Beneath the Old Oak

by Lisa Shambrook

  Meg could barely eat her sandwich. It tasted of cardboard and her stomach turned with every bite.

  When Mum finally settled at the desk with her laptop, Meg climbed off the chair and stood behind her mum. All she wanted to do was throw her arms around her mother and hug her. She wanted to bury her face in her mother’s hair and cry. She wanted to feel her arms around her. She wanted Mum to hold her close and kiss her head, to nuzzle close and whisper that she loved her.

  “Mum, I’m going outside, to get pictures of the snow in the garden.”

  Mum nodded without taking her eyes off the computer and Meg’s heavy heart pushed her out of the back door. Her snowman grinned and kicked her in the stomach.

  She walked through the grass placing her feet inside yesterday’s footprints, crunching as she broke the frozen crust of ice. She wound her way through the shrubs at the rear of the long garden until she leaned back against the trunk of the laburnum. She stared at the snow as her body shook with weary sobs. She gazed up into the sky, swallowing her tears. She was fed up with crying.

  Mum talked about ‘black’ days, the days the clouds overshadowed everything, the days when nothing went right, but Meg still didn’t know why. Dad knew, so why couldn’t she know?

  Her mind leaped back to the bedroom door, her memory peering back through the thin gap.

  Why? What did it feel like? Had she done it before? Meg openly gasped as she realised she almost never saw her mum without long sleeves. Meg gulped in the cold winter air.

  Meg glanced down at the cut in her palm, a red stripe across the centre of her hand. She didn’t think she could slice through her own skin on purpose.

  Spiky leaves poked out of the snow, like swords fighting their way free. Purple crocuses tried to push higher. Hellebores nodded beneath the shrubbery and fragrant daphne bloomed beside the budding camellia. Rose hips, blood red and iced with frost, stocked the huge rose tangled amongst the hedge.

  Meg stared at the rambling rose. She brushed her finger over a thorn, pinched it between her thumb and forefinger, and snapped it cleanly off the stem. She leaned back against the tree, pushing the tip of the thorn into her thumb. It failed to penetrate so she pushed back her jacket and ran the thorn across the back of her arm, still nothing, just a white scratch. She retraced the scratch pushing harder. This time the point broke her skin, and a tiny red bead of blood oozed out, resting like a single ruby.

  The blood fascinated her, and she drew the thorn a little further, drawing another drop of blood eliciting a momentary thrill. Then she saw sense and stopped, discarding the thorn.

  She wiped the second drop of blood from her arm and stared at the first drop, still shining like a jewel. The scratch was raised and annoyed, but not deep. A thin scarlet line rose on the back of her arm, no deeper than a scratch from Indy.

  Meg wiped off the blood. She understood the immediate bodily response, but the second response, the more measured common sense one that followed, made much more sense.

  While Dad sat at the desk checking emails, Meg sank into the space beside Mum. Mum glanced up from her book and smiled. Neither spoke, but Meg warmed as she burrowed beneath her mother’s arm. She pulled Mum’s arm down across her chest as she snuggled. Meg sat for a while, resting against her mother, and their unusually tender affection soothed the ache in her heart.

  The clock ticked, the cat sat in the middle of the floor straining his neck to reach his hindquarters as he meticulously washed, and Mum read quietly, propping up her book with her free hand.

  Meg felt her mum sigh as her chest rose and fell with comforting regularity. Meg stared at Mum’s hand, the one that rested across the flat of her stomach, and gently stroked it. She brushed her fingers across Mum’s rings, lightly rotating the diamond ring, then massaged Mum’s hand.

  Meg delicately pushed Mum’s sleeve up her arm to massage further. Mum’s cut tapered below the furrowed sleeve, peering angrily at Meg. She massaged lightly and softly followed the cut, then ran her finger over the reddened, swollen ridge.

  Mum flinched, dropping her book, and instinctively reached across, pulling her sleeve back down, covering any betrayal.

  Meg bit her lip, and her heart thumped so loud she was sure Mum could hear it. Indy stopped licking himself and paused in an ungainly fashion mid-clean. He stared at Meg and Meg stared back. Meg spoke, softly but firmly.

  “Mum, how did you cut your arm?”

  Meg felt unease pool into her mother. Mum cleared her throat and nodded towards the cat gazing at them from the floor. “The cat scratched me.”

  Nobody spoke. Even Dad’s fingers hovered above his keyboard.

  Then Mum cleared her throat again, and despite the palpable tension, grazed her fingers across Meg’s arm. “And how did you get that scratch Meg?”

  “The cat.” Meg’s answer was quick and precise. She learned fast.

  The oak stood waiting. The roads were clear, the garden had reverted back to dull browns and evergreens, and only small pockets of snow remained in the shade. The oak was free from snow, only frost glazed its boughs like candied twigs.

  Meg traipsed across the field. Her fingers cold inside her gloves, and her face tight and red in the bite of the February wind.

  She had no idea why she was out on such a glacial Sunday afternoon, but anything was better than being stuck indoors with her mother who was as biting as the wind, and her father doing everything he could to soothe the storm.

  Since the cat took the blame things had been strained.

  Meg couldn’t imagine being more miserable than she was now. Upon school’s return she’d found a woolly hat, knitted scarf and mittens on her desk. She’d dumped them in Lost Property. She found a carrot in her pencil case. After P.E., a whole bag of carrots had been stuffed into her backpack, and to top it all, she discovered photocopied flyers on the canteen wall, adorned with a photo of her snowman beneath the word ‘MISSING’ and ‘REWARD’ and her mobile number. She tore the posters down and ignored the plethora of text messages that followed advising sightings and offering alternative uses for carrots.

  It took a week for the woolly hat and mittens to stop reappearing on her desk, and the ‘Frosty the Snowman’ quips finally diminished.

  Meg felt like a failure; she was a ghost at school and tried to be one at home. Mum cried every day and goodness knew how much more when Meg was at school. Meg arrived home that first day back struggling with her own tears, but instead of losing herself in her mother’s hug and soothing words, she found her mother sprawled across the bed weeping noisily. Mum never had a reason and questions just reopened the floodgates, so all Meg did was hold her and murmur her own words of comfort.

  The oak waited.

  Meg marched across the bare ground beneath the tree and plonked herself down on its root.

  The oak didn’t wait any longer.

  Fog curled around Meg’s head, and she was overwhelmed by acute loneliness and fear.

  She hugged her knees and gazed at a length of coiled rope by her side. She followed the rope up into the tree and stared with horror at the noose hung over the branch.

  She slammed her hands against the trunk and shook her head as shivers raced down her spine. Emotions of loss and fear engulfed her again, and she began to cry. Distraught sobs echoed as the mist faded and she opened her eyes. She jumped up and away from the tree as the clear, winter day surrounded her once more.

  The tree stood silent and Meg twirled, unsteadily. She still didn’t know why or how the oak shared its experiences, but she was sure she didn’t want any more. She backed away, moving slowly across the frigid ground, her eyes still fixed on the tree. Her legs shook and her heart ached, and she turned without a backward glance to begin her slow walk home.

  Mum smiled. Mum screamed. She cried and she laughed, despaired and giggled, and slept and didn’t sleep. She threw things. She baked and cleaned. She hugged. She yelled and spat. She loved and she hated.

  Dad went to work. Dad worked late and walked
on eggshells.

  Meg kept her head down—everywhere.

  Meg peered over her page in surprise as Indy streaked out of the dining room, a washing up brush clipping his ear as he hurtled across the sofa, armchair and coffee table in almost one leap. She stared at Mum’s maniacal tirade from the dining room as Indy bounded out the door.

  “What on earth just happened?” asked Meg, dropping her book and gazing at her mother standing in washing up gloves, suds dripping across the tiled floor and hair falling into her face. Mum quickly pushed her hair back with her arm and strutted off into the kitchen.

  “That damn cat,” she muttered.

  “What did he do?” asked Meg, jumping up from her chair and following Mum to the kitchen.

  “He used the chair leg as a scratching post—again! I’ve told him before!”

  Meg grinned. “He just doesn’t listen, does he?”

  “And don’t you make fun of me. I’m not stupid.” Mum’s eyes flashed.

  “I, I didn’t.”

  “Think I’m stupid, don’t you?” Mum twisted round from the sink. “Think all I’m good for is cooking and cleaning?”

  “I’ve never said that, I would never say that!” Meg protested.

  “You all think I’m stupid, just because I can’t make the computer work like you two can, and I can’t do numbers like your dad—I’m just stupid. I’ve always been stupid, just like my mum.”

  Meg sighed inwardly. “There’s nothing wrong with you, Mum.” She sighed again. “I don’t mind helping you on the laptop. Lots of teenagers help their parents!”

  “I’m just useless.” Mum leaned both hands on the edge of the sink and stared out of the window. “I’m useless, a rubbish daughter, a rubbish mother and an even more rubbish wife.” Tears began to fall.

  “Mum, why do you always say that? You’re not rubbish!”

  “My mum thought I was or she’d never have tried to leave!”

  “She left?”

  Mum shook her head and clamped her jaw shut, tears glistening.

  “Sit down,” offered Meg, “I’ll wash up, I’ll finish it.”

  “Oh, you’d like that, wouldn’t you? Just another way to show I’m useless. I can’t even wash up properly! No…” She plunged her hands back into the water and picked up a plate. “I haven’t even got a washing up brush now!” She screeched dropping the plate back into the sink.

  Meg wanted to get Mum away from the sink, away from the crockery. “It’s fine, I’ll do it…” Meg cast her eyes around the sparkling kitchen.

  “It’s in the lounge—I threw it at the cat.”

  Meg retrieved the brush from the lounge floor. Mum snatched it back as she returned to the kitchen. “I can wash up,” she said through clenched teeth.

  “You’re sure?” Meg took a step back.

  “Of course I’m sure. I’ve been doing it for years without much help!”

  Piqued, Meg kept her mouth shut. She scrunched her fists together and walked out of the room, ignoring her mother’s complaints. Meg muttered under her breath as she galloped up the stairs two at a time. “Unfair! When you’ve got a headache, I do much more than my fair share!”

  She flinched as she slammed her bedroom door, but Indy welcomed his partner in crime as she threw herself on her bed. He burrowed into her shoulder insistently, needing an attentive human to make up for the indignity he’d suffered downstairs. Meg, needing comfort too, obliged.

  When Dad got home, Mum was stretched across her bed after having cried herself to sleep. He smiled at Meg. “Dinner in the microwave?” he asked.

  Meg nodded. “I made pasta.”

  That was all the warning he needed. “Mum’s upstairs?” He raised his eyes towards the ceiling.

  Meg nodded.

  Dad sighed and dropped his case beside the desk. “Dinner can wait,” he said and hung up his coat.

  Meg didn’t look up; she expected her father to walk right past and go upstairs to his wife, but he didn’t. He moved to her side and sat down on the sofa. He slouched back. “What are we going to do?” he asked.

  Meg had no answer. “Dunno, depends if anyone ever tells me what’s wrong?”

  He shook his head.

  “Is it depression, or something more?” Meg stared at her dad. “Do you know…everything?”

  Dad glanced at his daughter and she recognised the tears behind his glasses, and she knew that he knew everything.

  She squeezed her father’s hand. His jaw set firm, he reached beneath his glasses and wiped his eyes, and the lump in Meg’s throat expanded as her own eyes misted. She didn’t want to cry because she knew if she did his façade would evaporate, and that couldn’t happen. So they sat holding hands and holding back thick emotion until he was able to release her, shake his head and slap his legs to show that he was fine once more.

  “Dinner in the microwave,” she said as he got to his feet.

  “Dinner in the microwave,” he repeated as he left the room.

  Meg sat in silence as the microwave oven whirred and then pinged. He knew everything but she was certain she did not.

  You want me to see a doctor?” From the bottom stair, Meg heard every shrill word her mother said. “A shrink or a real doctor?”

  Dad’s answer was muffled, but Meg could hear unfamiliar determination in his tone before Mum replied.

  “So you don’t actually think I’m mad then? Well, that’s good to know. At least I’m not my mother!”

  Meg shuffled on her bottom. Dad spoke again and then familiar snivelling erupted as Mum dissolved into tears. Meg scurried back into the lounge. She flicked television channels. It was best to be occupied, but there was nothing on so she turned it off. She stared around the room. Her eyes rested on the mantelpiece.

  A jar of flowers sat to one side, their last centimetre of water brown and cloudy, and the flowers, shop-bought chrysanthemums, were dead. Not just droopy, but really dead, brown, crispy and dry. It was unusual for Mum to have missed them. Flowers got replaced every week without fail. She jumped up from the sofa and snatched the jar. She threw out the flowers and left the jar to soak in the sink.

  Outside, April brought some of her favourite flowers. Meg sauntered around the flower beds, snipping and gathering. She began at the bottom of the garden, picking lily-of-the-valley, grape hyacinth and primroses. Right at the top beneath the overgrown boundary hedge, unseen and almost out of reach, she discovered bluebells. She loved bluebells, wild and free, and added them to her posy. Back indoors she scrubbed out the jar. Mum had a thing for Mason jars, and everything looked better in a Mason jar! She even toyed with tying a pale blue ribbon around it, but Mum’s ribbons were upstairs.

  Meg arranged the flowers in clear water and placed them on the mantelpiece. The dominant blues looked lovely against the chocolate brown feature wall behind the fireplace, and Meg relaxed back into the sofa.

  She grabbed her book as she listened to the voices still talking upstairs. She was engrossed when her parents came downstairs.

  Mum, red-faced and swollen-eyed, drifted in after Dad. Dad smiled at Meg’s covertly raised eyebrow. He gave a little nod and kissed his wife before moving to the desk and starting up his laptop. Meg’s mum perched on the edge of the armchair smoothing her hair.

  “We’ve decided,” she said, sniffing, “I’m going to see Dr Eastham on Monday. We can’t carry on like this, can we?”

  Meg shook her head lightly, not wanting to be misconstrued.

  “I’ll ask if I can see a counsellor or something, get some medication,” she glanced at her husband, “or something.”

  Meg smiled. “That might help.”

  “I hope so,” said her mother letting out a shaky sigh as she fiddled with her rings.

  “Do you want me to make dinner today?” Meg offered carefully.

  Mum gave a small smile. “Or maybe we could get take away?”

  “We could,” agreed Dad looking up from the computer.

  Meg relaxed. “And look, Mum, I p
icked flowers from the garden, got rid of the dead ones.”

  Mum glanced up at the fireplace and stared at the bouquet. Her hands quivered in her lap.

  Meg sensed something was wrong. “Dad?” Meg almost whispered as Mum moved to the mantelpiece without taking her eyes off the flowers. Dad’s brow furrowed.

  No one was prepared for the noise that Mum made, a guttural moan, as she lunged swiping the jar off the mantel. The jar flew through the air, water splashing and flowers falling to the floor. The jar landed, unhurt, and water sploshed out, gurgling onto the carpet.

  Meg’s hands flew to her mouth as her mother turned. “Bluebells…” she hissed. “How could you! Bluebells…” And she rushed out of the door and up the stairs.

  Meg stood in shock. “I was only trying to help…”

  Dad stared at the jar and the flowers, and shook his head.

  “What did I do?” she whimpered.

  “Nothing,” he answered, rubbing his temples. “Nothing at all. It’s the bluebells…”

  “I got that!”

  He shook his head again. “She doesn’t pick bluebells; haven’t you ever noticed that?”

  Meg hadn’t. “Why?” she asked.

  “Well, firstly, they remind her of death. Remember little Freya’s funeral?” he began.

  Meg nodded, she didn’t recall much, she’d been so young, but she did remember the flowers. She remembered the flowers because they’d been Freya’s favourites. Together they’d picked many bunches for Freya’s mother, long-stemmed and white at the end because they’d been pulled straight from the earth, straggly flowers with drooping bells of blue. Meg sighed. “And?”

  “She struggles with that.”

  Meg shrugged. “But Freya was my best friend, why’s she still struggling with that? I was the one who lost my best friend, not her.” Resentment stirred. “So, what else?”