The Faerie Tree (11 page)

“I was going to make one for myself.”

My resistance crumbled and I smiled. “Go on then.”

“Do you still like ketchup?”

How on earth had she remembered?

I cradled my mug in my hands and watched as she moved around the kitchen. She hadn't changed much over the years; I would have known her anywhere. Maybe the blue of her eyes was softer and of course there were lines around them now… The light from the fridge made a halo of her hair as she rooted around for the bacon and I wondered again if the drugs were making me hallucinate. I shook my head.

“What's wrong?”

“I think it must be the tablets. I feel a bit light headed.”

“You'll be better once you've eaten.”

Izzie was right – although eat and sleep was about all I could manage that day. Claire was going out with her friends but to my amazement Izzie had no plans to see in New Year. When I thought about it, I understood.

“I expect you'll be glad to see the back of 2006,” I told her.

“It's been tough. An awful year. Worst one since… well, for a very long time.”

I nodded. “For me too. I… I lost someone as well.”

Izzie tried to cover her surprise but the speed she looked down at the table gave her away.

“Not in the same way you have,” I hurried on. “Not a life
partner. But someone precious all the same.”

“Really?” Her voice was flat, her eyes full of her own sorrow. Perhaps… perhaps I could distract her.

“I don't suppose you remember Jennifer?”

“Jennifer? The woman who lived by the Faerie Tree?”

I nodded.

She drew a circle in the crumbs on the table. “I didn't realise… you kept in touch with her?”

“I didn't. I went away. My mother died and… but anyway. I came back. But it's a long story… perhaps for another time?”

“Tell me, Robin. Tell me when you came back.”

And so I did.

Chapter Twenty-Five

The train journey from Newquay to Southampton was disjointed. The closer I got to the south coast the worse the disruption became. I slept on the station at Salisbury then got a bus to Winchester, another to Eastleigh, then walked the rest of the way.

By the time I rounded the bend in the road by The Horse & Jockey it was just as bad as I'd imagined; not a tree left standing on the banks of the creek, just a mass of vegetation so tangled that I'd have needed a machete to get near the Faerie Tree.

Instead I walked along the road. It was almost a week after the storm so the pavements were clear, but looking into the gardens I could see small trees and shrubs uprooted and in one place a garage roof had been ripped clean away. The lane next to Burridge Cricket Club was blocked so I walked across the pitch instead and for the first time had a clear view of the top end of the wood. The damage here wasn't so bad and there were still a number of trees standing. I couldn't see whether the Faerie Tree was one of them.

I skirted along the edge of the field. Sometimes I had to make lengthy detours around fallen trees but eventually I reached a place where I should be able to see the Faerie Tree if it was still upright. I braced myself for the worst but there had been some
sort of miracle and there it was, climbing from the wreckage strewn around its base. I could see it had lost a branch, torn away by a stricken neighbour, but otherwise it seemed to be intact. I stood at the top of the wood for a long time, just staring at it.

A pheasant's call reminded me I couldn't stand there forever – it was mid afternoon and I had next to no money – so where was I going to spend the night? What I did have was a backpack full of camping gear and a wood full of fallen trees. So I scrambled down the slope, past the thin ends of horizontal branches and into the scrub below. The air was full of the sweetness of sap; every time I've split a log since I've remembered it.

Close to the Faerie Tree the tops of two beeches had crashed together in a massive tangle. I took off my rucksack and burrowed underneath. Progress through the labyrinth of branches was slow as I had to snap off twigs left, right and centre. A few feet in I found a gap which could be made just about big enough to sleep under, but when I rolled on my back it was clear that the shelter it would provide from any rain would be minimal. In a reversal of their normal uses I stretched my waterproof groundsheet on top of the branches and used my tent to cover the crushed vegetation that had become my floor.

Having constructed a makeshift shelter my next priority was food and drink. Daylight was fading fast and my way down to the Hamble was so blocked that I knew it was pointless even trying. I had a packet of biscuits in my rucksack but I was getting thirsty. I thought for a while and remembered seeing a cattle trough in the field. It was almost completely dark when I slipped out and filled my billycan. I came back, boiled the water, sipped most of it while it was hot to keep out the chill, ate a few biscuits then wrapped myself in my sleeping bag and fell asleep.

Over the next few days I was able to make some modifications to my new home – including the addition of a corrugated plastic roof which looked as though it had blown off someone's shed. I also beat a path down to the Hamble for water, but the issue of food loomed large. I counted out every last note and coin I had; it totalled £42 and even carefully eked out I realised it wouldn't last long.

I knew I couldn't live in the woods indefinitely but I couldn't think of anywhere else to go. I must have known a couple of dozen people living within a few miles but on not one of their doorsteps could I imagine turning up; filthy, homeless and out of work. Not even my Auntie Jean would have wanted to see me like that.

I tried fishing in the Hamble but to no avail. Then one day I found a rabbit caught in some barbed wire. It was barely alive so I knew the kindest thing was to finish it off, and although it was a skinny little thing it was a welcome source of protein to supplement the bread and cans of cut price baked beans I'd bought from the local shop. The way it met its end got me thinking and I spent hours trying to create what I hoped would be an effective yet humane snare from a piece of wire I borrowed from the cricket club fence.

Effective it was – humane it certainly wasn't. The very first morning I was confronted with a snarling fox, its foreleg almost torn right through by its struggle to escape. I was mortified, and I stood for a long time trying to work out what to do. I jumped out of my skin when I heard someone say, “I hope you're not thinking about setting it free – that old bugger's been in my hen coop one time too many.”

I looked up and about ten yards further up the slope was a woman in a hooded anorak. I couldn't see her face but I knew her voice instantly – it was Jennifer. I just hoped she wouldn't recognise me.

“I don't know what to do with it, to be honest,” I told her.

“Then don't do anything. Just wait while I fetch my gun.”

It didn't even cross my mind to run away; she had told me to stay and so I did, watching the fox lick the open wound. At least it would be put out of its misery soon.

When Jennifer came back she told me to climb the slope and stand next to her.

“I'd hate to smatter you with shot too,” she told me. Once again I did as she asked and she dispatched the fox with startling efficiency before turning back to me. “I wondered who was
living in the woods when I saw the corrugated roof. It's Robin, isn't it?”

I nodded.

“Well I have to say that you look very cold and wet, and if you were hoping to catch some breakfast in that snare you're probably hungry too. Come up to the house, get yourself and your kit dry, and have something to eat.”

“I can't,” I stammered. “It's too much.”

“Nonsense. It's the very least I can do for you.”

I was wet, cold and hungry and satisfying those basic instincts had almost taken over, but still I hesitated. She gave me a little push.

“Go on then – get your stuff – all of it, mind, but don't take all day because I don't want to catch my death waiting for you.”

I scrambled down the slope and crawled into my lair. I had some dry clothes in a bag at the bottom of my rucksack and I rolled up my tent, sleeping bag and groundsheet and stuffed them on top, grabbed my billycan and raced back to where Jennifer was waiting.

She nodded her approval. “Come on then,” she said, and tucking her gun underneath her arm led me to the top of the wood and out over the field towards her house. I followed in silence.

Once we were inside she showed me to the same bathroom I'd used that day with Izzie. Reluctant to go in, I waited while Jennifer fetched shampoo, conditioner, soap, towels and a dressing gown.

“Do you have clean clothes?” she asked, and when I nodded she told me to give them to her. “They're probably damp. I'll put them around the Aga to air while you get cleaned up. Then we'll put everything else in the washing machine.”

I showered as quickly as I could then put on the dressing gown before going downstairs. I stopped at the closed door of the kitchen. On the other side I could hear Jennifer moving around and smell onions cooking. I felt frozen to the spot.

We both jumped when she opened the door and saw me standing there.

“Robin – are you alright?”

I managed a ‘yes' and propelled myself past her. My clothes hung on the rail above the Aga. I tried to work out the possibility of grabbing them and making a dash for the door.

“Right then,” said Jennifer, “we'll have some soup. I hope you don't think I'm being mean but it's not a good idea if you eat too much – your tummy's probably not used to it. So we'll have a proper meal later on. Go on – sit yourself down while I dish up.”

I perched on the edge of a chair and watched while she ladled out the soup. Onions and herbs filled the air, making my mouth water. When she put a bowl in front of me it was all I could do to stop myself from falling on it like some sort of animal, but I waited while she cut us both a chunk of bread and sat down herself.

“It's OK, Robin, you can start,” she told me. But instead of eating I put my head on the table and wept.

I heard her chair scrape back and felt her hand on my shoulder.

“Oh you poor boy,” she murmured, and that made me cry all the more. She moved my bowl away. “Don't you worry,” she told me. “You get it out of your system and we'll eat when you're ready.”

Eventually I did stop, but I didn't know how to lift my head. It was Jennifer who told me to go and wash my face while she re-heated the soup, and this time I did eat it, sipping it slowly through chattering teeth.

When I had finished she made a pot of tea while I rescued my clothes from the rail and got dressed. Jennifer emptied the washing machine and once again the space above the Aga was festooned with my belongings. Then she rooted around in my rucksack and pulled out my sleeping bag.

“This next.”

I found my voice. “I need it tonight,” I told her.

“I think you should stay here tonight.”

“No way. You don't know me.” I stared at the knots in the table.

“Well you're not going back into the woods so we'll just have to think of a compromise.”

The compromise was the summerhouse. Jennifer led me down the path towards the end of the lawn to a wooden building with a small veranda on the front. It had a gabled roof, a door in the centre and a window either side, rather like a child's drawing. Inside it was full of cobwebs. Jennifer gave me a broom and a duster while she went up to the loft to look for a camp bed and an electric heater.

Chapter Twenty-Six

You would have thought with a full belly and a roof over my head that I would have slept like a log, but I didn't. I was probably too tired. I lay awake most of the night wondering why I felt so completely devoid of any emotion. I knew nothing about depression then – it didn't cross my mind I was ill – I just thought I was being pathetic.

Next morning I stayed in bed until Jennifer knocked on the door.

“I'm off to feed the chickens and collect the eggs. Want to help?”

To be honest I didn't; I just wanted to lie where I was. But I knew I should do everything I could to be useful so I crawled out from under the blankets, pulled on my jumper and the anorak Jennifer had lent me while mine dried, and followed her across the lawn.

I watched while she released thirty or so chickens from their coops. Then she explained how much corn they were given and sent me to the outside tap to fetch some water. I broke the ice on top of the two enamel basins they drank from, emptied out the dirty stuff and filled them with fresh. I spilt some of it on my trousers and the chill seeped through to my legs.

Last of all we collected the eggs. Jennifer looked at me.

“Guess what's for breakfast?” she smiled.

It was as I watched her cut her toast into soldiers that I started to cry again. It was what Mum and I had always done and the memory sliced through me.

Jennifer made no comment until I was calmer. “You seem very sad, Robin,” she said.

I shook my head. “No – I don't feel anything and then I cry.”

“Have you always felt that way?”

“Never.”

She dusted the crumbs from her hands onto her plate. “Then what happened to change you?”

What, indeed? I turned my egg cup around on the table again and again, before I finally picked up my spoon and cracked the top open.

After breakfast I went to the utility room to look for my tent and rucksack – it was time I was moving on. But they were missing.

“Oh, I'm drying them out upstairs,” Jennifer said. “Anyway, you don't need them just yet. I was rather hoping you could help me clear some wood. That dreadful wind knocked down a couple of my apple trees and it's a shame to waste such good fuel.”

My labour was the only means I had of thanking Jennifer for her kindness. I wielded her ancient petrol driven chainsaw while she stripped away the remains of the leaves and the tiniest twigs and took them off to the compost heap.