‘They must’ve been there all along,’ Ffion says.
‘Strawberry plants don’t live that long. They pass their best after about five years and you have to replant. We did it several times over the course of running the patch.’
‘Yeah, but they send out runners that root into the soil and form new plants,’ I say. ‘You never dug up the old plants?’
Godfrey shakes his head.
‘Then potentially they could have carried on growing and producing young plants, which kept growing and producing more young plants. There could be enough of them to compete with the brambles and that’s why they’re still going.’
‘So this could be from the great-great-grandson of one of my plants.’ He bounces the strawberry in a shaky palm. ‘This strawberry could be my grandson.’
It seems like a serious moment and I try to bite back the laugh, but Alys lets out a giggle and it starts us all off, and as I stand there laughing with four old people about the possibility of a fruit being a long-lost relative, I feel the tightness that was in my chest loosening, and for just a moment, it feels like I’m exactly where I’m supposed to be.
The idea of strawberry plants still living under all this mess fills me with fizzing joy, and I’m bouncing on the balls of my feet, waiting for Ryan to get back and find out if there really are as many strawberry plants as there has the potential to be.
‘Hello? Fliss?’ My dad appears at the metal fence and pokes his head round nervously, holding up my laptop bag like it’s a shield.
Cynthia bolts up with such speed that you can almost see sparks as the Zimmer frame feet hit the ground. ‘Dennis!’
Dad looks taken aback as he stutters out a greeting and asks her how she is and how many years it’s been.
I purposely hang back, hiding behind Alys and pretending to be too absorbed in following the trail of strawberry runners to have noticed his arrival. I remember him talking about Cynthia. A friend from work, he’d called her. I remember Cheryl teasing him when I visited a few years ago, before he retired. Since then, he doesn’t really talk about anyone. I refuse to rescue him yet.
The three women look at me watching and sense that there’s something there to watch, because all eyes swivel to where Cynthia has got her hand on my dad’s arm and is chattering away, and Dad has gone from looking uneasy to getting involved in the conversation and the sight makes the sun’s heat spread to my chest.
‘Dennis!’ Ryan comes rushing back in and nearly trips over the Zimmer frame.
‘Ry!’ My dad throws his arms around Ryan like he’s a long-lost son.
Cynthia looks miffed at the interruption as Dad and Ryan have a quick catch-up and my heart is warmed by how genuinely pleased they are to see each other. I’d forgotten how much Ryan was like part of the family.
Eventually Ryan excuses himself, holding up the armful of garden tools he’s got with him, and Dad makes a move to follow him, but Cynthia yanks him to the bench and forces him to sit down. Dad finally spots me and waves hello. I wave back, but I’m still not going to rescue him. Cynthia asks Mr Barley to fetch them tea and cake and when he goes to object, she bangs her Zimmer frame on the ground and Mr Barley gets up and scuttles back towards Seaview Heights.
‘Brambles, prepare for death.’ Ryan approaches with his loot of various garden tools – a scythe and machete, a garden fork and spade, a couple of saws, secateurs, and long-handled loppers, and dumps everything in a pile on the ground along with two pairs of gardening gloves.
His arms slide around me from behind and he fumbles to undo the chain clasp. I’m sure he could’ve done it more easily from the front, but there’s something about Ryan’s arms around me that makes every other thought in my brain disappear. All I can concentrate on is the feeling of his solid forearms pressing against my sides, under my ribs, as he unclips the chain, standing so close that I can feel his body heat and his breath stirs my hair, and I get the feeling he’s lingering. The chain loosens a long few seconds before he unhooks it and pulls away.
When I come back to myself, Tonya, Ffion, and Godfrey are watching us with knowing looks. Alys has picked up a scythe and is brandishing it at the brambles.
‘Ooh, I could do with getting some aggression out.’ She swishes the blade at a thin shoot and squeals in surprise when it slices through and falls away.
Ryan takes the scythe carefully out of her hand. ‘How about a cup of tea and some of those cakes Mr Barley’s bringing out? Me and Fee will tackle this.’ He hands the scythe to me and locks the chain back around his own waist.
It’s been a long time since I used a garden instrument of any sort, but the handle fits perfectly into my hand and I give it an experimental slash at the brambles in front of me once Tonya and Alys have escorted Godfrey safely back up the path. It slices through easily and I put it down to pull my gloves on.
‘Sorry, I kind of volunteered you for this. You don’t have to stay; I can manage.’
I test the weight of the scythe in my hand. ‘No worries. I’d like to. It’s been a long time since I did any outdoor work. It’ll be a welcome change.’
‘Good to see your dad,’ Ryan says. I can hear something unsaid behind his words.
‘Yeah. I don’t think he gets out much. And he looked unexpectedly glad to see Cynthia.’ We both look towards the bench where they’re now deep in conversation over tea and homemade butterfly fairy cakes. Dad looks more animated than he has since I arrived. ‘Is she single?’
‘Yeah, her husband died years ago.’ He stops slashing at the brambles and looks over at me with a raised eyebrow. ‘That’s relevant information then?’
For some unknown reason, I blush. It must be the chat with Tonya just now.
‘I don’t know.’ I glance at my dad and Cynthia. ‘It could be.’
We’re both slashing at the brambles, chopping the tangled bushes away and watching them fall to the ground. We’re almost back to back, Ryan’s doing huge sweeping motions and I’m being more careful and cutting the longest parts of the bush away before switching to the secateurs to chop the thicker stems down as far as possible, until I can see the anaemic green of strawberry leaves standing above their crowns, lighter than their usual deep green from the lack of sunlight, but there are berries hanging over from chunky stems.
‘Isn’t nature wonderful?’ I murmur to Ryan as I stand back to look at them.
Under all this debris, strawberry plants are thriving. Even in the shadow of huge bramble bushes, they’re still there, going about their lives like nature intended.
I crouch down and start untangling the brambles from around the plants. They’ve only rooted in sporadic places and the rest of the tangled mess of spiky branches can be easily pulled away and gathered up.
‘You’re going to get scratched.’ Ryan crouches down beside me. ‘Let me help.’
‘I have more sleeve than you do!’ I nod towards the line of his blue vest over his shoulders, and yep, I really shouldn’t have drawn attention to his biceps again or done anything that would get his eyes on me, because I feel him looking up and down my arms too.
Between us, we pull out clumps of scratchy blackberry that snags on everything and take armful after armful across to an ever-growing pile behind the hedge. It’s a while since I did proper physical work, and it feels good. We regularly dug over patches of land when I worked with him, just the two of us, usually with one of his Nineties playlists playing as we sang along to Steps and the Spice Girls, complete with dance moves at any opportunity. Spending time with Ryan was always a conundrum – I was so afraid of making a fool of myself in front of him, and yet I felt totally at ease with him. At ease enough to sing at the top of my voice – always dangerous lest it set off car alarms and send small rodents running for cover – and risk dance moves to Gina G’s “Ooh Aah … Just A Little Bit” in the middle of a muddy field.
He crouches down beside me. ‘Who knew strawberry plants could survive against the odds like that? Do you really think the rest of the
land will be the same?’
‘Well, there are plants over here, there, and over there too.’ I wave a hand behind me, towards the part he started cutting down and the general direction of Baaabra Streisand who has disappeared into the bushes again. ‘When the strawberry patch was here, the plants stretched right the way across to that crumbling wall …’ I point to the farmer’s fields that join the patch of land to the right in the distance.
‘We’ll be overrun with strawberries,’ Tonya says, making us both jump. I’d been so focused on Ryan’s proximity that I hadn’t noticed she’d returned.
I reach out and touch a reddening berry, still white on the underside. They should be ripe by this time of year, but the lack of sunlight has set them back. Now they’re uncovered, a bit of sun on them will soon turn them red, and the mass of plants we’ve found are covered in small green berries, which need time to grow, and plenty of dainty white flowers with yellow middles waiting to be pollinated. On cue, a bumblebee buzzes across to visit one and I pull my hand away to give it space.
There’s a rustling in the bushes behind us and we both go to turn around, but before we get even halfway, Baaabra Streisand appears through the brambles and runs at us, headbutting neatly into the space between our knees and I squeal as the impact sends both of us sprawling. Ryan lands on his back and I topple forwards to land smack against his chest.
The sheep backs away with a self-satisfied look on her face.
Ryan’s arms automatically snap around me and hold tight to prevent me rolling off onto the ground that’s covered with leaves and thorns. I’m half frozen in surprise and half warm from being pressed against his body. My initial instinct is to scramble away, but it’s not an entirely undesirable position to be in.
I lift my head and meet his eyes, and although I’m trying not to laugh, one look at him trying so valiantly to hold back laughter finishes me off, and we’re just lying there giggling.
Baaabra comes forward again and bumps her head against Ryan’s arm and bounces backwards. She looks at us with the sheep equivalent to a smirk, hoovers an unripe strawberry straight off one of the exposed plants, and runs away again.
‘And people wonder why sheep aren’t more traditional pets,’ I say. ‘Who’d have a dog when you can have that?’
He laughs, and I go to push myself up, but his arms tighten at the movement.
‘Don’t move for a second. I’ve got fifteen years’ worth of hugs to catch up on.’
I’d say I go hot all over, but I was already hot from the weed pulling and lying on top of Ryan is doing nothing to improve the situation.
I tell myself to relax. To be honest, I could do with the lie-down because it’s been a long time since I did that sort of physical exercise, which he can undoubtedly tell with my podgy bits pressed all over him, and I’m hyperaware of being sticky and sweaty after a couple of hours of beating down bramble bushes, and there are probably thorns in my hair.
He thunks his head back against the ground, his body shaking with laughter that reverberates through me too. I can honestly say that if there’s one place I never thought I’d be, it would be lying on top of Ryan Sullivan on the strawberry patch in Lemmon Cove again.
‘Oh dear, are you okay? Are you hurt?’ Alys starts tottering towards us to help, and I quickly hold up a hand and reassure her we’re fine. Ryan’s arms release me and I stagger to my feet, bracing my knees to get my balance, unexpectedly out of breath.
Dignity, I have it in spades.
He folds his arms behind his head. ‘Think I might stay here for a bit.’
I hold my hand out to pull him up, and he slips his fingers around mine, and for one second I think I’m going to lose my balance and go careening into his lap again, but my feet find their bearing and I drag him back upright.
We stand there and look over the patch of ground we’ve cleared between us. There are still stray bramble branches and chopped leaves from what we’ve taken away, but the ground underneath is green, mossy in places, and there are tall strawberry plants with their neat clover-shaped leaves popping up all over, a mass of runner tendrils tangling each plant with the others near it.
It takes me a few moments to realise he hasn’t let go of my hand.
He peers down at our joined hands, and his fingers tighten instead of letting go. ‘We still make a good team.’
‘We always did,’ I whisper, like speaking in a normal voice will make him wrench his hand away.
I even manage to momentarily forget how sweaty my palms are. And how there are undoubtedly pieces of bramble stuck to my clothes, just to reinforce how much grace and finesse I have.
‘This was fun, right?’ He looks down at me and quirks an eyebrow. ‘It’s been too long. In all senses of the word.’
That fluttering takes off in my chest again, but I force it down, imagining myself stomping on the beating butterfly wings. Misinterpreting Ryan’s friendly flirtation was where I went wrong last time. I can’t make that mistake again. He doesn’t mean anything by it, just like he didn’t before.
‘We’ve got a lot more to do.’ I jerk my head over my shoulder, indicating the rest of the bramble-covered land.
‘Same time tomorrow?’ he says with a grin.
I look up at the sky. It’s late and dark clouds have rolled across the sun and the residents are starting to rub their arms and make noises about it being nearly teatime. ‘I’m in if you are.’
He grins. ‘It’s a date.’
Ryan Sullivan cannot say things like that to me. ‘Yes. The eleventh of August. That’s a date, right?’
‘That is, quite literally, a date,’ he says with a laugh and then ducks his head nearer to me. ‘But that’s not what I meant.’
My stomach rolls with an unease I haven’t felt for fifteen years. This is what he does – he’s just being friendly, but it’s easy to misinterpret. I extract my hand quickly, and remember we’re not the only people here.
Cynthia and my dad are admiring the flowerbeds now, Tonya is on her phone, and Ffion and Alys are deep in conversation about what gadgets the kitchen in Seaview Heights might have that would be impossible to guess.
No matter what I tell myself, I’m looking forward to coming back tomorrow. Working with Ryan again. Spending time with Ryan again.
I do know one thing though – I can’t remember the last time I thought about getting anyone to give up this protest.
Chapter 9
It’s raining the next morning, which is much more like the Welsh weather I’ve come to expect over the years. I throw my laptop into a backpack and put it on my shoulders, which are a bit sore from yesterday’s scythe wielding, and head down to the strawberry patch anyway. Even if clearing weeds is out in this weather, at least Ryan will be there. There’s plenty to be getting on with for the website, and Tonya sent me three phone numbers of people who might have stories connected to the tree, so it’s not like there’s nothing to do.
‘Say hello to Cynthia for me,’ Dad calls as I open the door.
‘Oh, I will,’ I say, sad he can’t see the raised eyebrows.
‘And don’t violate Ryan too much, I think we all saw enough of that yesterday.’
‘You’re hilarious,’ I call back as I put my umbrella up and step outside.
Dad sticks his head out of the upstairs window and calls down to me. ‘If it helps, it didn’t look like he minded too much.’
‘Neither did I,’ I mutter to the sparrows eating from the neighbour’s bird feeder once I’m well out of Dad’s earshot.
The rain hammers down on the umbrella as I walk down the residential street and turn onto the coastal road that leads to Seaview Heights. On the gate to the coastal path, the cardboard sign is now hanging limply by one corner and looks like it might drop down with a wet plop at any moment. The campsite is busy though, and most of the tents and caravans have lights glowing from inside, brightening up the dull greyness of the morning, along with people in neon anoraks trying to save campfires in the foggy fie
lds.
The gate to the strawberry patch is undone and I let myself in, not expecting to find any residents out in this weather. Ryan’s got a camping lantern glowing beside him in the tree and he lifts a hand in greeting. I wave back, unable to stop the smile that spreads across my face.
The only other person here is Godfrey, who’s still sitting on the same bench with an umbrella open above him, held by an attachment clipped onto the back of the bench leaving his hands free to read the newspaper that’s spread across his lap.
‘Good morning, Fliss,’ he calls when he sees me. He doesn’t particularly look like he wants company, and even the gnomes aren’t doing anything dodgy today. Instead, there’s a gnome painted like Prince Charles holding up a sign that reads “Free beer this way” along with an arrow pointing to a row of slug traps buried in the soil and filled with beer. At the end of the row of traps, there’s a sheet of cardboard that Mr Barley has drawn a maze on in permanent marker and covered the lines with walls of salt, and written, “Drunken Slug Maze: may the odds be in your slimy favour.”
It makes me laugh out loud.
‘Those slithering slime-goblins aren’t having our strawberries,’ Godfrey says. ‘Mr Barley is taking up my vendetta against them. They were always our biggest pest when Henrietta and I worked here.’
Just when you think you’ve heard it all, you have an octogenarian referring to slugs as slime-goblins.
I ask Godfrey if he needs anything before I head down towards the tree. The path is wider now after all the brambles we’ve taken down in the past few days, and the uncovered strawberry plants are hanging their heads under the onslaught of rain as water drips from their pale berries.
Baaabra Streisand is under the cover of the sycamore’s branches, dense enough to keep her dry as she stands looking out at the rain, giving it a displeased glare. ‘Good morning, Baaabra.’ I go to give her a stroke, but she looks like she might want to eat me so my hand shrinks back before she decides for definite.
The Wishing Tree Beside the Shore: The perfect feel good romance to escape with this summer! Page 12