Chances (27 page)

Then he was leaving, walking away, and Vita found herself both wishing he hadn’t come in at all while wishing he wasn’t going; longing to have the shop to herself and yet dreading being on her own. She didn’t know whether to say wait or go. So she said nothing.

But the old lady, still at the greetings cards, spoke. ‘Hullo!’ She greeted Oliver like a long-lost friend.

‘Good afternoon,’ he said, a little flummoxed about being stopped but her hand was tightly on his arm.

‘It’s nice to see you again,’ she said, smiling all the while.

Vita could see him rummaging through a mental file of clients, not finding her there. Then she saw the fast sweep of recognition. ‘You too,’ he said, patting her hand. ‘I’m so sorry – but I must be going.’

‘Perhaps I will see you again,’ she said, ‘you know?’

His expression changed. He glanced at Vita, capturing her gaze for a suspended moment. Then he held the door open for the old lady and they both left.

Vita had the shop to herself, just as she thought she’d wanted.

Then something very strange happened. Ten minutes later, the old lady returned. She came in noisily and made a show of taking the bath bomb from her pocket, placing it in the bowl with all the precision of a confectioner putting the final glacé cherry garnish on a gateau. Vita was about to say, It’s OK! Take it! Have a luxuriate tonight – with my compliments! but the lady was making her way over.

‘I’ve seen him,’ she pointed over her shoulder with her thumb in the vague direction of the door.

‘I know,’ Vita said sadly. ‘At Wynfordbury Hall. With me. A couple of weeks ago.’

‘At Wynfordbury, yes,’ she said. ‘But not with you. Just the other day.’ She looked at Vita askance. ‘Are you OK, lassie?’

‘I fall in love with the wrong men,’ Vita whispered. This woman wouldn’t challenge her the way her friends did. There was something comforting about being able to speak without being judged or lectured. ‘It’s a bit of a pain if you ask me.’

‘Well, if you are asking me, I’d say that the first one – the shouty one – you’re well shot of him. But this one – you’d do well to keep this one.’

‘You don’t know him.’

‘I know he wants to keep you.’

Vita half-smiled but she was tired of people saying things they thought she wanted to hear almost as much as she dreaded them saying the things she didn’t want to listen to. She was thinking of a polite way to rebuff any further musings the woman was planning, but she spoke again before Vita had the chance.

‘I saw him at Wynfordbury
again
, lassie. Just Sunday gone.’ She paused. ‘Tristan.’

‘Actually he’s called Oliver,’ said Vita. ‘He’s an arbori-cultural consultant. Or a tree surgeon, to you and me. That’s why he was at Wynfordbury, no doubt.’

‘Surgery? I wouldn’t call it that. Not when you’re Tristan. Poetry, more like.’

What was this daft old bat going on about?

She was leaning in close to Vita. ‘He wants to keep you,’ she said again. Her breath smelt of soured milk. ‘You don’t have to believe me, though. Tristan Tree has your answer. The truth.’

Vita couldn’t sleep that night.

Why had the old lady been so convinced that Oliver wanted to keep her?

And what’s with the return trips to Wynfordbury Hall, the both of them? What else was there? Who was Tristan? Who on earth was Tristan Tree? A comedy name, if ever there was one. But Vita didn’t find it remotely amusing.

It was a gamble.

But Vita rationalized that if she did it, at least she’d never be able to reproach herself for having not tried her best to understand – and if she didn’t do it, she might always wonder why and what if. So, in her bid to leave no leaf unturned, she set off to find some weird chap called Tristan Tree who appeared to hang out at Wynfordbury Hall at precisely the times when Oliver and the mad old woman went to visit. It took two buses and a long walk to reach the great gates but, to her bemusement, they were closed. They were bloody closed. What’s all this about dawn to dusk during the summer months? September’s not autumn – nowhere near! Only the horse chestnuts were turning and that, Oliver told her, was more to do with an epidemic of leaf-miner moths this year.

The gates didn’t even rattle when Vita went to shake them in frustration. She swore under her breath. What a stupid thing to do in the first place. What a complete and utter waste of time. Tristan could take his flaming tree and shove it.

There was a man. It was his country trousers the colour of butter which made her notice him because the rest of him seemed to meld with the background. She caught sight of him, loping over the grass with two black Labradors trotting at his side.

‘Hullo!’ she called. ‘Excuse me!’ She raised her voice. ‘Excuse me!’ She yelled. ‘Hey! Hey!’

He looked over to her. He was some way off. She was clinging to the gates, her arms stuck through waving at him.

‘Excuse me!’

He was walking over. As he approached, she saw he carried a gun. He stopped. The dogs didn’t. ‘Yes?’

‘Can I come in, please?’ she called. Could he not come nearer? She felt like some peasant, come to the gates to beg a favour.

‘We’re closed.’

‘You can’t be!’ Vita retorted. ‘It’s only early September and it’s not dusk yet – not for an hour or two at least.’

‘We’re still closed – from September, it’s weekends only. Come again. Do.’

‘I can’t! I need to come in
now
!’

‘I’m terribly sorry.’

‘Please!’

‘Nothing’s going to be chopped down before the weekend. So come again then, do!’

‘You don’t understand – I have to come in now. I’ve made the journey – on public transport. I cancelled supper with my mum. Because I need to come in
now
.’

‘Why?’

‘To see someone.’

‘Who?’

‘I’ve been told to see them as soon as possible.’

‘Who?’

‘Tristan.’

‘Tristan?’

‘Yes.’

‘There is no Tristan here. And I should damn well know.’

‘I think he’s known as
the
Tristan?’ Vita said. Her throat was tight, why couldn’t the man come closer? ‘Some chap called Tristan Tree?’

The man tipped his head back and roared with laughter which, while humiliating, was better than being shot at so Vita indulged him. Anyway, laughter was obviously the key – to the gates at the very least – because he was now striding over, chortling and shouting, Get down, damned dogs! because the Labs were leaping in their own merriment.

‘Tristan Tree?’ he said again. Vita didn’t think gun-toting men should laugh with quite so much abandon. Up close, though, his face was nicely ruddy and his eyes, watering with mirth, were a pale summer-sky blue. He had a moustache that was yellowing at the ends like a swan’s feathers that have been in the water. He was staggeringly tall. His dogs were drooling, he was still chuckling and all Vita really, really wanted to know was whether her journey had been wasted or not.

He was unlocking the gates, hauling one side open and gesturing for Vita to enter.

‘I’m Edward,’ he said, offering his hand and she was already responding with her name at the same time that he gave his surname.

Seddon.

‘Oh,’ Vita blushed. ‘You’re the Lord?’

He tipped his head to affirm. ‘Now let’s see what we can do about this Tristan chap, shall we? Mr Tree.’ And he was off again, guffawing.

‘Thank you,’ said Vita. ‘I appreciate it. And could you possibly put that gun down?’

‘Rabbits,’ Lord Seddon said. ‘Pesky buggers.’

They walked off, with Lord Seddon veering away from the long snaking driveway, taking Vita over the parkland instead – the crow-flies route to the lake.

‘It’s very beautiful,’ Vita said because what else was she meant to say? He’d spent the ten-minute walk asking her question upon question about who she was, where she lived and what she did, following this with in-depth probing into the state of the gift market and the parking debacle in town.

He stopped near the house. She was momentarily unsure whether she was coming in. ‘I’m terribly sorry to disappoint you,’ he said, ‘but there really is no Tristan chap here.’

Vita’s shoulders visibly slumped.

‘I think you may have confused an
it
with a
him
.’

‘Pardon?’

‘I think you’re after our Trysting Tree.’

‘Your what?’

‘The Trysting Tree,’ he said. ‘And it really could wait until the weekend. But now you’re here, off you go. Past the yew. You’ll know it when you see it.’

‘The Trysting Tree?’

‘That’s right. They’ve been pulling your leg, your chums. Or else you heard it wrong.’

‘What’s a Trysting Tree, then?’

‘Another bright idea of our friends, the Romans,’ he said. ‘Along with sewers and concrete and grid systems for roads, they thought it would be jolly good to choose the occasional tree onto which they could carve declarations of love. And guff.’

‘Romans? Here?’

‘Not here, dear – we’re eighteenth-century, here. But the tradition goes back to the Romans. There are a few others, dotted around the country – but they tend to be kept secret by those in the love game, if you like.’

Vita had no idea what to say and, now there was no Tristan, no idea why she was here to see yet another tree.

Lord Seddon gave a little gesture with the backs of his hands as if she was a puppy he was shooing up the garden. ‘Ring the bell when you’re done – I’ll run you back to the gates.’ And he shooed her off again.

Vita walked through the arboretum, closing her eyes to detect the fragrance of the cedars as she passed; stopping momentarily at the handkerchief tree, and again at the redwood to make satisfying indentations into the soft bark with her knuckles. She walked on to the yew, feeling strangely nervous about crawling into it on her own so she kept on walking. Over her shoulder, the house became more distant before a swell of land masked it from view completely. Ahead of her, a lone tree. A grand old beech. She couldn’t tell how old but it was big; its trunk straight, the bark smooth. Only when she approached she could see that, actually, it wasn’t smooth at all. Into the bark, words had been carved by many, many different hands. Vita ran her fingertips over the letters, the words, sentences, symbols, all scored into the bark over generations. As she ran her fingers into and over the lines, she could sense the love of those who had engraved them.

And then she started to read the messages.

There were simple initials inscribed bluntly above and below love hearts, there were rhyming couplets sinuously engraved. Mostly, the words were positive declarations of flourishing love.

I nor wealth nor titles bring,
But I love, and love I sing.

Some, though, spoke of broken hearts.

No colour, no warmth – all is dark since you went and I am cold.

Of secret dreams.

AC. I wait for you still. Please come. DW

‘How old are some of these?’ she wondered. She was awestruck. There was something beautiful yet melancholy about it all.

Forever yours, AS x
.

That one seemed to be new – the wood beneath was paler.

‘
Sunlight & dew & me & you
,’ Vita read. ‘That’s beautiful. But it doesn’t say who it’s for!’ She hoped they would have known. She wondered if perhaps they never saw it. Maybe they didn’t have to – maybe they knew it was true even if they didn’t know it was here, carved with love for posterity. Perhaps some were never meant to be read – entrusted only to this old tree.

And then Vita stopped. She gasped out loud.

Suddenly, she knew why Oliver had brought her to Wynfordbury. It wasn’t for the yew or the handkerchief tree with the long Latin name. It wasn’t for the arboretum or the privilege of visiting a private estate. It wasn’t for the sublime landscaping or the lake and the bridge or the house and the wisteria. It wasn’t under the auspices of the Ancient Tree Hunt. Oliver brought her here so he could see how she’d fit. He wanted to witness how she felt. And when he knew how he felt – that’s when he’d returned. Recently. The second time the old woman had seen him, just a few days ago. And only after that, had he’d finally brought Vita to his home.

It was too much.

She backed away from the tree, overwhelmed. Turned her back on it and sat down on the grass, catching her breath. It took some time for her to turn again and approach the tree. Very slowly, she went up close to the bark, raising her eyes little by little. It was too much to take in all at once.

The carving was simple. The lettering was very neat; as shapely as Eric Gill or Emma Bridgewater.

DeeDee & Oliver

Over the years the bark beneath the letters had darkened down. She ran her fingers along them. The serpentine of the ampersand. Smooth. Steady. And then next to DeeDee & Oliver, right next to them, with identical spacings and lettering, another ampersand and another word. Exactly the same hand. Carved with equal care and confidence.

& Vita

There. New. Permanent.

Finally, she read it out as a whole, with her eyes, with her fingers. And out loud.

DeeDee & Oliver & Vita

It spoke more to her than any soliloquy he could ever give. It said more to her than any lecture from Candy, any heart-to-heart from Michelle, any kind wisdom from her mother. Here was Oliver, between his two women and happy in his position.

It explained everything to her – who he was and what had happened and where he had been and where he was now. Where he was happy to be. She was overwhelmed. Diamonds had nothing over wood.

But it wasn’t Oliver to whom Vita spoke when she finally found her voice.

She took her fingers to the letters of DeeDee’s name.

‘I vow to continue to love him for you,’ Vita said softly; as softly as the breeze that quivered the beech leaves and took Vita’s words off into the air towards autumn.