THE TRYSTING TREE Read Free Page B

be recording them in the sketchbook of her mind, maintaining the habit of a lifetime.
    I was at her bedside before she registered my presence, so when she turned her head, she was startled.
    ‘Good God! Who sent for you? Is there something they aren’t telling me? Should I expect a visit from the chaplain next?’
    ‘Hello, Mum. How are you feeling?’
    ‘Lousy. But you didn’t need to come. I really don’t know why they kept me in.’ She started to cough violently, demonstrating why they’d kept her in.
    ‘Dagmar said you’d had a fall, so naturally I was concerned.’
    ‘Dagmar should mind her own bloody business.’
    ‘Well, fortunately for you, she doesn’t. She knew they’d let you out of here sooner if you had someone to look after you at home, so I’ve volunteered. But of course, if there’s someone else you’d rather ask…’
    Phoebe stared stonily into space, but her eyes were misty. ‘It’s been a hell of a year for death… Dodie went, finally. And Jim just dropped down dead one day. He was only fifty-six! And Peter’s in a nursing home now, poor old thing. Dementia.’
    ‘Uncle Peter? I didn’t know he was still alive.’
    ‘Sebastian’s in prison. Not sure what for. Art forgery, probably. He was very good at it. Though not good enough , obviously.’
    ‘Sebastian? Wasn’t he your—’
    ‘ Assistant . That’s what I used to call them. My assistants.’ She turned and glared at me. ‘You didn’t bring any flowers then?’
    ‘You aren’t allowed to these days. Health and Safety regulations.’ Phoebe swore and the woman in the next bed looked up and sighed audibly. I shot a conciliatory smile in her direction.
    ‘But I did bring you some chocolates,’ I said, changing the subject. ‘I didn’t bother with fruit because I knew you wouldn’t eat it.’
    ‘What kind of chocolates?’
    ‘Belgian.’
    ‘Good! Thank you,’ she added as an afterthought, without looking at me. ‘But your services as a babysitter will not be required.’
    ‘Mum, I think you need someone staying with you for a while. Till you get back on your feet.’
    ‘Ha!’
    ‘Sorry, but you know what I mean. I don’t rate your chances of getting through a winter on your own.’
    ‘Well, there’s a first time for everything.’
    ‘I know, but I’m offering to come and look after you for a while. Until we can arrange something suitable.’
    ‘I’ve shut up the house,’ she announced. ‘I’m living in the studio now.’
    ‘But why?’
    ‘Fewer footsteps. It’s easier to heat. And cheaper.’
    ‘Have you considered selling up?’
    ‘No.’
    ‘Why not?’
    Phoebe treated me to a withering look. ‘Because it would mean conceding my painting days are over. Admitting that bloody cancer has won!’ The woman in the next bed tutted and turned the page of her magazine with a theatrical flourish.
    ‘On the contrary,’ I said playing my hand carefully. ‘Rejecting ancient bricks and mortar in favour of a comfortable, modern flat would demonstrate you still meant business. That you were moving forward after… a setback.’
    My mother didn’t miss a beat. ‘And where would I paint?’
    ‘Well, you’re living in one room now, so you could rent or buy something open-plan. One of those exciting warehouse conversions in Bristol, perhaps? Bare brick and loads of character. Or you could opt for a conventional layout and just turn the biggest room into a studio. There are some lovely waterside flats in Portishead and Clevedon. Good for the light.’
    Phoebe eyed me suspiciously ‘You’ve obviously given this some thought.’
    ‘I’ve done more than that. I’ve been to some estate agents in Bristol.’ I reached into my bag and brought out a large box of Belgian chocolates and a sheaf of estate agents’ brochures which I placed on the bed. Phoebe ignored the leaflets and started to rip open the chocolates, saying, ‘I can’t afford to move.’
    ‘Mum, you can’t afford to stay. And Garden Lodge is