‘I’m not promising anything,’ Vinko muttered.
‘I know you won’t let me down. You’ve got a phone; use it. Let us know the moment you find anything out.’
He released the lock, smiling unpleasantly as Vinko made his escape.
Chapter 13
‘Did you have a good day?’
As Jay got into the car and she set off towards home, Marilyn wondered if her voice betrayed the fact that she’d missed him. It was Friday afternoon and, with the barn’s concrete floor laid and hardening, she’d spent the best part of the day at the craft centre workshop while Jay had returned to the marketplace. He leaned over and gave her a quick hello kiss and she realised how much having him around had come to mean to her. It was just under a week since he’d appeared, even then getting on with his digging as if he’d always belonged there, but it seemed more like a month. They’d achieved a lot; Alan still couldn’t tell her when he’d be ready to turn his attention to her barn, and she was seriously beginning to wonder if she needed or wanted him to. She liked having Jay around.
‘Mike Greene was pleased to see me – I honestly wondered if he’d remember me. You know, I think I saw one or two shoppers from last week and I’d swear even they remembered me.’
He sounded boyish in his pleasure at the recognition.
‘That’s great. You’re already claiming that territory as your own.’
The silence surprised her like something tangible. She gave him a moment then glanced at him. ‘Jay? I said—’
‘Yeah, I could be a regular. That’d be good.’ He stared at the road ahead. ‘Anyway, I can get to know the bus routes, go a bit further afield.’
‘You don’t want people getting too familiar with your stories, do you?’ she said, trying to understand his sudden change in mood.
‘I’ve got quite a repertoire, and I’m always putting new stuff together.’
‘Sorry, I didn’t mean—’
‘I know you didn’t. It’s me.’
‘What? Was there something wrong in Holdwick?’
‘No, it was good. I like it round here.’
‘So what’s bothering you?’ she insisted.
‘What the–?’
A car overtook them in a ridiculously tight spot as another appeared round a bend. Marilyn had to brake hard, as did the approaching car. Jay swore at the receding tailgate of the overtaker then grinned at Marilyn in relief. The previous moment had gone and, as her pulse slowed from the adrenalin of the incident, she realised she was glad she’d been saved from pushing it with him. There was no point; he’d told her little more about his life before they met than she’d learned in the first couple of days – there were fleeting moments when he seemed to want to, but he always backed off, covering his momentary weakness with flippancy. It was probably for the best; she was enjoying their growing intimacy but was wary of getting too attached. He would leave, sooner or later. It was bound to happen and she would handle that when the time came.
‘Nice one,’ he was saying. ‘You handled that well. Good job, too – I don’t want anything happening to my gracious employer.’
She smiled. His teasing reassured her – that lighthearted banter that kept it all at arm’s length. A working partnership, a friendship. Sex. She had even become used to his occasional brief mood changes. They never lasted and certainly never implied any blame of her.
‘I don’t want to feel I’m tying you down,’ she found herself saying later, over dinner. ‘I could manage. You know…if ever you felt you needed to get away for a while.’
‘What makes you say that? I’ve got a job to finish.’
‘I was just wondering,’ she ventured. ‘I know how much you love the freedom of life on the road. Something I said earlier, about establishing yourself a pitch…it seemed to get at you. I’d hate you to think I’m trying to commit you to anything you don’t want. I’m not.’
He finished his mouthful and grinned.
‘I don’t even know myself what got into me. If anything did.’
‘I mean it. I really appreciate the work you’re doing, and…I like having you around, but, you know, I don’t want either of us to feel any ties.’
He reached over and helped himself to another potato. ‘Sounds serious. Is this a kind way of trying to tell me something? Young Matt changed his tune, suggested a reconciliation?’
‘No!’ It was out before she noticed his hint of a smile and mischievous eyes. She tried to rescue herself. ‘Carry on like that, though, and I might.’
She watched him eat, wondering if, despite her best efforts, she was allowing herself to get too attached.
‘Are you going back tomorrow?’ she asked, to stop herself thinking. ‘To Holdwick market?’
‘See? There you are trying to get rid of me and I’ve only been under your feet for a week.’ This time she saw the gleam in his eye and smiled without rising to the bait. He shrugged. ‘Why not? I think Mike would like me to. I know the bus times now.’
‘Take the car if you like.’
‘Thanks, but I don’t like to think of you stranded, with the phone still off and all.’
‘Don’t remind me. But I’m not going anywhere tomorrow. You know what I’ve got on.’
She’d made a start at tackling the piles of boxes in the spare room. The clutter had seemed to multiply and the landing was now almost impassable. Letters, souvenirs and photos kept surfacing, demanding her attention and surrounding her with nostalgia, before a decision had to be made between ruthlessness or putting back in a box for posterity. She’d hoped that with an objective helper, one who clearly wasn’t used to being surrounded with cupboards and shelves for hoarding, she might end up with more space in her house. But although Jay had seemed interested enough in sharing her memories, he insisted that saying goodbye to a phase of her life and starting a new one was something she had to do for herself.
‘That settles it. I’ll clear off tomorrow, and in my absence you’ll have that room emptied and ready to paint, with all your equipment ready to set up in the barn the minute we get it finished.’
‘You make it sound easy.’
‘Isn’t it?’ He got up, cleared their plates and took them to the sink. ‘It’s surprisingly easy,’ he said over the sound of running water.
They spent the early evening making a further attempt on the landing and clearing more space in the spare room. Jay had moved into her room and spent every night there since the previous Tuesday, but he was a restless sleeper. He said he wanted that small space of his own so he could leave her bed to avoid disturbing her – although the couple of times he had she’d sensed him go.
‘Do you honestly only have what you carry around with you?’ she asked him as she shook open another black bin bag.
‘More or less.’
‘Nothing in that house of yours?’
‘It’s let unfurnished. Walls and a roof. I do have a small store in one of those lock-and-go places nearby, though it’s hardly worth the rent for the few bits I keep there.’
‘What kind of bits?’
‘Papers, photos, a couple of old favourite toys.’ He shrugged, waved an arm towards the room. ‘Like that lot of yours only less of it.’
‘A lock-up store. Don’t you feel…rootless?’
‘Yes, I do.’
‘You sound like you think that’s a good thing. I can’t imagine the reality of it. Scary.’
He laughed. ‘Totally scary – imagine the size of rucksack you’d need to cart all that clutter of yours around. Seriously, though,’ he looked over at her with a smile and she knew what was coming. ‘It reminds me of a story.’
‘That’s tonight’s entertainment sorted out, then.’
‘Once, an acorn got carried out of a forest onto the edge of a great plain. It took the sapling a little longer than its contemporaries to flourish without shelter from the winds, the frosts, the harsh sun. And the thinner soil of the plains, without the rich leaf mould of the forest floor, meant it had to s
end its roots out further to look for nourishment. But that made it strong, and once it began to grow there was no need to compete with its brothers, sisters and cousins in the forest for food and light. It grew, knowing one day it would raise a host of little saplings and spread the forest out over the plain. Trees don’t have feet but they understand time; they don’t think in days or miles but in generations.
‘For now, the beautiful oak was proud to be different, content in its solitary magnificence. And in the shade of its boughs in summer, a young man and woman courted and fell in love. Their clan was nomadic, wandering the plains with the seasons and settling for a while wherever they found food and water. Now the two lovers sat in the shade of the mighty oak and listened to the whispering of the leaves.
‘“I don’t want to leave this wonderful tree,” said the girl. “I’m tired of always roaming from place to place. We can stay and make ourselves a home in the shade of this beautiful oak.”
‘She claimed it was the tree who gave her the idea, though I suspect she chose to think that because she was a little scared of her own thoughts.
‘The girl got her way and when the clan moved on a small group stayed behind. And so a little village grew up around the tree. The people flourished over the years. They had plenty of food, they traded with the nomads; when they were threatened they were able to defend themselves on the raised hillock beyond the edge of the forest. And they had time. No longer did they have to roam the plains, hunting and foraging, but they stayed in one place and grew what they needed, with more time to devote to the arts, sciences and love – the good things in life.
‘Over centuries, the people came to revere the tree as their true founder. It stood, the magnificent centrepiece of a spacious garden before the palace of what had become a sizeable town. They left plenty of room for the rain to soak its roots and for the ground to provide nourishment. They developed special food, which they poured around it. As a result the grass there was richer and greener than any other grass; the flowers that grew there were rare and more colourful than any other flowers.
‘The people had a special ceremony every autumn, to thank the tree. In the prime of its life, when its magnificence matched the power and influence of the city, the tree produced an acorn for every man, woman and child. The acorns were gathered and distributed, and the people would keep them in special shrines in their houses for protection until the next autumn.
‘But trees get old like any living thing. Over the years the oak produced fewer acorns. At first they stopped giving them to children; to receive your autumn acorn became a sign of coming-of-age. Eventually the ageing tree produced so few acorns that the people held annual games, and competitions of the arts, beneath its branches to find the most worthy to receive the talismans. They believed this was the tree’s way of telling them they had to be strong and wise.
‘As time went by, and the tree grew older, there were only enough acorns for the strongest, no longer the wise, to receive one. Competition became so fierce that they would fight to the death. The blood that was shed beneath the tree appeared to revive it, and the people took to feeding it with human blood all year round. They used the blood of their enemies but in time, as the tree aged further, that was not enough. They began to make human sacrifices. And because they’d come to set greater store by strength than by wisdom, they believed that the whispering of the leaves on the few remaining living boughs told them this was the right thing to do.
‘But Arno, the gardener’s assistant, a small boy who would never be strong enough to be a warrior and win an acorn, knew that a tree could not want blood. He helped his master to give the tree its gory food. He cleared away the fallen leaves so that the bright green grass and beautiful flowers could flourish and remind the people that despite the tree’s ageing appearance, it remained the protector of their city. The boy would pause in his work and listen to the breeze in the leaves. He didn’t hear words but he understood that the oak knew it would not live forever, despite being fed blood, despite all the nurture the people of the city heaped on it. A tree should produce saplings to carry on its life. And there were no saplings because the acorns were all given away as annual prizes to the greatest warriors.
‘As autumn drew near, the boy would peer up into the remaining living branches, foreboding creeping over him. He hated autumn. It was his job to climb the tree before the games to gather the acorns. If so much as a twig snapped while he was climbing, it would be an omen and he would be taken as the next human sacrifice. But year on year the tree had protected him, keeping its remaining twigs and branches intact to save the boy’s life. This year, his last before he came of age, before he became too big to climb the tree, was especially terrifying. There were only two acorns on the tree, growing along the most fragile-looking branch. These were to be given to the king and queen; they in turn would give bountiful prizes to the winners of the games as the losers shed their blood to feed the oak’s roots.
‘Arno understood the rustling of the leaves, and knew it pained the tree to see all this being done in its name. A few nights before his ceremonial climb, he crept past the tree’s guards, who had become complacent – no one, not the greatest warrior, not even the smallest squirrel, would dare approach the tree in those days. He began to climb. His affinity with the tree, and the tree’s desire to help him in his purpose, meant he could keep the rustling of his climb quieter than the whispering of the withering autumn leaves and the creaking of the ancient branches. He plucked the two acorns, hid them in his pocket and scrambled down. He slipped past the sleeping guards and ran.
‘He escaped deep, deep into the woods, taking his acorns with him. He found a clearing in the densest part of the forest where no one would find him, and planted the acorns where there was enough light and mulch for them to grow, but where the trees gave them shelter and hid them from discovery. He was too afraid to go back; he stayed to nurture his saplings and live the life of a hermit.
‘News eventually reached the hermit from the kingdom which had once had a magic tree. He heard how the tree’s last two acorns had been lost, and the king and queen had retreated to their private stronghold to cocoon themselves against the disaster that would surely befall them. When all was still well the following autumn, but the tree had produced no acorns at all, they emerged, declaring that the oak had outlived its usefulness. They cut it down and used the wood to make a beautiful carved panel that would adorn the great hall of the palace forever. That autumn there were no vicious games, there was no bloodshed, but a great bonfire marked the ultimate sacrifice – the stump of the tree itself.
‘Arno the hermit was glad to hear the games had ceased, but sad at the news of his friend, the oak. He sat for a while beneath his two burgeoning trees, listening to the whisper of the breeze in their spring-green leaves and remembering their venerable father. He knew they would never be as mighty or as magnificent as the great oak, living as they did among the other trees of the forest. But they would be beautiful and they would pass on a part of the great tree in their acorns and saplings and that was how it should be.’
The glowing wood on the fire settled into itself noisily as it burned away. Marilyn felt almost guilty as she broke the moment and moved forward to feed the flames with another log. She sat cross-legged on the hearthrug and he came to sit beside her.
‘What is it you’re trying to tell me?’ she asked eventually.
He shrugged. ‘You said you thought the idea of rootlessness was scary. Look what happens when people become attached to places and things. When they start giving them symbols.’
‘Being attached doesn’t need to mean blood sacrifices.’
‘So I’ve heard,’ he said.
‘You’re saying it’s wrong to want to belong?’
‘Not wrong. Just that…it scares me.’
He fell silent. She sensed he was willing her to ask more.
‘Scares you why?’
He shrugged. ‘I respect those who feel it, that attachment
to a particular place, and so I sympathise with them. And I’ve supported some. People feel the need to defend their territory, and who am I to argue just because I’ve never truly felt it myself, deep down? It’s real, that need – but, like religious faith, I can’t say I genuinely understand it. Though believe me, I’ve tried. Even convinced myself for a while.’
He looked away, running a hand through his hair, before meeting her eyes again. ‘If any one set of people had a God-given right – well, as I don’t believe in God, let’s say an inherent, indisputable right – to a particular place, then why would others feel they have that right, too, and claim the same space? Who’s right and who’s wrong? At the end of the day people just want to get on with their lives. What does it matter what the environment they do that in is called?’
‘It matters if those “others” are trying to impose a different way of life, especially one that leaves people worse off.’
He shrugged. ‘Of course. I love the richness of different cultures and I’d like to think I respect the ones I encounter. I just wish they didn’t so often seem to be mutually exclusive. You know, I’m not talking about simply being meek and mild and letting anything happen. If you believe in something enough you should defend it. But a lot of the time it doesn’t really appear to be about that. It becomes a great mass identity that can blind people and drown out personal responsibility. And that’s when it becomes dangerous, especially if some madman comes along, takes it and feeds on it to gain power. The identity becomes the cause and people lose sight of individuals – themselves or anyone else.’
‘Are you referring to any cause in particular?’
He smiled and looked away again, shaking his head slightly.
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