A grey squirrel bounded across the field scratching in the moist soil around the oak.
“You’re not going to find anything there…” said Meg and the squirrel bolted into the hedge.
Meg laughed, watching the sun rise across the hilltops and the clouds fade into a glorious blue daybreak. If this morning was a portent, it would be a good day.
She could happily sit there for hours. She took off her gloves and hung them on a twig sticking up out of the hoary ground. She closed her eyes and let the sun’s rays tickle her face as she reclined.
Meg shifted and reached into her jacket pocket. She retrieved an acorn cup, dipping her thumb into it. Unconsciously, she rubbed it, her thumb smoothing the inside of the cup. A habit she’d had for so long the little wooden talisman was as smooth as silk inside, and even its knobbly exterior was somewhat polished. She ran the cup across her lips, to and fro, and allowed her thoughts to wander.
The squirrel rustled in the undergrowth. Meg opened one eye and considered the little grey creature scurrying about. Sadness enveloped her as she related to its timidity and nerves. She sighed loudly and the squirrel scampered off up a sycamore tree. She smoothed the acorn cup again and replaced it in her pocket.
Sudden melancholy left her exposed. She leaned her cheek against the cold bark. Her hand prickled, her wound itching, and Meg pulled the plaster off. Her cut was clean and moist, a white slice of skin crossing her life line. She blinked away welling tears. This morning was too beautiful to begin downhearted.
Meg gazed up into the oak’s tangle of limbs. She followed the forks back down to the oak’s trunk and stroked the rough, silvery brown ridges, impregnated with pale lichen and rich-green moss.
Her fingers tingled, and Meg jerked her hand away. She recalled the plethora of emotions from the evening before. Frowning, she placed her hand purposefully back on the trunk unprepared for the sudden sensation, the immediate onslaught of emotion. For a moment she felt woozy and thought she was going to faint; then elation surged and filled her mind with blinding light.
She dropped back from the tree, unable to contain the impressions racing through her body. She remained on her knees in the cold, frosty soil, her hands scratching at the rime coated twigs and detritus. She leaned back, fixing her gaze on the lofty tree.
The tree looked perfectly normal, but Meg felt far from it. She got to her feet and placed both hands directly back on the trunk. As her hands smarted she rested her cheek against the bark and closed her eyes.
Images flooded her mind, hundreds, all at once…laughter and tears, and grief and joy. Impressions swamped her consciousness and emotions filled every part of her until she again withdrew. Then she clamped her hands back onto the tree and allowed the sensations to bathe her for as long as she could. She tried to sort the images, but they flashed too fast and the sounds all merged into one big noise.
Then an image leaped out at her: a boy’s face, excited and confident. A young boy, no more than eight or nine, climbed the oak, scrambling through its twisting branches, whooping in glee as he climbed. She grinned and watched him climb to the delight of a group of onlookers below. He didn’t get very far, but she felt his exhilaration as he crawled from branch to branch, and then he swung on the furthest reaching bough to drop back down to the ground and his eager friends. He rolled on the grass then leaped up and rubbed down his red t-shirt, and was mobbed within the noisy group of boys.
The image fizzled and Meg let go of the tree. Excitement infused her and before she knew it she stood on the bulging root launching up onto the lowest branch. She grabbed at twigs and stems and pulled herself up, straddling the bough. Then she reached for the next fork and clambered up onto the higher branch. She settled in a nook swinging her legs, enjoying the new perspective away from the ground.
Before her the field sloped down and evened just before the fence and the track. It curved away to its gate and a line of houses in the distance. Behind the oak, ran more fields and hills with silhouettes of bare trees gracing their horizons. Beyond them vast, misty, purple hills met the skyline, often hazy and bathed in cloud, but today crystal clear against the blue sky.
It was later as the sun rose higher in the sky that Meg checked the time. Way past ten o’clock and panic struck. She’d been gone far too long, lost in this new world of hers.
She shuffled on the branch and grabbed a gnarl, sticking her hand into a hole to lower to the branch below. She carefully let herself down and felt her feet touch the bough. She released her sore hand and balanced before letting go with the other. It was then she realised her boots were not the best footwear for climbing damp, mossy trees.
Her sole slipped and her leg jack-knifed beneath her. Her hand wrenched away from the tree, and she tumbled past the branch she was trying to reach. Pain cleaved her head, and she plunged into darkness.
Two shiny black eyes stared as Meg opened hers, and her groan sent the squirrel scurrying away into the oak. Meg touched her head and for a moment, the canopy yawned and distorted above her. The world spun as she slowly got to her feet.
She found no harm other than a sore shoulder and a headache. She glanced up, noting with relief that her fall had not been from any great height. Still shaken, she brushed her hand against the tree, but nothing changed no visions, images or anything out of the ordinary.
Meg tensed as she checked the time.
Ignoring her thumping head, she grabbed her gloves and collected her hat from the ground beneath the bough she’d slipped from. After a last curious glance at the tree, she hurried home.
Every minute ticked by faster than Meg wanted. As she ran up her street, she saw her mother watching from the window. What had started as a brand new beautiful day suddenly nose-dived as fast as she’d slipped out of the tree.
Her mother flung open the door. “Where’ve you been? No, really, where were you?” she demanded as Meg shook her head, out of breath. “I’m not in a joking mood.”
Meg discarded her hat and gloves. “I’m sorry…” she began.
“Sorry’s not good enough,” said her mother. “You’ve been gone for hours. It’s almost eleven. Did you remember we’re going out—for you?”
Meg hadn’t remembered and gazed at her father sitting at his desk. He shrugged and grimaced behind his wife’s back. Meg grinned.
“Take that stupid grin off your face,” said Mum. “Shoes! You need shoes, something you keep reminding me of. Right now we should be in town, before it gets busy, but that’s too late, it’ll be busy now.”
“Then let’s leave it today…”
“No, we’re not leaving it. You need trainers. We’re going today. And I still don’t know where you’ve been…”
“I just took a walk, and I didn’t want to disturb you.”
“Try leaving a note. My mother would have gone mad if I’d ever gone out without leaving a note!”
“You’re not your mother. I had a phone, could’ve called me…” Meg growled under her breath.
“Are you ready?” Mum pursed her lips.
Meg nodded. “Yup, already got my jacket on…”
“None of that cheek.”
Meg hurried over to kiss her dad’s cheek. “Wish me luck!” she hissed before following Mum to the front door.
Meg dashed down to the car and sighed as she pulled her seatbelt over her shoulder, ignoring her mother’s glare. “We could always go another day, Mum,” said Meg, wishing dearly that her trainers would last a few more months.
“We’re going today.”
Silence consumed the car, Mum chewing her lip and Meg trying to think of something to say that couldn’t be misconstrued. She failed.
“I watched the sunrise this morning, it was beautiful.”
“Sunrise? So you were up early, really early.”
“Not that early.”
“But early enough for us to worry when we realise you’re not home.”
“I’m sorry.” Meg slumped in the seat.
“And wh
at happened to your hand Meg? Don’t think I hadn’t noticed that. What did you do?”
“My hand?” Meg glanced at her hands, wondering if they were still bright red after the scalding hot water yesterday. They were pink and they were dirty. The cut in her palm was now tight and gleamed, and now that she noticed it, it began to throb just like her head.
“When did you cut it? We should turn around and go home and clean that. It’ll get infected.”
“I’m fine, it’s fine, let’s just get the trainers.”
“When did you do it?”
“Yesterday, a glass broke in the sink when I washed up.”
Mum glanced at her daughter then tightened her grip on the steering wheel, fixing her gaze on the road.
Silence reigned until they reached the shopping complex. Meg tried to smile as they drove into the car park, but Mum’s jerky and abrupt parking rid Meg of any wish to smile. Without a word Mum marched towards the sports store. Meg followed with gritted teeth.
Inside, they moved straight to the racks and boxes of sports shoes.
“Right, find something you like,” said Mum.
“I want ones like my running shoes, like the black ones I’ve got at home.”
“Fine, let’s find them and be done.”
Meg began searching the wall, her eyes scanning all the trainers sitting on tiny, narrow shelves in front of her. She knew what she was looking for.
“Any luck? What about these?”
“They’re hot pink…” Meg muttered.
“They don’t have to be black.”
Meg sighed and picked up a shoe. “This isn’t bad…”
“It’s not what you’ve got at home.”
“No, but nor was the one you picked up.”
“Maybe you should have worn yours when we came out.”
“But you were in a hurry, or I would have…”
“I was in a hurry? It’s not my fault we were in a hurry, was it?” countered Mum. “You want to try those?”
Meg nodded as Mum snatched the trainer out of her hand. She moved towards a sales-boy who was promptly cornered by another customer brandishing three football boots. Mrs Frost sighed and stepped back. Her forehead creased as she searched for another member of staff. Meg hurriedly moved back to the trainers, ignoring her mother’s frantic sighs and wild eyes.
Unable to find anybody else Mum moved back to the teen assisting the football boot mother. She hovered as he returned with three precariously balanced boxes. He set them down, opening them. The child shook his head, ignoring his mother’s coaxing and the sales-boy’s pitch as he cradled an expensive red, shiny football boot to his chest.
Meg felt her mum bristle. The mother apologised to the sales-boy as he began boxing up the boots while she tried to placate her son.
“Excuse me?” Meg’s mum waved the black trainer at the sales-boy over the child’s head. “Could we please try these in a four?”
He nodded, adding the trainer to his teetering pile of boxes. As he disappeared Mum glared at the whining child as his mother tried to prise the football boot from his grasp. Mum glanced at her watch and pulled an old receipt out of her pocket. She stared in the direction of the stockroom and began tearing the receipt into thin strips.
Meg sidled up to her mother as the boy’s mum finally wrested the boot from him, returned it to the shelf and dragged him away, his complaints still echoing. Mum ignored her daughter’s grin. “He’s going to be a real brat one day. Ah, here are yours.”
Meg noted the single trainer in the sale-boy’s hand. “I’m sorry,” he said, “only got these in a three and then a seven, sold out.”
“That’s a vast difference in sizes, no others in stock? This is a shoe shop isn’t it?” The receipt in Mum’s hand turned into confetti.
“It’s okay Mum. I like these too…” Meg grabbed two random trainers off the wall. “Can I try these instead? Size four.”
He nodded and disappeared.
“It’s hot in here.” Mum unbuttoned her coat.
“Mum…” Meg gently tugged her elbow.
“What?” Mum sounded annoyed then realised two lads were trying to get past. She stepped back and knocked into a tall pile of shoe-boxes. Meg just managed to grab the top one as it toppled and stopped the rest from slipping. “And there’s no space!”
“Mum, why don’t you sit down?”
“That’s for people trying on shoes. How long is he going to be? I told you it would be busy.”
Meg hoped he would be quick.
He returned with two boxes. “These are a five, haven’t got a four, but these are fours.”
Meg took the boxes. “I’ll try them, thanks.”
Another customer grabbed the sales-boy as Meg tried the trainers.
“So?” asked her mother.
“Too big, they’re slipping.” Meg handed her the trainers.
“Stupid boxes…” Mum groaned as she tried to fit the bulky shoes into the tight box.
“Here, like this.” Meg replaced them and slipped her feet into the other pair.
“The right size?”
“Maybe…”
“Try walking in them.”
“I am.” Meg walked up and down the narrow path through mountains of boxes and footwear. Meg frowned, deciding whether to choose a pair she didn’t like just to get Mum out of the shop. “No, they’re pinching my little toes.” She was the one who’d be stuck wearing them.
Mum sighed. “Okay.”
“Let’s leave it, come back another day?” suggested Meg.
“No, you need trainers, we’re getting trainers.”
Meg’s sigh matched her mother’s as she pulled off the shoes. She left her mum to pack them away and moved, in her socked feet, back to the display. Not a moment later she heard a frustrated grunt and a trainer flew past her ear. It rebounded on the wall and knocked three shoes to the ground. Meg ducked and twirled round. Her mother stood, red-faced and furious.
“Damn shoe boxes!” she cried. “Nothing fits in them!”
Shocked, Meg picked up the offending shoe, moved back to her mum and put her hand on her arm. Her mother flipped her hand away. “Just leave them and I’ll do it. It’s fine!” Meg knelt and put the shoes in the box. She glanced up at Mum. Fire flashed and irritation simmered and she was oblivious to the stares from other customers.
“And it’s too hot! We come in wearing coats, because it’s winter, why do they make it so hot?” Mum trembled, her fists clenching and unclenching at her side.
Meg barely zipped up her own boots before ushering her mother out of the store.
“But you need shoes!”
“Not this much!” Meg shook her head. “Dad can drop me down later.”
She took her mum’s arm and led her to the car.
“I’ve let you down! I’m useless. I promised I’d never let you down…” wailed Mum.
“It doesn’t matter,” insisted Meg.
“It does! I promised I’d never let you down, because my mum always let me down!” Within moments Mum’s aggressive stance switched to the frustration of a child, and tears streamed down her cheeks. Meg, on the other hand, turned the tables to comfort her mother, something she was becoming far too familiar with.
Meg sat huddled as tight as she could to the side of the school bus, leaning in close to the fogged up window. The bitter cold had forced Meg onto the crowded bus, and she just wanted to get home.
The discordant noise of voices and music from a variety of mobile phones and iPods barely penetrated her shell, and her head jarred every time the bus jerked to a stop. Pupils moved past, dragging bags and coats, shouting goodbyes, and waving before leaping off the bus, but Meg was quietly distant.
Sienna’s voice rang out in Meg’s head and tears smarted.
It began to rain, and the drops ran sideways along the window behind the haze and condensation. Her throat was dry, her stomach churned and she absently peeled the edges of the new plaster in her hand. She rolled the adhesi
ve edge in and smoothed it out again and continued the automatic motion as she stared out into nothing.
She held back her tears and desperately gulped down the lump in her throat. The question on the classroom board had been easy, but the teacher’s quick retort at Meg’s inability to answer had torn away Meg’s cloak of invisibility, inviting Sienna’s scorn. Sienna Richmond’s brand of bullying was constant and consistent; short, sharp jibes and the gradual crush of a soft target. The relentless repetition of times tables followed Meg all day, half a corridor behind but always within earshot. Sienna’s sneers and ritual humiliation splintered her damaged confidence just a little more, and Meg wrapped her arms tighter around her bag.
Meg quickly wiped the corners of her eyes, glancing under her lashes in case anyone had been watching. No one had.
Her heart raced and her head thumped, and nausea curled within her chest, threatening to overflow. No one saw the turmoil stirring within or the battle behind her eyes as she stared blindly at the fogged up window.
She was just a girl, who caught up her bag as the bus pulled to a halt, a girl who stumbled down the aisle and jumped off as the doors opened, just a girl hurrying home.
She ran with her bag in her arms and rain spitting at her face. She ran along the pavement as the bus pulled past with a hammering heart and raindrops merging with tears. Her legs propelled her as huge burning breaths caught in her throat, and Meg turned up her road. She pelted down her street and up her path. She dropped her bag, fumbling in her jacket pocket for her key. She pushed wet hair away from her face in frustration. The key wouldn’t fit in the keyhole and then refused to turn once she forced it in. Finally the door swung open, and she fell into the house.
The door slammed behind her.
“Mum!” she shouted, tears now freely falling down her cheeks. “Mum!”
She kicked her bag into the corner in the hall and ran into the lounge. “Mum, please…Mum!” she called. She ran into the kitchen. She ran back to the stairs, climbing them two at a time. “Mum, Mum!” She pushed her mum’s bedroom door open carefully, not wanting to disturb her if she had one of her headaches, but desperate to fall into her arms.
Beneath the Old Oak Page 2