Tree Magic

by Harriet Springbett

  “Okay. I’m in love with the man you saw. My husband knows, but the younger children don’t. We’ve been seeing each other for years and I’m not planning to leave my family. I’m sorry you had to see us. We’re usually more discreet.”

  She wags a finger at Mary, whose mouth has dropped open. “Of course, if you hadn’t been skiving, you wouldn’t have seen us. Now, I’m going to ask you not to tell Trish. I will tell her, when she’s older. I don’t think she’d understand yet. I’m not sure you understand either.”

  “Of course I understand. I’m not a kid.”

  “No, so I see. That’s why I’m talking to you as an adult.”

  There’s a pause while Mary considers Mrs Bellamy’s duplicity and her honesty. A thought hovers in her memory: the accident; Mother; the lie.

  “Don’t you hate yourself?” she asks.

  Mrs Bellamy leans back in her chair and tucks stray hairs behind her ears.

  “Why should I hate myself?”

  “For lying to everyone.”

  “Mary, nobody’s perfect. Most people have a secret they’re ashamed of, or something they wish they hadn’t done. It’s not a reason for us to hate ourselves. We have to learn to accept our shortcomings and make the best of what we are.”

  “That’s the easy way out.”

  “It’s the only way out.”

  “Well, that’s your business, of course.” This is what Gus would have said.

  “Exactly. But I really want to talk about your business. Can we do that?”

  Here comes the lecture. Mary shrugs and sinks into her chair. A slice of fringe has slipped out from behind Mrs Bellamy’s ear again. Mary concentrates on counting the separate hairs as they fan over her cheek.

  Mrs Bellamy monologues about the threat of being expelled, about being caught stealing and put in a remedial school, about mistakes made by young people because of the company they keep and the help they don’t have. She makes it sound as if Mary isn’t responsible for her multiple failings. She implies that with some help Mary could turn her life around and become a happy, successful woman. She suggests there’s an alternative colour for the canvas that Mary has been painting black since the accident.

  It’s as if everything that’s happened can be wiped away. Perhaps Gus’s lifestyle isn’t the only option for Mary after all.

  “Mary, be honest,” says Mrs Bellamy. “You hang around with Gus because your mother disapproves of him. Don’t throw your life away to spite her. You’ve got so much more going for you.”

  The mention of Mother brings Mary back to reality. “It’s nothing to do with her.”

  “She’s worried about you. She even phoned me to ask for my help. You should try to talk to her. I know you don’t get on with her at the moment. But you know she loves you.”

  Mrs Bellamy is on Mother’s side. There’s no sincerity in her pep talk, she was just trying to get Mary to stop seeing Gus. Mary scrapes back her chair and stands up.

  “It’s none of your business who I hang out with. Maybe you should sort out your own life before moralising over mine.”

  “Mary–”

  “Tell Trish I’ve gone to see Gus.”

  She rushes out of the kitchen and slams the door behind her.

  Gus may be bad news for her mother and Mrs Bellamy, but he’s the best thing that’s happened to her. She’s got to tell him that there’s more to her than a barren core. She can be better than an inverted black hole. She’s got to find out how he wants her to be. She’ll do everything it takes to become that person.

  At the warehouse she bangs the code on the door: two slow and three long beats. There’s no answer. She waits and then repeats the signal.

  Twenty-five thuds later, she’s still waiting. She climbs onto a bin, pulls herself up to a window and looks inside.

  The warehouse is empty.

  Chapter 23

  Mary builds a cocoon around herself. Inside, Gus and Mrs Bellamy spin endlessly around her head. They throw criticism and advice at her like tennis balls. She tries to catch the words and tally them: thirty for Mrs Bellamy; forty for Gus.

  Outside, Trish, Mother and the teachers create air currents. They blow the words from side to side, rendering her mathematics erratic. She has to keep starting again: love all.

  She stays in the cocoon for 2 weeks; 14 days; 336 hours; 20,160 minutes.

  A butterfly breaks out of the cocoon. This Mary has decided to please herself. She’s going to find out what’s in the layer between the secret of before and the superficial shell she has developed since the accident. She’s not going to look back – that’s too hazardous. She’s going to spread her wings and discover what she really likes.

  On her first morning, the new Mary listens to her teachers. There are eight months before the June GCSE exams. Trish is stupefied. She abandons Helen at break and comes to sit with Mary.

  “Aren’t you well?”

  “I’m fine. I’ve decided to work for my GCSEs. Can you lend me your notes?”

  Trish hesitates. “Okay, but only one subject at a time. I need to keep up my revision programme. Why don’t we work together?”

  Mary shakes her head. She needs to be alone. Trish crosses her ankles.

  “Too bad. D’you want to talk?”

  “No, thanks. I told you, I’m fine.”

  “Well, I do. Mam’s been acting weirdly since you came over. She’s all pensive and jumpy. Do you know why?”

  “No idea.”

  “You’re weird, too. What’s going on?”

  “Nothing. Gus has gone,” says Mary.

  “Oh. Sorry. Was it something to do with what Mam said to you?”

  “No.”

  There’s a silence. Trish is the first to break it.

  “Why aren’t you talking to me anymore?”

  “I am talking to you.”

  “No, you’re not.”

  Mary closes her eyes. The cocoon beckons her back, but it has served its purpose. It’s dried-out, bereft of nourishment. She has to go on.

  “Well, cut me out if you like, Mary. I don’t care.”

  She stands up and stamps off. When Mary sees her next, she’s with Helen. After a few weeks, Mary learns that Helen spends her evenings in the Bellamys’ kitchen.

  She asks if she can change her options. The headmaster, a smug smile breaking through his beard, tells her it’s too late. Mary suspects that the teachers are gossiping about her new attitude. Mr Higgins keeps staring at her, despite the fact there’s no difference in the quality of her science work. And Mrs Beacon is delighted with her sudden interest in France.

  She still can’t talk to Mother, though she has stopped avoiding her and no longer does the opposite of everything she suggests. Mother isn’t worth bothering about. She didn’t seem to notice Mary’s two-week silence. But she did notice the headmaster’s telephone call. He thinks his tough lecture paid off because the teachers have remarked a positive change in Mary’s behaviour. Mary shakes her head in disgust and watches Mother tiptoe around the house. Mother never asks her why her behaviour has changed so drastically.

  Spring arrives and Mary lifts her eyes from her books. Out of her rain-dusted window she counts thirteen people hurrying along the street. Some raise their heads to the sun in appreciation of the gentle warmth. An elegant woman in her twenties is staring at something in one of the gardens. She bumps into a lamppost.

  Mary follows the line of her gaze. It’s a tree: a cherry tree in blossom, voluptuous with perfumed petals. The lady is mesmerised. She rubs her head, drops her plastic bag and opens the garden gate. Under the tree, she tips her head back and bathes in its scent. She’s in love with it. This morning, when she set out to the shops, she was probably indifferent to the power of cherry blossom. Now, there she is, enraptured, because she’s let herself be transported by a glimpse of promise.

  It’s time to change gear; time to grind out of neutral and move forward. Mary jumps up from her desk and clatters down the stairs to the telep
hone. She remembers Trish’s number even though she hasn’t rung it for months.

  “Let’s go on a get-lost bike ride,” she says to Trish.

  There’s a silence. Then, “Like before?”

  “No, like today.”

  Another pause.

  “I can’t. I’m going out with Helen.”

  Mary hangs up and looks outside. The wind is stripping the cherry tree of its blossom. Petals spin down to rot on the wet grass. It begins to rain. She throws on her coat and spends the afternoon alone, counting the laps she accumulates in the ice rink.

  Later that spring, Mrs Beacon asks Mary to stay behind after one of her French lessons. Once they’re alone, she mentions that her French friend, Madame Murville, wants an English girl to stay with her in Paris for three weeks this summer. Her daughter Katia needs to improve her English.

  When Mary asks whether they can afford it, Mother smiles. She says that if everything works out as she hopes, money will no longer be a problem. Mary wonders briefly what Mother is up to, but lacks the curiosity to pursue the subject.

  For the first time since losing Gus, she feels a hiccup of excitement. She and Mrs Beacon ring Madame Murville and they organise the trip together. Katia Murville, who is the same age as Mary, will stay with Mary and Mrs Beacon at Mrs Beacon’s Devon holiday home for the three weeks after the trip to France. Mary is more motivated than ever to work on her French. For the rest of the term she stays behind after school for extra tutoring.

  Mrs Beacon encourages her to write to Katia. Mary finds little to say, and fills her letter with questions about life in Paris to hide her boring life and lack of hobbies. Katia takes weeks to reply. She ignores all Mary’s questions and simply tells her she likes visiting museums and art galleries, and that she listens to opera and classical music. Perhaps Katia’s English is too basic for friendliness. Mary doesn’t write again.

  In July, Mary flies towards a totally new experience. She knows she likes the French language, but what if she hates France?

  On the plane, the French she hears is completely different from the language Pierre and Marie-France speak on the lesson cassettes. It flows much faster than Mrs Beacon’s articulated words: each sentence of real French seems to be made of one long word. She realises she is truly alone.

  The Murvilles are waiting at the arrivals hall. At least, Monsieur and Madame Murville are there, standing behind the first row of enthusiastic greeters, holding a board with her name on. Madame Murville smiles at everyone. She is small, slim and chic in a skirt and blouse with a Hermès scarf around her neck. Her hair is a perfect bob. Beside her, Monsieur looks at his watch and keeps glancing behind him. Katia is nowhere to be seen.

  They don’t know who she is and she considers walking right past them. But Madame Murville catches her eye and her smile widens into sincerity. Mary holds out her hand to shake. Madame Murville stretches out her arms, grasps Mary’s shoulders and kisses her cheeks four times. Monsieur Murville also kisses her, mutters a sentence with the word ‘Katia’ in it and rushes away.

  Madame Murville takes her case and they head through the crowds towards the exit. She speaks slowly, asking about the flight and Mrs Beacon, and Mary tries out her first words of French with a real French person. Madame Murville smiles even more, and speaks a little faster.

  There’s a flurry of movement in the crowd and Monsieur Murville comes towards them. He’s clutching the arm of the girl who must be Katia. She is almost as tall as him, and appears to be gliding. When Mary looks down at Katia’s feet she sees she’s wearing ice skates. No, not ice skates. They’re a strange kind of roller skate, with little wheels in a line. They must be the inline rollerblades the Americans are apparently crazy about. Mary looks up and meets Katia’s eyes. She looks defiant and is an unsmiling version of her mother, dressed in jeans and with long, brown hair.

  She glides forward, bends and kisses the air beside Mary’s cheeks. Then she spins around and precedes them to the terminal doors. Madame Murville fills the awkward gap with talk about the traffic jams. Monsieur frowns at his daughter’s back as she weaves expertly between the people and trolleys. She manages to appear disdainful and sophisticated even though rollerblading should qualify as a kid’s activity.

  From the moment Mary steps outside the airport and smells the sweet aroma of brioche in the air, she suspects she’s found her home. The Paris streets have the same effect on her as the Bellamys’ kitchen, with added tingles of excitement. There is so much to discover here. She doesn’t care if Katia resents her presence. She has a whole country to befriend.

  “Do you prefer sport or culture?” Madame Murville asks Mary. “In France, people tend to lean more towards one than the other.”

  They are in the car, driving from the airport to their home. Katia has slung her rollerblades into the boot on top of Mary’s case and is sitting, barefoot, in the far corner of the back seat. She’s staring at a page of a paperback book.

  “Well, I like both,” says Mary.

  Katia looks up. Mary raises an eyebrow at her and then turns and looks out of the window. She can feel Katia’s scrutinising eyes on her back. She ignores her and asks Madame Murville to tell her about the monuments they pass.

  At the apartment, Monsieur Murville takes Katia by the shoulder, leads her into a grand dining room and closes the door. Mary unpacks in the huge guest room. She has just finished putting her clothes away when Katia knocks and asks coldly, in French, if Mary wants to come rollerblading. Mary shrugs and then nods. She might as well see if rollerblading is as easy as it looks.

  They take the lift in silence and walk out to a paved square near the apartment. Mary pulls on Madame Murville’s K2 rollerblades and asks if rollerblading is popular in France. Katia shakes her head. Then she says, reluctantly, that her dad brought these ones back from America.

  “Cool,” says Mary.

  “He’s over there a lot for his business,” Katia adds.

  “Really?”

  “He always brings back lots of presents.”

  Now Katia has started speaking, she seems to have forgotten her sulk. Mary doesn’t understand everything, but she nods and Katia gradually unfreezes into a torrent of chatter. By the time Mary has struggled to her feet, Katia is offering her shoulder as support for Mary’s first steps.

  Mary shuffles around the square, falls several times, and can soon let go of Katia.

  “You’re really good,” says Katia. Her voice is a mix of admiration and resentment.

  “It’s quite like ice-skating,” says Mary.

  Katia does a half-turn and skates backwards in a circle. Mary claps. Katia bows. After her third tour of the square without falling over, Mary begins to relax. Rollerblading is even better than ice-skating. Unlike the ice rink, there are no restrictions as to where she can skate. She glides towards the low wall, her hands outstretched, and stops.

  “Shall we go, then?” she says.

  “Go? Go where?”

  Mary laughs. “Anywhere! Take me around Paris.”

  “Seriously?” Katia actually smiles. “Okay. Why not? You’re on!”

  Mary discovers that her dislike for butter and milk, which make her difficult in England, are standard here, where bread is served without butter, and tea and coffee without milk. There are endless cheeses to taste, and a little red wine with dinner. She even looks French. Many of the French girls have dark hair and are petite, like her. It doesn’t matter that Mary’s black hair is dyed. For once, she doesn’t feel short. France is definitely her natural home.

  On her second day she visits the Eiffel Tower. They leave the rollerblades behind and Katia guides her through the Métro. They approach the heart of the nation on foot. She knows the shape of the tower from photos, but the size of it astonishes her. It dominates the whole city. She feels a burst of apprehension as she sums up the number of triangles there are to count. This is a place to come to when things are difficult. But Katia is by her side, chattering about the history of the tower. T
hey climb up one of its legs and Mary overcomes her compulsion to count the hundreds of steps.

  When she looks down from the first floor, the belly of the monster, she is struck by vertigo. There’s a sensation of lightness in her head. She closes her eyes. Workmen, close by, are listening to a radio. She latches onto the lyrics of a song while she waits for her mind to stop spiralling. It’s a French song. She understands the words ‘Petite Marie’ within the spaghetti of syllable strings. “It’s Francis Cabrel,” says Katia, and sings along.

  Although her eyes are closed, Mary can see French countryside unfurling beneath her: greens and browns; curlyheaded trees; stripes of vineyards; and a wide, slow-moving river. It’s as if she were in an aeroplane. Everything whirls, yet her overall feeling is one of peace. Then her view parachutes towards a focal point: an ancient cedar tree in the middle of a hot, sleepy town.

  The dizziness passes. She opens her eyes and shakes the strange images out of her head. The tranquillity remains and she feels happier than ever. She is still smiling when she joins Katia in the queue to climb as high as possible towards the Parisian sky.

  Katia turns out to be the twin sister Mary always wanted. She chatters through Mary’s silences, yet this difference doesn’t stop them having similar impulses at the same time. She accompanies Mary to every corner of Paris – on their rollerblades when the streets are suitable – and answers all her questions. With Katia’s help, Mary reads through the visitors’ guidebook Madame Murville brings home from the tourist office where she works.

  The evenings at the Murville apartment are lively. Once Monsieur Murville has flown back to America, Madame Murville forgets she wanted Katia to speak English and they use French most of the time. Mary turns her admiration for the Parisian architecture and the friendliness of the people into French words, with Katia’s help, and they laugh over her French errors and the Murvilles’ accents when they speak English.