THE TRYSTING TREE Read Free Page A

of energy and pain-free, able to swing her legs out of bed and stand without wincing. In dreams she strode over to her easel, picked up a brush and palette and wielded them deftly, confidently, her brain and hand so closely connected, it was as if she only had to think the brush strokes for them to appear on the canvas.
    Phoebe lay still and stared at her easel for a long time before attempting to get out of bed. The moment she moved, she knew the overnight miracle had not occurred. As the duvet grazed her damaged toes, she braced herself for the worst part of her day: the moment when she placed both feet inside her thickly padded slippers and stood, putting her whole weight on the ground.
    She grunted and, stiff with inactivity, lurched across the floor like Frankenstein’s monster, aiming for the kettle she’d filled the night before, when her hands still worked. She flicked a switch and hobbled over to a chair, eager to take the weight off her feet.
    ‘It gets better’, she told herself. Mornings were always bad, but she would loosen up as the day wore on. She’d get used to the pain which had become her constant companion and things would seem brighter after the first cup of coffee. Once it had been filter, but nowadays Phoebe settled for instant. Last thing at night she would tip a generous spoonful of Carte Noir into a mug, ready for the morning. Every little helped…
    Phoebe wondered what it was about chronic sickness and pain that brought out the clichés in people. If ever a situation required imagination and ingenuity, it was surely one like hers. Matisse knew what he was doing. You had to think laterally. There was more to art than paint.
    Already Phoebe felt tired. Maybe she’d go back to bed. She obviously wasn’t going to be doing any painting. Not today. As the kettle came to the boil, she looked up longingly at the mug beside it, then her eyes swivelled across the room to her tiny fridge. She estimated the number of footsteps, then remembered the powdered milk stored on the shelf above the kettle. Finally – thinking laterally – she considered drinking her coffee black.
    Tired of her deliberations, Phoebe opted for the shortest route. She kicked off her slippers and clambered back into bed. She’d get up eventually, but not now.
    As she fell into a doze, Phoebe wondered if there was a thermos flask in the house. If she made a flask of coffee before retiring and left it on the bedside table, she could get a caffeine fix without setting foot on the floor. Her spirits rose until she realised she would have to negotiate the uneven path and several steps on the way back to Garden Lodge. Even if she still had one, the flask was probably on the top shelf in the scullery, which would mean climbing on to a chair.
    Life drove some hard bargains.

ANN
     
    Some weeks later Dagmar contacted me to say Phoebe was in hospital. She’d fallen in the garden, putting the rubbish bin out on a rainy morning. She hadn’t broken anything, but she’d twisted her ankle and had been unable to get up again. I suppose she might have died of exposure if one of the bin men hadn’t heard her calling for help.
    Phoebe was admitted to hospital for observation and gave Dagmar as her next of kin. Brave Dagmar took it upon herself to ring me and, with her usual efficiency, informed me of the visiting hours.
    She also wished me luck.
     
    ~
     
    Phoebe was sitting up in bed wearing silk pyjamas and a man’s tweed cap. I saw her before she spotted me and was able to study her face before surprise re-arranged it. I’d steeled myself, but the sight of her wrung my heart. I suppose one always remembers parents as younger and more vigorous, but Phoebe looked a decade older than I was expecting. She was thin and pale, like a plant deprived of sunlight. She lay collapsed against her pillows and gazed, apparently aimlessly round the ward, but I knew my mother. She was observing with her artist’s eye details, lines, textures. She would