THE TRYSTING TREE by Linda Gillard

a tree.’
    ‘And more importantly, why she never married him.’
    Connor lifted the tea tray, shook his shaggy head and grinned. ‘Phoebe’s going to love this.’
     

PART TWO

HESTER
     
    June 5 th , 1914
    Walter has proposed.
    Mother is thrilled. Father seems very pleased too. I was too astonished to respond when Walter finally made his intentions clear. Eventually I said I needed time to consider. Mother says that was quite proper, but I should accept soon if we are to organise a wedding before Christmas. There is talk of war, though Father says nothing will come of it, it is just the Kaiser sabre-rattling.
    I suppose I should record the details of this momentous event! Walter proposed in the rose garden. No doubt he thought that would be romantic. He was not to know roses irritate me rather. They are very beautiful, but they do not last. Perhaps that is why they are so admired. They enjoy a short season, like asparagus. But you can at least eat asparagus.
    Sitting in the rose garden, I felt as if I were at a summer ball, surrounded by young ladies got up in yards of pale silk and satin, the air heavy with their suffocating scent. I had far rather sit in the kitchen garden than the rose garden. How comical, if Walter had proposed in the kitchen garden! Yet how much more appropriate, since the purpose of marriage is to be fruitful and multiply.
    I suppose if I marry, Mother will have to tell me what multiplying entails. I once asked Arthur and Eddie, but they refused to tell me. They smirked and said I should find out soon enough. Then Arthur winked at Eddy, which was perfectly horrid of him. I have no desire to be fruitful if it means inflicting brothers on a daughter of mine.
    When I was sitting in the rose garden with Walter I noticed something interesting. The bees prefer single roses. The double blooms, though much showier, seem to hold little attraction for them. I sat observing this phenomenon for some minutes and confess I might not have taken in all that Walter had to say about the happy future he intends to offer me.
    I wonder why bees prefer single blooms? My brothers would not know. All they have retained of their excellent and largely wasted education is the rules of various sports.
    I should have liked to be a scientist. A botanist, perhaps. Or a plant collector who travelled to China, like Mr E H Wilson, though I should prefer not to have my leg crushed in an avalanche of boulders and have to set it using a camera tripod for a splint. If I could not be a botanist or an explorer, I think I should have liked to be a gardener. When I mentioned this to Mother, she laughed. Sadly, I am a source of constant and unintentional amusement to my family. Mother explained that ladies paint flowers and wear them, they do not grow them.
    The rules of life seem to me as unfathomable as the rules of cricket, yet I feel sure the bees know what they are doing. There has to be a reason why they go only to the single flowers, why they are never distracted by the opulence of Souvenir de la Malmaison.
    I wish now that I had paid more attention to Walter when he was proposing. Perhaps I might feel more enthusiastic about marriage if I had. The truth is, I have never really thought about it much, but I know I should. Mother says time is running out. I am twenty-two.
     
     
    June 12 th
    I have been considering Walter’s proposal and have come to the conclusion that I wish I were a man. To be female is to be second-rate, or rather to be regarded as second-rate.
    To console myself, I shall record the disadvantages of being male, but I fear the list will be very short.
I should detest having to smoke cigars.
I think it unlikely I should be able to drink port in any quantity.
I doubt I could ever be reconciled to whiskers or shaving.
I have no interest whatever in horse-racing or shooting things with guns.
    After this, the issues are less clear. Men talk of the financial obligation to provide for a family, but it seems to me, if