The Faerie Tree (32 page)

“How are you feeling?”

“I took some Neurofen when I woke.”

“I've brought you some tea.”

Her voice sounded dead as she thanked me.

“Fiona called. She assumed you had a migraine so I let her.”

She nodded.

I put her mug down on the bedside table. “Shall I stay?”

“Yes. I want you to read something.”

“What's that?”

“The letter I wrote you twenty and a half years ago. Auntie Jean gave it to me when you went to fetch the car.”

I perched on the end of the bed and she handed me a piece of paper. I unfolded it carefully.

“The address… is that the flat in Shirley?”

“Yes. I'm glad… I did live there, Robin… I knew I had.”

Like I knew I hadn't. I started to read.

‘Dear Robin,

I am leaving this letter with your Auntie Jean in the hope that you will at least contact her if you don't come back. I have been to see her a few times and at first it helped being able to talk about you with someone who knows you well, but now I am not so sure and I don't think I'll go again.

I am hurt beyond belief by the fact you are not here but then I tell myself it's nothing compared to what you must be feeling about your mum. At least I have the tiniest hope of seeing you again, even if sometimes I wonder if you are dead as well. I wish you had told me what happened so that I could have comforted you. I'm sure you would have if I had committed sooner.

In the end I told Paul we were finished part way through our holiday and got a flight home so that I could be out of our flat before he returned. I think he had been half expecting it; he said he had sensed me moving away and had just hoped I would come back. But I can't and he understood.

As soon as I went back to work I phoned your office and they
told me you were on compassionate leave. I asked for your address so I could send a card but they wouldn't give it to me. They said you were expected back soon, but you never came. I went in to see Felicity when they needed some stationery but it was so hard and I cried and she took pity on me. She said she'd seen us together in the wine bar. Later she phoned me to say that the partners had announced you weren't coming back and she'd seen the letters they'd sent you returned ‘not known'.

I found your address through the register of deaths and came straight away but I was too late. You had gone and the house was empty. Auntie Jean saw me and told me everything that had happened so then I knew. She showed me your postcards and she had high hopes you'd come home. But now it's nearly Christmas and if you don't come then I'm not sure that you ever will.

But just in case I wanted to write and let you know where I am. Robin, I am desperate to see you again. I didn't know I could miss anyone like this. Please, please, if you read this get in touch – just so I know you are alive and don't have to keep wondering – just so we can talk.

All my love (and I mean that)

Izzie xx'

My eyes were burning and my throat rasped when I spoke. “So now we know.”

“Yes.”

“What you wrote… about missing me… when I could, I don't know, feel again I suppose… it's how I felt about you. I couldn't believe the pain.” I looked up. “I can't believe it now.”

“Now it's my turn to feel numb.”

The front gate creaked and there were footsteps on the drive, culminating in a clatter of envelopes through the letter box. A passing car drowned the postman's retreat but he whistled as he made his way up the road. A bird sang in reply. In the distance a radio played.

“I'm here for you, Izzie. This time I'm not running away.”

“I'm not sure I'm ready to… resume… I'm scared, Robin,
scared for me and for Claire that I'm a very sick woman. Although I think… we both need you. But perhaps that's not fair.”

“Don't worry – you'll get through this. I know what it's like, remember, to have part of your past ripped away and I'm here – I'm still standing.”

“Perhaps your roots are stronger than mine.” She gazed beyond me, out of the window.

“I didn't have any roots – but I made them all the same. Jennifer helped me to grow them and now I'm going to help you.”

She was a long time in replying. “Why?”

“Because our time wasn't then, Izzie, it was never meant to be. What I need you to believe is that our time is now.”

Izzie

Chapter Seventy-Four

The street lamps' sulphurous glow illuminates the empty half of the bed. I've never slept in the middle; it doesn't feel right – not after Connor, not after Robin. I stretch my arm across and stroke the vacant pillow. My hand looks yellow but my wedding ring glints.

In a box in the bottom of the wardrobe are the photograph albums Connor put together. Every milestone of our lives was recorded. ‘For when we get old, Izzie. For when we forget.' I haven't been able to look at them since he died.

Even now it feels wrong to do so without him, but where is he? Where is the man, even in his own house? Not in this room – the empty half of the bed quickly became Robin's. The gap yawns huge – it is not what I thought it was.

I struggle to carry the box and open my bedroom door at the same time. I listen on the landing, tuning in for Claire's breathing. It is there, light and even, and I creep down the stairs.

Connor's car, sealed into the garage, suits my purpose. I put down the box and find the keys in the hallstand. The concrete floor is cold and there is a faint smell of oil. Robin again. Can he be everywhere? Inside the car I will be safe from his intrusion.

I pad past the bonnet and put the box on the passenger seat. A pipe from the engine – is that how it's done? The thought, unbidden, rocks me. I shake my head like a dog, making myself dizzy and my ears ring. Claire. Claire. Claire. When I am sensible again I leave the door between the garage and the hall open. Then I get into the car.

The leather seat is cool beneath my nightshirt. I close my eyes and inhale. He is here – I was right – a half-eaten packet of mints in the cup holder. I pick it up and kiss the paper, right where his beautiful hands tore it. On that last trip to Heathrow, perhaps, juggling the sweets against the steering wheel, singing along to the radio or a CD. Which?

I turn the key one click in the ignition and the interior light comes on. I fumble the buttons on the stereo, making sure the volume is low. Bryan Adams – Summer of '69 – one of his favourites. I bought him the greatest hits CD years ago. He still listened to it, right to the end.

I pick a photo album from the top of the box. April 1995. Claire, tiny, fair haired, wearing a bright green sweatshirt with the name of her school on. We lived in Hedge End and she was standing by the front door, trying not to fidget. I remember it now. ‘One for the Grandmas' Connor had said. I see him as clearly as I can see the picture, in faded jeans and a white T-shirt, his fringe falling over his eyes. I was dressed for work, waiting with the car door open, and swooped down on Claire as soon as he had finished, dropping her off in the playground before making my way to my own classroom.

Half term – a holiday in Ireland. Paddling in the sea with Connor's sisters, the breeze taking our hair away and carrying our laughter across the beach. Then there was a sudden squall and we went for fish and chips; seven adults, five children, two tables pushed together in the steaming café. Claire spilt vinegar down her dress and cried because it was her favourite one.

Memories – one after the other – crystal clear. Connor, oh Connor, where are you? It's not fair – there was so much more living you had to do.

When Claire wakes I have been crying for a long time. I found him; in his car, in the middle of the night, with our memories. I found him, and we travelled through the years together – a journey that was long overdue.

“Mum – what are you doing?” Panic edges her voice.

“Looking at old photos. I wanted to be somewhere… somewhere your father was? Does that make sense?”

“You're crying.”

“It's not fair – it's just so not fair – he was too young…”

We take the photographs into the kitchen and empty the box onto the table. The sky lightens over the garden as I make tea and Claire puts the albums in order. We pull our chairs close, wrap our arms around each other and reconstruct the story of the O'Briain family. We laugh a lot and we cry even more.

Claire doesn't go to school. I text Robin and tell him not to come – not today, anyway. We make bacon butties for breakfast and talk about Connor. Claire asks if she can play some of his music – I think that's a brilliant idea and she hugs me and cries some more. We are on the verge of running out of Kleenex. But it feels good.

Chapter Seventy-Five

Dark glasses cover my eyes; yesterday's weep-fest has left me looking a right old mess. My legs tremble as I walk into town; I feel lost and free, all at the same time. At the crossing I have to grab hold of a lamppost to steady myself while the cars whoosh past.

I am just biting into my almond croissant when Robin texts to ask if I am alright. Am I? I stare out of the window as an elderly lady walks by, trailed by a little white dog in a tartan coat. On the other side of the road the greengrocer is arranging punnets of strawberries under his awning.

I pick up my phone and type. ‘I don't know – not really. I'm in Josie's having breakfast. I'm going to buy some strawberries. Come tomorrow and we'll have a picnic.' I read it again after I have sent it; poor Robin, he'll think I really am losing my marbles.

Truth is I am not losing them, I am finding them. Although there are some I am leaving in dark corners covered with fluff. Connor and Claire used to play marbles when she was little. When I go home I will see if they are still in the loft. I remember how cool they felt when you poked your fingers through the gaps in their yellow string bag. I am beginning to remember – everything.

***

Robin is scanning my face for clues but I have kept my sunglasses on. He looked uncomfortable when he arrived, like he didn't know how to greet me. So I kissed him on the cheek while my hand on his shoulder kept him at arm's length.

Now we are in the kitchen and his hands are in his pockets while I pack the picnic into a coolbox. His eyes follow me from fridge to table and back again. I stop.

“Why don't you put the kettle on? We'll have a cup of tea in the garden before we go.”

Outside his attention is taken by the vegetable patch. I fetch the watering can and give the spinach a drink – it's going to be a hot day. He indicates the runner beans.

“Have you got any netting for those?”

I shake my head.

“There's some in my van. I'll put it up for you if you like.”

“I'm sure I can manage.”

He turns away.

“But we could do it together, when we get back.”

“OK. Where are we going?” he asks.

“Farley Mount, I thought. Is that alright?”

“Yes, lovely.” He clears his throat. “Izzie – how are you – really?”

“I don't know. I'm up, then I'm down, then I'm sideways. I warn you – I could laugh or cry at any given moment.”

“It's early days.”

“Early days – and late ones. Do you know what I've shed most tears over? Connor. The injustice of it all, never seeing his daughter grow up, never knowing what a lovely young woman she's becoming…” I am biting my lip again.

“He would be very proud.”

I sniff. “Yes.”

Robin's arm reaches out to me but very gently I turn it away. “I know you only want to comfort me but I'm not sure how I'd cope with a hug right now.”

He nods and smiles. “Sure,” he says, but I know I am hurting him.

“Is it too selfish of me to want you around?”

“No. For better, for worse – that's what they say, isn't it?” He drains his tea. “Come on, we're wasting valuable picnic time.”

At the top of Farley Mount it is more plantation than wood; silver birches in serried rows. Elegant trunks sweep towards the sky, the fields beyond peeping between them.

“Do you think the trees mind being planted like this?” I ask Robin.

“Mind? They're trees, Izzie – they can't mind – but they do seem to be flourishing.”

I turn to face him. “You worship trees, don't you?”

The skin below his beard is turning pink. “No. Well, not like that, anyway.”

“Like what?”

“Like you mean.”

“I don't mean anything.”

He looks around him. “Where are you thinking of having our picnic?”

“On the ridge – there's an amazing view.”

He shifts the coolbox into his other hand. “Come on then.”

When we are settled on the rug I try again. “Tell me about trees, Robin. Tell me why they're important to you.”

He balances his pork pie back on its torn wrapper. “It's not trees, Izzie, not in themselves – they're just part of it. And it's not about worship either – it's about respect – respect for the natural world.”

“But surely – it must be – deeper than that. More to it. There's a calm in you… something… it wasn't there before, not all those years ago. I… I envy it.”

He laughs. “There's not much calm about me now.”

“There is – deep down.”

He draws his knees up to his chest and rests his cheek on them. He has wrapped himself into a protective ball. He looks at me sideways.

“It's about… there being something more. Something outside of ourselves. Some people go to church – I walk in the woods.
Some people take bread from a priest; I put my hands in the earth and plant a seed. There's a continuity – everything linked – before us and after us. We're not so important – life goes on.” He shakes his head. “I'm explaining this very badly.”