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Audra did not break her pace until she came to the huge sycamore tree at the end of the pasture. Upon reaching it she stooped down and stepped under its spreading branches which formed a canopy of green, shutting out the sky. She leaned her body against the tree, pressed her face to its trunk and closed her eyes. She was out of breath and panting with exertion.
After only a few moments she began to breathe more evenly. Slowly, she smoothed her hand over the tree, felt the rough texture of the bark under her fingertips, and she smiled to herself. This was her tree. Her place.
She had named it the Memory Place in her mind. For that was exactly what it was – the place to remember them, to relive the past, to recall the happiness and joy that had once been hers and was no more.
Frequently they had come here together. Her mother. Her brothers, Frederick and William. And Uncle Peter. And when she was here at the tree they were with her again, and her misery was vanquished for a brief while.
Audra opened her eyes, blinking in the cool green darkness of the sycamore’s shade, and then she moved out from underneath its branches. Circling the tree, she came to a standstill at the edge of the little slope that fell away to the banks of the River Ure just a few feet below her. Finally she lifted her head and gazed out across that narrow band of swift-running water to the wooded valley on the opposite side of the river. There it was, nestled in the palm of a natural dell set amidst the trees.
High Cleugh: the small but lovely old manor where she had been born nineteen years ago today. The house where she had grown up, had lived for the best part of her life. Her beloved home until five years ago.
She feasted her eyes on it, struck as always by its simplicity and gentleness which, to her, were the things that made it compellingly beautiful.
High Cleugh was an eighteenth-century house, long and low, with a fine symmetry that gave it an incomparable gracefulness. It was built of local grey stone and had many leaded windows that winked and glinted now in the bright sunlight. These faced out onto a terrace made of the same ancient stone; running the length of the house, the terrace was broken in the centre by a very long flight of steps that sliced its way through lawns tilting to the river. Herbaceous borders, wide, rambling, grew beneath the terrace walls, splashed vivid hues against the dark stone and verdant grass.
But it was the massed delphiniums which caught the eye, entranced. These flourished in great abundance at the bottom of the lawns near the river’s edge, their blossoms blanketing the ground with a breathtaking mixture of blues. Cobalt bled into a powder blue so delicate it was almost white, this tint giving way to cornflower, then a luscious violet-blue that in turn brushed up against lavender and the purple tones of belladonna.
Her mother’s delphiniums…planted with such care and nurtured so lovingly by her over the years. Audra’s heart clenched with a bittersweet mixture of pleasure and pain. Oh, how she longed to be in those gardens once again. It would be so easy for her to slip over to the other side of the river. All she had to do was follow the path along the bank until she came to the stepping stones. These giant flat slabs, worn smooth by running water and time, stretched across the shallowest part, led directly to the copse adjoining the manor.
But she could not go to High Cleugh. If she did she would be trespassing. Another family lived there now.
She sat down on the springy grass, pulled her knees up to her chest, rested her chin on them and clasped her arms around her legs.
For the longest time Audra stared at High Cleugh.
There was no sign of life. It appeared to slumber in the brilliant sunshine as if it were not inhabited at all. A peacefulness lay over the motionless gardens. Not a blade of grass, not a single leaf stirred. The wind had dropped and the air was warm and languid. There was no sound except for the faint buzzing of a bee somewhere nearby and the gurgle and splash of water rushing over dappled stones as the Ure wended its way below her.
Audra’s gaze became more intense than ever. She saw beyond the exterior walls to the inner core of the house. She closed her eyes, let herself sink down into her imagination, remembering, remembering…
She was inside the house.
She stood in the hall with its apricot-coloured walls and worn green velvet bench and the palm in the pitted brass pot. All was shadowy, quiescent. She listened for a while to the stillness. Then she stepped forward, her footsteps echoing with a metallic ring against the marble. Slowly she climbed the staircase. It twisted upward in a graceful curve. She paused on the first landing. Her room was here. She went inside, closed the door, sighed with pleasure.
Familiar walls of the palest green surrounded her, reminded her as always of a summer sea on a misty Yorkshire morning. The polished wood floor gleamed like glass under her feet as she stepped up to her four-poster bed. She reached out, touched the tulips printed on the worn coverlet, traced a finger around their once-red petals long since washed-out to the colour of old rust. Burnt sienna it was called in her paintbox. She glided to the window, looked out across the Dales, heard the rustle of the curtains as they flapped about in the breese. The scent of carnations filled the summer air. She turned her head, saw a cloud of pink petals in the blue willow-patterned bowl that stood on the oak chest. Their perfume drifted away, was replaced by a sweeter, headier fragrance. October roses lifted full-blown heads from the bowl, shining yellows against the blue. It was Autumn now. The time of the harvest.
How well she knew the changing seasons of this house.
The air had grown chillier. The fire crackled in the grate. She felt the warmth of the flames on her face. Snowflakes fluttered against the window pane. The gardens were made of white icing sugar.
She was no longer alone in the house.
She caught the sound of her mother’s laughter, the swish of her silk gown as she joined her by the fire. The Beautiful Edith Kenton. That was how they always spoke of her hereabouts.
Sapphires blazed at her throat, on her cool white arms. Blue fire against that translucent skin. Hair the colour of new pennies, an aureole of burnished copper light around the pale heart-shaped face. Warm and loving lips were pressed down to her young cheek. The smell of gardenias and Coty powder enveloped her. A slender, elegant hand took hold of hers, guided her out of the room.
Frederick and William waited in the hall, sang carols as they descended the stairs. Rowdy, loving brothers and devoted sons. Uncle Peter stood behind them in the entrance to the drawing room. He embraced her with his smile and ushered them all into the room.
She stood transfixed.
The room had acquired a magical quality this Christmas night. Its faded elegance had taken on a curious new beauty in the muted, golden light. Candles glowed on a sturdy little fir. Logs hissed and spurted up the chimney. Sprigs of holly decorated the paintings, draped the mantle, hung in great beribboned swags in front of the windows. Mistletoe fell from the cut-glass chandelier. Paper chains were inverted rainbows looped across the ceiling. The air was redolent with new aromas that assailed her senses. She smelled pine cones and wood smoke and eggnog, and succulent goose cooking and chestnuts roasting on the fire.
They crowded around the fireplace.
They sang carols and drank the eggnog from little crystal cups and lifted the steaming chestnuts from their bursting shells. And their laughter reverberated through the house.
Three red felt stockings hung from the mantelpiece. They opened them…she and Frederick and William. In hers there was a treasure trove. An orange, an apple, a bag of nuts and a new penny tied in a scrap of silk; a sachet of potpourri, Pears soap and yards of silk ribbons for her hair plus a box of Egyptian dates, lavender water and a book of verse with the name Edith Kenton written on the flyleaf in her mother’s flowing script. Little things which had cost nothing but whose value was priceless to her.
Snowdrifts were banked outside the house.
Sleet and bitter winds rattled against the window panes and heralded the new year. The Christmas decorations had disappeared. The house was hushed and desolate without her mother’s laughter. It was the time for Uncle Peter to go away again. She saw the sadness on his face, and her mother’s eyes, blue like the sapphires she wore, were filled with tears…
Audra’s face was wet with tears…she had not realized she had begun to cry. She straightened up and brushed her eyes with her fingertips, tearing her gaze away from High Cleugh.
She lay down and buried her face in the cool, sweet-smelling grass, then squeezed her eyes tightly shut as she felt the sharp prick of tears once more. But now she did not bother to suppress them; instead, she allowed herself the luxury of weeping.
And she wept for those she had lost and for the past and for the way things had once been.
Eventually her tears ceased. She lay there quietly, staring up at the china-blue sky, watching the drift of the scudding clouds, ruminating on her beloved family and all of the things which had happened in the last few years.
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