The Faerie Tree

by Jane Cable

  “Of course she was – we got a letter from her consultant to prove it. Your boss insisted on it before he drew it up.”

  “I know. But we can’t find the letter – only a photocopy. Or the original will for that matter. I think Mother must have hunted around and found them.”

  “Not a chance. If I’m right about where they are she’d have to have been quite literally taking up the floorboards.”

  With that Robin disappears and we listen as he races up the stairs two at a time.

  Stephen turns to me. “So is Robin alright? I’ve been so worried about him. He took on so much looking after Grandma and as the weeks went by and I heard nothing I began to fear the worst.”

  I am careful in my response. “From what he’s told me he was just exhausted, and then he got ill with a chest infection. I bumped into him just before Christmas so at least he was able to convalesce at my house and he’s pretty good now. But how are you coping, Stephen? You’ve had a big loss too.”

  “I’ve got Gareth – that really helps. But then Robin’s got you now, hasn’t he?”

  I am just pondering his words when Robin gallops back into the room, waving a large brown envelope.

  “Here we go, Stephen. I’m sorry but I never gave this a thought. I have to say I’m not a hundred percent sure about what’s in here but Jennifer made me hide it when she was going through a particularly paranoid phase.”

  Stephen spreads the contents on the table. There are three bundles of papers. He unwraps the largest and scans the contents with his quick lawyer’s eyes.

  “Deeds to the house – brilliant – and the undertaking over the land she sold when my grandfather died. Just as well Mother never found that or we’d never get her tentacles out.”

  “Why’s that?” I ask.

  “Because my mother is a grasping old bat and if Barry Westland ever sells his fields for development it could be worth a fortune. Now, what else have we here?”

  The next bundle contains the will and letters from both Jennifer’s consultant and her GP. Stephen sits back in his chair and takes a sip of coffee as he reads them. Then he opens the final parcel of papers and turns to Robin.

  “This one’s for you – it’s Grandma’s life assurance policy.”

  Robin sounds cautious. “What’s that to do with me?”

  “It’s written in your favour. It was sound advice to keep it out of her estate. Apart from the tax considerations I think she always knew Mother might contest her will and she wanted you to have access to some funds straight away.”

  “I can’t take the money, Stephen. I’ll happily help you get what’s rightfully yours, but I don’t want anything for myself.”

  “I won’t let you go against what Grandma wanted.” He inclines his head towards the snowdrops. “I can see you respect her memory, Robin; respect her wishes too.”

  Robin looks at the table. “Let me think about it.”

  “OK, but let me tell you what there is. First, there’s the life policy – it’s worth about ten grand and that is yours completely without argument. Then, although the house is left to me, the contents are yours. As you know, Grandma didn’t have a lot of cash so the residual estate amounts to the few shares I didn’t need to sell before she died and the undertaking over Westland’s fields – which will probably never amount to anything – and that’s split between us. So I have the lion’s share anyway.”

  “Then why is your mother fighting the will if the house stays in the family?” I ask.

  “Because I don’t think she regards me as family anymore.”

  “Oh, Stephen – that’s so sad. I could never do that to my daughter.”

  Stephen shrugs. “I’m used to it.”

  Robin almost topples his chair when he gets up. “I’m going for a walk.”

  I make to follow him. “No, Izzie – on my own.” But he sees the expression on my face and his voice softens. “I won’t be long – honestly.”

  I have my back to the window but Gareth stands and I assume he watches Robin cross the lawn.

  “He’s off to the woods,” he says.

  Stephen shivers. “Last time I saw him go that way he didn’t come back. I wish I’d followed him.”

  I draw an arc on the table, my index finger tracing the scratches and knots. “It’s what he does. He did it to me – years ago.”

  Gareth leans against the Aga. “People like Robin don’t do it to hurt, or for effect – I’ve been trying to explain that to Stephen. They walk away when they’re so low they don’t believe they matter to anyone else. And he seems fine this morning, back to his old self.”

  Stephen raises his eyebrows. “Ga’s a psychotherapist. He can’t help himself.”

  “I was only reminding you, and trying to explain to Izzie, what I think is going on.”

  I smile at him. “It’s interesting. Do you psychoanalyse everyone?”

  Stephen laughs. “Of course he does – just not to their faces.”

  Robin is gone no more than half an hour, and when he comes back we walk down to The Horse & Jockey for lunch. We find a table next to the window and when Robin and Stephen go to the bar to order, Gareth excuses himself and heads for the gents. From my seat I can see Robin’s back; his fleece stretches across his shoulders and they shake a little when he laughs. As he leans forward his bum juts out slightly, filling his jeans, firm and slightly rounded. I want to touch him; feel the fabric under my fingertips. A warmth spreads, low in my stomach. I have forgotten this feeling.

  He turns his head to speak to Stephen; slightly hawkish nose, chin hidden by his beard. He has a pint in his hand. That surprises me too. I’ve not seen him drink so far this time, although of course before…

  It was New Year’s Eve and I thought the beginning of 1987 would be a good time for Robin to stop moping around and get his act together. We’d had a miserable Christmas; he had refused to come to my mother’s but I had flounced off anyway and goodness knows how grim those days were for him, all alone in our tiny flat. From the state of it and him when I came back I surmised he’d hardly got out of bed. There were two empty whisky bottles in the kitchen.

  I flew off the handle when I saw them but Robin didn’t fight back – he just sat on the sofa in a daze then said I was right, he ought to try harder, and he promised he would. I softened towards him then and we had a few days of relative peace so I arranged to go out with friends on New Year’s Eve. I even bought a new dress to wear and a new shirt for Robin and he seemed quite pleased.

  But on the afternoon of the 31st he refused to go. He didn’t give me a reason, just put on his anorak and stormed out of the flat when I started to yell at him. I cried for hours and hours, but I was feeling sorry for myself, not for Robin. If only I had understood. I went out but it didn’t feel right so I came home well before midnight. Robin wasn’t there. Eventually he came back, took one look at me pretending to sleep and spent the night on the sofa.

  Before he went out the next morning he left me a note saying he was a worthless shit and he was sorry for messing up my life. I walked the streets looking for him, and eventually found him in the local pub. We spent a couple of hours getting drunk together but it was the beginning of the end.

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  I push my pillow away for the umpteenth time and swap it for the cooler one beneath. No joy. After a while I pick up my alarm clock and the faint green glow of the hands tells me it’s six o’clock. Thank the lord for that. Rain patters steadily against my window; Robin will stay in bed. Lucky him.

  A bedroom door clicks open – Claire’s. Her footsteps pad along the landing, then not to the bathroom but down the stairs. If she’s awake too then we might as well have a cup of tea together. It’d be a good start to the week. I tip my legs over the side of the bed and head for the en suite to clean my teeth.

  Light shines from under the living room door but Claire is in the kitchen. I catch her reflection in the dark glass of the window as she stands at the sink. She scrabble
s to wrap her dressing gown around her.

  “What’s up?”

  Her head jerks away. “N…nothing.”

  The evidence on the draining board is slim, and hard for me to piece together. A small china bowl and a carton of salt. She has something scrunched in her hand. Her eyes look feverish before they drop away. Drugs? I sink onto the nearest chair.

  “Claire – tell me.”

  She shakes her head. “You’ll go mad at me, I know you will.”

  “Try me.”

  “What’s the point? You go off on one for nothing, so what will you do when it’s something?” Her voice is breaking and she rushes past me, but I leap to my feet and grab her arm.

  We are eye to eye. How has my baby grown this tall? How come her heaving chest is bigger than mine? But her face reveals a vulnerability that hasn’t changed at all.

  “Come on,” I tell her. “Let’s sit down. I promise I won’t… go off on one, as you put it.”

  She crumples onto the chair in silence. I walk over to the draining board and put the kettle on; it’s already full of hot water – as is the china bowl. I pick it up and bring it to the table.

  “What were you doing with this?”

  No answer.

  “Claire?”

  Without looking up she opens her dressing gown and lifts her pyjama top. The bottoms are pushed down and I can see why; the skin around her tummy button is red and puffy, its anger centred on a tiny diamond stud.

  “Where did you have this done?” I fire at her.

  “You said you wouldn’t go off…”

  “I’m not.”

  “You are and you promised…”

  “Don’t make this all my fault. I’m not the one who went to some filthy backstreet place to get themselves mutilated.”

  “See! I was right. You don’t want to help me – you just want to… I don’t know what you want…” Her head falls into her hands and she starts to sob.

  “Claire – come on – I’m more angry with whoever did this than I am with you. But that’s not the point. I do want to help you, of course I do. I’m your mum. Come on, let me have a proper look.”

  “It hurts so much,” she sobs, “and it’s making me feel sick and…”

  “Come on, sit up.”

  She does as she’s told. Her skin is hot to my touch and she flinches. The wound around the stud is oozing, but at least the sticky liquid is clear.

  “Why the salt water?”

  “I texted Sasha last night and her mum said.”

  Just in time, I bite back more vitriol. I steady my voice. “I think TCP might be better – there’s some in the bathroom. And perhaps take some Neurofen too. You sit quiet while I get them.”

  But she doesn’t listen even to that. Instead, by the time I have come back downstairs there are two mugs of tea on the table. It’s a peace offering, so once again I bite my tongue. Claire is brave as I dab on the TCP. I want to take the stud out but she won’t let me. If I push it, she’ll only argue. Instead I hold her hand as we drink our tea in silence.

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  The corridor from the staff room to my class flips into an upside down tunnel. Strip lights on the ceiling form white lines down the road. I recognise the feeling and stop in front of a notice board. Breathe, damn you, breathe. Then read the list of names signed up for football. Follow the rungs of the squash ladder; four weeks into term – seven weeks to go.

  The roar of footsteps quietens behind me and I look at my watch. Three minutes past. I have to move. One, two…

  “Hello, Mrs O’Briain. I thought I was going to be late. I forgot my homework.”

  Went out for a sneaky fag, by the smell of his jumper. “You will be late, Alex. Just no later than me.”

  “Don’t you want to give me a head start?” I’m used to his cheek. It’s harmless.

  “No – but I’m not going to race you, either.”

  He laughs and we set off together, my strides matching his as though my life depends upon them.

  The strangeness lurks in my head until I get home. It’s not an ache, nor the stuffiness of a cold, nor the lightness of fever. I don’t know what it is – but it’s there. And it shouldn’t be. I need an anchor; I need Claire. I need to know she’s OK; I need a hug.

  It is Robin who reminds me Claire’s gone to a party and will be staying at Sasha’s house.

  “Oh… I wondered if she would. She’s… not been too well this week.”

  “Hmmm. She told me yesterday what she’d done. She said the college nurse reckons it’s OK though.”

  “Yes. I was glad she went to see her. I think she was very good with her after Connor died.” Better than I was, probably.

  The kitchen smells of mince and onions; there are three five pound notes on the table. I sit down on the opposite side to them.

  “How was the Major?” I ask him.

  He seems pleased I remembered. “Suffering with his arthritis, poor old soul. But he’s got me another morning with one of his mates from the bridge club.”

  “That’s good.”

  More fivers to add to the pitiful stash in my bedroom drawer. But on the other hand, perhaps they will fund a few days away at half term. A break would do me and Claire good. A cottage in Devon or Dorset, perhaps. Maybe Robin would come too. I glance across at him now, one hand clasped around a bottle of wine, the other gripping the corkscrew. I want him to put the bottle down and wrap those arms around me. I want it so much I daren’t let it show.

  I continue to watch him as he bends to put a homemade lasagne in the oven.

  “Do you mind?” I ask him.

  “Mind what?”

  “All this… domestic stuff?” I pick up my glass.

  “Not at all – I feel I’m pulling my weight. Especially ‘til the business takes off again.”

  “But don’t you want more from life, Robin? More than gardening and odd jobs and housework?”

  He leans against the sink and folds his arms. “Once upon a time – you know I did. But it’s too late for all that, Izzie – my degree’s twenty years out of date for a start. Why do you ask – would you respect me more if I did?”

  The question is a bolt from the blue. “Oh, Robin – I didn’t mean anything by it. It was just idle curiosity, that’s all. And if you must know, what you did for Jennifer is one of the most remarkable things I’ve ever heard.”

  He shrugs his shoulders. “It’s nothing when you care for someone.” And then he finds all sorts of little jobs to do around the kitchen while I drink my first glass of wine.

  Tonight he shares my bottle – he doesn’t always, but it is nice not to drink alone. I wish I could tell him what happened in the corridor today, but how do you share those things? I wouldn’t know where to start. I wish I could tell him how bad I am at being a lone parent, but that would sound too needy. If I drink any more those awful words might just spill out and then where would I be? I decide to go and do some marking instead. Numbers. Nice and safe.

  I ask Robin if he minds and he doesn’t. He says it would be good for me to have a clear weekend and that the weather forecast is dry at least.

  “Let’s have a day out on Sunday,” I suggest. “Let’s take Claire to Kimmeridge – she’s never been.”

  “Well in which case it can wait until summer – it’ll be pretty grim there now. If you fancy some sea air perhaps we could go to Lymington – it’s much closer.”

  He doesn’t want to go back. “Wherever,” I shrug as I pick up my wine and trudge upstairs to the study.

  I straighten the pile of scripts and take the lid off my pen. I gaze at the curtains in front of me. They are plain grey but the weave of the fabric is suddenly fascinating. I consider trying to count the threads. Sip by sip, my wine glass empties. Eventually I hear Robin come up the stairs.

  “Goodnight, Izzie,” he calls.

  “Night, Robin,” I reply.

  It brings me out of my daze. I need another drink so I go downstairs and open a seco
nd bottle. There’s only trash on TV – Friday night chat shows peopled with minor celebrities – but it’s company of a sort. It stops me looking at the pictures of Connor when all I want is for Robin to hold me. Connor would hate the way I feel – he was very possessive, but I never minded before because I didn’t want anyone else. There could never be another Robin.

  I didn’t want Connor at first, either – but he was persistent. I had moved out of the flat I’d shared with Robin very soon after he left. Much as I’d want to rush home every night with my heart in my mouth in case he’d come back, or maybe sent a letter, once I was there on my own I hated it with a vengeance. I couldn’t afford it anyway and we’d got behind with the rent. My mother agreed to bail me out on condition I applied for teacher training college so I did what I was told. I guess I was too numb not to.

  So when I met Connor I was sharing a house with two other girls. They thought he was lovely and that sort of chivvied me along. And he did have a lot going for him; he was boyish and fun, always laughing, always in the middle of the party – and for some curious reason it was me he wanted.

  I gave in after a few weeks and we started to go out together. I didn’t mind the way his fingers gripped my shoulder when another man spoke to me; he kept them at bay and gave me a safe harbour. He would never need to know he was second best – he deserved more than that. I hope I gave it to him.

  I tried very hard to be who Connor wanted and on St Valentine’s Day 1988 he asked me to marry him. I had no reason to refuse and he booked the registry office for the day after I finished my exams. Within sixteen months of Robin walking out of my life I was Mrs Connor O’Briain. If it sat uncomfortably at first then out of respect for Connor I hid it and over the years we built a life based on something more reliable than romance.

  Claire came so quickly that we hardly had any time together anyway. Being a good wife became an extension of being a good mother, and that was easier. Nothing had prepared me for the intensity of love you feel when you hold your own child – it blew me away. So much so, that when Connor wanted more children I prevaricated, made excuses and generally kept putting it off; I didn’t think I could cope with feeling that way twice over and I was secretly scared that perhaps I wouldn’t, and a second child would never be loved quite as much.