The Faerie Tree (5 page)

I went up to the attic and found my rucksack, my tent and the rest of my camping gear. Then I went into my bedroom and stuffed the rucksack full of clothes. Well, not quite full; I left enough space for the photograph of Mum and me she had kept in a frame on her bedside table. I burrowed it in with my T-shirts then collected my driving licence, my Post Office passbook and my bank card. I didn't think I'd need anything else.

When I knocked on Auntie Jean's door there was no reply so I wrote her a note saying I needed a break before I could handle all this and I'd see her soon. I don't know whether I was telling her the truth or not.

I got the bus into town and a train to Bournemouth. I bought myself a burger and chewed through it sitting on the beach, watching the lights on the pier twinkle in the dusk. The resort was buzzing behind me like an angry wasp so I picked up my rucksack and walked along the sand until all I could hear was the sea.

Chapter Nine

I woke with the draw of the waves on the shingle in my ears. I sat in my quilted cocoon, hugging my knees as I watched the sky lighten over the sea. Nothing moved on that great expanse of water. Nothing moved inside me either. But I could cope with that.

I could also manage stiff, cold and dirty. Once the sun was up I packed my sleeping bag away and found a tap near the beach huts where I gave my face a cursory wash, damped down my hair and drank handfuls of the icy water. Then I set out along the beach underneath Canford Cliffs and across the spit of land to Sandbanks.

In terms of finding something for breakfast Sandbanks was limited, but adequate. There was no way I could walk up to one of the swanky hotels, but there was a newsagent which sold a few groceries and polystyrene cups of instant coffee. I bought one and a KitKat and sat down on a bench next to the harbour while the ferry hauled its cargo of commuters back and forth across the water. I looked at my watch – it was just after eight – I should have been waving Mum goodbye and hurrying to catch the bus into Southampton. My first sip of coffee scalded my throat and brought tears to my eyes.

If I crossed the ferry I would have two choices; meander
along the beach then make the stiff climb to Old Harry Rocks or take the road to Studland then Swanage, about nine miles in total and easily achievable. The coastal path was tempting but the reality was that I wouldn't get very far on a KitKat and I knew there was a good chippie in Swanage. Even a decision like that was hard to make – but I told myself I could always go home past Old Harry instead.

My rucksack was heavy and I was out of condition so my journey took me until early afternoon. Ravenous and thirsty, the first thing I did when I arrived was wolf down a large portion of fish and chips and a bottle of coke. But again, sitting on the seafront, eating and drinking, my mind slid off to where I didn't want it to go – it had been alright while I was on the move – somehow I had to out-walk my thoughts.

Or perhaps it was just that I was better alone. I realised I was watching everywhere for mothers and sons; a toddler and a woman little more than my own age playing on the beach, a man in his sixties cosseting an even older lady across the road. My best chance of escaping my guilt was to get the hell out of here and onto the cliffs, so I stirred myself, went to the cashpoint and the supermarket, then headed up to Durlston Head.

The first few miles I had walked many times, but had always turned inland to Langton Matravers and the delights of The Square & Compass. It was a very sociable pub, and sociable was the last thing I wanted. So I plodded on past Dancing Ledge and into unknown territory.

I had seen pictures of the Anvil Rock but they hadn't prepared me for the drama of its precipitous position overlooking the sea. It stood proud and strong in the early evening light, so close to the edge that it appeared only the counterbalance of the anvil stone on top of the upright stopped it from toppling onto the rocks below.

There was a stone staircase built into the cliff to the ledge where the rock stood. As I climbed down I saw that ledge was a misnomer – in front of me was a plateau some thirty metres wide with a cluster of ruined walls where buildings once had
stood. It was the perfect place to pitch my tent for the night, hidden away amongst the overgrown masonry out of sight of the path.

I shrugged off my rucksack and went closer to the rock. I felt compelled to touch it, but doing so meant either stretching up to the anvil from a relatively safe position close to the path, or leaning into the upright with the cliffs dropping away from me on both sides. But what did it matter if I fell?

I edged forwards. Beneath my feet was crumbled stone and a piece of it slid away, startling a seagull drifting below. I lunged and wrapped my arms around the rock. The sea glistened with the last rays of sunlight and the beauty of it almost took my breath away. The breeze ruffled my hair and I let my weight sink into the coldness of the stone.

The easiest route was down. To let go and slip away, past the wheeling gulls, gathering pace and bouncing off the rocks until I was smashed to pieces. I wouldn't hurt anymore and there would be no-one who'd care. I remember wondering at what point I'd lose consciousness. I remember trying to calculate how fast I'd fall. I must have clung to the rock for a long time, until it became quite dark and I was so tired I almost felt myself drift into a dream where I had my arms around the warm bark of the Faerie Tree, with Izzie's hands in mine.

Rustling branches drowned the smash of the waves, whispering with voices I knew, but couldn't place. The hidden folk… looking kindly on my wishes… not to slur my memory… nor hers… and then, finally, my mother, emerging from the mist of sound… “I love you, Robin.” I was inches away from being with her again, moments perhaps. Inches and moments; that's all it ever takes.

Izzie

Chapter Ten

I swear – I really do swear – that this Christmas everything is going to be different. There's simply no other way to get through it. Claire and I have put the tree in the hall, not the living room; we have decided not to go to midnight mass, and instead of staying at home we are going to The Solent Hotel for Christmas lunch. We won't be watching the re-runs of Morecambe & Wise either, not without Connor there to fall about laughing.

But we do not ignore her father. Early on Christmas Eve we drive up the Test valley to his favourite pub and drop a paper boat into the river below The Mayfly's garden. It was Claire's idea and she has a little cry as it bobs about then disappears. I hug her to me, her fine blonde hair tickling my skin and her own special scent filling my nose. It's just the two of us now.

On the way back Claire is looking to make conversation and tells me that my tramp has vanished.

My tramp? “What do you mean, vanished?” I ask.

“Well I kind of looked out for him after what you said, and he was at the Buttercross until the end of term and over the weekend, but when Sasha and I went into town yesterday he wasn't there.”

“He's probably just moved on.” I put the car into gear and turn into the main road.

“Do you really think it was the guy you knew, Mum?”

“It's hard to be sure…” I catch myself lying to her again. “But I think so, yes.”

“Don't you want to find out what happened?”

“Oh, I don't know; I didn't go out with him for that long…”

She spins around – as much as she can with her seatbelt on, that is. “You went out with him?”

I shrug. “Just for a little while; and then I met your father.”

That, at least, is the truth. Connor came into my life shortly after Robin left it. I met him in a bar when I was out celebrating my teacher training place. Robin had walked out in March; I cried on and off for a month and then my mother gave me a kick up the arse. She was right – it was getting late in the day to apply for college but I squeezed in at the last minute – I suppose it helped that I wanted to teach maths. It's not a popular subject, but it has rights, and it has wrongs. And I like that.

Connor was a musician; an Irish free spirit. He said he loved me because opposites attract. The only thing he ever took seriously was his music; all his life he played the violin, and by the time he died he was leader of the Bournemouth Philharmonic Orchestra. That instrument was his work – he would practice for hours, but never, as far as I know, play for his own pleasure. Everything else was for fun.

Physically he was as far apart from Robin as it was possible to be, and maybe that was why I agreed to go out with him. He was a true Celt with his compact body, fair skin and shock of black hair. He always kept himself trim and fit, so why he should have had a massive heart attack at the age of forty-three is beyond me.

It happened when the orchestra was playing in Frankfurt. Claire and I got on the first flight we could but it was still too late. They had resuscitated him so many times they told me if he'd lived he would have been close to a cabbage, and none of us would have wanted that.

Connor died at the very end of the summer holidays, but at
least Claire and I had memories of a wonderful fortnight in Rhodes to sustain us through the dark of the autumn. Obviously Claire crumbled, but I managed to get her back on an even keel. It took a lot out of me though – I'm not sure why – and I suppose I was relieved when Fiona, my head of year, suggested I took an elongated Christmas break. I'm fine now though – well, I was before I saw Robin. No – I am fine – and I'm going to be back for the first day of the new term, ready to give my A-level group hell.

***

Claire goes to bed when I pour my third gin. It was a mistake to go to The Mayfly this morning; she hasn't been herself since. Sixteen must be a horrible age to lose a parent – you think you know it all, but underneath you kind of realise you don't. And hormones all over the place. Is there ever a good time?

Maybe. Perhaps there is. When the parent is no longer really part of your life. When Mum died four years ago I suspect her friends in the WRVS missed her more than I did. The truth is that Mum needed to be needed so we'd grown apart. But if there's a heaven then I like to think she's up there mending angels' wings right now.

I look at the tinsel-decked clock above the fireplace for the hundredth time; not quite five past nine. Today has been endless – tomorrow will be worse. But it's just thirty-six hours and then the first Christmas without Connor will be over. Box ticked. Move on.

I pick up the remote control from amongst the magazines on the coffee table and Marley's ghost appears. No bloody thank you. Christmas past is something I've been avoiding, but now the tunnel sucks me back; the M&S socks that turned out to be odd, the year we forgot to defrost the turkey, Claire getting drunk on Baileys when she was twelve. And further… Barbie dolls and Thomas the Tank Engine, a snowy white teddy called Mr Jim (why?), the secret bedtime unwrapping of satin and lace.

The glass on the table swims in front of me. Rain beats on the window.

“You promised you'd come with me!” I scream and stamp my foot on the lino. All he does is shake his head. He must be drunk again. I slam into the bedroom and bark my shin on the dressing table as I reach for our suitcase. My suitcase. I open it; shirts, socks, boxer shorts fly out; a parcel spins onto the floor, reindeer-wrapping splits. Then I run, down the stairs, into the street. Fuck him, fuck him, fuck him.

The warmth of the gin tingles through me. It is so hard, this first Christmas. And I didn't know – I didn't understand. I thought: it's almost four months – he should be getting over it by now. I see him again at the kitchen table, but this time I notice the shadows beneath his eyes, the downward slope of his shoulders.

Would I look at it all differently now? Would I recognise the signs?

Chapter Eleven

I would be lying if I said I hadn't wondered what it would be like waking with Robin, but that first morning was as far from my dreams as it was possible to be. I can't say I slept much – I was terrified he'd be sick and choke. He'd got so drunk on whisky it had taken all the strength Jean and I had to get him up the stairs and now the stench of stale booze filled the room.

Robin was dead to the world and I was glad. I edged off the bed and picked up my sundress from the floor. The morning was overcast and the bright yellow fabric felt singularly inappropriate to the circumstances. But it was all I had.

There were three other doors on the landing. The one at the far end was ajar and I peeped in. A double bed with a deep pink cover; white fitted wardrobes filling one wall. Some instinct made me want to go in and draw the curtains, but somehow crossing the threshold felt wrong. The twist of pain in my chest for Robin ripped me apart.

I knew the next door along was the bathroom. The one nearest Robin's bedroom housed an airing cupboard and in it I found some towels and a pile of freshly laundered clothes. Near the top was a blue jumper I knew to be Robin's so I took that out as well. It would warm me after my shower and its length would cover the startling brightness of my dress.

It was just gone nine o'clock when I made my way down to the kitchen and I headed straight for the phone to call the office and explain I wouldn't be in. A friend's bereavement. I needed some time. But on the other hand, I wouldn't be taking all my holiday. I stared out of the window over the patch of grass at the back, turning my mind away from the awfulness of my telephone conversation with Paul the night before. Instead I switched on the kettle and dialled Robin's office number.

I had done everything I could think of to do. I crept back upstairs as quietly as I could, but Robin was already sitting on the side of the bed in his boxer shorts, his hair tousled from sleep.

“How are you feeling?”

He moved his head slowly from side to side. “Better than I deserve. But still like I might cry any minute. I'm so sorry, Izzie…”

“It's not your fault.”