The Wedding Cake Tree (34 page)

             
Although I was angry with Alasdair for throwing away our future, I didn’t despise him; he was clearly in a great deal of pain. Jake sent me a book about the possible effects of combat stress. I realised that Alasdair’s sudden change in behaviour and his wish to punish himself for the loss of his man was not about me – or his love for me – but it concerned another issue entirely. I wished I could help him somehow, but the man had disappeared, and when a man like Alasdair disappeared there was simply no way of finding him.

Through her letters
Mum had taught me to grasp every precious moment in life. She was also proof-perfect that yearning for something unattainable was a waste of time … precious time. Unfortunately, the heart cannot switch off so easily, and I couldn’t help but grieve for the time Alasdair and I
hadn’t
spent together, and regularly fantasised about what might have been in a way real life couldn’t possibly have lived up to. Primarily though, I realised that one person – and only one person – carried the burden of responsibility for my future happiness … me. I would cherish my memories, but not be ruled by them. It was time to create more memories and to live life to the full: it was time to move on.

Chapter Thirty-Nine

November merged seamlessly into December, and we began preparations for Christmas at Bridge Farm. We were having goose (one of Ted’s of course) and I realised a traditional Dales’ Christmas would be something of an event.

Annie
decided to wait until the New Year before moving in with Ted.

‘
New year, new growth, new start,’ she said, but I knew the real reason she stayed on was to prevent me from being on my own at Christmas and to help me through my first winter on the farm. She needn’t have worried about Christmas. Jake intended to join us for a couple of days, and Paul was also venturing up for our New Year’s Eve party. He asked if he could bring his new girlfriend along. She was called Anna, and was a pole dancer originally from Kiev. Although I was fairly certain that this would prove to be another one of his jokes, and that Anna would turn out to be a copy editor from the Home Counties – when it came to Paul, one could never be certain, so I stocked up with vodka, just in case.

It was a bright but bitterly cold day in mid-
December when Ted and I dedicated the whole of the morning to decorating the house. We were particularly proud of our seven-foot tree which stood resplendent by the window in the living room. Our choice of location for the tree had been contrary to Annie’s wishes. She said the hall had proven to be more than good enough in previous years, and had been chosen as the correct position for the tree (by generations of our family) because it was the only place in the house that maintained a constant cool temperature (in other words, freezing). She said she would be sweeping up errant pine needles well into May if we insisted on having it in the living room. I reminded her that it would be
my
job to sweep up the needles, not hers. So, after a shake of the head (a pleading look from Ted) and a final harrumph, she eventually acquiesced.

In
the afternoon, Ted drove Annie to Leyburn for a new roasting tin, which came as a shock to both of us as she adored the ancient battered one that had belonged to my grandmother, and I promised to finish the chores.

I
had just sat down with a cup of coffee and a celebrity magazine (old habits die hard), when I was startled by a loud knock at the front door. Irritated, I left the comfort of cuddling Meg on the kitchen sofa, walked down the cold hallway and opened the door.

N
o one was there.

A parcel
, wrapped up in tartan paper with a red satin ribbon tied around it, was propped against the doorframe. I picked it up. It was a flat object, roughly a foot square in size. Bemused, I stepped into the yard but it was deserted. I closed the door to block out the cold and carried the parcel through to the lounge where I intended to set it under the Christmas tree. I assumed it was for Annie, from one of her neighbours. A gift tag was attached and I couldn’t resist peeking to see who it was from.

Grace

An early Christmas present for you, I hope you like it. Robert painted it to your specifications as requested. I’ll wait by the river until dark. I hope you come, but I will understand if you don’t.

Alasdair

x

I nearly
dropped the parcel in surprise, but then my fingers tore at the wrapping paper. It was an original oil painting and my eyes brimmed with tears when I saw the subject. It was similar to the painting Alasdair had wanted to buy in Arisaig, only this time the man and woman were in the foreground – their journey was just beginning. Alasdair must have contacted Robert Kelsey and commissioned him. I couldn’t help but smile; it was such a wonderful thing to have done.

Meg jumped
up at me repeatedly and whimpered; she seemed to know Alasdair was close by. I put the painting down on the coffee table, sat on the sofa, patted her head and glanced towards the window. I had imagined falling into Alasdair’s arms a thousand times but, although I felt nauseous with excitement at the thought of seeing him, and was still very much in love, I remembered Jake’s words of warning. And, as painful as it would be to watch him walk away, I wondered if the best course of action would be to let Alasdair go. Meg had scampered out of the room and was scratching at the kitchen door – there could be no doubting what
she
wanted me to do.

I grabbed the three essential outdoor items I always left
on the kitchen coat hooks: my winter coat, Alasdair’s shemagh and my shepherd’s crook, and stepped out of the house.

T
he sky was a wonderful washed-out winter blue, but the sun lacked the strength to take away the chill. I stuffed my hands deep inside my pockets and headed down the field. Meg shot on ahead to the river. I had never felt so nervous in my life, not even when singing. A mixture of emotions – anger mixed with longing – fought a vicious battle. Neither emotion won.

And then I saw him.

He was by the river crouching down, making a fuss of Meg. We were only twenty yards from each other but the void felt like a thousand miles. I stopped. He looked up, tipped his head to one side and scratched his ear. My soul leapt at the sight of him, but emotional self-preservation took over. I held my position.

As h
e stood and walked up the field towards me, I considered my options: I could be cross, scream at him and demand an explanation, or I could simply accept, and remember that the man had been to hell and back. As he came closer, my heart ached at the sight of him. He’d lost weight, so that even under his winter jacket he seemed skeletal. The hollows beneath his eyes were dark. But what tortured me the most was, although his eyes shone with tears, the sparkle had gone.

Words were unnecessary.
I held out my arms and, as I pulled him close, he emitted a sob of pure relief. He held me with such longing it seemed he couldn’t get close enough.

‘
I’m sorry,’ he whispered through my hair.

I pulled back slightly and
touched his face.

‘
What’s happened to you?’

He shook his head
, speechless.

All my pent-
up emotion – the grief, the longing – came to the fore and I started to cry. ‘You broke my heart, Alasdair.’

He nuzzled me into his chest and spoke into my hair.

‘I know, I’m sorry. I thought I was protecting you.’

I looked up.
‘I thought you’d moved to the Middle East?’

His eyes
also brimmed with tears. He tried to fold me into his arms again but I stepped back.

‘
I
was
going to go away,’ he said, ‘I had my tickets booked and a job ready to go. But the bloody North Star kept following me around, reminding me of you.’ He rubbed fingers across his forehead nervously. ‘I’ve been in a bit of a mess to be honest, but thinking of you, remembering all the priceless things you said and did while we were away, it’s kept me going. Do you remember the night we sat on the beach by Loch A’an?’

I smiled. ‘Of course I remember.’

‘You said that St Christopher’s was your constant bearing in life, that you’d feel like a broken compass without it.’

I nodded again
and ran the back of my hand across my runny nose. Alasdair handed me a tissue from his pocket, and then continued. ‘A month ago, in an attempt to pull myself together, I went home to my cottage in Wales and took off into the mountains. The weather came in. I looked down at my compass and tried to decide which path to take through the mist. The needle was pointing north … I know a compass needle always points to north, but it made me realise that, even if I tried to leave you alone – for your sake – and ran away to the Middle East, my heart – my inner compass – would always turn to north, to you. Y
ou’re
my constant bearing, Grace.’ He laughed. ‘And I’ve been practising that speech for a whole month while that bloody painting was being done, so it had better have worked.’

I burst out laughing – and crying
again – then became indignant.

‘So you’ve known for
a whole month that you’d pitch up today? If you were so desperate to see me, why did you wait?’

‘
Well, walking back to my cottage, I thought, sod it! I can’t live without her, I’m going to go to Yorkshire and tell her how I feel’—he touched my face—‘every single day without you has been torture.’

His words soften
ed my armour. ‘How did you know where I was?’

‘I persuaded J
ake to tell me, he didn’t want to though. Anyway, I threw some stuff in a bag and jumped in the car. But then I felt so nervous. I sat there – in the car outside my cottage – for about an hour deciding what to do for the best. After talking it through with myself I decided that, if I just pitched up and knocked on the door, you would probably throw something heavy at me and tell me to sod off.’ He smiled and scrunched his nose. ‘So I realised I probably needed a softener.’

‘So the painting is a
—a “softener”?’ I asked, annoyed. Alasdair feigned his trademark sheepish grin.

‘Basically, yes.
I was going to buy you an olive tree, but I couldn’t be sure it would survive in the Dales, so I went with the painting instead. But apparently an artist can’t just knock up a painting overnight, so I had to wait. I badgered Robert to death to get it done. He’s a busy man you know, I hadn’t realised he was quite so … prominent.’ He took my hand. ‘Joking aside, it seemed to be a perfect way to tell you how I feel, without actually telling you, if you know what I mean.’

Still holding his hand, I stepped a little closer.

‘I have to admit, it’s a wonderful gesture. The painting is beautiful, thank you.’

‘I’m glad you like it
. Did you notice the couple are in the foreground?’

I smiled.
‘Yes, I noticed.’

I gazed around the
Dale. There was something I wanted to say, but I didn’t quite know how to say it.

‘
Did you keep away because you blamed me for what happened to your colleague? Did you think I’d distracted you?’

Alasdair sighed.

‘I blamed myself
, not you.’

I took
the shemagh from around my neck and wrapped it gently around his.

‘
Come on,’ I said, rallying, ‘there’s plenty of time to talk this through. What you need is a good meal, a shave and a stiff drink. In fact,’ I added with a wink, ‘there’s an apple pie in the oven. Believe it or not,
I
made it, with the apples from Mum’s tree. So you’d better get a wiggle on or there’ll be none left!’

He took my arm as I turned to run up the hill.

‘I know it’s a lot to ask, but seriously, I need to know – can we start again?’

I touched his face and smiled.
‘It’s a lot to take in, Alasdair. I’m not sure how I really feel about it all. Let’s take it one step at a time … okay?’

‘Okay.’

Not having received the answer he had hoped for,
his head dropped, dejected. Despite everything he had put me through, my heart broke at the thought of hurting him, so I rolled my eyes and added, ‘I
had
decided to set the dogs on you, if you ever had the cheek to show up that is. But the dogs aren’t vicious enough to see you off, especially Meg, so the plan was flawed from the off.’ I leant into him. ‘Perhaps you should kiss me,’ I whispered, ‘just so I can see if the magic is still there, and then I’ll make my mind up if you can stay tonight.’

He smiled his
first irresistible sexy smile since his return and, just for a second, the sparkle returned to his eyes. He pressed his lips softly against mine, only to move on, fairly quickly, to a more passionate embrace.

‘Well?’
he asked in a whisper, pulling away. ‘Do I pass?’

I
stepped back, handed him the shepherd’s crook and smiled. ‘So tell me, just how much did you learn from Mum’s book about sheep farming, because that bloody ram hates me!’

We ran away from the river, up the meadow and towards my new home. Alasdair retreated to the warmth of the kitchen, but I used the excuse of the approaching dark to bed the hens down for the night – I needed to vent some emotion.

After ushering the hen
s into their coop I rested my back against the rough, cold bark of Mum’s apple tree and thought of her. She had been gone for a whole year, and what a year it had been. I glanced around the garden in the twilight and remembered Mum’s idea of planting a tree when I found a home, so I decided to buy an olive tree to act as my permanent marker in the Dales. But then I remembered what Alasdair had said, that an olive might not be suited to life in the Dales; so I decided to plant something more fitting to the landscape instead … an oak tree perhaps.

I looked towards the house and through the kitchen window
to see Alasdair hugging Annie. He shook Ted’s hand and then bent down – presumably stroking Meg. He looked happy. I wondered what the future would hold for us. I had envisaged Alasdair as my very own English oak – strong, protective and proud. But, for all of its strength, even a mighty oak could crack. Promisingly though, I had never in my life seen a completely upended oak tree; they don’t know how to give up, and I knew Alasdair wouldn’t give up either. I also knew that although a wounded tree would eventually heal itself with new growth, the scar that remained on the surface would never fade away. It would be a part of the character of the tree, always.