THE TRYSTING TREE Read Free

not. I’m forty-three. I gave up on all that years ago.’
    ‘So why do you want to see me?’ she asked suspiciously.
    ‘Well, as I said, I have some news. About Jack.’
    ‘Is he dead?’
    ‘ No! Look, Mum, could I just come and visit? I’d really like to see you. I’m concerned about you living alone.’
    ‘How do you know I’m living alone?’ Phoebe snapped. ‘Has Dagmar been telling tales?’
    ‘Not at all, but she’s concerned about you too.’
    ‘I’m fine. Couldn’t be better. There’s a constant stream of visitors – some of them male, young and good-looking, so you don’t need to worry about me. I’m in the pink! Now if you don’t mind, I’d like to get on. I’m very busy.’
    I shouldn’t have asked, but I did. ‘Are you painting again?’
    There was a brief pause, then Phoebe said, ‘No,’ and hung up.

PHOEBE
     
    From where she lay in bed, Phoebe Flint could see her easel with its blank canvas, her paints, brushes, oily rags, all the paraphernalia of an artist’s life. When she used to be able to work, Phoebe would lock up the studio at the end of the day and stroll across to Garden Lodge, where, with paint-stained hands, she’d pour herself a large gin with very little tonic. She was happy to forget her work for a few hours, knowing she’d make the journey in reverse the following day and the next. Work was the great cure-all. It didn’t mend broken hearts or bodies but, like gin, it dulled the pain.
    There was a rhythm and a routine to Phoebe’s days and friends and lovers knew it shouldn’t be disturbed. But Sylvester hadn’t understood. Sylvester had been unpredictable, emotional, romantic – in a word, foreign . He expected Phoebe to drop everything to meet him at the airport. He liked to go out to dinner when she’d forgotten to cook. As a Madeiran, he didn’t share her enthusiasm for buttered cream crackers and a lump of stale cheddar.
    Ann had proved to be another distraction. The child expected Phoebe to play games and read stories, especially after Sylvester had gone, but once Ann was settled at school, Phoebe established a routine again, one that lasted decades until it was disrupted by the discovery of a lump that turned out to be malignant. Surgery and punitive chemotherapy confined Phoebe to bed or a wheelchair for months. The loss of a breast and lymphoedema in her right arm made work impossible. In any case, her hands and feet hurt too much for her to work at an easel. Even sketching was difficult.
    Phoebe’s condition was notoriously difficult to treat. The disabling side effects of chemo were usually temporary. Her oncologist assured her many patients suffered, but most made a full recovery. Phoebe didn’t. Her GP referred her to a pain clinic, but nothing from their pharmacopeia soothed her damaged nerves, apart from drugs that reduced her to a swollen, confused heap, slumped in front of the TV, too exhausted to reach for the remote. Phoebe preferred to live with her pain.
    Her dogged efforts to paint were never witnessed by friends or even Dagmar. Phoebe’s humiliating failures were a private affair. She stopped complaining about her disability when several well-meaning friends cited Matisse and his famous paper cut-outs, executed from his wheelchair using a pair of wallpaper shears. Phoebe vowed privately that all she’d be executing with wallpaper shears would be the next person to mention Henri bloody Matisse.
    Her attempts to produce new paintings yielded work so disappointing she felt compelled to destroy it in case she dropped dead and some future art historian came upon these daubings and concluded they were a new departure in her final years, one rather less successful than Matisse’s cut-outs.
    To reduce the number of footsteps, Phoebe moved into the studio. She refused to accept her painting days were over and as a staunch atheist, she declined to pray for a miracle, but she didn’t stop hoping for one. Sometimes she dreamed of waking full