The Faerie Tree (15 page)

I jumped when Izzie put the mug down in front of me.

“You did look miles away.”

“Not miles, years.” I sighed. “The long and short of it is that I lost it. I went out to feed the chickens then I decided to go for a walk by the river. When I got back there was a dark green ambulance in front of the house so I just kept going. I suppose I cracked up again. I never went back.”

“But why not? You could have waited until they'd gone out and…”

I smiled at her. “That assumes I was acting even half rationally. And I wasn't. I guess now I've told you, you'll want to think again about asking me to stay.”

“Not at all. You mustn't be so hard on yourself, and anyway, you've pulled yourself out of it much quicker than you did after your mum.”

“I'm older and wiser. And this time I've found a very good friend.”

Izzie looked at the table, her finger tracing a delicate figure of eight. “Last time… I could have supported you better… I…”

“I never gave you the chance.”

We sat in silence for a while, lost in our own thoughts, but more than anything I knew I didn't want to lose her again.

In the end she said, “So will you stay with Claire and me?”

“I'd like to, yes. But you must let me pay my way as far as I'm able.”

She gazed out of the window towards the river. “Friends don't have to pay.”

“Friends share burdens. Friends need to feel like equals. Look at me, Izzie, this is important.”

“Did Jennifer always take 25% of what you earned?”

“Yes.”

Finally she turned her head. “Then I'll do the same.”

Izzie

Chapter Thirty-Three

As Robin holds open the kitchen door it seems only a fraction less damp inside than out. Although the scrubbed pine table dominating the room is empty there are papers and magazines piled to one side of the Aga. On the other is a vase of wilting snowdrops.

Robin looks around and sniffs the air. “Best get that lighted if Stephen's planning to stay.” He drops to his knees and starts fiddling with switches and dials. There is a click and he sits back on his haunches.

“Is there anything I can do?” I ask.

“Run the cold water? I'm going to find a fan heater.”

It has taken me most of the week to persuade him to come back to collect his possessions but he finally saw sense because if he is to restart his business he needs his tools. And then, when I came home on Thursday, he told me it was all arranged, and he would meet Stephen at the house on Saturday. Stephen had been pleased to hear from him, he said, and he sounded surprised that might have been the case. Personally I suspect Stephen has been very worried about Robin.

As we wait I wander around the house. In the dining room
the table is pushed back against the wall and there are two easy chairs in front of the French windows. I sit down in one and look out at the unkempt garden. Robin follows me, but remains standing.

“I need to get this place straight,” he mutters.

“It might make it easier to sell.”

“Stephen may not want to sell.”

Oh dear. It's not that he's spoiling for a fight, exactly, but he isn't going out of his way to avoid one either. I stretch out to take his hand but he pulls it away and thrusts it into his pocket.

“Don't be like that. I was only trying to… to reach you.”

He shakes his head as though he is trying to clear it. “God, I'm sorry Izzie – I'm a nightmare this morning. I'll be OK once Stephen arrives, but until then I feel like I'm trespassing.”

“I don't see why. It was your home, not his.”

He shrugs and turns away.

Luckily it is not long before we hear a car in the drive. Robin was right when he told me Stephen hasn't changed since he was eight years old; the same round freckled face with a ready smile, the same sandy hair. He is not a tall man and this adds to the impression of a slightly overgrown schoolboy. He embraces Robin like the long lost brother he probably feels he is and like me, he only comes up to his chin. If he recognises me as the girl in the yellow dress whose hand he held coming out of the river, he doesn't let on.

Stephen's partner, Gareth, is quite short too, but stocky and dark and reminds me of a pit pony. His strong Welsh accent doesn't help in this respect, nor the solid way he pitches in with everything he's asked to do. I like Gareth. And, of course, I like Stephen – especially as his respect and affection for Robin are tangible.

Robin boils the kettle and makes us coffee while Stephen explains why the house has been abandoned.

“My mother's contesting the will. I'm so glad you've shown up again, Robin, not only because, well… but we need all the help we can get to show Grandma was of sound mind when she made it.”

“Of course she was – we got a letter from her consultant to prove it. Your boss insisted on it before he drew it up.”

“I know. But we can't find the letter – only a photocopy. Or the original will for that matter. I think Mother must have hunted around and found them.”

“Not a chance. If I'm right about where they are she'd have to have been quite literally taking up the floorboards.”

With that Robin disappears and we listen as he races up the stairs two at a time.

Stephen turns to me. “So is Robin alright? I've been so worried about him. He took on so much looking after Grandma and as the weeks went by and I heard nothing I began to fear the worst.”

I am careful in my response. “From what he's told me he was just exhausted, and then he got ill with a chest infection. I bumped into him just before Christmas so at least he was able to convalesce at my house and he's pretty good now. But how are you coping, Stephen? You've had a big loss too.”

“I've got Gareth – that really helps. But then Robin's got you now, hasn't he?”

I am just pondering his words when Robin gallops back into the room, waving a large brown envelope.

“Here we go, Stephen. I'm sorry but I never gave this a thought. I have to say I'm not a hundred percent sure about what's in here but Jennifer made me hide it when she was going through a particularly paranoid phase.”

Stephen spreads the contents on the table. There are three bundles of papers. He unwraps the largest and scans the contents with his quick lawyer's eyes.

“Deeds to the house – brilliant – and the undertaking over the land she sold when my grandfather died. Just as well Mother never found that or we'd never get her tentacles out.”

“Why's that?” I ask.

“Because my mother is a grasping old bat and if Barry Westland ever sells his fields for development it could be worth a fortune. Now, what else have we here?”

The next bundle contains the will and letters from both
Jennifer's consultant and her GP. Stephen sits back in his chair and takes a sip of coffee as he reads them. Then he opens the final parcel of papers and turns to Robin.

“This one's for you – it's Grandma's life assurance policy.”

Robin sounds cautious. “What's that to do with me?”

“It's written in your favour. It was sound advice to keep it out of her estate. Apart from the tax considerations I think she always knew Mother might contest her will and she wanted you to have access to some funds straight away.”

“I can't take the money, Stephen. I'll happily help you get what's rightfully yours, but I don't want anything for myself.”

“I won't let you go against what Grandma wanted.” He inclines his head towards the snowdrops. “I can see you respect her memory, Robin; respect her wishes too.”

Robin looks at the table. “Let me think about it.”

“OK, but let me tell you what there is. First, there's the life policy – it's worth about ten grand and that is yours completely without argument. Then, although the house is left to me, the contents are yours. As you know, Grandma didn't have a lot of cash so the residual estate amounts to the few shares I didn't need to sell before she died and the undertaking over Westland's fields – which will probably never amount to anything – and that's split between us. So I have the lion's share anyway.”

“Then why is your mother fighting the will if the house stays in the family?” I ask.

“Because I don't think she regards me as family anymore.”

“Oh, Stephen – that's so sad. I could never do that to my daughter.”

Stephen shrugs. “I'm used to it.”

Robin almost topples his chair when he gets up. “I'm going for a walk.”

I make to follow him. “No, Izzie – on my own.” But he sees the expression on my face and his voice softens. “I won't be long – honestly.”

I have my back to the window but Gareth stands and I assume he watches Robin cross the lawn.

“He's off to the woods,” he says.

Stephen shivers. “Last time I saw him go that way he didn't come back. I wish I'd followed him.”

I draw an arc on the table, my index finger tracing the scratches and knots. “It's what he does. He did it to me – years ago.”

Gareth leans against the Aga. “People like Robin don't do it to hurt, or for effect – I've been trying to explain that to Stephen. They walk away when they're so low they don't believe they matter to anyone else. And he seems fine this morning, back to his old self.”

Stephen raises his eyebrows. “Ga's a psychotherapist. He can't help himself.”

“I was only reminding you, and trying to explain to Izzie, what I think is going on.”

I smile at him. “It's interesting. Do you psychoanalyse everyone?”

Stephen laughs. “Of course he does – just not to their faces.”

Robin is gone no more than half an hour, and when he comes back we walk down to The Horse & Jockey for lunch. We find a table next to the window and when Robin and Stephen go to the bar to order, Gareth excuses himself and heads for the gents. From my seat I can see Robin's back; his fleece stretches across his shoulders and they shake a little when he laughs. As he leans forward his bum juts out slightly, filling his jeans, firm and slightly rounded. I want to touch him; feel the fabric under my fingertips. A warmth spreads, low in my stomach. I have forgotten this feeling.

He turns his head to speak to Stephen; slightly hawkish nose, chin hidden by his beard. He has a pint in his hand. That surprises me too. I've not seen him drink so far this time, although of course before…

It was New Year's Eve and I thought the beginning of 1987 would be a good time for Robin to stop moping around and get his act together. We'd had a miserable Christmas; he had refused to come to my mother's but I had flounced off anyway and
goodness knows how grim those days were for him, all alone in our tiny flat. From the state of it and him when I came back I surmised he'd hardly got out of bed. There were two empty whisky bottles in the kitchen.

I flew off the handle when I saw them but Robin didn't fight back – he just sat on the sofa in a daze then said I was right, he ought to try harder, and he promised he would. I softened towards him then and we had a few days of relative peace so I arranged to go out with friends on New Year's Eve. I even bought a new dress to wear and a new shirt for Robin and he seemed quite pleased.

But on the afternoon of the 31
^st
he refused to go. He didn't give me a reason, just put on his anorak and stormed out of the flat when I started to yell at him. I cried for hours and hours, but I was feeling sorry for myself, not for Robin. If only I had understood. I went out but it didn't feel right so I came home well before midnight. Robin wasn't there. Eventually he came back, took one look at me pretending to sleep and spent the night on the sofa.

Before he went out the next morning he left me a note saying he was a worthless shit and he was sorry for messing up my life. I walked the streets looking for him, and eventually found him in the local pub. We spent a couple of hours getting drunk together but it was the beginning of the end.

Chapter Thirty-Four

I push my pillow away for the umpteenth time and swap it for the cooler one beneath. No joy. After a while I pick up my alarm clock and the faint green glow of the hands tells me it's six o'clock. Thank the lord for that. Rain patters steadily against my window; Robin will stay in bed. Lucky him.

A bedroom door clicks open – Claire's. Her footsteps pad along the landing, then not to the bathroom but down the stairs. If she's awake too then we might as well have a cup of tea together. It'd be a good start to the week. I tip my legs over the side of the bed and head for the en suite to clean my teeth.

Light shines from under the living room door but Claire is in the kitchen. I catch her reflection in the dark glass of the window as she stands at the sink. She scrabbles to wrap her dressing gown around her.

“What's up?”

Her head jerks away. “N…nothing.”

The evidence on the draining board is slim, and hard for me to piece together. A small china bowl and a carton of salt. She has something scrunched in her hand. Her eyes look feverish before they drop away. Drugs? I sink onto the nearest chair.

“Claire – tell me.”

She shakes her head. “You'll go mad at me, I know you will.”

“Try me.”

“What's the point? You go off on one for nothing, so what will you do when it's something?” Her voice is breaking and she rushes past me, but I leap to my feet and grab her arm.

We are eye to eye. How has my baby grown this tall? How come her heaving chest is bigger than mine? But her face reveals a vulnerability that hasn't changed at all.

“Come on,” I tell her. “Let's sit down. I promise I won't… go off on one, as you put it.”

She crumples onto the chair in silence. I walk over to the draining board and put the kettle on; it's already full of hot water – as is the china bowl. I pick it up and bring it to the table.