Beneath the Old Oak

by Lisa Shambrook

  Dad shrugged. “I also remembered you saying something at some point about how much you liked this old tree.” He gazed over Meg’s shoulder whistling through his teeth before smoothing his hand over his chin. “Wow! The lightning strike pretty much took out the whole tree!”

  Meg nodded turning to stare at her oak. “I feel like I got hit by lightning too.”

  Dad squeezed Meg’s hand. “So do I, sweetheart, so do I.”

  They stood in silence, taking in the depth of the oak’s devastation.

  After a while, Meg spoke softly. “I feel like I’m part of this tree.” Her gaze travelled across the surviving trunk and up into the space once filled with contorted branches and boughs. “I think I’ve become part of it, and when it got hit, it nearly destroyed me.”

  Dad nodded. “I remember coming here…”

  “No, Dad, you don’t get it, I am part of this tree…”

  His brow furrowed, and Meg pulled him to the fractured trunk. With tears brimming, she placed his hand against the smooth wood, devoid of bark, and held hers over it. With all her heart she begged the tree to tingle, to prickle, to transmit something, anything, but nothing happened. She pressed his hand hard against the wood, until tears of frustration slipped down her cheeks.

  “Hey!” Dad pulled his hand away and tilted her face to him. He wiped her tears with his thumb. “What’s wrong?”

  “You don’t understand! You can’t understand…”

  Dad crouched before his daughter and looked into her eyes. “Then tell me.”

  Meg shook her head. “I’m not sure how to, or even if I can…”

  “Just try,” he said. “It doesn’t matter if it doesn’t make sense or anything.”

  “I really don’t know how to explain this. The tree is part of me. I’ve seen things…” Her father raised his eyebrows, but Meg continued. “I don’t know where to start, and this’ll sound ridiculous!”

  “Tell me,” he whispered.

  “I felt the tree, I felt its emotions, and I’ve seen what it’s seen…” She gazed at her father. “I came up here after it got struck by lightning, just hours after it got hit. The trunk still smouldered. I knelt right here, with my hands on the trunk, and it gave me everything! I saw everything it had ever seen…animals, birds, children, little girls making daisy chains, here beneath the tree, boys climbing it, people falling in love…” She glanced at him, but couldn’t read his face. “I felt frost and snow and ice on its branches, sun on its leaves, everything. I even felt the storm, the lightning, the way its heart broke as the lightning hit…”

  Dad smiled.

  “Dad…”

  “No, I’m listening…”

  “I really did, I felt all its emotions. I know it sounds stupid, unbelievable, but I did. There were other times too. I saw you and Mum here, under the tree, when you met and fell in love. You told me about it too, you said it was when you knew, when you fell in love.”

  “Maybe that’s because I told you about it…”

  “No, it’s because I saw it! And your initials are here somewhere on one of those fallen branches.” She indicated the pile of branches still behind the oak. “You can look if you want. Another time I saw a noose, rope, and a swing…” She pointed above Dad’s head.

  “Meg, maybe it’s just…”

  “…my imagination? Or maybe I’m crazy, like Mum? I knew you wouldn’t believe me!” Meg slumped against the trunk and rested her forehead on her knees. Dad sat beside her, took her hand and kissed it gently. “Dad, I’m not crazy. I’m not broken. Dad, I’ve learned something this year. I’ve learned that I can be me, and it doesn’t matter who I am. No one is responsible for who I am but me…”

  “I am,” interrupted Dad.

  “In a different way, but I decide who I’ll be. I don’t have to be like Mum, or like her Mum. I choose who to be, like it’s up to Mum who she chooses to be. And I know I’m not mad, so I know this is real. Dad, the first time this happened I saw a boy—about seven, or something—climbing the tree. He was wearing a red t-shirt and…”

  “…navy blue trousers,” Dad’s voice was hoarse. “He climbed from the bottom of the tree, struggling to get up on that knot at the base of the trunk, and swung up from a short branch beneath this one…” He indicated the lowest branch that they were sitting beneath. “The thin branch snapped off, and he wasn’t sure he would get back down again…”

  “You know him?” Meg stared at her father.

  Dad stood up and touched a scar on the trunk.

  Meg gazed into her Dad’s eyes and murmured, “He climbed, and his friends shouted below, but he couldn’t get very far…” Meg paused as her father cleared his throat.

  “He was so excited, even though he couldn’t reach the branches to get any higher!” said Dad.

  “Did you know him?” asked Meg, clutching her father’s hand. “Who was he?”

  Dad shook his head. “When you were small, I wanted to carve your initials beside mine and Mum’s.” Dad chuckled. “I couldn’t climb it though, I couldn’t reach any further, no higher this time, than I could when I was nine years old! I was nine, you know that first time...”

  “It was you!” Meg’s mouth gaped.

  Dad nodded. “I was the boy in the red t-shirt.”

  “Then you believe me about the tree?” Meg tugged his shirt. “You were scared, and your friends shouted, and your legs shook! Dad, I felt it, the oak let me see it all.”

  “No one could have told you all that, I haven’t even told Mum that!” He glanced at Meg.

  “The tree shared its memories with me…” she said.

  They both sat in silence again, until Dad finally shifted his weight. “I’m going numb!”

  Meg laughed. “Okay, I’m ready to go home.”

  Dad helped Meg to her feet, then he wandered behind the oak, searching the pile of branches. “I might come back with a saw and find the branch with our initials on!” He smiled. “Memories, you know.”

  They sauntered down through the field, the sun peering through scattered, billowing clouds in the blue sky. Meg ran ahead pausing at the fence. She waited as he climbed over; then as he offered his hand to her, he stopped and stared back across the field.

  “What is it? What’s wrong?” Meg swung round and followed his astonished gaze to the old oak.

  For a moment, a blink of a moment, the oak stood in its entirety, bearing a full complement of branches and a huge summer’s canopy.

  Meg swallowed hard. There, on the second lowest bough hung a swing, a makeshift swing. A teenage girl in blue jeans swung for all she was worth, her blonde ponytail and pale, blue ribbons rippling in the summer breeze.

  “Is that…Martha?” Dad’s voice was hoarse.

  Meg placed a hand on his arm to quiet him then whispered. “She was happy, so happy. If she was happy once, then she can be again.”

  The girl glanced down at them and lifted an arm to wave, her happy laugh tinkling across the meadow. Then she pumped her legs and swung, launching up into the blue sky and back again.

  Meg glanced at her father, who stood transfixed, and looked back again. The tree was gone, just the shattered stump and drooping branch standing on the horizon.

  “A trick of the light?” Dad’s voice cracked.

  “I don’t think so, Dad.” Meg took his hand as she climbed over the fence and squeezed it. They started off down the dusty track. “A memory.” She smiled. “The old oak just gave us a memory or an echo…a parting gift of hope.”

  The aroma of lemon sweetened with white-chocolate chips filled the kitchen and wafted throughout the house. Meg hopped from one foot to the other, her nerves fluttering like butterflies as she glanced at Joan.

  “It’ll be fine, Meg, really it will.” Joan’s soothing words didn’t remove the butterflies.

  Meg nodded and twirled, knocking the mixing bowl off the counter. “Oh! I’m sorry!”

  She hurriedly picked it up, but before she could grab kitchen towels to clean t
he spattered floor, Joan took her in her arms, kissing her floury hair. “Meg, everything will be okay. You’ve got to stop worrying.”

  “She’ll be home soon,” said Meg, her voice catching with emotion. “Will she be happy or sad or angry? Will she like the cakes or say we shouldn’t have messed up her kitchen? Or…”

  “Meg, there’s nothing to worry about! She’ll love the cakes, and she’ll love you!” Joan held Meg at arm’s length and gazed into her brown eyes. Conflicting emotions stared back. “She’s coming home to her family, to those she loves…”

  “If she loved me then why did she run away?” Meg broke eye contact and stared at the floor.

  “That’s why she’s having counselling and why you’re in on the family sessions. She has to work that out as much as you do.” Joan lifted Meg’s chin. “But, Meg, you have to give her a chance. You have to help her work it out. It’s not fun, and it’s going to be hard, but she’s taken those first steps.”

  Meg nodded. “That doesn’t stop me being scared she’ll do it again.”

  “I can’t promise you anything, nor can she, but it’s all about being there and trying to understand,” said Joan. “You know what she went through, and she knows what you went through, now you have to turn those dreams of escape into hope.” Joan paused as she opened the oven. “These are ready. Pass me the oven gloves…”

  Joan pulled out the cupcakes.

  “They smell amazing!” Meg gave a small smile.

  “They do,” agreed Joan, placing them on a wire rack to cool. “Meg, you remember telling me about the old oak? How it showed you everything?”

  Meg nodded.

  “Honour it. Use what it showed you to rebuild things. You’re not your mother, but instead of fighting your similarities, like Martha did, embrace them.”

  Outside a car door slammed and Meg jumped. Joan hugged her. “Go,” she urged. “Go to her…”

  Meg took a deep breath and walked into the lounge and to the window. Tears glazed her eyes as she saw her mother walking down the path. Mum looked shaky and vulnerable, more exposed than she’d been at Meadow Hill. She recognised the look in her mother’s eyes as she glanced up towards the house. Her mum’s emotions mirrored her own.

  Meg swallowed the sob that fought its way up her throat and darted out of the room, thrusting open the front door. Dad stepped back from his wife as Meg appeared. Mum hesitated, her bottom lip quivering, and then her daughter was in her arms. Mrs Frost melted, embracing her child, pulling her as close as she could. The lost weeks between them vanished in a single moment as mother and daughter wept.

  ◆◆◆◆◆

  Indy wrapped himself around Mum’s legs, jumping up onto her lap when she acquiesced. He kneaded and nuzzled her shoulder, and she grinned. Meg leaned into her mother, lapping up attention as much the cat did. Joan offered cupcakes and a calming atmosphere while Mum chatted about Meadow Hill, conspicuously evading the week prior.

  “Don’t tire yourself, Martha,” said Dad, placing a light hand on his wife’s arm. “Take it easy.”

  “I’m fine,” she replied. “A little sedated, but fine.” She giggled.

  “Her medication is stronger than before,” explained Dad, “and monitored this time.”

  As Mum shared a tender look with her husband, Meg stared up at her, trying to ignore her mother’s gaunt, newly prominent cheekbones and the dull smudges beneath her eyes. Instead she snuggled close and reached to stroke Indy, watching her mother’s face as she brushed her fingers lightly over the cat and across Mum’s wrist. Freshly healing nicks and cuts patterned her arm, but Mum didn’t flinch as Meg touched them. Meg’s eyes glistened as she met her father’s gaze, but his almost imperceptible nod eased her concern.

  “Meg?” Mum spoke softly and patted her daughter’s arm. “Paul told me about the oak and about how you spent time there. I’m really sorry it got hit by lightning, and I’m really sorry I wasn’t there.”

  “It’s okay, Mum,” she said.

  “It’s not okay, Meg. It was special to you, and a long time ago, it was special to me too.”

  “Did Dad tell you more about it…and me?” asked Meg.

  Mum shook her head and yawned.

  Meg smiled and hugged her mother. “Maybe one day, when you’re feeling better, I’ll tell you too,” said Meg.

  As the September sun shone through the school windows, Meg swallowed another sigh. She sat alone in her new classroom, glancing at the notes handed to her, then gazed at the clouds instead. She barely listened as new pupils were introduced, and apart from the new girl’s obvious American accent, Meg showed little interest. Her mother’s homecoming smile and the warmth of her hug pushed out her surroundings, and when the bell went Meg jumped. As everyone hurried out Meg hung back.

  Sienna and her cronies pushed through the crowded corridor, catching up with the American. Sienna’s voice rose above the cacophony. “Why would American’s call their daughter Autumn, when it doesn’t exist in America?”

  The new girl barely glanced at Sienna and carried on walking.

  “There is no autumn, only fall...” Sienna shoved Lucy so hard she bumped violently into the new girl. Unperturbed, Autumn sidestepped, catching her books before they slipped out of her arms.

  Sienna’s gaze darkened. She hurried past her cohorts, coming to an abrupt halt in front of the new girl.

  “So, are your parents dumb or something?” She sneered. “Didn’t they know autumn’s not American, only fall is...” She stuck out her leg, her knee making direct contact with her target’s knee.

  Autumn didn’t fall; she didn’t even stumble. She stopped dead and grinned at Sienna, placed her books on the ground, and punched Sienna’s shoulder so hard the bully swung round and tumbled into Amanda and Lucy. The three girls landed in a jumble of flailing legs and arms, and squeals of protest and fury.

  “No, my parents are fine, yours, however, should teach you some manners.” She narrowed her eyes and bent closer to Sienna. “And remember, pride always comes before a fall, or autumn, for that matter!”

  Meg could not conceal her grin. She stepped through the smirking horde and picked up Autumn’s books. Autumn smiled and looped her arm through Meg’s as she stalked away.

  The new girl grinned at Meg and unhooked her arm once they were around the corner. “I’m sorry, I hope you didn’t mind me doing that, linking arms, but it helps to show strength in numbers, and I don’t really know anyone yet. Not sure if that ‘pride comes before a fall or autumn’ thing works, but it sure sounded good!”

  Meg smiled. “The humiliation on Sienna’s face was worth every penny!”

  “And I’m not even charging you!” said Autumn. “Does anyone even like that girl?”

  Meg giggled. “I see I’m going to have to teach you a few things around here!”

  “I think I need educating on English pennies, the seasons, obviously, and where to hang out with my mates…” Autumn stressed ‘my mates’ with an exaggerated British accent, and Meg wiped away her tears. “Are you crying, or laughing, or is my English accent truly that bad?”

  “A bit of both!” Meg grinned. “But, yes, I’ll show you where we can hang out later. Now let’s get to class!”

  ◆◆◆◆◆

  Late afternoon sun bathed the girls as they ran down the track, feet pounding on soft earth. Brambles spread throughout the hedgerow and Autumn stopped. “Look at these blackberries!” she cried, staring at the heavy-laden stems. “I’ve never seen such fat berries! I’ll have to bring Mom down here.” Autumn popped one in her mouth. “Now where’s this tree you told me about?”

  “Just down the bottom…” Meg beckoned her new friend. “C’mon.”

  “When did the lightning strike?” asked Autumn.

  “The end of July.” Meg recalled the emotions of losing her mother and the tree.

  “…and it was your favourite tree?”

  “It is my favourite tree.” Meg smiled.

  Autumn linked arms with Meg a
gain. “When were you last up here then?”

  “Weeks ago. We’ve been busy at home.” They rounded the last corner and Meg smiled ruefully. “Well, there it is.”

  Autumn released Meg’s arm, ran down to the fence and looked back at Meg over her shoulder. “That’s it?”

  Meg felt tears prickle.

  “Not much left of it is there!” said Autumn.

  Meg wiped her eyes on her sleeve and followed her companion over the fence. They stared up the slope to the old oak. Autumn looped her arm through Meg’s, and they trudged up through the long grass.

  The oak was nothing but a trunk and a shadow of its former self, and Meg’s heart thumped. Autumn turned to her as she sighed. “Hey, Meg, you okay?” Meg nodded. “This place really does mean something to you, maybe you’ll tell me one day?”

  “Maybe.” Meg caught her breath.

  The last broken bough had been removed, and most of the fallen timber was gone. Just one large, sawn log remained behind the tree, sitting amid a carpet of sawdust, shattered twigs and scattered brown leaves. Meg sighed again, sad to find the branch gone and only the trunk left. Autumn squeezed her arm. “We had a storm once that took down our old apple tree. I was pretty heartbroken.”

  Autumn examined the trunk, while Meg stood a few feet back staring at the remains. She watched Autumn stroke the smooth wood, now pale and bleached, and held her breath as the American’s fingers caressed the trunk. When nothing happened, she relaxed and moved to touch the trunk herself.

  Unable to stop the wash of emotion, Meg fell to her knees and leaned heavily against the splintered stump. She rested her forehead against the warm wood, splaying her fingers, feeling every line on its scarred surface. She closed her eyes, trying desperately not to cry. When she opened them, Autumn stared at her, concern etched into her cheery features. “You sure you’re okay? You look real sad, and I think it’s more than this dumb tree!”

  Meg couldn’t stop the flood of emotion, and with prickles of embarrassment, she hurriedly wiped her sleeve across her face. “You’re going to think I’m completely nuts!”