The Boy Who Hugs Trees

by Dougie McHale

  ‘It was my pleasure and thanks for listening to me. I thought I might have scared you away earlier on.’ She removes her hand.

  ‘Not at all, it took a great deal of courage. I might even tell you one of my secrets one day,’ he says as if it was an everyday occurrence.

  ‘Sometimes, the moment just feels right, that’s how it felt, anyway. I didn’t wake up thinking I was going to tell you.’

  ‘No, of course not.’

  ‘And as I said, it was a one off, it hasn’t happened since. So, how do you feel towards Stephen now?’

  ‘I felt shocked at first, outraged and then anger, but now, I suppose I pity him in a strange kind of way.’

  ‘You do?’

  ‘He must feel insecure right now. I feel guilty about that… Georgia, if you ever feel threatened by him, tell me. Now I know, I couldn’t stand by and do nothing.’

  Georgia seems a little taken aback, her lips tighten and she nods slightly, her eyes brim with tears. She flicks her hair behind an ear and it is a gesture that even now, tormented by the knowledge of what Stephen has done, stirs an imperceptible desire in Adam. He wishes passionately that he could kiss her.

  They move up the steps and onto the terrace to the metallic sound of crickets.

  ‘School day tomorrow, Dylan’s eager to get on with his project.’

  ‘I suppose I’m in it for the long haul then,’ Adam says and grins sheepishly.

  ‘I like the sound of that,’ Georgia says and smiles back at him.

  Chapter 24

  The Diary

  The diary has always been on her Georgia’s mind, nudging her at certain moments of the day. With the incident on the terrace and Dylan’s disappearance, reading a diary that concerns the past felt an indulgence. There was a reluctance to open its pages when the present demanded so much of her attention. Also, the thought of Dylan running away and spending that night afraid and confused could have been avoided if she had only gone to his bedroom and checked on him; she could have comforted him in her arms. Guilt had bruised her and it felt raw but now a rhythm has returned to their days. Dylan is settled and the worst is over.

  She sits on the edge of the bed, the diary in her lap. She draws her breath in sharply and thinks of her mother, writing the words on each of the pages, in this very house. A warm feeling encases her, Georgia smiles to herself and opens the book…

  1972

  Emily Rossa tentatively turns the key of the lock and the book opens with a creek, a sound that announces its newness as a pleasing current passes through her and Emily’s lips curl into a broadening smile. She flicks a wisp of hair from her face and then, picking up her pen, she begins to write on the crisp white paper.

  Corfu, Friday 2nd June 1972.

  We arrived at two in the morning, after a bumpy landing at Corfu airport, and then travelled across the island in a Mercedes that we bought in advance of our arrival. I told Paul it was a bad idea and we should just hire a car at the airport, but he was having none of that. It doesn’t look like the same car, in the photograph, that was sent to us. I think the car had been in its prime when I was at Primary school. It constantly grumbled and groaned as the crunching of its gears echoed through the countryside that was constantly hidden from us in the darkness.

  I was unable to see if the outside of the house was indeed in need of the coat of paint Theresa mentioned in her last letter, as Paul brought the Mercedes to a halt, turned off the engine and extinguished the lights, as the rhythmic sound of a cricket pulsed in the pitch blackness. I did not even have the energy to unpack and fell into bed exhausted, where sleep consumed my senses, until late this morning.

  I had intended to have breakfast with Paul, outside on the terrace where there is an old solid oak dining table but, as usual, he was up early and left a scribbled note in his spidery handwriting that announced he was out buying food and supplies in the village.

  After a breakfast of eggs, toast and coffee, which Theresa had supplied for our arrival, I wandered around the grounds and ultimately felt dismayed and saddened at what I saw. The garden is in need of immediate attention and the paint on the window frames and shutters is indeed flaking in parts. Thank goodness Theresa has been coming every week to clean and air the house. Domestically, the house has an air of being lived in, during our absence, which is a blessing.

  Due to Theresa’s frequent correspondence and much to Paul’s amusement, I have already made a list of the jobs that need to be done. He says that I should allow myself to settle into the slow pace of life that is the genetic predisposition of all the island’s inhabitants.

  We bought the house three years ago and have been coming back ever since, in the summer months, enjoying the climate, tranquillity and landscape that surrounds this beautiful area.

  As I write, the air from the opened window is suffused with the hint of fragrant scents from flowers and herbs we abandoned to their own devices when we left last October. The olive and fruit trees in the orchard have harvested an abundance of oranges, lemons and olives and I wait, in fervent anticipation, for them to caress my palate with their riches. The lawn garden is in need of the lawnmower’s blades, which reminds me; I need to check on the garden tools in the garage.

  I should mention that Theresa is our housekeeper; actually, that is unkind, she has become a dear friend and I know that it is reciprocated on her part too. I put an advert in the post office in the village and she replied to it. I was expecting an old woman dressed head to foot in black to come hobbling up the hill from the village with deep creases lining her face like a road map. Instead, to my surprise, this young woman, slim in build, with long ebony hair appeared at our door. That was three years ago and Theresa has been looking after the house ever since. Her husband, Kyriakos, tends to the lawn and is a general handyman who visits in between his other jobs. She has two lovely children, a boy and a girl and while she works, her mother looks after them.

  This is the only place that Paul feels he can truly write. He has written his best books here. Back home, he suffers from constant writer's block. He calls it his affliction; it infuriates him, but the moment we arrive, he begins to construct plots, themes and characters, at such a rate, that he will have written a new novel, pored over several drafts and have it ready for editing once we return to the cold climate and rain of Edinburgh. I suspect that when he returns from his shopping trip this morning, he will have constructed the entire novel in his head and spend the rest of the day surrounded by the constant clicking of his typewriter.

  As well as writing, he also reads while we are here, at least ten books, obsessively. He says it loosens the creative spur in him and generates his inspiration.

  For my part, I am enthralled by the beauty of the landscape and agreeable climate. Most of all, the house keeps me coming back. The original house dates back over 300 years, but it has had many transformations since then.

  The local people would call it a farmhouse. It was once, but it has grown in size and now its purpose is more recreational. Like most similar houses on the island, they are called holiday houses, which I surmise, is to attract the tourists who are now beginning to arrive each year in alarming numbers.

  We are surrounded by spectacular views of pine covered mountains and undulating verdant countryside. The house is perfectly peaceful and hidden, tucked away from a country lane and only reached by negotiating a single winding track that snakes up the hill from the village to the haven that is this house. Her mellow coloured two stories clad exterior radiates a subtle rustic charm that sits in eloquent and compelling surroundings. In the gardens, mature pine trees impregnate the air with scented pine. Colourful shrubs, herbs and citrus fruit trees populate the ground around the house, as well as the fruit orchard, with its abundance of orange and lemon trees.

  The house has four bedrooms, a small reception room, large kitchen, that we modernised with new appliances, two bathrooms, dining room, lounge, garage and covered terrace, with cooking facilities and stone built BBQ. E
ach room is dominated by oak beamed ceilings and tiled terracotta floors.

  We were attracted to the location as Paul wanted somewhere he could write that would offer seclusion, privacy and be off the beaten track. The house perfectly fits these requirements and more. It is tranquil and ideally quiet which is often complimented by birds singing during the day and the flutter of butterfly wings.

  I’m planning to give the place a makeover, nothing too drastic of course, a bit of paint here and there, freshen the place up a little. I have decided on painting the interior walls terracotta and over the next week or two, I will source out some locally crafted fabric from the village. Paul has no eye for such things however, he has one stipulation. He is insisting on retaining the interior stone wall features and I must admit they do complement the oak beamed ceilings rather well.

  I am expecting Theresa today...

  ‘Yassou.’ The voice carries its way to the bedroom where Emily has just finished casting a satisfied critique over the page.

  ‘Theresa,’ Emily cries out. The sound of the voice draws Emily down the stairs, her flip flops smacking the tiled steps as she hurries to embrace her friend.

  ‘You look beautiful, as always,’ Emily says, as she steps back and regards Theresa in admiration. She has large and wide eyes full of happiness.

  ‘And you too. The house has been too quiet without you,’ says Theresa in her perfect English.

  ‘How is Kyriakos, and the children, I bet they’re all grown up?’ Emily asks excitedly.

  ‘They’re all well, but driving me crazy,’ Theresa says with a smile.

  ‘You can tell me all about it over a glass of lemonade.’

  They sit outside on the covered terrace and drink ice cold lemonade that has been made from freshly squeezed lemons from the orchard. The morning air is already warm and scented with the sweet aromas of the garden.

  ‘There are many opportunities now. Kyriakos has started to work for a company who are building lots of hotels.’

  ‘That’s wonderful.’

  ‘It’s long hours and hard work but the money is good. He won’t be able to come as often to help around the house and garden.’

  ‘Oh don’t worry about that, Theresa, we’ll get by. If it comes to it, Paul can do his fair share in between his writing.’

  ‘I saw him on my way here. The car is very noisy.’

  ‘The thing’s a death trap. He’s taking it to the garage he bought it from. I told him it was a bad idea to buy a car he’d never seen,’ Emily rebukes, rolling her eyes. ‘But you know Paul, once he gets an idea in his head there’s no moving him. It’s a Mercedes, he said, what can go wrong.’

  They both laugh.

  Emily pours more lemonade; she loves the way light makes the ice cubes glisten, like diamonds, she thinks.

  ‘I’ve had some thoughts on redecorating the house, a lick of paint, cosmetic touches really, nothing too drastic: cushions, a splash of fabric, the place needs to be brightened up a bit.’

  ‘I have just the place for you. A new shop has opened in the village, it would be perfect, just what you need: local handcraft, fabrics, ornaments, pictures, cushions, even clothes.’

  ‘It does sound perfect.’

  ‘It’s owned by a friend of mine, Gabriella. She creates and designs all the clothes she sells. In fact, I bought this dress from her. Tell her I sent you, you might even get a discount.’

  Emily admires the soft sheen and cut of the fabric and how the pale yellow dress delicately hugs Theresa’s figure.

  ‘She certainly has a talent. Your dress is perfect. I was going to visit the market this Sunday morning, I should pop in then.’

  Chapter 25

  The Boy Who Hugs Trees (3)

  ‘I read a book written by a boy who has autism. It is quite good. There were sections in it where I thought, that’s just like me, I do that or I think like that. I saw online that some people with Asperger’s call themselves, Aspies, and they call people who don’t have autism, neurotypical.’

  ‘Have you ever met another person with autism?’ Adam asks. It is another hot day, and the lesson is almost over.

  ‘When I was eleven, I went to a social skills group with a bunch of other kids with autism. After eight weeks, that’s how long it lasted, we called each other friends, but we never kept in touch. Mum phoned the other mums, and we all met up at each other’s houses, but it didn’t last.’

  ‘That’s a shame. Would you have liked to stay in touch with them?’

  ‘We were all different.’ Dylan shrugs. ‘They hadn’t even heard of Mozart.’

  Adam smiles. ‘I suppose they liked more modern music.’

  ‘I don’t know, but just because we had autism doesn’t mean we’re all going to get on.’

  ‘No, that’s true.’

  ‘I know lots of people without autism, but they can be odd at times. They say things they don’t mean, mum calls it a white lie, that’s not logical. How can a lie have a colour?’

  ‘It can be confusing; it’s just an expression people use. Sometimes people don’t always say what they mean so as not to hurt the other person’s feelings.’

  ‘People should tell the truth, it’s not nice to lie. I don’t lie, I always tell the truth.’

  ‘That’s a good way to be.’

  ‘I can’t tell white lies. Mum says I don’t recognise other people’s feelings, but it’s hard for me to work out how they feel by looking at their faces. I don’t know what they’re thinking when they do something or say something, I don’t know what they actually mean a lot of the time. It’s hard enough just trying to understand the words they use. Most people don’t actually say what they really mean, anyway. I spend all my time trying to work out why someone’s doing what they’re doing, not how that makes them feel. I don’t know because I don’t know what they’re going to do, I don’t know what they might say and if they say something, what am I supposed to say back? It makes more sense just to talk about Mozart. I know lots of things about Mozart.’

  ‘Do you have a favourite piece of music by Mozart?’ Adam asks Dylan.

  ‘Several actually. At the moment: Piano Concerto No.20 in D minor by the Philharmonia Orchestra. The Concerto lasts for 39 minutes and 14 seconds.

  ‘What do you like about it?’

  ‘It gives me a warm fuzzy feeling.’

  ‘Music is good at that. It can make you feel different emotions, it can also trigger memories.’

  ‘When I’m happy, I think of the colour blue.’

  ‘So when you feel an emotion, do you always see a colour?’

  ‘Yes,’ Dylan says, warming to the theme. ‘I see the colour in my mind. Sometimes yellow is happy, because it reminds me of the sun and I like when it is warm.’

  ‘What about feeling sad?’

  ‘Black,’ he says, without hesitation. ‘Always black.’

  ‘When I was a teacher, I knew another boy who thought like that.’

  ‘Did he have autism too?’

  ‘He did, but he was older than you.’

  ‘People with autism look the same as other people, we just think differently. You can’t tell someone has autism just by looking at them. I find it difficult to look at a person’s face when I have to speak to them. I’m getting better at it now, but only because mum told me it was polite to look at the person who is speaking.’

  ‘Did you ever get into trouble at school because of it?’

  ‘I did. I would often look at the wall when the teachers were speaking, and the teachers thought I was being rude, but I wasn’t. I’ve never felt autistic, I’m just me. I can’t help the way I think. It’s like, it takes me a long time to work things out, especially when people say lots of things at the one time and use lots of words that are confusing, they just get jumbled up in my brain. Mozart’s music is the complete opposite of that, it makes me feel that everything is ordered. It relaxes me, like a drug, well I’ve never taken drugs so I don’t really know about that actually. I’ve just hea
rd people say that.’

  ‘It’s called “a figure of speech,” you used it in the right context.’

  Dylan nods his head, but there is a quizzical look about him.

  ‘Now, about your project. We need to decide how you will present all the information you’ve collected.’

  ‘I want to do it like a timeline. That would be cool.’ Dylan flaps his hands excitedly.

  ‘You need to plan it, get the dates, the information in the correct order.’

  ‘That’s easy, I know it already. Within each section, I could put in the detail and some pictures,’ Dylan says, eagerly.

  Adam stands up and walks over to a table. He picks up the mind map they made earlier and places it on the wall.

  ‘We need blue tack to stick this to the wall. It's best if it’s visible, you can use it as a blueprint.’

  ‘I’ve already written a lot about Mozart’s Italian tours. He was thirteen when his father, Leopold, took him on his first one. They started out on the 12th December 1769, but before then, he had played in Vienna, Munich, Paris and London and he was given lots of accolades and distinctions. He met lots of famous people too: composers, violinists, singers; it’s all in my notes.’

  ‘Excellent. Well the next stage is to get all of that information into a visual format, so that’s what you can do now.’ Adam replaces the mind map on the table.

  ‘Adam, I’m going to my special tree after we have finished today. Would you like to come?’

  Adam looks at Dylan, who has started to write in his workbook. ‘I’d really like that, but are you sure?’

  ‘I wouldn’t have asked you otherwise.’

  Adam smiles. Of course, you wouldn’t have.

  Walking through the grove they are watched by ancient olive trees. The hypnotic rush of gentle waves is dulled, as they venture further, encased by a canopy of branches and underfoot a fine film of fallen leaves and pine needles lightly crunch with each step they take.