The Faerie Tree (6 page)

“I'm not even sure about that.”

I sat down next to him and took his hand. He squeezed it tight.

“Last night…” His voice was cracking and he coughed. “Last night, when we were sitting downstairs, I felt… I thought… your little hand was the only thing stopping me from drowning. It was like a lifeline…”

“It is your lifeline, Robin, for as long as you need it. I won't take it away.” And I meant it, really I meant it, with all my heart.

Later Auntie Jean told us there was nothing we could do until they'd finished the post mortem and we had Rene's death certificate, except perhaps to clear out her wardrobes. The look of horror in Robin's eyes told me that was a bad idea, but at the same time Jean's words made me think.

“I need to collect some clothes – I've only got this dress. In fact – I need to collect everything at some point.”

Robin looked up. “I'm sorry, Izzie – I didn't even think about Paul – your holiday…”

I shook my head. “There's no need, Robin. It's over – I told him last night.”

“You saw him?”

“No, I phoned him. He had to know where I was.”

Robin rested his head in his hands. “I've made it bloody for you, haven't I? I'm so sorry.”

Auntie Jean shook him gently by the shoulder. “It's not you, Robin – it's Rene going like that. None of us could have seen that happening.”

“No… no… you're right.” His reply was muffled.

“Why don't you go with Izzie to collect her things? It'll get you out of the house.”

I put my hand on his arm. “And it'd help me so much – there'll be a lot to carry and it's a first floor flat.”

He nodded and almost smiled. “Sounds like a plan.”

“And in the meantime I'll start going through Rene's bedroom – make a bit of space for Izzie's stuff.”

“No – I feel I should…”

But Jean held firm. She was that sort of woman.

Chapter Twelve

By the time Robin carried two or three boxes of books and records down the stairs and packed them in the boot of my car he seemed two inches taller and there was a glimmer of light in his eyes. I was even pleased when he took the micky out of my collection of Duran Duran singles in their picture sleeves, although of course I pretended to be affronted.

He shook his head, a sardonic grin spreading slowly across his face. “I may have a better haircut, but I'm no Simon le Bon, Izzie – I hope you realise that.”

I looked up from stuffing handfuls of underwear into my overnight bag. “I'm no Yasmin, either.”

“I don't want you to be anyone but you.”

No-one had ever said anything like that to me before.

That night we made love. A slow, sensuous affair; the softness of Robin's fingers trickling over my skin and lodging deep into the corners of my mind. A voyage of discovery into each other's nakedness that left me sated, but all the same longing for more.

Is it distance which makes me remember it so vividly? It's strange; once we were over I locked those memories away. Why am I punishing myself with them now? Because there's a chance – a tiny chance – that I can bring them back? Or simply that I might be able to make amends.

The darkness set in quickly, knock after knock leaving Robin punch-drunk and dazed. Next was the result of the post mortem; an overdose of painkillers. Jean and I told Robin time and again Rene hadn't meant to do it, that she'd never have left him, but we could see it wasn't sinking in. And when the police came to question him he crumbled onto the sofa, asking them again and again what they wanted. Jean shielded him. I was his alibi. He would never in a million years have harmed his mother; Jean and I knew it and even the police seemed to accept it by the time they left. I'm just not sure that Robin did. That's all.

By the day of the funeral he was calm. We went into town early to buy him a black tie. We sat in the park next to the Guildhall, watching the city come to life around us while we waited for the shops to open. One of the partners from his firm walked by, on his way to the office. He spoke kindly to Robin, told him to take his time. Robin told him he'd be back at work the next week.

We were a select band at the crematorium; mainly neighbours, but a man Jean told me had been a boyfriend of Rene's when Robin was in junior school.

“If only she'd stayed with Davey, none of this would have happened,” she sighed.

“Why didn't she?”

“He was too nice, too normal. She liked a streak of danger in her life Rene did.”

Robin had chosen ‘The Green, Green Grass of Home' to be played as the curtain squeaked and squealed closed in front of the coffin. Robin had chosen the single red rose which graced it. Jean sobbed until I thought she could sob no more but Robin seemed beyond emotion.

That night he fucked me. There is no other word for his empty-eyed thrusting, and I lay awake afterwards, throbbing and raw.

The reading light over the bed cast the veins in his eyelids and the black blue bruises beneath into sharp relief. And I was scared, but only for a moment, until he spoke.

“God, Izzie. I'm sorry.”

“It's OK. You didn't mean…”

“I really didn't. It was almost like… you weren't even there. I swear to you – it will never happen again.”

So he found his release in other ways; ways which turned his anger and grief back on himself. But I didn't understand – not then.

Robin

Chapter Thirteen

I don't think I ever made a conscious decision not to go home. I sent Auntie Jean a postcard from Weymouth and another from Lyme Regis. But by the time I reached Exeter she seemed irrelevant.

Postcards. That's how I see my journey now. Red cliffs beyond Dawlish. Rain lashed palm trees at Torquay. Christmas lights slung across the harbour at Looe.

Endless stretches of moorland. The forbidding granite of Bodmin and its jail. The coldest wind in the universe cutting through me. And then, from nowhere, a softness in the air. Daffodils edging the track to Constantine Bay. White horses riding a promise of blue. An end to hibernation.

The stretch of coast between Padstow and Newquay is one of the most beautiful in the world. Cliffs dip into sandy bays lapped by the azure grandeur of the ocean. All around me the early Cornish spring was coming to life with a slow sloughing off of winter that seeped into me too. I positively dawdled and the weather was kind. And now I began to think – just a little bit – about the immediate future.

My funds in the Post Office had run out some time before
and a visit to the cashpoint in Padstow had shown me I was dangerously short of money in the bank. I decided that Newquay would be a good place to find seasonal work. I'd been there surfing a few times so knew it was crammed with hotels, shops and cafés which would all need extra pairs of hands over the summer. It was still a little early to be looking for a job so my first priority would be to find a place to live.

I thought if I saw the right flat in an estate agent's window it would be easier to pluck up the courage to go inside and ask. But the reality was that there were very few places to let and all the little cards bore the terrifying words ‘month's rent in advance – deposit required'. I didn't have that sort of money left.

The tiny bit of confidence I'd mustered was trickling away, not helped by the way the woman in the baker's looked at me as she sold me a pasty for my lunch. But it was good and hot and as I ate it, sheltering in the doorway of an empty shop, the sun appeared from behind a bank of cloud. I decided to take a walk while I figured out what to do.

I turned my back on the town, but had only gone a few paces when I was drawn to a display of long boards in the window of a surf store. I remembered my own board, wedged, along with my bicycle, into the tiny shed at the back of the house. I steeled myself against the stab of pain that inevitably accompanied these memories but it didn't come; maybe I was winning; maybe it wasn't just the scent of spring making me feel more positive.

The discovery made me a bit lightheaded so I steadied myself by reading the notices in the window and amongst them was one which simply read ‘rooms to let – enquire within'. The co-incidence was enough to propel me into the shop.

Behind the cash desk was a woman of about forty with long red hair and a healthy outdoor glow about her skin. She looked up and started to say “Can I help you?” but stopped.

I stopped too, my hand still on the door. On the wall opposite was a mirror and as I caught sight of my reflection I could see why she seemed so horrified. I couldn't look at her. “I'm sorry. I came about the room,” I muttered.

She didn't reply.

“I'm sorry. I've been… camping… for a while. But now… I need somewhere to stay.” I indicated the rucksack on my back with a jerk of my head.

“Do you then?” was all she said, her voice a Cornish lilt.

Silence.

“Look,” I ventured, “I'm not as rough as I seem and I've got the money to pay for it. As long as it's not too expensive” I added as an afterthought.

“It's thirty pounds a week, plus a quarter of the bills. There's two rooms at the top of the house sharing a kitchen and bathroom.”

She was telling me about it. She hadn't thrown me out. I pushed my advantage. “Sounds good. When I can see it?”

“I'm not sure you can. The rooms are in my house.”

I was about to argue when I caught sight of my reflection again; ragged beard, grimy anorak and hair so filthy it clung to my scalp in great clumps. She was right. Of course.

“Oh, I see. Well, you can't be too careful then. Sorry I troubled you.”

I was sorry I'd seen that mirror too.

But before I had quite closed the door she spoke. “Give me time to think about it. If you don't find anything come back just before I close at five o'clock.”

I didn't look anywhere else. I'd noticed a launderette while I was wandering around the town so I washed and dried everything except what I was wearing. Then I braved a public toilet near the deserted beach and although the water was cold I washed as thoroughly as I could and changed into clean clothes. There was no way I could shave or do anything about my greasy hair but I trimmed my beard with the scissors on my Swiss army knife and spent ages trying to get a wet comb through my rats' tails. The effect was negligible so I bought a cheap bandana, hoping the impression would be more surfer than beggar. By that time it was half past four and I went to the cashpoint to withdraw £60 then made my way back to the surf shop.

I was relieved when the woman smiled. “That's something of a transformation,” she said.

I indicated the glass on the wall. “I hadn't looked in a mirror for a while. I was a bit shocked when I did.” I reached into my pocket and pulled out the notes. “And I've got two weeks' rent up front – just in case we can come to an arrangement.”

“Well I'll cash up then we can go. My name's Megan Tregea, by the way.”

I held out my hand. “Robin Vail.” She didn't shrink away.

I wandered around the shop as I waited, my footsteps echoing on the wooden floor. Megan had some seriously good kit; boards of all sizes, an impressive array of wetsuits and accessories as well as a few rails of surf fashion clothing. The place had a slightly run down air but the chipped paintwork oozed cool. I knew she'd make a mint in the summer.

Megan's house was in the jumble of roads between the harbour and the golf course. It was half way along a terrace and had three storeys; a basement and ground floor where Megan lived and the letting rooms upstairs. As she had told me, there were two good sized bedrooms with a windowless bathroom and kitchen sandwiched between them. I asked about the other tenant.

“There isn't anyone yet. I only put the notice up yesterday. If you like it then you can have the pick of the rooms.”

“You're sure I'll do? You feel comfortable?”

“The very fact you're asking means it's OK.” She smiled properly this time and I realised that although she was much older than me she was really quite pretty.

I paid over my rent, chose the room at the back and set about unpacking my few belongings. Megan had told me there was an open-all-hours a few streets away so I was able to buy some basic supplies; bread, milk, cereal and some battered fish portions that would do for supper. It was a long time since I'd had a kitchen and I vowed to cook properly tomorrow, but for the moment I wolfed them down then had a long lazy bath and washed my hair.

In the bedroom I didn't bother to turn on the light. I sank onto the duvet and ran the flat of my hand over the coolness of the pillows. Music drifted up from Megan's part of the house. I hesitated, savouring the moment. I knew that as soon as I put my head down I would be asleep.

Chapter Fourteen

The thin wind was finding its way through both my jumpers so reluctantly I turned inland towards the town. The beach was dotted with dog-walkers making the most of the sunshine and I had enjoyed leaning on the rail and watching them roam the ever lengthening expanse of sand as the tide dropped.

The road was lined with Victorian villas, most of them boasting B&B signs in their small front gardens. Half way along, on the sunny side of the street, a man was cleaning windows. I thought to myself; I could do that. I'd just need a ladder, and a bucket, and maybe a bicycle. And, of course, the courage to knock on people's doors.

I paused to look in the window of the baker's shop. I was hungry, but there was perfectly good bread and cheese in the fridge at home… I wavered… The woman behind the counter looked at me and I wanted to shrink away, but to my amazement she smiled. The only difference today was that I was clean. She probably didn't even recognise me.

A few paces on at the top of the hill I turned left towards Megan's shop. I wavered again. On the one hand it would be nice to pop in and say hello, but on the other I didn't want to seem needy. In the end I decided to ask her if she minded me putting up a picture or two in my bedroom – it was a good excuse, anyway.