Truestory

by Catherine Simpson

  He sat down and nodded a bit.

  ‘Oh, bottom of the orchard, eh?’ He glanced at Sam, who was examining his photocopied map at the table, his nose a couple of inches away from the swirling images in the magnifying glass. ‘See,’ Duncan said, ‘it’s no big deal going down there, is it?’ He took a gulp of his wine and grimaced. ‘There used to be an old outhouse there when I was a lad – full of junk – dropping to bits years ago as I remember.’

  Why couldn’t Duncan rise to the occasion? Show a bit of excitement? He might have lived with Sam all his life but he never dredged up an ounce of understanding or empathy for his son. But he wasn’t going to spoil it, I wouldn’t let him. I cut in before he could pour any more cold water on the project.

  ‘Well, here’s to pastures new.’ I raised my glass to Larry and Sam.

  ‘Pastures new,’ said Larry, chinking my glass. ‘Here’s to tomorrow and whatever that might bring,’ and he smiled at me.

  Chapter 18

  Over the next few days Sam agreed that, if the rope was tied to the last apple tree, he could hold it as he made his way down to the World of the Jungle at the Bottom of the Orchard and that would be enough to keep him safe. He’d been roped to Larry and me the first ten times he’d gone down there but his bravery had grown with each try.

  I could hardly believe it and kept waiting for the crash. When the backlash came from this – if there was one – it would be spectacular.

  The bottom of the orchard looked completely different now. There was a pile of branches to burn over six feet high. I’d promised Sam that we’d light it one night and toast marshmallows and maybe cook some potatoes.

  When Larry and Sam finally hacked their way to the summer house they found it smothered in vine and ivy. It looked like something out of a fairy story, as if it should have had witches or ogres living in it. Sam seemed part fascinated by it, part terrified.

  When he realised it was six-sided, he stood transfixed: ‘It is a hexagon,’ he whispered, as though this proved once and for all that dreams really do come true.

  The roof was hexagonal too and rose to a point with a broken weather vane on top, all bent and twisted. There was wood on the outside in the style of old Tudor houses, except this wood was painted pale blue and was faded and peeling.

  The roof was covered with slates and Larry prodded at them with a branch to make sure they wouldn’t brain anybody.

  We’d been at it three days and Sam hadn’t dared go inside the summer house yet but he’d watched Larry dragging out rusty prams and bedsteads, rolls of fencing and coils of barbed wire; all sorts of stuff encrusted and tangled up. Junk, like Duncan had said.

  It was dark inside because the windows were smothered with ivy. Sam took one of my butter knives to prise the ivy suckers off the old glass so it would eventually be light enough for him to venture inside. It was a painstaking job as he chipped away at the plant’s little fingers that gripped as if they’d been welded there. At the rate he was going it would take weeks to make the summer house light enough for him to go inside, but he didn’t seem to mind. He was enjoying peeling off the little ivy tentacles and stood back to admire every square inch he cleared.

  I was spending a lot of time outside with him and Larry. As a rule I hated gardening and avoided it like the plague but I was busy dragging branches about and sawing and pruning. I also took out lots of cups of tea and pieces of cake, which tasted much better outside, sitting on a log with Larry and Sam, than they ever had sitting at the kitchen table on my own.

  After we’d been hacking away for a full day on the Monday, Duncan sauntered out the back door carrying a cup of tea and wandered down the garden. He saw the slates and said, ‘They might be worth a bob or two.’ Sam stopped scraping and looked stricken.

  ‘This summer house is the treasure on the map,’ he said.

  Duncan didn’t answer, but he poked his head inside to inspect the black and white terracotta tiles on the floor.

  ‘They might come up too,’ he said.

  I was glad to see him disappear back in the house to get ready for milking.

  Larry and I threw our tools down and took a rest on our log. Sam joined us and pulled his photocopied map out of a plastic bag he’d left hanging on the summer house door. Without a word, Larry passed him the magnifying glass from his pocket.

  I slid off the log onto the grass and pressed my back into the knobbly bark. I closed my eyes to let the sunshine warm my face and my eyelids glowed pinkie-orange. I could hear the rustle of the leaves in the apple tree and, much nearer, the soft crackle of tobacco smouldering in Larry’s roll-up. I let the sun soak into all the little scratches on my arms where the branches had grabbed and snatched at me. It was so peaceful I jumped when Sam announced:

  ‘The summer house is not the only treasure on the map.’

  I opened my eyes, blinking for a second to re-adjust.

  ‘What?’ I said.

  ‘I have examined the entire surface of the map with the compass-stroke-magnifying glass and I have discovered a second treasure on the map.’

  ‘What’s that then?’ asked Larry, squinting through the smoke trickling from his nostrils.

  ‘There is a well behind the workshop,’ said Sam. He blinked at us.

  ‘A well?’ said Larry. ‘Wonder when that was last – ’

  ‘There are wells in fairy stories,’ Sam said. ‘They have roofs on and a bucket and a rope and a handle.’ Sam frowned. ‘And sometimes a cat.’

  ‘Aye, I’ve seen – ’

  ‘I do not think this well can be like that or my mother or father would have said.’

  Larry and I waited. Sam looked deep in thought.

  ‘But I cannot say with certainty that such a well does not exist behind the workshop,’ he said, ‘because I have never been behind the workshop.’

  Again we waited; had he finished?

  Tentatively Larry said: ‘It could be the next – ’

  ‘It will be the next adventure,’ Sam declared. ‘I will put it on my real wish list.’

  He scrambled to his feet, rolled up his map and shot inside.

  It was Tuesday again and time for my weekly ‘escape’. After that last row with Duncan about the two hundred and fifty quid I’d gathered a load of his old football shirts to take to the tip. He hadn’t worn them all the time I’d known him; I think they were from school or something. They’d been stuck in a drawer all horrible and nylon-y and getting in the way for years and now they were going.

  But on this Tuesday I couldn’t be bothered to take them. A trip to the tip and a wander round the shabby shops with the grand finale at the café-with-the-shortbread held zero attraction.

  I wasn’t the only one acting funny today. Usually at this time on a Tuesday Sam was parked at the kitchen table drawing a Map of the World and watching the big hand tick its way to two o’clock. But not today; today he was outside tackling the summer house with Larry.

  I cleared away the dishes, gave the table a wipe and then, making my mind up, I grabbed a pair of secateurs and headed outside to join them.

  Sam had completely cleaned his first window pane and was onto his second; the first was sparkling in the sunshine, the ivy cut off in a precise line right round the edge. He gave a little frown as I approached but he said nothing.

  Larry raised his eyebrows and smiled. He was up a ladder sawing dead branches off an old apple tree behind the summer house. As he sawed, pink and white blossom drifted down from the other branches like confetti. I chose a bush to prune – near Larry but not near enough to get clobbered by a falling branch.

  We worked in silence for a minute or two, and then Larry said:

  ‘Therapeutic, gardening, isn’t it?’

  I was stumped. I would never have described it as therapeutic in a thousand years up until, well, then. If anyone had asked me about gardening last week I’d have described it as pointless, cold, wet, dirty, uncomfortable, never-ending boredom – but, yes, I had to admit that in the last fe
w days messing about out here had made me happy.

  ‘It’s good,’ I said.

  ‘We’ll see if we can get this tree producing decent apples again,’ he said. ‘It needs sunshine. Nothing can bear fruit if it’s trapped without sunshine.’

  I nodded. ‘The only fruit we’ve got are gooseberries – but they’re all thorny.’

  Larry laughed. ‘Make a great pie though, eh?’

  ‘Umm.’

  I didn’t like to admit the only gooseberry pie I’d ever made had been as bitter as Old Harry and ended up in the bottom of the bin.

  ‘Do you like gardening?’ I yelled over at Sam, to change the subject. I couldn’t see him but I could hear the regular scrape, scrape, scrape of the old butter knife. ‘Sam!’ I shouted again, ‘you enjoying the gardening?’ The scrape, scrape, scrape stopped and eventually his voice floated back: ‘You are cluttering up the orchard with words.’

  Larry and I looked at each other as the scrape, scrape, scrape resumed and we broke into silent laughter.

  The next day Duncan asked Larry if he’d go with him to collect a load of compost and sand for the polytunnel.

  Sam looked disappointed.

  ‘Are you exploring round the summer house?’ he asked Larry.

  ‘No,’ said Duncan. ‘We’ve got work to do.’

  ‘We’ve got to get the food for the magic seeds, son,’ Larry said. ‘They’re going to need lots of nutrients when they’re planted out.’

  Sam looked bereft. The day before we’d worked on the summer house till dusk and then we’d planted the sprouting seeds into seed trays. Well, Larry and I had planted them while Sam watched, wearing his coat, hat and gloves in case by some miracle he got soil up his nails or in his eyes.

  Larry went on: ‘Don’t forget, Sam, it’s your job to keep the seeds watered and the soil moist. But not too wet, mind. We don’t want – ’

  ‘A bloody flood,’ said Sam.

  Larry grinned and waved as he shut the kitchen door.

  ‘Are you going to explore round the summer house?’ Sam asked me.

  I watched Duncan and Larry pulling out of the yard gate in the Land Rover. Without Larry the summer house project didn’t seem so enticing.

  ‘I’d love to but I’ve got a ton of ironing to do.’ I stared at the empty yard gate picturing them travelling down the lane.

  ‘A ton of ironing,’ repeated Sam.

  ‘Well it might not actually be . . .’

  I went into the washroom and, avoiding all the seed trays, grabbed the ironing basket.

  Sam followed me and, as I set up the ironing board in the kitchen, I watched him watering the seeds one drip at a time. Drip. Drip. Drip. He was concentrating so hard on doing a good job for Larry. Drip. Drip. Drip.

  It took Sam more than an hour to water all the seeds but he never seemed to lose patience. Afterwards he stared out of the washroom window at the summer house and I felt bad that he wanted to scrape at the window panes but daren’t go out on his own. It was drizzling though, and colder, and I couldn’t face it without Larry. Obviously it wasn’t gardening that was therapeutic – it was gardening with Larry.

  ‘Let’s go to Jeannie’s for a bit,’ I said. ‘Tell her about the summer house and everything.’

  Without tearing his gaze from the bottom of the garden he gave a very slight nod.

  Jeannie greeted us with a big smile.

  ‘I’ve not seen you for days,’ she said to Sam, ‘I thought if I baked, you might smell it and come down.’ She lifted an upturned bucket on the kitchen table to show us a rich chocolate cake oozing with butter cream.

  ‘I have a good sense of smell,’ said Sam, ‘but the smell of a baking chocolate cake cannot carry 823 steps.’ He bent and examined the cake.

  Jeannie grabbed a bread knife and sliced into it.

  ‘I will have forty-five degrees, please,’ said Sam.

  Jeannie offered him a slab of cake balanced on the knife blade and Sam plopped it onto one of his maps on the kitchen table.

  ‘Yes, forty-five degrees sounds good,’ I said to Jeannie.

  Sam gazed around the kitchen at all the other maps shoved here and wedged there.

  ‘I will have to remove The World of the Jungle on these maps and put in the summer house. These maps are not currently accurate.’

  Jeannie passed me my cake.

  ‘Thanks, Jeannie. Sam’s been having an adventure, haven’t you?’

  We both looked at him but he was lost in his cake. His eyes were closed and the taste sensations were flitting across his face.

  When he’d finished and examined his fingers for stray chocolate, Jeannie said: ‘Have you started your wish list yet?’

  Sam looked wary but nodded.

  ‘That’s good,’ said Jeannie. ‘Let’s have more cake to celebrate.’ And she cut him another chunk.

  ‘So what’s on your wish list?’ she asked, settling back in her armchair.

  Sam hesitated. ‘I drew up the wish list after Larry roped me up and I went past the last apple tree in the orchard for the first time.’

  Jeannie nodded as though this was a perfectly sensible statement.

  ‘What’s on it then?’

  ‘Well . . .’

  ‘You’ve not forgotten have you?’

  ‘Is it to go in the summer house?’ I said. ‘The summer house is fab, isn’t it, Sam?’

  He shook his head.

  ‘Or is it finding that old well you were on about?’

  Another shake.

  Then in a tiny voice he said: ‘I want to leave Backwoods Farm.’

  ‘Oh that’s – ’

  He cut me off. ‘But I daren’t and I am frightened I will never escape from Backwoods and I will die here without ever having left.’

  There was a lump in my throat and a burning. I wanted to run round the table, throw my arms round him, hug him for all he was worth and tell him I’d get him away from Backwoods even if it killed me – but I knew none of that would help so I clung onto my chair, my knuckles white.

  Jeannie nodded and considered what he’d said.

  ‘You mustn’t be frightened, Sam,’ she said. ‘I’m certain you’ll be able to leave Backwoods one day and you’ll know when the time is right.’ Sam studied her. ‘It won’t be long before you can leave Backwoods. You’re brave, Sam – remember that. Maybe soon we’ll leave together.’ She nodded her head and thought some more. ‘Yes, when the time is right, Sam, you’ll know, and we can go together.’

  Chapter 19

  It wasn’t Tuesday, it was Saturday and I was back in town. I was dashing – not because I was worried about Sam, I wasn’t; I was dashing because I wanted to zoom round the shops, grab the stuff for the barbecue and get straight back to Larry and Sam.

  Potatoes, marshmallows, salad, sausages, bread, wine, beer. That should do it.

  I’d left Sam making Jeannie a party invitation. When I saw what he was doing I felt giddy with happiness. Sam had never been to a party in his life – he’d never been invited and wild horses wouldn’t have dragged him to one if he had.

  Yet there he was with his felt pens out, concentrating on a piece of folded card with a tiny map of Backwoods on it, an arrow pointing to the orchard and the word ‘PARTY’ in bright red letters.

  The barbecue had nearly not happened. Sam had wanted to light the great stack of branches and when Larry said it was too near the polytunnel Sam’s face fell a mile; I’d promised him a bonfire and he’d set his heart on it.

  So Larry dug what he called a fire pit at the other side of the summer house, away from the polytunnel, and put some kindling in it.

  ‘This’ll be easier to cook on anyway,’ he said. ‘It’s better than a great big bonfire – more like an explorers’ fire.’ Sam had squatted down beside it and practised holding his hands out to the non-existent flames.

  When I got back from town, Sam announced, ‘Jeannie has accepted my kind invitation and will be arriving at six.’

  I gave him trays of
glasses and kitchen roll and plates to carry to the bottom of the orchard. I watched him go. Each time he ran to the last apple tree and hesitated before carrying on – walking like he was on thin ice until he reached the fire pit. Then he’d put the tray down before turning round, doing the same slow march back to the tree and galloping up to the house.

  I glanced at the sky. The weather could go either way. Come on, God, I thought, give the kid a break. Give him a chance to be normal for once.

  Larry lit the fire in plenty of time so the embers would be perfect for cooking when Jeannie arrived and Duncan finished milking. He sat on a rickety fold-up chair and made a few practice sausages for me and Sam before the party started.

  He handed a couple round then took a big bite. ‘Delicious,’ he said. ‘I’d better practise one or two more before our guests arrive,’ and he winked at Sam. They looked like real mates and it made me smile.

  Spotting movement over the hedge, I saw Jeannie coming down the lane. She was in quite a get-up: a burgundy velvet cloak and a floppy red hat, and was carrying what looked like homemade wine in a green glass bottle. She came through the back gate into the orchard and waved at Sam who jumped up to greet her.

  I was kind of sorry we’d had to invite Jeannie but Sam had wanted to – and seeing it was the first time he’d ever asked for any such thing, I couldn’t turn him down. But this summer house project was ours – Larry’s and Sam’s and mine – and I wished we’d kept it that way.

  ‘Burnt sausages for tea?’ Duncan hung his coat up and eyed the pile of buns and bowl of salad on the table.

  ‘Take them out, would you? Jeannie’s already here.’

  ‘Oh blimey, we got company? Old Jeannie’ll have a cauldron over that fire if we’re not careful.’ Duncan set off towards the orchard: ‘Hubble, bubble, toil and trouble,’ he said in a stupid witchy voice, ‘eye of frog and toe of newt . . .’ I rolled my eyes, ‘. . . one of Jeannie’s cats and a dead dog’s ear . . .’