The Faerie Tree (29 page)

“We'll talk about it later.” The angle of his chin told me it would be futile to argue.

It was Gareth who asked what had gone wrong with Izzie and I found I couldn't answer.

“Is the damage repairable? Do you want to repair it?” he persisted.

“I miss her so much I feel raw inside,” I confessed. “That's why I'm not really thinking about it. And you, Mr Psychobabble, are about to tell me that I need to.”

He shook his head. “In your own time. Just shout if you feel yourself getting low.”

“Well of course I'll get low – I've just walked out on the best thing I ever had or am likely to have. How low is low, for god's sake?”

“You know the difference, Robin.”

I nodded. I suppose I did.

After they left I hopped into my van and drove to the petrol station for a few supplies, including a four pack of lager. It tasted horrible, of sugar and tin cans, but on an empty stomach it did the trick and blunted the pain just enough for the cogs to start to whir.

I now knew what people meant by the phrase seeing red. Anger was a relative stranger to me but the morning before in Izzie's kitchen it had burst from nowhere and caused irreparable damage. Why?

I tried to trace it to its beginning, but I couldn't. Like water running off a field, forming into streams, merging into a river, it had built unnoticed. Had Gareth started it, with his assertion that Izzie felt she needed to control me? Had he made me notice that perhaps it was true? Or was it Izzie's obvious embarrassment in front of Jack's parents when I told them I was a gardener? Did she really believe it made me not good enough, or did she just want me to feel like the underdog? Did it even matter now?

Tuesday had been a strange day anyway. I knew, the moment we drove down the road into West Bay and I saw the cliffs rising over the sea, that I had been there before. The memory of the bay spread out below me was so vivid, so strong. The shingle beach, the little harbour – I just remembered it, that was all.

The block of flats had clinched it. In my mind's eye I saw them half built, surrounded by scaffolding. They had stuck out like a sore thumb but now they were just the first of a line. It was a lie I'd been to West Bay with Jennifer in the early nineties; I had travelled through myself in the autumn of 1986. I was certain of it. Well, as certain as I could be.

And there I faltered. The ring pull on the fourth can of lager fizzed back and I poured the insipid liquid into my glass. The rain was still beating against the kitchen window, fluorescent light illuminating the forsythia gyrating in the wind outside. Just like Izzie and me; twisted and tangled beyond all recognition.

Chapter Sixty-Eight

It rained for a week before the weather turned clear. I struggled to work through the downpour; the Major was kind, insisting I cleared his garage, but other clients kept me outside, battling to mend fences and scrubbing down patios. Inevitably I caught a cold which dragged me down.

But sunshine always helps. I forked the lawn behind Jennifer's house to help it drain and tied the climbing roses back to their wires. I edged the grass to make it look tidier and my annoying cough started to ease. In the woods the trees were bursting with the brightest green leaves and I knew without looking at the calendar it was almost Beltane.

It had always been Jennifer's favourite festival and over the last few years we had celebrated it any number of times. Whenever she had asked me if it was Beltane I had answered her yes. I don't know if that was right or wrong, but our simple ritual of making a bonfire and carrying a lighted torch from it around the edges of her land filled her with so much delight it was never in my heart to refuse.

This year I would be doing it alone. And now I knew that it was something I could never have shared with Izzie anyway. I tried to use the thought to miss her less but it was futile.

I built the bonfire before I went to work on the Saturday
morning. Seasonal clients had crawled out of the woodwork now that lawns and hedges needed cutting on a regular basis and thankfully I had hardly a daylight hour to myself. I pulled the fallen logs from the orchard and stacked them into a pyramid before starting my search for kindling. It didn't take me long to remember the box of papers languishing in Jennifer's bedroom. I carried it into the garden and started to scrunch the receipts and lists into balls.

I almost had enough to light the fire when I saw it – an edge of blue plastic squashed against the cardboard on one side. For a moment I wondered what it was and then I realised it was my Post Office book. I sat back on my knees and opened a page at random: Weymouth 14
^th
October 1986, Seaton 29
^th
October, Exeter 4
^th
November. I closed my eyes. When I opened them again the stamps were still there; a little smudged in places but official – proof – I had made my journey.

I felt no jubilation. How low was low? I took the book upstairs and put it in the chest of drawers in my bedroom, alongside my driving licence, under a pile of T-shirts.

My Beltane celebrations did not go according to plan. When I came back from work Stephen's car was in the drive and there was a note on the kitchen table saying he and Gareth were in The Horse & Jockey. I had a quick wash and changed my clothes before strolling down the road to join them.

As far as I can remember we did a lot of drinking, played darts increasingly badly and it was pretty late when we finally got around to eating. They had obviously decided I needed taking out of myself, but by the time we wove our way home it was far too late to light the bonfire and I would have been far too drunk to strike a match anyway. It was all I could do to fall into bed.

I paid a heavy price for those few hours of oblivion, waking at four in the morning with a raging hangover. My skull thumped, my stomach churned and Izzie filled my head. I failed to stagger to the bathroom and was sick in my waste paper bin. I lay on the floor and clung to it as dawn crept into the sky.

The last thing I wanted was for Stephen to see me like this. I
pulled on an old pair of jeans and a sweatshirt before padding downstairs and dowsing my face in cold water at the kitchen sink. The dew from the grass soaked into my trousers as I crossed the lawn. I averted my eyes from the untouched bonfire. Beltane had passed – there was little point in lighting it now. I had failed Jennifer's memory and the year would be a poor one for me and for the garden.

The woods were full of bluebells and their soft shimmer faded and glowed between the trunks as the rising birdsong surrounded me. I slid to the floor under the Faerie Tree and its roots embraced me, the knots in its bark burrowing into my back. I closed my eyes, desperate to lose myself in its magic.

The air became warm and heavy with thunder. The chattering of the birds ceased. And there, in the perfect stillness, I heard myself begging ‘please, please let it come right for Izzie and me in the end'. The softness of her hands in mine; a flash of lightning; I opened my eyes to catch glimpses of her yellow dress running away from me between the trees. I leapt to my feet, heart pounding – but when I looked again there was no-one there.

Chapter Sixty-Nine

Stephen all but ran across the lawn to meet me.

“Robin – what's wrong?”

“Just hungover. I went for a walk…”

“But you're crying.”

“No I'm not.”

He reached up and touched my cheek and I realised it was wet and that I could taste salt in my beard. My head felt as though it was made of cotton wool.

“How odd,” I marvelled. “I didn't even know.”

He took me by the hand and led me into the kitchen where Gareth was making a pot of tea.

“Hey, Mr Psychobabble,” I told him. “Looks like I need your help – I've been crying and I didn't even know it.”

“Denial – you're a master of it.”

“It's nice to be good at something.”

He shook his head as he sat down next to me. “Self esteem issues, too. You'll have to watch yourself.”

“I bet I tick all of your boxes. I'm a freak. Izzie thinks I'm a freak so I must be.”

“Bullshit.”

“What did you say?” I moved my head from side to side to try to clear the fuzz.

“Bullshit. You're not a freak. You're just an ordinary bloke struggling to deal with a relationship breakdown and a massive hangover.”

“Of course I'm a freak; I'm a gardener with a degree in botany, for god's sake. If I have any belief at all it's heathen and I'm piss poor at that. And you don't want to know what's wrong with my memory… except… except…” I felt the tears start again.

“Except what?”

“Except it's not my memory – it is Izzie's – I have proof. My Post Office book – I found it in the attic – like a passport – stamped with the places I went.” The torrent of emotion sweeping over me was unbearable but somehow I caught a foothold in it. “Look,” I told them, “I'm babbling like a madman – I'm probably still drunk – I'd best go and sleep it off, OK?”

Stephen forced a mug of tea into my shaking hands. “Take this up with you and drink it first.” His kindness almost killed me.

He woke me hours later to ask if I wanted him to stay. “Gareth has to go back, but I could…”

I propped myself up on my elbow. “No – I'll be alright. I'll get up in a minute – make some toast.”

“You're sure? I had the fright of my life when you weren't here this morning but I guess that was just me.”

“I won't run off again, Stephen, if that's what's bothering you. Last time… well… I just kind of flipped. I was at the end of my tether, anyway, but it was wrong of me to do that to you. I don't think I've ever apologised either, but I am really sorry for the hurt I caused. I just didn't realise that I would.”

Stephen smiled down at me. “Thanks, Robin. That means a lot.”

Chapter Seventy

Despite my piss poor performance at Beltane my vegetable patch was growing nicely. I crouched over a row of beetroot, teasing out the smallest plants to give the others a better chance. A cabbage white butterfly fluttered onto the purple sprouting. I watched it a little guiltily; if I wanted a decent crop then I'd have to spray them but I hated to harm even the most destructive of my winged visitors.

“You didn't reply to my letter.”

I leapt up and spun around, almost losing my balance in the process. “Claire!”

“The one I wrote to the fairies. You answered the others but you never replied to me…” her voice was breaking, taking my heart crashing down with it. I held out my arms.

For one dreadful moment I thought she was going to ignore my invitation, but then she barrelled into me, burrowing her face into my fleece as I held her as tightly as I possibly could. Over the top of her head I noticed Jack.

“Hello, Mr Vail.”

“Thanks for coming. It means a lot to me.”

“It does to Claire too.”

It took Claire and me a few moments to compose ourselves then I led them into the kitchen. There were two questions at
the top of my mind but I was only brave enough to ask the stupid one.

“So how did you know it was me who writes the fairies' letters?”

“Like you said – I recognised your writing. I was looking in the folder for one addressed to me and I knew straight away it must be you. Then… then I read some of the others and I realised… you know… well, I remembered more than realised… you're kind of special, Robin, and I wanted to see you again.”

“I'm glad you did. I was watching a learner driver the other day and wondering how you were getting on.”

“I… I haven't started yet.” We both looked at the table.

It was Jack who spoke. “If you don't mind me asking, Mr Vail, how did you end up writing those letters?”

“It was Jennifer – the lady who owned this house. I don't think she began the whole Faerie Tree thing – she told me it just happened over time; a ribbon here, a necklace there – human nature, she said it was. Then the wishes started to arrive. At first they were just tiny pieces of paper pinned to the tree and Jennifer liked to read them. Then one day a child had written quite a long letter to the fairies so she decided to reply.

“It was years after I came to live here she told me what she was doing, although I had already guessed. I saw her going to the wood one night and I followed her. As I watched her kneel by the tree I thought it was some sort of ritual, but even if it was she was collecting the letters as well.”

Claire was hesitant. “You said… at Easter… Jennifer was pagan too.”

“Pagan.” Jack sounded thoughtful. “Does that mean she believed the fairies existed and she was doing their work?”

I shook my head. “Not in the sense of little people with wings living in holes in trees, no. But that nature is full of spirits, something ephemeral we can never quite touch but need to respect, then yes, I think she did.”

“And do you?”

I chose my words carefully. “When I take something from the trees, like my yule log for example, I stop to ask first, but I couldn't tell you who or what I think I'm asking. It's about respect, really. The natural world is so incredible there has to be some greater force behind it. I mean, when you think, a tiny seed can turn into a tree which gives you fruit for generations it's pretty awe inspiring. I guess for me it's finding a way to make a connection with something bigger and better.”

“That is just so cool,” enthused Jack. “I'm going to look it up on the internet when I get home.”

“Well I wouldn't tell your parents – they'll think I'm a weirdo as well as a low life gardener. Not that it matters now, I guess.”

Claire's eyes met mine. “Robin, do you miss Mum?”

“Of course I do. I've tried to text her loads of times…”

“She never said.”

“That's because I never press send. I can't get the words right. Then one of my clients told me I should send her a card instead but I can't seem to find the right one.”