The Boy Who Hugs Trees

by Dougie McHale

  The Boy Who Hugs Trees

  Dougie McHale

  Copyright © Dougie McHale 2016

  The right of Dougie McHale to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Design and Patents Act 1988.

  This is a work of fiction. Names and characters are the products of the author’s imagination and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the author.

  Acknowledgments

  Heartfelt thanks to Sheona, my wife, for her continued support, constant encouragement and proof reading. Thanks to Aaron McHale for his technical wizardry, formatting skills and design. Thanks to Tracy Watson, Angela Waddell, Stuart Mcainsh, and Kirstine Watson who gave me feedback on the novel. Thanks to Effrosyni Moschoudi for her guidance and advice from whom I have learnt so much and will always be grateful. Finally, I am indebted to Katrina Johnston for her editorial skills, advice and time.

  Prologue

  1994

  Her movements are slow, but deliberate, as she places the teapot on the kitchen table. The low sun washes the room in an autumnal light. A soft illumination rejuvenates the floor tiles with a white shine that her years of monotonous cleaning have failed to produce. She moves a wisp of hair behind her ear; a weariness lodged in her chest escapes with a sigh.

  As she positions the vase of flowers into the centre of the table, she touches the yellow petals between her forefinger and thumb, as an eruption of colour and perfumed scent declares its simplistic beauty before her pale and drawn face.

  She stares out of the window. Unwashed weather-marks stain the glass. A creased smile curls the edge of her lips, as she feels a distinct urge to venture out and wade through the mounds of raked leaves, small mountain ranges, that wait by the shed to be collected.

  Fallen leaves litter the hardened ground, a collage of brown and gold, crisp and undisturbed in the stillness. She looks at the trees that line the periphery of the garden. The air is motionless where a tapestry of leaves shimmer in a blaze of copper. In time, the light will fade and eventually soften and dull them. Birdsong reverberating in the garden is clouded by an ache in her forehead.

  And then, as suddenly as it began, her reprieve is ended by a heaviness that is relentless.

  Her eyes, set deep into hollow and blackened sockets, camouflaged by powder, are blind to the intense colour of this day.

  She will arrive soon, she thinks.

  She stretches her arm, retrieving tea cups from a cupboard; it is an effort that affects every cell and bone. The crashing of china, disintegrating, like a nail bomb, drags her screaming from the dark cell she has crawled into. Panic creeps into the room. Cursing the small fragments, she frantically sweeps them into a cluster before they are disposed into a bin.

  Placing a plucked cup on the table, she hears the inexorable crunch of footsteps on gravel.

  ‘It’s only me mum.’ The voice moves through the house, like an intruder.

  She is not ready for this. She clings to the cocoon she has inhabited. An anxious wave crashes into her, a foaming and riotous sea, as the invasive sounds from the hallway predict an imminent meeting. She slumps into a chair.

  With a laborious effort, she hoists herself from the chair. A dignified posture erects itself, like a rejuvenated yet delicate flower. Standing, hands clasped, an anguished strain pulls at the lines that splay from her eyes. She tries to imagine an air of normalisation around her. She feels a dull sensation radiate from the nape of her neck. There is a panic to her breathing; the air is sucked from the room.

  She is exhausted. She picks some fluff from her skirt and wonders why she feels self-conscious.

  Her daughter’s voice summons an urgency to compose herself. She runs her fingers through her hair and down her skirt; these adjustments are performed and driven by a need to gain an element of control and of self-preservation.

  Georgia sweeps into the kitchen, cold air still wreathed around her, clinging to her clothes in defiance.

  She kisses her mother. ‘It’s freezing out there. The traffic was awful. They’ve got it down to one lane again. They seem to dig up the road for fun. It makes you wonder who plans these things.’

  ‘Would you like tea dear?’

  ‘I’d love a cup,’ Georgia says and smiles.

  She gulps for air, steadies her hand and pours the steaming tea into a cup and then tentatively into another. It is a ritual she has repeated a thousand times, but performed today as if it was her first. She has displayed an assortment of biscuits onto a floral plate.

  ‘Would you like a biscuit?’ she asks, as an intoxicating clamour disturbs her thoughts. She must be in control, she tells herself. I will not allow this to beat me.

  She sits down. A relief enters her, she assumes Georgia has not detected her unsteady demeanour, encouraging a short-lived smile that fades, rubbed out before maturity.

  With a manicured finger, Georgia wipes a crumb from the corner of her polished lips and sips her tea.

  ‘You’re looking well, how are things at home?’

  ‘Fine mum, Stephen gets home Saturday morning. He’s been in London for a week this time.’

  ‘How is the house coming on?’ She plays with the handle of her tea cup.

  ‘Most of the work is finished, thank god. It’s been like living on a building site. The decorators start on Monday. It’ll be finished for Christmas. You must come and see the house once it’s finished.’

  She shifts in her chair. ‘Yes, I’d like that.’

  ‘In fact mum, why don’t you come for Christmas dinner?’ Georgia says enthusiastically.

  ‘That would be lovely.’ She fiddles with her dress. She has not given Christmas a thought and is reluctant to pore over such a time.

  ‘Are you sure mum? Don’t tell me you’ve got other plans.’ Georgia watches her interrogatively.

  ‘No... not at all, I’d like that, really.’ She forces a smile, appeasing the moment.

  She notices a natural shine from her daughter’s cheeks. Georgia has her father’s eyes. It is more an observation than an attempt to study her. She takes a deep breath, she has rehearsed her words yet, in their moment of delivery, she feels vulnerable and scared. She must choose the appropriate time with caution.

  She stares at her cup, the undrunk tea. Her throat is dry, uncomfortably tight.

  ‘Mum, I’ve something to tell you.’

  Georgia’s voice pulls her back. ‘Yes dear, what is it?’

  ‘I’ve spoken to Stephen, and he doesn’t mind if I tell you.’ She is starting to smile. ‘The thing is, well, as you already know, we’ve been trying for a baby... God, what I’m trying to say is I’m pregnant.’

  There is an unexpected silence.

  ‘Aren’t you happy for me?’ Georgia sounds like a wounded child. She gazes into her mother’s eyes.

  ‘Of course I am. What wonderful news.’

  She rises from her chair, scraping it over the floor and embraces her daughter.

  ‘You are pleased for us... Aren’t you?’

  ‘Oh darling of course I am.’

  The realisation that she will not see this child creeps upon her. She will not experience the transition from mother to grandmother. Tears well up in her eyes and cement the ache in the pit of her stomach. She is reluctant to release their embrace.

  She remembers the courteous greetings, her nervous smile.

  ‘How long?’

  He moves in his chair, shifting his weight. His words
enter her, like a hail of bullets. ‘Between three… six months.’

  ‘But I don’t feel any pain...’

  She cannot remember how she arrived home that day, yet, the numbness that inflicts her has remained ever since, taking root like a mature tree. There has been no release from its anaesthetising presence, not even the revelation of a new life growing inside her daughter.

  ‘Stephens convinced we’re having a boy. He’s already talking about taking him to watch Scotland play rugby and I’m only twelve weeks!’

  ‘Your father was the same. It’s a man thing.’ She hesitates before running her fingers through her daughter’s hair. It is unthinkable to neglect her joy.

  ‘You will make a wonderful mother,’ she says, retreating to her chair.

  ‘I’ve had the best teacher,’ Georgia says spontaneously. The words float over to her like feathers.

  ‘Are you ok?’ Georgia asks anxiously.

  ‘Of course dear, just a little tired. I haven’t been sleeping too well that’s all. I’m happy for you both. It’s not every day one becomes a grandmother.’ She pauses before summoning a broad smile. In this instant, she knows the opportunity has escaped her, as she hastily pours another cup of dark tea, now watched by a contented Georgia.

  She is shining with happiness, she tells herself.

  ‘You must come to ours for Christmas mum,’ Georgia insists.

  ‘I will dear. Nothing could stop me.’ She breathes deeply and gazes at the steam rising from her cup.

  ‘Good, that’s settled then,’ Georgia says in an accomplished tone.

  She composes herself. Most mothers would savour the news of a daughter’s pregnancy with irrepressible excitement and expectation, yet there is a gulf between them. How can she tell Georgia now, today of all days? It has been a lifetime of waiting, her daughter’s lifetime. Georgia has the right to know. She regrets the opportunities spurned, like today, another one slides from her, as does time, for now, her body is not her own. She has no influence over this foreign invader; it has entered her uninvited, spreading its destruction, like an oil slick.

  She stands at the kitchen sink, looking at the trees, and it is as if she is seeing them for the first time. She scratches the palm of her hand, taming an irritable itch.

  She notes that two wood pigeons sit side by side on a branch. She observes the way the light from the fading sun, throws changing and evolving shadows over skeletal branches and bark. She studies the way that thinner branches fan out from singular sturdy ones, like veins and capillaries. Long shadows shade grey slabs, grass, stones, and fallen plant pots, in projected patterns. As the light fades, she wills it to splay its luminance across her garden, so that she can witness, once more, the things she has spent a lifetime ignoring.

  In this moment, she decides to open a box in her mind’s eye, place her secret inside and tenderly close the lid and there it will remain, never to be released.

  Chapter 1

  2008

  A Decision Made

  Georgia awakes with the shrill of the alarm clock. Leaning over, she ends the incessant noise with a thud and sighs into the precipitous wall of silence.

  She swings her legs from the sheets. The bedroom is warm, unlike the ice air around her shoulder, which pulls her to the surface during the night. The heating has been on for an hour, a reminder she has to change the timer on the boiler. She adjusted all the times on the clocks in the house when British summertime began but reprogramming the timer on the heating system was a chore that never graduated to the top of her list or Stephens.

  In the adjoining bathroom, she flicks a switch and dims the light, until it is soothing to her eye. She leans across the basin and yawns into the mirror, observing her reflection. Auburn hair falls around her shoulders, natural waves and curls that, as a teenager, she straightened each morning, frantic attempts that exasperated her fragile patience. Now thirty-five, she has called a truce long ago. She gently stretches the skin below her green eyes, where lines that have once been faint, now fan from the corners. Stephen says he hasn’t noticed, but this does nothing to stem the surge of panic that grasps her.

  Methodically, she massages her face and another involuntary yawn tests the acoustics of the room.

  From the corner of her eye, she catches a dark object scurrying across the bathroom floor before coming to a sudden and motionless stop, as if contemplating a decision. Georgia recoils in horror, carefully stepping over it.

  ‘Stephen, there’s a spider in the bathroom, get up, get up.’ She shakes his shoulder.

  Stephen groans.

  ‘Quickly get it before it disappears.’ She shakes his shoulder more forcefully this time.

  ‘Who’s disappeared?’

  ‘There’s a spider in the bathroom.’

  ‘Alright,’ he mumbles.

  Stephen shuffles unsteadily, a sleepy frown accompanying him to the bathroom. He tears a few sheets of toilet paper, crouches down, scoops up the spider and tosses it into the toilet.

  Georgia flushes the toilet with a conspiratorial smile.

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘And good morning to you too,’ he grunts, disappearing into the bedroom.

  She showers and changes into jeans and a red blouse. Before going downstairs, Georgia gently opens the door to her son’s bedroom. Dylan is still sleeping, like an angel, she thinks.

  She collects The Telegraph from the hall floor and begins the morning ritual of opening blinds, emptying the dishwasher and preparing breakfast - toast, corn flakes, coffee and orange juice, which she sets in their specific places on the kitchen table.

  Next to the coffee maker she notices two wine bottles, one empty and the other quarter full.

  Stephen appears, freshly showered and shaved, wearing pin-striped trousers, a white shirt and gold tie. He sits down, heavily, takes a sip of coffee and scans the front page of the paper.

  Georgia sits opposite him, cradling her cup.

  ‘How many glasses did you have last night?’

  ‘I don’t know, three, four maybe, I wasn’t counting.’ He continues to look at the paper. ‘It’s not as if I’m driving. The taxi will be here at eight.’ He checks his watch.

  ‘What time did you come to bed?’ she enquires.

  ‘About one, I finished some paperwork and had a few glasses of wine, that’s all. That reminds me, I may have to stay on in London, depending on how the meeting progresses. I’ll stay at the flat. With luck, it should all be tied up within the week.’

  Georgia sighs. ‘Are you remembering Dylan’s appointment today?’

  ‘Of course honey, I’ll phone you later, around five, if I get the chance.’

  She sips her coffee and places the cup on the table, with a force that catches his attention.

  ‘Look, I know I’ve been busy lately and neglected you both but if this deal goes through…’

  ‘God, Stephen.’ She cuts him short. ‘Your son’s struggling at the school you insisted he attend because, how did you put it again…. ah yes, its ethos would give him a solid grounding and prepare him for the realities of life. Well, the reality is, he’s spent four years there and they still don’t understand him and all you can think about is building bloody houses in Spain.’

  ‘Look, within the next few days, I’ll be able to spend quality time with you both,’ he says insistently.

  ‘You’ve always said there’s nothing wrong with him, you keep making excuses for him. You’re hiding from your own son, Stephen. You’ve always been in denial.’ She turns her head coldly.

  ‘This isn’t the right time Georgia. We can discuss this when I get back.’

  ‘Is there any point?’

  He stands up abruptly. ‘Apparently not. I need to get ready.’

  Georgia frowns. ‘That’s your answer to everything, isn’t it Stephen? Ignore it and hope it goes away. This isn’t just going to go away. I’m taking him out of that school no matter what the outcome of this meeting is. I’ve made up my mind. I’m going to Co
rfu. We’ll stay at the house while you do whatever it is you have to to build your precious houses.’

  Agitated, Georgia flicks a strand of hair from her face. Stephen sits down heavily.

  ‘This isn’t the right time Georgia, this project will take months. I’ve already told you that. My suite at the hotel has been blocked booked. We agreed I’d fly home at weekends and anyway I’ll be in Palma, you’ll be in Corfu, for God’s sake.’ Irritated, he scratches his chin.

  ‘I’ve been thinking about this for days. Dylan knows the house and the area well, it’s like a second home to him. We need a fresh perspective. I’m going to advertise for a home tutor,’ she says firmly.

  ‘Don’t you think you’re taking this just a bit too far?’

  ‘I’ve already worked out the details and I’m quite capable of interviewing people Stephen, I have previous experience, remember.’

  ‘I’m not saying you’re not capable but, Christ Georgia, it’s a big commitment moving to another country, even just for a short time, never mind taking on a complete stranger teaching Dylan. I’m surprised at you. There’s the matter of where would this teacher stay? And what would you do?’

  ‘The house is big enough. It hasn’t been decorated for years, not since mum spent her summers there. I’m going to give it a makeover, it’s long overdue.’

  ‘Ok.’ He nods in a weary resignation, sensing defeat. ‘I can see you’ve given this a lot of thought. Look, if this is what you really want, then I won’t try to change your mind, but remember this is not a holiday for me, I’ll be working most days.’

  ‘Nothing new there,’ Georgia frowns, her tone fused with sarcasm.

  ‘It’s a major investment for the company. It’s taken months of preparation; you know how hard I’ve worked on this. Most of the plots are sold. We’re talking millions.’

  ‘We’re comfortable enough compared to most people. Why does it always come down to money with you?’