The Wedding Cake Tree (32 page)

Chapter Thirty-Six

St Christopher’s

My Darling Grace.

So, you’ve finally made it home my love. How is the garden? Is Jake keeping it just so?

Hopefully you will have come to realise what your little journey has been about – I do hope you’re not disappointed in me. There is absolutely nothing I can do to rectify the situation now of course, but I have a feeling that, in the end, you will have understood. I tried my hardest all your life to be a liberal mother. I haven’t nagged or cajoled (not really) so it must seem odd to you that, in death, I decided to become an interfering so-and-so. Hopefully this is the one time I can be forgiven for it.

Once I knew the cancer was terminal, my thoughts turned to you and my head filled with worrying questions. Yes, you will always have Jake, but I wanted to give you more. And so I decided to introduce you to your family, to Annie – somewhat belatedly I know. And as for Geoffrey? If the two of you want to find out for certain if he’s your father, then at least now you can.

Now then, about your voice. A couple of days before I was due to leave for the RAF, my nerves got the better of me and I decided not to go. Mum sat me down and urged me to follow my dreams. She said that, although she loved us all a great deal, she sometimes wished she had followed her own dream, to learn to sing professionally (Mum had a beautiful voice). It was odd; I had only ever seen her as my mother, rather than a person with her own aspirations. And there she was suddenly, a woman with her own dreams and regrets (to be honest I’m not sure I liked it). Maybe by encouraging you with music, I’ve been trying to complete her life through yours. It doesn’t really matter now. All I ask is that you don’t put yourself in a situation where you regret anything. Please don’t turn around one day and say, ‘That could have been me.’

I sometimes wonder if you found difficulty in performing because, although your technique was second to none, you hadn’t explored any deep emotional avenues personally and couldn’t become completely lost in the music. Not that I would wish heartbreak and trauma for you my love, but I’m afraid that, without just a little understanding of the extremes of emotion, you could never realise your true potential. Whenever I hear a young voice singing the story of a more mature woman, I fail to be convinced. 

You seem to have run away from life a little, always happy to stay behind the camera. But if my plan has come together then you will have climbed a mountain, sung at a wedding and skydived. I know one cannot live on an adrenalin high permanently, but I wanted you to live life on the edge for a brief moment – feels good doesn’t it?

Another reason for sending you on the trip was that I wanted you to see how environmental factors play a huge part in the decisions we make in life. Would I have had an affair on a rainy afternoon in Barnstaple? Possibly not. But in sunny, magical Zagreb, caught up in a thrilling little adventure of my own, I failed to resist temptation – no excuse – but a reason nonetheless.

Speaking of sunshine, I do hope the weather stayed fine for you. Did you notice the different blues of the sky? I hope so. And what did you think of Alasdair? Oh dear, were my intentions so transparent? If the two of you didn’t get it together at some point, if you aren’t canoodling right now under my tree, then you must drop this letter, go to find the man and kiss him – he’s crazy about you. He may or may not have told you this, but I saw him talking to you at our tulip festival last April. He looked a little different then. Anyway, I could tell by his expression – the look in those amazing eyes of his – that he was smitten, and Alasdair is never smitten. So, when I heard you singing to yourself upstairs, I sent him to the coop for some eggs (he had to walk under the open window) and I watched him stop under the window and listen. I knew I’d cracked it. The poor soul could not take his eyes off you after that, but failed miserably to ask you out. I was so annoyed

In the process of writing everything down for your benefit, I realise I have laid my own ghosts to rest. I told Alasdair to write a journal, but should have gone through the same process myself. Nothing seems so bad – so desperate – once it is written down. If only I had gone through this process several years ago, I’m sure I could have sorted things out sooner. The secrets I have kept deep inside about my family, my affair, Geoffrey, even St Christopher’s, have eaten away at my soul for years. There is a patch of Japanese knotweed across the stream, I try to pretend it doesn’t exist – how could it exist in my perfect garden? But, exist it does; and no matter how much I try and chop away at the stuff, it just keeps coming back, and the rhizomes have spread like suffocating tentacles beneath the surface. My cancer has felt like the knotweed, hidden deep within. It has slowly taken a hold, killing off everything in its wake, and now I’m afraid there is simply no strength in me left to fight.

Regarding Jake (my wonderful, darling Jake), he has been my white knight. Jake and I became intimately involved when he ceased to be my protection officer – he stayed on to help run the retreat. I warned him not to become too attached to us as a family. I explained that I had a wandering spirit – that we would almost certainly move on once I knew for certain we were safe. He said nothing, just walked out. I thought he was in a huff, but then I heard the noise of a drill. He was setting up a series of horizontal wires against the front of the house. He disappeared off in the car, only to reappear an hour later with a rose in a pot – a pretty crimson thing called American Pillar. I went to the front of the house and watched him plant the rose against the wall. He stepped back, turned to me and said, ‘All I ask is that you stay long enough to train this rose to the second wire. If you still want to go when it gets there, then go.’ I nodded, walked back into the house and now the rose is ten feet high and covers the wall – that was when my obsession with the garden began.

And so, if I had my time again, would I live my life differently? No, I would not. After all, if I hadn’t gone trotting off to Zagreb, if I hadn’t had my affair (which seems like only yesterday), if I hadn’t run back to Geoffrey in Arisaig, then you my darling girl would never have been conceived; and it is you, and only you, who has made my life complete.

Well, I’m so very tired, but you should know that in writing these letters I have been able to concentrate on something productive rather than count down the days to my death. In making myself focus on the past, I have been able to cope through the darkest days of my life. Is it all pre-ordained do you think? Was it always going to end this way? Or has my cancer been sparked by event or emotion I have purposefully manufactured in my life? What I’m saying is, could it have been avoided? No matter.

It’s time to go now love, but before I do, I have another story from the garden for you. Do you remember in the first letter I said I was worried about my rose Alan Titchmarsh? I was going to consign him to the compost heap, but then felt I couldn’t just give up on him. So, I took some drastic action. I cut him off at the knees, threw some manure at him and gave him a good, long drink; and would you believe it, the trooper has started to bud again.

What I’m trying to say is this: when nothing seems to be going your way, when you feel you have lost your bloom and you can’t possibly stand tall for one more day, take a tip from the garden
–
get yourself a good haircut (spare no expense), have a slap-up meal and pour yourself a very tall drink (and find something saucy to read!). And although you may not feel perky by the next day, or even by the next month, trust me, by the following spring, life will turn out fine again, and you will be ready to burst into bloom once more. I wonder if you found my trees? Planting a tree is a wonderful thing to do Grace; when you have your own home you must remember to make planting a tree your top priority.

A few days ago I was staring out into the garden – reminiscing about your childhood – when one particular memory of you dancing around the garden singing a song came flooding back, and I couldn’t get the tune out of my mind. It’s the school hymn. I persuaded you to sing it at the Harvest Festival in the church when you were ten, remember? I took a video of you secretly from the back of the church but you always refused to watch it. Here are the words, just in case you have forgotten them:

One more step along the world I go,

One more step along the world I go;

From the old things to the new

Keep me trave
lling along with you.

Round the corner of the world I turn,

More and more about the world I learn;

All the new things that I see

You’ll be looking at along with me.

Give me courage when the world is rough,

Keep me loving though the world is tough;

Leap and sing in all I do

Keep me travelling along with you.

And it’s from the old I travel to the new,

Keep me trave
lling along with you.

Be happy my darling. I love you, and I’m very proud of you. I’m so very sorry I had to go. Mum xxx

Chapter Thirty-
Seven

Smiling through the tears I sat back on the bench and gazed at her tree – such a beautiful thing. I noticed it was sending out a fresh layer. Mum would have been pleased. Although I missed my mother’s company – part of my soul would always feel incomplete with her gone – the feeling of being in mourning had finally passed. Through her death – her actions – I had discovered more happiness than I thought could possibly exist. During the past ten days I had begun to realise what it was to embrace life, whatever the consequences. The reason for that, of course, was Alasdair. Thanks to Mum and Alasdair, the world was a different and better place to me.

I
turned to see Jake waiting on the lawn; he held the urn in his hands and I knew what the final piece of Mum’s story would be. Shoulder to shoulder, we said goodbye to my mother, under my tree – the family tree – in the garden that she loved.

I stayed on at St Christopher’s for a few days and started on Mum’s possessions. That was not an onerous task. Poor Mum had whittled down her wardrobe to practically nothing and had been equally ruthless with her administration.

Remembering her
letter from the Cairngorms, I clambered into the loft to look for the painting Geoffrey had done of the woodman’s hut; it was wrapped in a multi-coloured crocheted blanket. I washed the blanket, which was rather pretty, and decided to take it and the painting back to London.

A couple of surprises were yet to be uncovered
. The solicitor – Mr Grimes – was a retired Royal Marine who had taken to the bar several years before and knew Mum from the retreat. During Jake’s confession I told him that several of Grimes’ toes were missing. Jake laughed and explained that the missing digits had been ‘lost’ to frostbite during a military training exercise in Norway
.
I began to appreciate that Mum’s friends would, quite literally, do anything for her; but Jake confessed that they also suspected she was – ever so slightly – nuts.

On my fourth
day at St Christopher’s I was sitting on the window seat in the kitchen when Jake appeared, humming cheerily to himself. He threw a parcel on my knee and started to make a cup of tea.

He
raised his eyes with a smile, looked towards the unopened parcel and said, ‘I’d put money on that envelope being from Alasdair by the way.’ My hands tore at the parcel like a five-year-old opening her first Christmas present. In it was Alasdair’s shemagh – the devil had sent it after all – and a note. I held the shemagh to my face while I read.

Grace
,

Can’t bear the thought of you being cold so I thought you might change your mind about accepting this. Besides, the lads will only rib me if I wear it as it reeks of perfume.

Love you             

Al xxx

I left my seat at the window and joined Jake at the table. The phone rang.                           

‘
Sorry love, just a sec …’ He removed the phone from the pod on the worktop, smiled at me again and took the call. I read the note once more while listening absently to Jake’s phone call.

‘
St Christopher’s. Oh, Hello Bill, not spoken to you for ages – news, what news? Alasdair Finn yes …’ Jake glanced in my direction before turning away to continue with the call. The person at the other end of the line spoke for some considerable time until, ‘—a terrible thing to happen Bill, it always is. Keep me informed – when the family have decided – yes of course—thank you Bill.’ Jake’s voice began to break. ‘Bye Bill.’

He
took several seconds before turning to face me but it felt like several lifetimes. My body – the room even – seemed to physically shrink. I didn’t want him to turn around, I wanted to freeze life at that very moment; but, like Jake, the world would insist on turning.

I
pushed the chair back and rose to my feet.

‘
What’s happened?’

Jake gazed out of the window, momentarily caught in his own world, before turning and noticing the tears in my eyes.
He rushed towards me.

‘
You don’t think—Alasdair’s fine, Grace.’

‘
But, the phone call, you said …’

He took a seat at the table
.

‘
One of his team was killed. You can imagine how badly Alasdair has taken it.’

I put my hands to my face.

My immediate emotion was relief
– relief someone else was dead – not Alasdair. Then I felt guilty to have even felt such a selfish emotion. Death through war was something that happened to other people, other families. I had read about troop losses and was saddened by them, but there had never been a direct personal link – even a tenuous one.             

‘
Was he married? Kids?’

‘
He was married but I don’t think he had children. According to Bill he was the junior man, only twenty-eight. He’s never been here, I didn’t know him.’

‘
His family must be going through hell.’

‘
Quite.’

‘
No wonder Alasdair has taken it badly,’ I said, wishing more than anything I could throw my arms around him. Jake glanced out of the window again and sighed.

‘
He’ll feel responsible of course. To Alasdair, losing this young man under his command will be like losing a son. The dead man won’t be the only victim in this, they never are.’

When Alasdair and his colleagues returned to their unit several days later, Jake spoke to one of the team – Alasdair was unavailable – and the full horror of the situation came to light.

Alasdair had
led a small group of special forces men on a mission to Afghanistan to rescue an aid worker who had been captured by the Taliban. They had been taken by helicopter to a compound where the man was being detained.

What should have been a relatively
straightforward operation became catastrophically complicated. The intelligence available before their departure had been misleading: the rebels were organised, heavily armed and prepared for a rescue attempt. The helicopter had been bombarded with small arms fire from the moment it arrived at the compound and, once on the ground, the men had faced a bloody battle in an attempt to fight their way through the compound, during which a number of rebel lives were lost. The aid worker was found alive and, objective complete, the team retreated to the helicopter. During the final moments, however, as Alasdair had pushed his men forward to the helicopter and provided them with covering fire, the area of ground between Alasdair’s colleague’s position and the helicopter had become overrun with rebels. Small arms fire had pierced through the helicopter and injured two of the soldiers significantly. Grenades were launched rapidly and randomly – it was a hotbed of chaos and confusion – and it was no small miracle that the helicopter hadn’t been lost. The pilot, for whom the strain of coming under constant fire throughout the operation must have been horrific, waited for Alasdair to clamber on the aircraft.

While Alasdair provided covering fire from the tail ramp, his colleague made a
dash for the aircraft. It was in these final moments that Alasdair had failed to notice a lone gunman on the roof of the compound, and his junior man had been shot as he clambered on board. Despite their attempts to administer battlefield first aid en route to the camp hospital, the man had died within the hour.

I stayed on at St Christopher’s hoping for some word from Alasdair – a phone call perhaps – but nothing came. I tried to draw Jake into discussing where he might be, but Jake refused to discuss the operation or provide any details regarding Alasdair’s possible whereabouts. He seemed irritated simply at the mention of Alasdair’s name.

A week went by, bu
t still no word. It was hell. I had fallen hopelessly in love with a man I had no way of contacting. He had provided no address, all I knew was he had a house in Snowdonia. The number he had given me went straight to answerphone message.

He was
an enigma.

And then
a letter appeared via a guest at the retreat. I was in the kitchen packing away the last of Mum’s possessions when Jake handed it to me with a sigh.

‘
It’s from Alasdair,’ he said quietly.

Jake put a hand on my shoulder then walked away.

Grace

You will have heard by now that the operation did not go according to plan – I shall say no more.
The reason for writing is to tell you I was wrong to say I am in a position to enter into a relationship. I was in a dream. I have nothing to offer and should never have given false hope.

I cannot and will not ask you to put your life on hold just so I can see you once in a while. Turning away from you that night in Zagreb was the right thing to do, returning to your room moments later, however, was not.

I’m sorry to have told you this in a letter. It goes against everything I stand for to send it. But if I see your face or hear your voice I will want to hold on to you forever, and if I do, I will ruin your life. I’m not the man you think I am. During our time together you saw my civilian face and I’m certain you would not like the military one. I will always cherish our time together – when I told you I loved you I meant it. You are an amazing woman who deserves a full and happy life, which is something I would fail miserably to provide.

Take the very best of care, but most of all, be happy.

Alasdair.

Stunned – devastated – I threw the letter on the table in a fit of anger and ran upstairs to pack. Only I didn’t pack; I sat on the bed and wondered how something so wonderful could have gone so horribly wrong, and so quickly.

Ja
ke walked into my bedroom, sat next to me on the bed and took me in his arms, just like he used to. I nuzzled into his chest for a moment; but I wasn’t a teenager any more, I was a woman – albeit a woman with a broken heart.

‘
Did you read the letter?’ I asked.

‘
Yes.’

‘
Why is he doing this? It makes no sense. In Scotland he said we would be okay, that we’d make it work. He said he loved me.’

Jake stood, walked over to the window and star
ed out into the garden. It took several moments before he turned and spoke. ‘I never agreed with your mother’s plan to send you round the country with Alasdair. To me it was like sending a lamb to slaughter.’

‘
And who was the lamb in this scenario?’

‘
You both were. Alasdair because he was a man close to exhaustion, who already found you attractive, and who was bound to relax during your time away and start to think of another life perhaps – am I right?’

I nodded.

‘And you were also vulnerable because you were grief-stricken for your mother and bound to enjoy the company of an attractive man who took the weight off your shoulders for a while. But I never thought the two of you would work out in the long-term.’

‘
Why?’

‘
Because of his job, because of who he is deep down. Men like Alasdair lead a peculiar life. You may think you’d be happy with it now, but two or three years down the line you might not be. I’ll admit that many of them have normal family lives, but I know Alasdair well enough by now to know his marriage failed because he was fairly selfish.’

His harsh words surprised me.

‘Don’t get me wrong, I think the world of him. But he’s an active man, with a whole load of adventurous hobbies. Once the excitement in your relationship calmed down, he’d go back to his parachuting or whatever else he does and you would hardly ever see him. Unlike your mother, I want more for you.’

‘
But maybe Mum was right, maybe I
could
fit into his lifestyle. I love him, you can’t just turn that kind of feeling off. Please, please pass a message on to him, ask him to come and talk to me. Sending a letter was cruel, it wasn’t like him. He must be in a mess.’

‘
How do you know it wasn’t like him, you barely know him—’

‘
I
do
know him. Please, Jake, I just want to look him in the eyes, and then I’ll let it go – he told me I was his world.’

Jake glanced around the room and sighed.

‘You probably are his world, but it’s a parallel one. Listen, there’s something else, I wasn’t going to tell you this … Alasdair arrived back in the UK a couple of days ago. I’ve spoken to him. I asked him to come to the retreat like he used to. He won’t.’

‘
Why?’

‘
Because you’re here. He can’t take the emotion of seeing you, of being happy with you. It’s the guilt. I’ve been talking to the man who brought the letter – he’s staying for a few days. He was part of Alasdair’s team. Apparently Alasdair shut himself down after his man died, won’t talk to anyone, just concentrates on work and training … there’s nothing you can do to make Alasdair a different man.’