Christie Dickason - The Lady Tree

He counted the sheep that munched down toward the water meadows. The ewe pregnant with late twins was not eating but lay awkwardly on the ground. As he watched, she rose then lay down again. He must send someone to see to her.

But it’s not my job now to think like that. One way or another, this life was now over. But he would not go back to prison. He would never surrender to the rope or block.

They reached the far end of the hornbeam allée and passed through a gap in a shoulder-high yew hedge into a flat empty green kept tightly shorn by grazing geese, a quiet green room enclosed by high, dark-green aromatic walls.

‘The bowling lawn.’

‘Bowling,’ said Harry dully. ‘Not much in favour now in London. I must do something with this.’

A blue and white cat slipped onto the green from under the hedge, froze when it saw the two men, flattened its ears and streaked under the hedge towards the fields.

Water glinted through a gap in the yew hedge. Harry crossed the bowling lawn in long-legged strides.

‘This is better!’ he cried.

From the north-west comer of the house they now looked along the north front and over the basse-court. A little farther on, the river Shir slid like oil over a small weir into the highest of the three fish ponds, dug before any man or woman on the estate could remember.

‘Now here …’ Harry said, ‘I see possibility! We make these ponds into one long lake, the full width of the house. Try to imagine, coz, if you can…statues. And water jets. A bronze of Nereus, just there below the weir.’ He looked around for his cousin, faltered slightly at John’s set face but surged onward. ‘Conjoin the ponds and there’s room for all his fifty sea-nymph daughters around the edge!’

John lifted his eyes beyond the ponds to the smooth swell of hillcrest that rose from the orchard blossom like the naked shoulder of a woman from her smock. He had swallowed a brand from the kitchen fire.

This time, I must kill Edward Malise, he thought fiercely.

‘What’s all that?’ asked Harry, pointing at the jumble of brick buildings and walls that jostled against the back of the house.

‘That?’ John stared as if unravelling the well-known corners and jogs for the first time. ‘… The basse-court yard …’

Two hens scratched in the arch of the gate which opened onto the ponds from the yard between the dairy house and a storage shed.

Not so fast, John then decided. It may be possible that he didn’t recognize me. I may have time to think what’s best to do. But how, dear God, do I deal with my cousin?

‘Come with me!’ Harry ordered. He strode along the bank of the pond, to get a more central view of the basse-court and the north face. ‘Oh, John! This is quite wonderful! I can see exactly …’ He pulled John round by the arm to face his vision. ‘We’ll knock all those old buildings down. Make a new ornamental lawn between the house and the ponds…Can’t you see it? Grass from there to there!’ He threw his arms wide like a bishop gathering his flock in a spiritual embrace. ‘Not Hatfield perhaps …’ Harry laughed with the pure pleasure of his vision. ‘But the best in Hampshire!’

In the eleven years since Malise and I last met, thought John, I have changed from boy to man and sprouted a beard. From fourteen to twenty-five. He was already twenty-seven then. Perhaps he really doesn’t know me!

‘Then …!’ Harry pulled again at John’s sleeve and pointed at the house. ‘Leave aside all those little sheds and things. Try to imagine a portico centred between the wings in place of that old-fashioned porch.’

There was no reply.

‘John? What do you think of my idea of a Greek portico in place of that old porch?’

John focused on his cousin again. ‘No portico, Harry,’ he said quietly.

‘The first on a private house,’ insisted Harry. ‘A portico in the new classical style, like the Queen’s banqueting house just built in Greenwich. I shall build the first in Hampshire. The King himself might come to admire it. Oh, coz, we shall have such fun putting this place right!’

‘No,’ said John in a voice like a scythe.

Harry faltered and dropped in mid-flight. ‘What’s wrong?’ He licked his pink lips and swallowed. The long-lashed blue eyes blinked, and looked away. ‘No, I know.’ Then, ‘Please don’t look at me like that! It makes me feel five years old.’ Harry frowned across the ponds as John had done earlier. He squared his shoulders. ‘Very well. I owe you honesty, though I had hoped it would not need to be said.’

John did not breathe.

‘I want you to stay here,’ Harry said thickly. ‘Did you think that I can’t see how much you do…have done? I need you to stay.’ He cleared his throat and hauled an uncertain smile onto his face. ‘Cousin, with my ideas, your organizing and my wife’s money, we shall have more fun than you can imagine!’ He waited for John’s gratitude and relief.

‘Harry, who does your dear friend Edward Malise think I am?’

‘What?’ Harry looked startled, then defensive, then a little sulky, the way he had used to look when Dr Bowler asked him to conjugate a Latin verb. ‘What do you mean? The same as everyone else, I suppose…You’re my cousin who has been running my estate.’

‘And my name?’

‘Your name?’ Harry now looked angry, as if John were unfair to ask him something he didn’t know but might have remembered if John hadn’t worried him by asking about it.

John waited.

‘Whoosh.’ Harry shook his head. ‘I don’t understand. It’s John Graffham. Or have I got that wrong too?’

John walked to the edge of the pond. A grey and white feather bounced gently on the ripples behind a swimming duck. If Malise did not know him, then why was he here?

‘John?’ Harry felt that both his explanation and invitation had been handsome enough to merit a better response. I won’t wheedle or apologize any more, he told himself. My cousin will just have to accept the new order and his place in it.

Eleven years ago, Harry was only nine, thought John. And no doubt as self-absorbed as he is now.

Harry cleared his throat and said firmly, ‘Nothing will change that really matters.’ He nodded toward the basse-court , ‘I’m sure you can find somewhere else on the estate for all that!’

‘I can always chop down the orchard to make room,’ said John.

‘You’re not serious.’

Hot rage suddenly swelled in John’s chest and throat, and banged in his temples. ‘That “old-fashioned” porch suits the house!’ He thrust his fists together behind his back. ‘It’s the nose it was born with,’ he shouted. ‘Why cut it off and try to make a duck’s bill grow instead?’

Harry stepped back in alarm. He’s mad, he thought, with sudden clarity. After all these years of sequestration down here. To get so hot over something like this. Mad, of course! This place would drive me mad!

‘Why change what needs no changing?’ John clamped his teeth down on his anger.

Stop this! he ordered himself. It helps nothing.

‘You ride in like one of the Four Horsemen,’ he bellowed, ‘swinging your blade, mowing down everything in your path …!’

‘John!’ Harry’s alarm grew. He glanced toward the house. Perhaps he should call for help.

‘And the worst of it is, I believe that you may not even know what you’ve done!’

They stood, both breathing hard, staring at each other, equally afraid of the next moment.

‘I’m sorry,’ said John.

Harry breathed out. This was the old John again. ‘It’s already forgotten.’ He felt the rich joy of magnanimity. He nodded. Tm sorry too, if I’ve upset you in any way. I remember you were kind to me when I was small. I would hate to repay you badly.’