The Memory Tree by Tess Evans Read Free Book Online Page A

or his old favourite, Fred Hoyle. After scanning a few pages he puts the book down and looks out beyond the wall to a cloud that hangs like a greasy dish rag above the grey bulk of the Grampians.

3
    M Y GRANDFATHER BUILT HIS HOUSE of brick. No fragile wood or straw for him. He built his house of brick on a large block that faced the river. While his contemporaries were looking at their environment and employing architects like Robin Boyd, Hal settled on a hybrid of deco and thirties modernism, a strange mish-mash of curved walls and windows piled in a seemingly random fashion, one upon the other. He had it rendered and painted white, and spent some time and effort creating an English garden, with extensive lawns, roses, lavender and some fine deciduous trees. The effect was not unpleasing and at night, when the lights were turned on, the house was transmogrified into an ocean liner setting sail through dark seas. I like to think of Hal as captain of that ship and Paulina its guiding spirit, standing at the wheel beside him.
    Inside, the house was large and rambling, with generous rooms and high ceilings. Because of its singular shape, there were odd little nooks and crannies and when they were young, the children made these their own. There were rules of ownership—no less rigorous for the fact that they were unwritten.
    Sealie’s bedroom was at the bottom of a staircase that led up to a strange little tower attic. This room at the top of the stairs was her private place and she often spent time there with her secret treasure boxes.
    ‘How would you like this?’ Paulina asked one morning when Sealie came into her mother’s room to have her hair brushed. ‘The lock’s broken but it’s still very pretty, don’t you think?’
    Sealie held the box in her hands. It was black and shiny with a picture of a beautiful lady in a long dressing-gown. There was a tree with trailing branches and a funny little curved bridge. Inside, the box was lined with shiny red fabric and there were three small shelves, like steps.
    ‘What can I put in it?’ she asked. Did she have anything beautiful enough to put in such a wonderful box?
    ‘Your hair ribbons, maybe? And the little Scottie dog brooch Nana gave you?’
    ‘And the blue feather I found? And my best shells?’
    Paulina laughed. ‘It’s a treasure box, Sealie. You can keep all your treasures in it.’
    So began Sealie’s lifelong habit of keeping everything in boxes. The attic room gradually filled with shoe boxes, chocolate boxes, cigar boxes, biscuit tins, toffee tins, jewellery boxes, hat boxes, dress boxes and two large trunks, all containing some treasure, some secret, some part of Sealie’s life. As she grew older, she put her favourite out-grown dresses there in one trunk, her ballet costumes in the other. When the young woman turned sixteen, Mrs McLennon thought it was time to start a hope chest or glory box for her, and gave her an embroidered tablecloth and a set of six dinner napkins. Her father gave her a camphor wood chest and thus began a new collection of towels, embroidered sheets, tray cloths, table cloths and satin nightgowns laid away in readiness for her wedded bliss. She expected bliss of course. Why else would the chest be dedicated to hope and glory?
    That first box was always her favourite, though. Whenever she held it, she could feel a soft brush stroking her hair and smell her mother’s perfume.
    There’s another box in that attic. It’s a cream, embossed cardboard box, lined with pink tissue paper. Inside are my baby photos. Me with my mother, my father, with Grandad, with Mrs McLennon and a tall black man. Me with seventeen-year-old Sealie, my pretty young aunt. She hasn’t opened this box in a very long time.
    The round room was my father’s. It wasn’t exactly round, but it had a curved outside wall and was known from the beginning as the round room. It was on the house’s ‘off-side’, and the window looked out onto the neighbour’s