The Wishing Tree Beside the Shore: The perfect feel good romance to escape with this summer!

by Jaimie Admans

  ‘Ryan’s not like you.’ I push myself up on tiptoes and peer over the hedge. He’s introducing a little boy to the Donald Trump scarecrow, with its straw hair and face made of orange peel. ‘He’s worked incredibly hard to get to where he is. He’s dedicated and innovative, and smart, and he really cares about people.’

  ‘A people pleaser, good.’ I can hear the biro scratching across paper as he writes it down.

  ‘That’s not what I said. He’s dynamic, and ambitious, and fun. He hates social media and his business has gone from strength to strength, and he wants to expand into glamping holidays and self-contained chalets. This tree and the strawberry patch are more important than money to him.’

  ‘What’s important to me is that when I send my staff to do a job, I get results. Weeks later and all you’ve done since you got there is made the situation worse and stirred up the protest as opposed to quelling it. If there’s something I should know …’

  ‘The phone signal’s really poor here.’ I scratch my nail across the speaker a couple of times. ‘I think I’m losing you. Don’t worry, everything’s under contro—’ I hang up before he can yell again.

  It wasn’t a clever thing to do and he’ll know it had nothing to do with the signal, but I was zero-point-three seconds away from doing something stupid like telling him exactly where he can shove his job. I’m getting caught up in all this and it isn’t reality. Everyone else here is fine. They live here. When the protest is over, win or lose, their lives will carry on. My job, my livelihood, and my ability to pay my bills all rest on Harrison not firing me. I can’t jack in my job and stay. I look over the hedge at Ryan again. No matter how much I wish I could.

  ‘Are you the one?’

  I scream at the unexpected voice behind me as Steffan melts out of the hedge between me and the car park.

  ‘What?’ I snap at him, my heart hammering from the shock. I step far enough away to put a bit of distance between us and turn to face him with my hands on my hips, trying not to show how petrified I am that he overheard something he shouldn’t have.

  ‘Are you the one? You know, the one?’ He gives me a conspiratorial wink and thumbs his nose.

  It’s a good thing I realise what he means or I might think he was proposing. But my stomach turns over at the thought of him knowing I am, indeed, the “undercover man” Harrison has told him about. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

  ‘You saluted me earlier.’

  ‘Just being friendly.’ I can’t bring myself to tell him the truth. I don’t trust him as far as I could throw him with a starfish’s strength. And I don’t want him to think he’s got an ally. ‘If you think there’s anyone who’s not who they say they are, you’re wrong.’ I hope I sound more confident than I feel, because I see an opportunity. If I can propagate some seeds of doubt in Harrison’s word, maybe it’ll make him think twice about signing the paperwork.

  He doesn’t elaborate and I don’t say any more because it’s a fine line between seeds of doubt and accidentally letting on that I am “the one”.

  ‘You’re their leader, right?’

  ‘No. Ryan’s the one in charge. I’m just a visitor.’

  ‘You visit every day.’

  And am extremely pleased to know I’m being monitored. ‘I love it here. This place is special.’

  ‘I had to open the relief car park before nine a.m. today,’ he says after a while. ‘And Ryan’s opened up the campsite’s parking area too, and people are still queuing to get in.’

  I’m not sure what he wants or why he’s telling me this, but I can sense his unease and doubt, and my mind comes back to what I thought earlier – maybe we should be working with him, not against him. ‘You have a good business here. Of course it won’t always be this busy, but over time, maintaining this place, keeping the strawberry patch open and saving the tree … You’d get more money than some soulless hotel has offered you for it.’ It’s plainly a lie. I don’t know how much the hotel has offered, but there are probably more zeroes in it than a few strawberry plants could earn in a century.

  He raises a disbelieving eyebrow.

  ‘More importantly, you’d get the goodwill of the people. Look at this protest. Look at the petition. There are thousands upon thousands of signatures now and it’s going up every minute, and with the number of newspaper, internet, and TV interviews we’ve done this morning, it’s only going to get more attention. People worldwide are commenting on the stories about the carvings we’re posting online. People are making plans to come and visit. You’d hurt so many people by selling it, but you’d make so many people happy if you decided to keep it.’

  I think he’s going to dismiss me, but he thinks about it for a few moments. ‘It’s worthless. It might be great at the moment, but when those berries are picked and all those weeds start to regrow, I’ll be in the same position I was before, except I’ll have lost the trust and respect of the companies I’m working with.’

  ‘But you could do something with it. You could replant the strawberry patch as it was – we’re working with what we’ve got this year, but if proper beds are dug and paths are laid down, there’d be room for so many more plants. Over the course of a few years, it would bring you back more revenue, and regularly, rather than a measly one-off chunk.’ Undoubtedly very, very big chunk, but still.

  ‘We tried that. It couldn’t be maintained.’ He shrugs. ‘Who’d do it?’

  ‘I would.’ I fold my arms. ‘Ryan would. I can’t volunteer any of the residents because I don’t know their physical limitations, but everyone out there has been doing everything they can to save it – they’d do what they could to maintain it too.’

  ‘It’s seasonal.’

  ‘So is everything. We can work around that. Put up polytunnels for early crops and open in the spring. Open up access to the tree and it would extend through the autumn until the sycamore seeds have fallen. In the winter, we could interplant other crops – low-growing flowers like daffodils and snowdrops. You could sell bunches of them as a drive-by … Even open as a pick-your-own daffodil plot. One of the people I’ve spoken to runs a third-generation florist shop down the coast. We could look into supplying them – I’m sure they’d be open to discussion. You have this huge amount of land and you’re throwing it away, and destroying something really important in the process.’ I stop myself because I’m getting choked up thinking about losing the tree, and I have to take a deep breath and bite the inside of my lip to stop myself crying.

  I can feel his eyes burning into me and instead of instinctively turning away like I usually would, I try to muster the strength and turn the same look back at him. And I realise something.

  He looks tired. He looks normal. Not like some evil money-hungry businessman, but like a man who’s probably in over his head like the rest of us. He inherited Seaview Heights from a business partner. It probably wasn’t his first choice of career, and maybe he has no idea what he’s doing either, and now he’s stuck between Harrison’s persuasion tactics and doing what’s right by his residents. His dark hair is peppered with grey streaks, and there are patches of grey at his temples. The dark circles under his eyes suggest he’s been losing sleep over this, and although I’d guess he’s only in his late fifties, his stressed face makes him look older.

  ‘Are you a gardener?’ he asks.

  ‘I used to be. I worked with Ryan.’ I watch as he considers this information. ‘How about you?’

  ‘Insurance claims handler. Well, I was. Seaview Heights was a passion project for my business partner – and best friend of thirty years – and when he died, he left it in my hands. I didn’t want to let him down.’

  We look at each other for a few long moments.

  ‘None of us really know what to do for the best,’ I start softly. ‘We’re all out of our depth here. But surely the one thing we can all agree on is that this is not the place for a hotel. When this day is over, we’re going to bring you all the earnings today, and judging by
how busy we’ve been, it’ll be a fair amount. If this is only about financial motivation for you, then at least let that money be an indication of what we could do here. If you sign that paperwork, you’ll be taking so much away from the area and taking the most important thing away from your residents – hope.’

  His eyes narrow and I realise I’ve mentioned paperwork I’m not supposed to know about. ‘I’d best be getting back,’ I say in a rush. ‘Look how busy we are. They need all hands on deck.’

  ‘It was nice to talk to you,’ he calls after me.

  I wish the ground would swallow me up. I hope he thinks I was just assuming about the paperwork because thinking before I speak is not one of my strong points.

  Ryan’s serving a family of five with a punnet of strawberries each when I get back onto the patch. ‘Everything okay?’ he asks as they leave.

  ‘Fine.’ I put so much emphasis on it that he can plainly see straight through me.

  ‘I just had a chat with Steffan,’ I say before he has a chance to question anything. ‘Suggested polytunnels and growing other plants to maximise profit. If we could grow winter flowers, I thought Edie might be on board with using some in her shop’s bouquets …’

  ‘Oh! Supplying the shop!’ Ryan taps the table excitedly, making Alys and Cynthia who are on checkout duty look up from the customers they’re serving. ‘You know how the local greengrocer used to buy soft fruit from Sullivan’s Seeds because people love produce that’s grown ten minutes down the road?’

  I nod.

  ‘I have an idea, and you’re my girl.’ He uses his finger to do the “come hither” gesture. ‘It’ll be like stepping back in time to when we worked together. We all know things were better back then. The music was definitely better.’

  I roll my eyes. Trust him to think of that. ‘It didn’t exactly end well the first time, did it?’

  ‘It ended with Cliff Richard doing “The Millennium Prayer”.’ He makes a vomiting noise. ‘No music decade deserved to be seen out with that.’

  His ability to make me laugh at inappropriate moments definitely hasn’t changed. ‘Firstly, everyone knows Cliff peaked in 1988 with “Mistletoe and Wine”, and secondly, I wasn’t talking about the music.’

  He grins like he knows exactly what I was talking about. ‘You know how I always used to drag you along to meet suppliers and potential buyers in case I rambled and said something I couldn’t recover from?’

  I nod again, the memories making me grin.

  ‘When we’re less busy here, what if we go and talk to the owner of the little shop in Lemmon Cove? If he’d be interested in selling strawberries that were grown here, we could get the promise of a contract in place for next year. It would be a guaranteed income for Steffan. We could block off a part of the strawberry patch and use a greenhouse to ensure an early crop.’ His eyes are dancing as the idea comes alive. ‘What do you think, Fee?’

  I wonder why it matters what I think. ‘If anyone can do it, it’s you. You were incredible at talking bulk purchasers into buying our products.’

  ‘Mainly because I rambled so much, they’d agree to anything to make me shut up.’

  I laugh. He’s not exactly wrong, but it was always one of the most endearing things about him.

  ‘Will you come? I can’t do it without you.’

  I cock my head to the side, intrigued by his lack of confidence. ‘You never needed me to believe in you, Ry.’

  ‘Yes, I did. My whole world fell apart without y—’

  He’s cut off by the shriek of a child as they find a Boris Johnson gnome holding a butter knife in one hand and a decapitated slug in the other, swiftly followed by the yell of Tonya as she rushes off to give Mr Barley a bollocking and another lecture on child-appropriate gnomes.

  He meets my eyes and the laughter we’ve both been trying to hold back bursts out.

  ‘We’re still a team, right?’ His eyes are crinkling at the corners and every time I think the laughter has stopped, I start giggling again.

  ‘Right.’

  ‘Well, until you go home. Then I’ll have to get used to life without you again.’ He’s suddenly serious as he looks down and then looks back up at me. ‘I’m not sure how easy that’ll be.’

  It’s a good thing we’re standing near the checkout tables because I need to hold on to one for support. My voice chokes when I go to say something, and all I can do is look up and give him a nod.

  It’s not going to be easy for me either. In fact, right now, going home seems like the worst plan I’ve ever had.

  Chapter 15

  I think it’s a joke when I get to the strawberry patch the following Saturday morning. Ryan’s waiting for me at the gate with a sack full of beach buckets and tools over his shoulder and a loop of rope running through the handles of more colourful plastic shovels and spades than I’ve ever seen before. It looks like he’s raided the contents of the Lemmon Cove surf shop and gone to a few others on the way back for good measure.

  ‘Are you serious?’

  ‘We don’t joke about the sandcastle competition in Lemmon Cove, Fee.’ He puts a stern hand on his hip, but when I reach him, he slides a palm around my waist and bends to press his lips to my cheek, and I’m surrounded by his crisp green cologne, like a mix of fresh cut grass and new leaves emerging in spring. ‘We need to get down there to secure the best spot. People are claiming the best ones already.’

  ‘It’s not even nine a.m. yet!’

  His hand closes around mine. ‘Exactly. Don’t want to be late!’

  I wave to the residents as he tugs me past the strawberry patch. Ffion is on tree duty, sitting in the deckchair with the chain draped across her, reading parts of her romance novel aloud to Baaabra Streisand. The sheep looks more interested in the sweets Godfrey is eating. The strawberry patch is open early to accommodate all the extra visitors, and there’s already a queue at the punnet table, being manned by Alys and Mr Barley.

  ‘Good luck!’ they all chorus as Ryan hurries us onwards.

  The coastal path is busier than I can ever remember seeing it. There are families and groups of friends heading downwards, all carrying buckets and spades and various sandcastle-building paraphernalia, some of which I can’t even identify.

  The hedges rise on either side as the path slopes further, and we have to wait as the path bottlenecks to a little wooden gate, and then turns sandy, with grass and brambles on either side and a picnic area full of wooden tables and benches, and then it turns into the narrow climb down a rocky path that crosses diagonally across the cliffside before turning steeply downwards towards dunes and the open beach.

  Ryan’s grip on my hand tightens like he’s trying to reassure me. The path is only wide enough for one of us at a time, and he goes first, walking sideways so he can keep a check on me, so familiar with the walk that he barely even looks where he’s going.

  I used to run up and down this path with ease, like one of those sure-footed goats you see on sheer mountainsides in David Attenborough documentaries, and I suddenly want nothing more than to do that again. If I lived here, I’d go down to the beach every day, get fit again. Feel alive again. I’ve felt like my lungs have expanded since I’ve been here, free of the traffic pollution in London.

  The beach is already packed. There are banners up advertising the local surf shop who sponsors the competition. Someone’s hauled a food and refreshments van across from the next beach while the tide is out, and there’s a podium set up for the three judges who assign us one of the seven-by-seven metre square plots the beach has been divided into, and give us a list of rules that I look over as Ryan fills in our entry form, and gives our team the name Seaside Sycamore Champions.

  It really is serious business now. Three hours’ building time, a maximum of six people per team, a strict list of permitted tools and a ban on sand additives, and the only embellishments permitted are ones found on the beach today. Last time I was here for the annual Lemmon Cove sandcastle competition, it was a few k
ids with buckets and spades.

  ‘We’re this way. See? You need to be early to snatch the ideal spots.’ Ryan takes my hand again and starts walking to one of the huge squares drawn out in the sand.

  He’s wearing black three-quarter-length trousers that look like they were purpose-made to show off muscular calves, and a navy T-shirt with a surfboard on it. Sand has blown into his dark hair already, and when he stops at our assigned square, I reach up and brush it out, and for just a moment, his eyes close and I can forget we’re on a crowded beach.

  ‘Ooo-ooo,’ Tonya coos from above, and we jump apart to see her, Cynthia, and Alys waving from the clifftop under the tree. Mr Barley is holding Baaabra up on her hind legs and waving her hoof in our direction.

  We wave back and give each other a guilty look, like they’ve caught us doing something that would make the gnomes blush, even though it was perfectly innocent.

  The other teams already in place are planning their builds with military precision. There are charts and everything. One bloke has got papers spread out on the sand in front of him and is using a pointer to direct his teammates. When he catches me looking, he steps in front of his papers to block my view like I might try to steal his plans.

  ‘So, what are we doing?’ I go to speak to Ry, but when I turn around, he’s on his knees in the sand, plotting out our square.

  ‘Right, we need a moat around the edge here.’ He uses a finger to draw an imaginary line, because no actual construction work is allowed to start yet. ‘And then the building goes here, and we need the strawberry patch here, and the tree right at the end here.’

  ‘How often have you done this?’ I can’t hide how impressed I am. I haven’t even thought about building a sandcastle since I was still in primary school.

  ‘Every year.’ He laughs when I look at him in disbelief, his ice blue eyes twinkling up at me. ‘On behalf of the campsite, my assistant and I usually form a team and recreate the campsite in sand. A few tents, a couple of campervans, I did a real campfire one year but I used a bit too much kindling and they disqualified me for putting the safety of the other contestants at risk.’ He uses his hands to mime an explosion.