk about truth.” Helen speaks in a rush. “Why bring her to Hundredfield, Rory? She talked you into it, didn’t she?”

  He shakes his head. “You know why. She’s helping me with research. And Jesse’s connected to the borders—not just because she was born at Jedburgh, either. More than that.”

  “Helping with your research? Girls like her.” Helen starts typing again, rapid as gunshot. “She met you in the hospital, Rory. Think about that.” She shakes her head.

  “Girls like what, Mum?” Rory’s calm is fraying.

  Helen mutters, “She’s wasting her time. And yours.”

  Rory perseveres. “No. She’s not. Jesse’s found out her mother died when she was born. She didn’t know that before.”

  Helen rests her fingers on the keys. “So there’s an end to it.” She says with difficulty, “Poor girl.” The sympathy seems real.

  “Jesse believes Alistair Nicholls was there. She’s going to talk to him.”

  Helen picks up a bottle of correcting fluid and minutely blanks out a single letter on the page. “You’re distracting me, Rory.” The keys clatter against the paper.

  “Mum. Mum?”

  Helen types faster. “I need to finish this.”

  Rory hesitates. His eyes are sad.

  Helen nods. “Close the door, would you?” She’s still typing as Rory leaves, and she keeps typing, but she’s staring at the phone as the door clicks closed behind her son.

  “Is Doctor Nicholls available, please?”

  Jesse’s standing at the counter in a crowded waiting room. She feels conspicuous.

  “Do we have you on our books?” The woman on the far side of the counter—a barrier of sturdy Scots pine, which she rather resembles in plain defensiveness—purses her lips.

  “No, I’m sorry. I’m not one of his patients, I’m a visitor, but he suggested—”

  “Doctor has a very busy surgery this morning. If you leave your name and a number, I’m sure he’ll try to call when he has a moment.” With a that’s all I can possibly do finality, the receptionist cranes her head around Jesse, holding out a clipboard. “Mrs. Pibroch? If you’d step up to the counter, I need you to fill out—”

  “I’ll see Miss Marley next, Mrs. Newby.” A door has opened, and as Dr. Nicholls nods to Jesse, he ushers out the previous patient.

  “But, Doctor.” The receptionist half stands. The proprieties, and the proprietress of the waiting room, have jointly been outraged.

  “This way.” The doctor stands aside, allowing Jesse to precede him into the room.

  As Alistair Nicholls shuts the door on the mutter of the waiting room, he says, “I’m delighted to see you again, Miss Marley. Please . . .” He waves to a chair with unattractive upholstery.

  “Thank you.” Jesse clears her throat.

  “How may I help?” The doctor steeples his fingers and observes the girl sitting on the edge of the seat.

  Jesse finds courage. “Doctor Nicholls, were you ever an honorary doctor—if that’s the right term?”

  “If you mean was I, or am I, a visiting physician on a pro bono basis? Yes. No
t all can afford a specialist consultation if they must pay.”

  Jesse absorbs that information. “Mack took me to visit one of the sisters who had worked at Holly House in Jedburgh. That’s where I was born. Sister Mary Joseph? She was the midwife in charge at that time.”

  Dr. Nicholls nods but says nothing.

  “Sister Mary said there was a visiting doctor at Holly House on the night of my birth, but my mother died not long after.” She swallows. “Her name was Eva Green. She had not been there very long and my father’s identity was not known, then or now. I’m keen to pursue any leads at all. That was August first, and I’m twenty-four now.”

  “The year would be 1956?”

  “Was it you? Were you the visiting doctor?” The words come out in a blurt.

  “A Catholic institution would more likely retain physicians of the same faith, especially then. I am not Catholic. And it is a very long time ago.”

  He hasn’t said no. “I’m sure you can understand how important this is to me, Dr. Nicholls.” Jesse’s trying not to plead.

  “Certainly.”

  It’s not that his eyes are cold, it’s that their expression is far away.

  “Please. If you know anything. Anything at all.”

  He hesitates. “I would have to check to be completely certain; however, I believe I may have attended your mother. Green is a common name, but Eva, of course, is unusual. Especially then.”

  Shock hits Jesse like a physical blow.

  “Miss Marley?”

  “You really were the doctor?” It’s hard for her to breathe.

  He nods.

  “Sister Mary said it, my birth, was difficult.”

  He says gently, “Yes.”

  “Can you tell me how my mother died?”

  “Are you certain, really sure, that you want to know?”

  Jesse whispers, “I think of her all the time.” She does not have other words to use.

  Alistair Nicholls takes off his glasses and polishes them. Putting them back, he says, “It was blood loss. We could not stem the hemorrhage. Sometimes, no matter what is done for a patient, we do not succeed.” He looks down at his hands. “Colleagues, other doctors, say they get used to it.” He looks up. “But I never have. I never do.” His eyes are defeated.