The Faerie Tree (33 page)

Despite my promise to myself I reach out and squeeze his hand. “You're not, you know.”

Chapter Seventy-Six

The announcer's voice is drowned by the screech of a train drawing to a halt on the opposite platform. Robin envelopes both Claire and her rucksack in an enormous hug. “Have fun,” he tells her then moves on to shake Jack's hand.

My daughter's eyes meet mine but there is nothing more I want to say. She knows. She flings herself into my arms.

“Don't worry, Mum – I'll be fine. Ed'll look after us.”

“I know. Text me when you get there, then go enjoy yourself.”

“I'll text every day.”

I hope she remembers.

In the end, I had to persuade her to go. Had to show her I was better; that I could cope. And in showing her, well, it happened anyway. I'm not pretending any more, not even to myself.

Robin and I don't look back as we walk away from the station.

“What do you want to do?” he asks. “Go for a coffee? Anything you need in the shops?”

I pull my car keys out of my bag. “I want to go to the Faerie Tree.”

He looks down at me, his eyebrows disappearing under the sweep of his hair. “Really?”

“You might just as well have said ‘why', you know.”

The rumble of his laugh sends goose-bumps up and down my spine. “Well?”

“Because,” I tell him, “I want to say sorry.”

He nods his head. “I'm glad.”

In recent weeks I have begun to remember, and now my story is almost complete. Robin knows some of it; we went to see Auntie Jean together and I told her everything while she fussed over us with homemade fruit cake. I went back later on my own and checked my returning memories to hers; most of them fitted like comfortable little gloves.

Robin wanted me to see Gareth. “He helped me to understand, when I thought it was me.”

I prevaricated – he didn't push. When I was ready I stole the number from his phone and made the journey to Bognor on my own. I shook as I sat in the waiting room, staring at the fish in the tank and feeling every bit as trapped as they were. But Gareth was the same Gareth I'd met in the pub and in Jennifer's kitchen. He made me tea and we talked about Robin, mostly; Robin now, and Robin way back then.

“I loved him all the time, I think.”

He nodded, said nothing.

“But I loved Connor too – more than I knew, really.” And I allowed my thoughts to wander on, Gareth fading into his chair.

Eventually he asked, “What do you think would have happened if you'd seen Robin when you were with Connor?”

I shook my head. “I came close – although I didn't realise – we took Claire to the Faerie Tree. When I think now, that Robin was there… all those years… but I never went back there again – it gave me nightmares.” And I rambled on some more.

I told him that being hypnotised had helped. He leant forwards a little to ask, “Izzie, are you looking for a reason for all this?”

“I'm not sure there is one.”

And he told me that he thought there was.

I walked around Bognor for a while afterwards, too lightheaded to trust myself with my car. I leant on the railings, staring out to sea. ‘The past is best forgotten, erased.' No it isn't.

***

I have driven to Jennifer's without really knowing it and the realisation jolts me. Robin must have been silent all the way too.

“Sorry, I was miles away.”

He nods and gets out of the car. I scramble after him.

“Robin?”

“Mm?”

“Let's go straight to the tree.”

“Yes.” I want him to hold out his hand, but I know he is waiting for me to make the first move.

Although not restored to its former glory, the tree is looking better than when I saw it last. There are more ribbons than beads, high in the branches; a small teddy bear and a doll are pinned to the trunk. The cuckoo clock letter box has been replaced by a wooden pencil case with a sliding lid.

“I found it in Jennifer's attic,” Robin explains.

I make a circle of the tree, my fingers trailing on the bark. I close my eyes and study every ridge. I breathe the musty warmth of summer into my lungs and an indescribable calm descends upon me. A flash of clarity, sharper than the sky, then nothing but birdsong and peace.

“Robin?”

“Yes?” It is almost a whisper.

“I understand.”

“What?”

“When you went away… what I couldn't deal with, the worst thing… was that you were hurting and didn't want me… that I loved you and it wasn't enough… being shut out… my memories… I recreated something to protect myself… something where you were to blame.”

“Izzie, please… it was me. I ran away. That's just the way I was.”

“No. Some things, you need to do on your own. It's what I've been doing now. I've shut you out too, because I had to – because this was only about me. But it's made me understand.
I've hurt you by doing it and I'm sorry but it had to be that way.”

His head drops and he cannot look me in the eye. “So are you telling me it's over?”

How could I have got it so wrong? I take a step towards him and pick up his lifeless hand. “Oh, Robin – no – not at all. What I want now is for it to begin.”

His gaze is steady as he searches my face. He is looking for truth and I want to give it to him. I stand on tip toes and we kiss. His beard tingles on my lips and I want him with a force that is completely beyond me. I listen, but there are no cries for help today, no salt of tears on my face. All is peace and birdsong.

I cup his ear in my hand and whisper, then stand back to watch the grin grow under his beard. Without saying a word he grabs my hand and leads me towards the river and the willow trees.

Read on for sample chapters from
The Cheesemaker's House
also available from Matador.

Chapter One

It is the sort of day when the roads melt. So William and I don't take them. Instead I clamber over the garden fence and pull some of the chickenwire away so that he can squeeze under the lowest bar. I must remember to put it back securely later; I'd never forgive myself if he disappeared over the fields towards the Moors.

The grass ripples around my feet and ankles, filled with the buzz of summer. William's lead tightens around my hand and his nose quivers with excitement. We pick our way through the thistles, eager to reach the shade on the other side of the pasture.

Close up I can see that the trees mark the bank of a beck. I resist the temptation to dip my toes into it so we wander along the path towards the River Swale. The stream bends sharply and there are alders on either side, their boughs arching together into a tunnel of dark green.

As we approach the river I hear splashing; not panic, nor playful exuberance, but a rhythmic, solitary sound. I tie William's lead to a tree and creep forward.

My view is restricted by the undergrowth but I catch sight of a man swimming in the river. His buttocks are taut and white as he ploughs through the water, droplets flying from his arms where they break the surface. He moves out of my field of vision and the splashing stops. I hold my breath.

When he reappears he is floating with the current, arms akimbo and eyes shut beneath the fair hair plastered across his forehead. His upturned nose and firm chin jut from the water. They don't seem to fit together and are separated, rather than joined, by a pair of generous lips curved into the merest trace of a smile. Then he is gone, and I am left staring at the rippling water.

I am about to move away when I hear splashing again and the pattern repeats itself. I feel guilty invading the swimmer's privacy but there is no reason to drag myself away until William whimpers. I turn to see what is wrong, but my top catches on a dog rose. I ease it away from the thorns, one by one.

There is an enormous crash of water followed by silence. My T-shirt rips as I yank myself free and run up the bank to get a clearer view of the river. It takes me seconds, but the surface of the water is completely undisturbed. The Swale flows freely, calm and clear.

I cast around me to see where the swimmer might be. I am on a grassy knoll three or four feet above the water; the only break in the undergrowth which lines the banks. A couple of hundred yards to my left is an old stone bridge which spans the river in three arches. On the bank opposite willows dip their branches.

It is too long now for the swimmer to have held his breath. A cloud passes over the sun as I scan the water, but the only sign of life is a heron feeding close to the bridge. I am suddenly cold, inside and out, and I hug my arms around me. My fingers meet the stickiness of blood where the thorns ripped into my flesh.

Chapter Two

The beaten up Land Rover pulls out in front of me onto the High Street but it's my lucky day and the parking space is mine. I ease the gearstick into reverse and look over my shoulder, edging backwards until I am perfectly aligned with the kerb. I didn't screw it up, either – I must be feeling more relaxed.

It surprises me how small things make the difference when everything around you is new; the sheer relief of not having to hunt for the pay & display when you don't know your way around town, the simple pleasure of parallel parking well. I pat the bonnet of my car and set off in search of a newsagent.

The pavement on this side of the road is narrow and although you wouldn't call it crowded if it were Reading, an elderly lady with a shopping trolley jockeying for position with a double buggy probably passes for rush hour in Northallerton. Age triumphs over beauty when a man in a suit holds open the door of Barkers Department Store; as the pushchair stops in front of me I glimpse a blonde toddler chewing a banana with a baby sleeping beside her.

The glass front of the newsagent jars with the elegant Georgian structure it has been rammed into, but looking around I find this is typical of the town. I push the door open; the place reeks of newsprint and spilt milk – I try to hold my nose but it
makes my breath come in funny little gulps so I grab a copy of the Yorkshire Post, all but throw my money on the counter and escape into the fresh air.

I need a coffee. Badly. I spy Costa's opposite but from an opening to my left comes a wondrous waft of baking mixed with roasting beans. I skipped breakfast and I didn't even know I was hungry.

It takes a moment for my eyes to adjust to the shade of the alleyway. I grope my way down the side of a haberdashery and past a florist before the paving opens out onto the edge of the supermarket car park. It isn't a promising location, but the door of the café is clean and newly painted so I go in.

The coffee shop is completely devoid of customers and at first there seems to be no-one serving, but then a fresh faced guy of about thirty pops up from behind the counter. I stare at him, open mouthed, because he is the man I watched swim in the river yesterday. Same fair hair falling forwards over his oval face; same generous lips; same jutting chin.

“Can I help you?” He looks at me curiously as I continue to gape. “Err…do I have a smudge of coffee on my nose or something?”

I manage to recover myself. He is so beautifully turned out, perfectly shaven and wearing a crisply ironed linen shirt, that he would be the last person in the world to have a smudge on his nose. “I'm sorry. It's just I thought I recognised you from somewhere, that's all.”

He smiles politely. “Strange how that sometimes happens, isn't it? Now, what can I get you?”

“A skinny latte and…” I scan the display of cakes, temptingly mouth-watering in their glass cabinet. “Oh my God – are they all homemade?”

“My business partner, Adam, bakes them. He's very gifted in the kitchen department.” He leans forward. “I'd go for a caramel shortbread if I were you; it's still warm and gooey from the oven.”

I hope he will not notice that my hands are shaking as I pick
up my tray and take it to a table by the big picture window. I spread my newspaper in front of me. But I'm not looking at it – I'm not even looking at the shoppers walking past; I'm wondering how the hell he got out of the river without me seeing him.

Don't get me wrong, I'm really pleased that he did. He disappeared so suddenly and so completely I've been worrying all night and fretting over whether I should have raised the alarm. And when I did sleep of course I dreamt about him; that we were standing on the riverbank together and he kissed me so gently, reverently, almost. The brush of his lips on my cheek lingered long after I woke.

It's quite a while since I've been kissed like that, if at all. Neil was my first boyfriend – we met when I was nineteen – and we were never much into demonstrations of affection. We were comfortable with each other though, happily married – or so I thought – and probably best friends. It was just a shame he never told me that being friends wasn't enough. Instead he acted like every bloody stereotypical businessman and had an affair with his secretary – a clinging, doe-eyed blonde – the exact opposite of me.

I am so average it must have been really hard for him to find my opposite. I'm not that tall – but she was tiny; I'm not that thin – but she was all curves. But my hair is dark, so I suppose hers was something different. As was her down-with-the-kids dress sense and text-speak vocabulary. It made dreary old Neil seem like her father.

And made me wonder if, at the tender age of thirty-five, I'd become my mother. It does make you think when your man runs off with someone else. I mean, I can't be that awful – I did used to get quite a few wolf whistles from the mechanics at work. Even so, when I moved up here I had a serious wardrobe clear out and although my tops are now much lower and my jeans much tighter, I do still prefer to speak in proper sentences.

Ridiculous as it sounds, I could have probably coped with the affair, but the secretary fell pregnant and Neil said he had to do the right thing. Despite the fact the bastard never wanted
children. But what about the right thing by me? He was shocked when I yelled and cried and screamed; he said he'd never imagined I'd felt so strongly about him, that if he had, the affair would never have happened, but now it was too late to do anything about it.