Tree Magic

by Harriet Springbett

  Her friends are waiting for her outside the refectory. They stop talking as she approaches. She refuses their offer of a trip into town and walks on her own to the squat cube of the library.

  The librarian looks up from her computer and beams at her. She worked in Paris for a year, and Mary has spent hours reliving her stay with the Murvilles and learning about France from her. The librarian holds back French course books for her so she doesn’t have to race the other students to grab the few copies.

  “How’s Baudelaire?” she asks Mary.

  “A bit stuffy. I’m so glad you gave me the translations. They really help. Listen, I’ve just seen someone I know who must be a lecturer now. Is there any way I can find out what she teaches?”

  “Easy. What’s her name?”

  “Bellamy.”

  Mary pulls out the French carambar sweets she received in the post from Katia that morning. She shares them with the librarian, who scrolls through computer screens, and looks around the familiar huddles of tables. The glass ceiling panels and large windows give the cosy top-floor library a heady giddiness. It’s like a nest. Her French and English A levels don’t amount to many hours of lectures, and she spends more time here than in the classroom block.

  “Here we are,” says the librarian. “Mrs Ada Bellamy, careers advisor.”

  All the help Trish’s mum gave her eighteen months ago must have motivated her to get her own career.

  “Yes, that figures,” she says.

  She thanks the librarian, sits down and takes out her copy of Baudelaire’s poem ‘Les Hiboux’. She whispers the words out loud, letting her ears linger on the swishy sounds of the language and take in its rhythm. Then she reads the translation. What a bore Baudelaire was: it sounds as if he’s warning people they’ll be punished for wanting to change places.

  She puts the paper back into her folder and flicks through the different sections. All her homework is done. She stares out of the window at the concrete blocks of classrooms. Everything is a monotonous December grey. The sky is mustering its energy to hurl snow and hail towards the icy ground.

  She needs to move. She slings her bag over her shoulder and leaves the library. Maybe she’ll go and hang out in the common room with Jed. He might let her ride his motorbike around the car park again.

  The offices adjoining the common room belong to the careers department. Mary pauses at the door, and then pushes it open a little. She’s never been inside. There’s a cramped waiting room with three scruffy doors leading off it. It’s empty. A photocopier stands below a noticeboard overflowing with tacked-up leaflets. She opens the door a little further. On the office doors she can make out small, white rectangles bearing people’s names, but she’s not close enough to read them. The whole area is silent. She steps inside. She only needs five seconds, just enough time to read the names and then slip out again.

  She tiptoes across the chipped squares of lino. No, no, yes. The third door is Mrs Bellamy’s. It’s ajar. She approaches and listens at the crack. There’s no noise. She nudges the door a few centimetres open. Still no sound. She’ll just see what it’s like, and then she’ll go. She pushes it right open.

  Mrs Bellamy is sitting opposite her, at her desk, reading a book.

  “Ah, Mary. There you are. Come in. Would you like a coffee?”

  “No.”

  Mrs Bellamy stands up and walks around her desk towards Mary. Mary backs away. Mrs Bellamy stops.

  “I’m not going to eat you.”

  Mary decides she might as well get it over with. She steps inside and shuts the door behind her.

  “How long have you been working here?” she asks.

  “Since September. What do you think of my office?”

  She sits down on one of the two easy chairs and motions Mary to join her. Mary ignores her and perches on the edge of the desk instead. She inspects the room. Papers are organised neatly into four piles, the walls are decorated with seven colourful careers posters and there’s one plant on the windowsill. It’s convivial and snug.

  “It’s a bit of a dump,” she replies.

  “Good. I don’t want anything too formal. How are your studies going?”

  Mrs Bellamy looks crisp. She’s dressed in a neat suit and her hair is cut short. She’s still plump but she comes across as energetic and motivated. Mary has a twinge of jealousy. She wishes she felt as good as Mrs Bellamy looks.

  “So-so,” she replies. “How’s Trish?”

  “Very well. She’s enjoying her sciences, especially physics. I think she’s leaning towards engineering. How come you two don’t see each other anymore?”

  Mary shrugs. “She’s at school, I’m at college.”

  “It’s a shame you’ve drifted apart. Old friends are important – they’re a bit like family. And how’s your mother?”

  “Same as ever.”

  “I thought I spotted her with a gentleman in town.”

  “Probably Graham, her new man.”

  “Ah. What’s he like?”

  “All right. Keeps Mother occupied.”

  Actually, when Graham arrived in her mother’s life in the summer, Mary had felt a great weight lift from her. She’s careful not to frighten him away. This isn’t difficult because he’s quiet and totally uninteresting. He reminds her of a lizard: he’s dull-brown and dry-skinned, and he merges in with the furniture.

  Mary and Mrs Bellamy look at each other. There’s a short silence.

  “You’re growing up, Mary.”

  “That’s not what you said earlier in the refectory.”

  “No. What was that all about?”

  Mary sidetracks. “How’s your lover these days?”

  The word ‘lover’ slips off her tongue without raising the slightest sickness.

  “Wonderful. And are you still shoplifting?”

  Mary looks directly into Mrs Bellamy’s crinkly eyes. She opens her mouth to reply, but no words come out. Instead, she and Mrs Bellamy burst into laughter simultaneously.

  “Goodness gracious,” says Mrs Bellamy. “Wasn’t that an awful situation?”

  “Terrible. I’m sorry about being so rude to you.”

  “That’s all right. It’s behind us. We’re different people now. Look at me: a smart, working woman. And goodness, look at you: a beautiful young lady who’s going to dazzle the world with her success.”

  Mrs Bellamy stands up and clasps Mary’s hands in her own. Her delight is infectious. Mary throws her arms around her neck and hugs her. They spin around the small space between the desk and the door, laughing.

  “Well, what an exciting day this is turning out to be,” says Mrs Bellamy. “Let’s have a coffee and you can tell me what college life is really like, from a student viewpoint.”

  “Okay, as long as you give me the lowdown on the staff side.”

  “It’s a deal. Oh, and you must call me Ada.”

  Mrs Bellamy bustles out of the office to the coffee machine and Mary sits down in an armchair. She drags a hand through her hair, which she’s let grow out of its shaved back and long fringe style. Beautiful? Success? She’s never heard these two words applied to her. She’s charged by a bolt of confidence and is still smiling when Ada returns with two hot plastic cups of coffee.

  For the next half hour they discuss college, Trish and Ada’s new career. Not once do they touch on the past. When Mary leaves the office to make room for the nervous boy who has a careers appointment, they arrange to have a coffee together the following morning.

  “Say hello to Trish from me,” finishes Mary. “It’d be good to see her again after all these months.”

  “Will do. And you must come for dinner.”

  Chapter 27

  Mary

  Things have changed at the Bellamys’ house. Last time Mary was here she had been fifteen and Mrs Bellamy stayed at home all day to look after Trish, little Jimmy and her husband James. Now that Ada works full-time the kitchen feels different. It’s hollow, even though six people are eating di
nner this evening. The Christmas decorations, which Jimmy, Trish and herself used to drape over every bookcase and framed picture, are still in a box.

  James, the academic, now cooks many of the meals. He’s still learning how to interpret recipe books. Tonight’s saag gosht isn’t altogether revolting, though Mary doesn’t like spinach and can see tails of it curling around the lumps of meat. There’s a soapy aftertaste. Two ingredients must have reacted together – surely James hasn’t put soap in the dinner? And the rice is stodgy. Ada is the only one to comment on it: she points out he’s used pudding rice instead of long grain and says how well it complements the runny curry.

  Mary concentrates on the food because Trish, sitting opposite her, keeps sending killing looks across the table. Beside Trish, Helen smiles in a condescending manner each time she catches Mary’s eye.

  Ada didn’t tell Mary that Helen would be here tonight. If Mary had known, she’d have found an excuse not to come. In fact, Ada looked as surprised as Mary to see Helen sitting in Mary’s favourite armchair. Trish had ignored Mary and told her mum that Helen was staying to dinner.

  “No problem, as long as Pop has made enough,” Ada had replied.

  “Dad, not Pop,” said Trish. She’d turned her back on Mary and started whispering to Helen.

  At the dinner table, Ada and Jimmy are the only ones talking. Mary watches Ada. Is she is unaware of the hostile atmosphere, or doesn’t it bother her? During the past few weeks they’ve seen each other regularly. Mary pops into Ada’s office on her way to the common room, and sometimes eats with her at the refectory. She’s impressed by Ada’s transformation from a housewife into a careers advisor, and wonders how many other people reshape themself like this. Ada has told her that the most difficult part is to pinpoint what you want. Once you know, you can overcome all the hurdles to get there.

  They clear the table together. Jimmy mooches away and James wanders back into his office. Ada looks at her watch.

  “Helen, it’s time for you to go home,” she says.

  Trish glares at her mum. “Mary too.”

  “I’ll run Mary home as soon as I’ve done the ironing.”

  Helen says goodbye to Ada and smirks at Mary. She pulls Trish out of the kitchen, leaving Mary and Ada alone.

  “I think I’d better go too,” says Mary. “Trish obviously doesn’t want me here.”

  Ada plugs in the iron. “She’ll be fine once Helen’s gone. Give it a go. Please?”

  “Why do you want us to be friends so much?”

  “Neither of you has any sisters. You can count on old friends in a way you can’t count on new ones.”

  “She’s got Helen now.”

  “Exactly.”

  They laugh. Trish appears and they stop.

  “I see you’re having fun,” says Trish, and turns on her heel. “I’ll leave you to it.”

  Ada grabs her arm. “Wait a minute. I’d like you to show Mary the university guide you borrowed from school before she goes.”

  “If you want. I’ll go and get it.”

  “Take Mary upstairs. I want to listen to my Spanish tapes while I’m ironing.”

  Trish looks Mary up and down. She doesn’t smile. Puberty hasn’t treated her kindly. Her skin is pockmarked and greasy. Her make-up, however, is expertly applied, and her contact lenses allow her green eyes to illuminate her face. Mary decides she must try make-up. Trish dresses better too. Her fitted blouse and tight, zipped jeans are an organic extension of her body. She’s passed through the experimental stage and found a style that suits her. It’s a chic, elegant look. Mary would feel clumsy if she wore the same tight, classic lines. Trish has definitely found herself since Mary saw her last.

  Trish jerks her head towards the staircase. “The quicker you come, the quicker you can go,” she says, and flounces out of the room.

  Mary follows.

  Trish has spread her personality over every centimetre of her redecorated bedroom. She is fashion-conscious, colour-coordinated and as untidy as ever.

  “Trendy,” says Mary.

  Trish searches through her school bag. “Helen helped me. She’s going to be an interior designer.”

  “I thought she wanted to be a doctor.”

  Trish gives her a Helen-like condescending look. “That was ages ago. Anyway, she failed biology.”

  “Oh. Ada–” starts Mary, “that is, your mum – says you want to be an engineer.”

  “What’s wrong with that?”

  “Nothing. I didn’t say there was anything wrong with being an engineer.”

  “I suppose at college you all have arty careers lined up. I can’t imagine my mum is much help, never having had a career herself.”

  “She’s a brilliant careers advisor, actually. She really cares about helping the students find the right job.”

  “Yeah, I see you hang off her every word nowadays. I suppose it’s because you haven’t got any friends.”

  Mary holds herself back from slapping her. “What’s your problem? You haven’t stopped being spiteful since I arrived.”

  “It’s your fault for being so superior. Us school kids are obviously below you. You know what, Mary Hubbard? We don’t need you.”

  “By we, you mean Helen and you?”

  Trish glares at her. “At least Helen’s around. We share stuff. She doesn’t pick me up and drop me as it suits her.”

  Mary looks out of the window. There are thirteen cows in the field below.

  “I’m sorry. It was a difficult time,” she says.

  “Story of your life, Mary. Get some therapy or you’re going to use up a lot of friends. And while we’re on the subject of friends, keep away from Mum. She’s my mum, not yours. I don’t like you sneaking round her and sucking up all the time.”

  “What?”

  “I’m sick and tired of hearing her raving about you. It’s non-stop ‘Mary this, Mary that’. I’ve had it up to here with you.”

  “But–”

  “I know something’s going on. That business with whatshisname – Gus. You told her some secret or other. I know. I can read Mum like a book. She’s too honest to be able to hide anything.”

  “That was over ages ago. I didn’t tell her any secrets. I was just fed up with her because she and Mother ganged up and tried to warn me off Gus.”

  Mary remembers Ada’s shy smile in the lingerie shop. She blocks the memory.

  “But that’s over. We’re friends like before, when she helped me choose my studies. Before Gus came along.”

  “I was your friend, not Mum.”

  “You’re still my friend. It’s you who doesn’t want to be friends anymore. I’d be happy to do stuff with you again.”

  Trish sniffs. “I’ll think about it.”

  Mary hides a smile and waits. Trish finds the university guide and holds it out.

  “Anyway, what stuff?”

  “Whatever,” says Mary.

  “I suppose we could go to the cinema.”

  “Cool. When?”

  Trish smiles grudgingly and they decide on Friday evening.

  Mary opens the university guide and they look through it together. Trish gradually relaxes into friendliness. They flick through the guide, but university seems so far away that they soon drift into talking about the differences between school and college. Before long, Ada knocks on the door and tells Mary she’ll take her home.

  Mary waves goodbye to Trish and they drive away from the house in Ada’s Astra.

  “I take it that went well,” says Ada.

  “Yes. Thanks, Ada. It’s true that there’s nothing like old friends.”

  There’s a short silence.

  “Did you mention Philip?” asks Ada.

  “Is that his name? No, of course not.”

  Ada sighs.

  “She’s bound to find out one day. I really should tell her, but she’s still so young and innocent. Sometimes I think college would have helped her grow up. The teachers are so good at the comprehensive though.
And the classes are half the size.”

  “Maybe she resents being left behind.”

  “Do you think so? She agreed it was best to stay at school.”

  “Of course she did. It was your advice,” says Mary.

  “She’s a sensible girl. Too sensible. Perhaps she shouldn’t listen to her mam quite so much.”

  “She’s lucky to have a mother who supports her.”

  “Thanks, Mary. What about your mother? Do you get on any better?”

  She will never get on with her mother, not like she does with Ada. She has tried. No doubt she loves her in an instinctive way, but there will always be a distance between them because of before.

  “Things are okay,” Mary says.

  “Only okay?”

  “What do you expect? She’s a mythomaniac and she’s wrapped up in her own life.”

  “It’s a shame about your father.”

  Mary’s sure her heart misses a beat. She swallows.

  “You mean Bob?”

  “No, your real father.”

  They are on the outskirts of town. Mary counts the passing lampposts and pretends nonchalance.

  “What about him?”

  “If you can’t see eye to eye with one parent, you often get on with the other, if he’s there.”

  “Well, he’s not.”

  “No.” Ada hesitates. “What actually happened to him? Do you mind my asking?”

  “He died.”

  “Is that what your mother told you?”

  “Why? Should she have told me something different?”

  “It’s not my place to talk to you about your father. I think you should ask your mother about him again, now you’re older. She may be able to give you more details.”

  Mary sits upright in her seat. “Did you know him? I mean, when he and Mother were together?”

  “No, Mary. I never met him.”

  Mary slips into silence. She stares out of the window at the houses gliding past, their Christmas lights winking garishly.