Beneath the Old Oak

by Lisa Shambrook

  Nobody liked seeing their parents fight, but you’d at least hope for a balanced battle. Dad always backed down, and Mum always played the injured party. Mum was so good at being wronged that she was both convinced and convincing.

  In the aftermath of such a skirmish, Meg usually kept quiet. She’d sink into her chair, often with a book held up to her face. She never read the book; it just concealed her smarting eyes.

  Oh, how she longed to escape, to run, further than the oak…to run until her feet were sore, to run until her legs could barely carry her, to run…just run.

  But she would never run, not that far.

  She would always come home.

  There was simply nowhere to go to lessen the pain, nowhere that would calm her troubled heart.

  So Meg would never run.

  Meg!” Mum yelled.

  Meg grabbed her bag and ran to the bottom of the stairs. “Hold on, I forgot something…”

  “You’ve already missed the bus!” Mum shrugged her sleeve back to look at her watch as Meg took the stairs two by two.

  “Almost ready!” she yelled back.

  “I don’t want to be late either, and there’s roadworks down by the hospital.” Mum huffed as Meg pushed past to grab her jacket.

  “Still got loads of time,” she grumbled.

  “You act like I’ve got nothing else to do all day!” said Mum.

  Meg pushed through the front door then spun back to dump her jacket. “I don’t need a coat,” she mumbled.

  “Didn’t I say you wouldn’t?” said Mum, hurrying to the car. “It’s only going to get hotter…”

  “Yes, you said I wouldn’t. Go you!”

  Mum turned on the path. “What was that? What did you say?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Then let’s go.” Mum glared.

  The lights were against them all the way, and Mum seethed by the time they made it to the roadworks. The temporary traffic lights turned orange.

  “Mum, keep going, move out now and you’ll make it.”

  Mum dithered then put her foot down, intending to glide through the lights before they turned red, but at the last moment she changed her mind, veered back in and slammed on her brakes. There was a squeal from the car behind as it too jammed on its brakes. The driver hooted his horn and Meg twisted in her seat. He gestured wildly, and yelled things that thankfully, they couldn’t hear.

  “He should’ve been looking where he was going,” Mum said tightly.

  Meg glanced at her. Mum’s jaw was set and the whites of her knuckles showed as she gripped the steering wheel. “What are you staring at?” Mum’s eyes flashed.

  “Nothing,” sighed Meg.

  As the lights changed and Mum moved into first gear, she succeeded in crunching them and she exclaimed, “Stupid car!” Then the light was green and she revved hard.

  She stalled and let go of the wheel with shaking hands.

  “It’s okay,” said Meg.

  “It’s not okay!” screeched Mum, restarting the car. She moved off and stalled a second time.

  The car behind honked his horn again, and unguarded tears slid down Mum’s cheeks. She started the engine again as the other car overtook, wheel spinning away. Mum hurriedly wiped her tears, sniffed and drove forward, making it through the lights just as they turned red again. They both felt the exasperation of the drivers behind as they had to wait for a further change. Mum drove through the roadworks, her face burning as she ignored the glances from amused workmen.

  A few streets away, Mum pulled over and sat for a moment. After two minutes, she heaved a deep breath, unclamped her hands from the steering wheel and checked her face in the rearview mirror. She gently wiped beneath her eyes to readjust the moistened eyeliner, rolled a lipsalve across her lips and took a deep breath. “School then,” she said in a clipped voice.

  Once on the main road, Meg stared out of the window at the river running alongside, the sunshine glinting and sparkling across its surface, and Meg thought how inviting it looked. Then she heard sniffles, just a little one then another. She squinted at Mum as the sun gleamed across the windscreen, and Mum choked back a sob. Meg wanted to say something, but nothing made it out of her throat.

  “I don’t know why I bother!” wept Mum. “What’s the point, everything always goes wrong…”

  Meg’s skin prickled and her fingers clenched.

  “There really is no point. Did you know that Meg? There’s no point, no point to anything…”

  “Mum…” Meg said with a squeak.

  “Just know that now, before life decides to rip you apart with its dreams and promises. Know that nothing’s worth it!”

  Meg’s eyes welled too.

  Mum turned her head to look at her daughter. “Meg, don’t cry. That’s not worth it either. Crying doesn’t do a damn thing!”

  Tears slipped down Meg’s face.

  Mum continued as a car horn blared behind her. “Don’t cry. There’s nothing we can do, not a damn thing!” Mum released the steering wheel and Meg’s eyes widened.

  She cried out. “Mum!”

  Mum’s hands grabbed the wheel as she stared rigidly at the road. Not at the road, thought Meg suddenly as she stared out of the windscreen, but at a lorry heading down the opposite carriageway. Her mum was staring at the lorry. Her mum was staring at the lorry!

  “Mum!” Meg screamed, “Mum!”

  The car veered across the double white lines.

  “Mum, stop! Mum! Stop!” Meg wailed as they veered into the lorry’s lane. Meg grabbed at the wheel but Mum’s hands were firm. Meg closed her eyes, her heart about to break through her chest, and just as suddenly, the car swerved back onto the right side of the road, the lorry’s horn screaming as it passed.

  Meg’s legs were jelly, her hands sweaty and shaking. “Mum, stop the car! Stop the car!”

  Mum slowed, but kept driving. A car horn sounded behind them, and Meg begged her to stop again. Finally, as they approached a lay-by, Mum slowed and pulled over. The car stopped and Meg scrambled out, leaving the door wide open behind her. She thought she was going to be sick; her head thumped and her stomach swam.

  She looked back at the car. Mum still sat inside, hands still glued to the wheel. Two cars had pulled in behind them. A middle-aged lady moved straight to the driver’s side and opened the door to her mother, and another, younger woman, headed for Meg. Behind them an elderly couple got out of their car and waited, unsure of what to do.

  “Are you okay?” cried the woman grabbing hold of Meg’s shaking shoulders. “Are you okay? What happened?”

  Meg shook her head, if she knew she’d have answered. “I’m fine,” she whispered then burst into tears.

  The lady pulled her close and let her sob into her shoulder until her tears subsided. Eventually Meg stopped crying and began to listen to the words flying over her head.

  “What do we do?” murmured the lady holding her.

  Her friend replied softly. “She’s not been drinking, she’s shaken, but she’s okay, she said it was an accident, she just lost track for a moment…”

  “More than a moment…” the lady whispered.

  A man’s voice interrupted. “Should we call the police?”

  Meg panicked at police and tugged away, wiping her eyes frantically. She spoke in a shaky voice. “Mum’s fine, she just lost concentration. She hasn’t been sleeping well, that’s all, there’s no need to call anyone.” She reached into her pocket and retrieved her phone. “I’ll call Dad, he’ll know what to do. Please don’t call the police!” Meg glanced at her mum, who now sat in the passenger seat, her head in her hands. “I’ll call Dad, he’ll get someone to drop him off and he’ll take us home!”

  The women looked at each other with worried frowns and the man shook his head.

  “I’ll call him now! Look!” Meg tapped her phone.

  “Is it our place to interfere?” asked the old lady.

  Her husband shrugged. “If the girl calls her dad…”


  The first woman nodded. “Honestly, there’s not much we can do. If we involve the police, she could get into trouble, and she looks sorry enough.”

  “Not sure we’re doing her a favour though,” said the man.

  “Let the father deal with it. I’ll stay ‘til he gets here,” said the lady still with her hand on Meg’s arm.

  The man glanced over at Meg’s mother. “Well if you’re sure…” He shook his head again. “That would’ve been a nasty accident, wouldn’t have wanted to be witness to that.” All four shared glances and the couple stepped away. “We’ll leave them with you then…”

  “Should we exchange names and numbers?” asked the lady by Meg.

  The man shook his head again. “No point, nothing really happened.”

  “Okay, thanks for stopping.” She faced Meg. “Just so you know, I’m Sarah.”

  “I’m Meg, I’ll call my dad.”

  “Take your time,” said Sarah. “My friend, Claire, is with your mum, we’ll stay ‘til your dad gets here.”

  Meg tried not to cry, but tears misted her eyes as she hit her dad’s mobile number. When she got through, she couldn’t talk, only sobs flew down the phone, and Sarah took it from her. Sarah explained what had happened and where they were. Sarah nodded and said “Yes,” a lot then she hung up. “He’s on his way, sweetheart. He’s on his way.”

  He arrived and thanked the women, packed his wife and daughter back into the car and drove them home, leaving Sarah and Claire, standing and shaking their heads.

  Meg sat in the back of the car, shaking and shivering despite the July heat. Her life had just been torn apart, but as the old man had put it, nothing really happened.

  Meg didn’t return to school. Dad phoned her in sick, and it wasn’t a lie; Meg’s stomach churned.

  Dad had no choice but to work and left every morning with a worried frown. Dad said if Mum did anything silly then Meg was to call him, and he’d come home and take her straight back to the doctor. Meg wasn’t sure what silly really meant, Mum had been doing foolish things for years—where did silly appear on the scale?

  But she stayed home, and Dad hid the car keys.

  Meg told Mum she must have misplaced the car keys and ducked out of the line of fire. The ensuing rant and search for the keys took up a whole morning, and the lounge was a mess when Mum stormed upstairs. While noisy sobs and wails came from the bedroom, Meg tidied up.

  When things turned quiet, she sneaked upstairs and gently pushed open the bedroom door. Her stomach knotted, but Mum slept in a foetal position on top of the messed-up duvet. She stood and watched her sleep, mousy-blonde hair tangled and tousled across the pillow, her hand clutching a handful of duvet and her sleeves pushed up past her elbows.

  Meg stared and allowed tears to slip down her cheeks as she leaned against the wall. The sore, red welt on Mum’s left arm was no surprise to Meg, but it shocked her just the same.

  She couldn’t tear her eyes away.

  Two cuts were old, almost healed, the third was new.

  The incision was precise and clean, and decorated with a line of red like a river through a canyon. Any spilt blood had been wiped away, but an overlooked sanguine smudge stained her swollen, pale flesh.

  Meg was sure that it counted as silly, but she didn’t call her dad, and when Mum came down, calm and collected, ready to make dinner, nothing was said.

  There was nothing to say.

  Summer holidays began, but Meg’s mother was so cantankerous Meg almost wished school was still an option. She’d been in a bad mood for days. Dad had dared mention antidepressants and stirred Mum’s rage.

  There were no worries about walking on eggshells; Mum had already broken all the eggs. Meg had painstakingly cleaned the walls and kitchen cabinets herself. Bright, sunshine yellow yolk had dripped down the tiles, and sticky, gooey egg white had plastered the cabinets and floor. The plastic tub of butter had followed the eggs, splitting upon hitting the wall, leaving a huge smear of butter before it landed on the surface.

  Mum, apparently, did not need antidepressants. She was not depressed at all, just mad at everybody, and where were those car keys? She was not a child.

  Meg wanted to disagree, but she held her tongue.

  Two days later, Mum slipped on the kitchen floor.

  Meg ran to help as her shriek pierced the air. Mum knelt on the tiles, picking up her broken mug. Meg grabbed the dustpan and brush, ready to join Mum on the floor, but Mum pushed her away.

  “Are you okay?” asked Meg.

  “I’m fine, I just slipped,” replied Mum, “but I dropped my mug, my favourite mug.”

  “I’m sorry,” said Meg.

  “You should be!” she hissed. “You cleaned the floor the other day, didn’t you? You must have missed something, it’s still greasy…”

  “Egg’s hard to clean, Mum…”

  “Not that hard with hot, soapy water.” She reached down to pick up another piece of china. “This was my favourite—Ow!” She peered at her finger. “Look! I’ve cut myself!”

  “Sorry.” Meg stared at Mum’s bleeding finger. “It’s not a bad cut…”

  “It still hurts!” Mum grimaced.

  “It’s only a small cut, you’ve had worse…” Meg bit back the irony.

  “And it still hurts!”

  “I’m sure it does.”

  Mum sneered. “You’re sure it does, are you? You’re not the one bleeding!”

  “I’m sorry.” Meg retreated, tears smarting behind her eyelids. Meg didn’t need this, didn’t need this at all.

  Mum’s curt, accusing voice followed as Meg fled out of the front door and raced down the street, her trainers slapping against the pavement, resounding like her desperate heartbeat.

  Tall, pale grass wavered in the lane and withering clumps of flora gave way to weeds. Buttercups and oxeye daisies held court, and limp dock leaves sheltered beneath brittle and brown cow parsley. She pounded down the path, and the parched ground cracked like a jigsaw beneath her feet.

  Meg collapsed at the foot of the tree, the oak’s huge, sweeping canopy shading her from the harsh afternoon sun. Yellowed blades of grass struggled to grow in the dust, and as Meg leaned against the trunk, she felt a strange sensation rise.

  Emotion flooded. The arid soil beneath her feet dusted her mind, and her throat was as dry as the Sahara. She leaned against the tree, her head spun and the tree began to flicker above. Dappled leaves wavered, and Meg slipped away.

  In her place knelt a girl, and Meg stared up at the tree through the girl’s eyes.

  Feeling woozy, she leaned back. Meg intrinsically knew the tree was younger, about twenty-five years younger, and she knew the young woman was close to her own age. The body she inhabited felt heavy and unfamiliar, and it disoriented her; then the girl’s mind caught hold of hers, and their emotions entwined.

  Raw, savage pain grabbed hold of her insides and twisted, and Meg cried out in anguish. Her hands grabbed at bark and she collapsed against the oak. Nausea churned and tears spilled. Meg’s hand shook as she wiped sore eyes and struggled to overcome the sudden overwhelming ache.

  Indistinguishable images coursed through her mind, a mess of violent colours, and Meg desperately fought the visions. Snatches of horror filled her mind. A noose curled about her neck, bluebells lay strewn across the grassand terror screamed at her, until she released a stricken scream and threw herself backwards.

  Meg lay on her back, on parched soil, staring at the grief-stricken girl at the foot of the tree. The girl knelt in muddy blue jeans and her long, mousy hair hung in a mess. Streaks of mascara and tears stained her cheeks and her olive green shirt, and as she turned, the girl’s familiar red-rimmed, hazel-flecked eyes stared at Meg before the apparition faded.

  Meg swallowed hard in a moment of clarity and recognition.

  The girl was familiar, far too familiar, and she realised she was not the only one to visit the oak in her times of need.

  Her mother had too.
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br />   Shocked, Meg crawled back to the tree as the girl vanished. The oak towered over her, and Meg clung to it, her tears dripping into the bone-dry soil.

  Every fear she’d ever kept hidden crashed out into the open.

  Meg lived her mother’s anxiety and depression. Her mother was broken. And deep within, Meg wondered if she was broken too.

  She barely knew her mother, but now she desperately wanted to know what haunted her.

  Meg straightened her shoulders. Maybe Mum would talk. Maybe, if Meg tried, Mum would tell her what had happened, what had broken her...

  Meg stood, wiping her tears and smiled at the oak tree. Maybe, just maybe the tree had given her a lifeline.

  Meg’s heart flew all the way home. She didn’t care if Mum was angry, she just wanted to get home. She wanted to hug her mum, something she hadn’t done in a while, something Mum rarely let her do.

  Mum’s car was gone, and she hurried to the back door. The broken mug was gone and so was Mum.

  Meg’s heart sank. The house was empty of both her mother and cat, so she moved outside, and discovered only Indy basking on top of the violet catmint. Annoyance twisted her gut and resentment curled her lip. “Why should I care where she is?” She snapped off a catmint stem and waved it under Indy’s nose, laughing as he rolled onto his back batting lazily at it.

  “So where did Mum go and will she ever come back?” She dropped down beside him and tickled his belly, avoiding his playful swipes. He nuzzled her hand. “Do I care? Do I smell like catnip now?” She fell back into the grass as he pushed his face up against her chin.

  Huge, magenta gladioli blooms gazed down at her, and bees buzzed to and fro eagerly feasting inside the foxglove tubes. The breeze picked up, but it didn’t reduce the humidity or the coil of angst growing in Meg’s stomach.

  Meg pushed Indy away as she leaned back beneath the shade of the laburnum. He twined himself around her legs pushing firmly against her hands, demanding attention. Wind rustled through the tree’s yellowing foliage, and Meg stroked Indy as he stood on her belly. He kneaded, his paws treading up and down, claws flexing, until she pushed him off. “Ow, Indy!” He climbed back up and kneaded for a moment more before stretching across her stomach to doze. Meg grinned and put her arms behind her head, staring up beyond the leafy tree. She watched the clouds move slowly across the blue sky.