Tree Magic

by Harriet Springbett

“Careers working with trees, stupid. With the French Forestry Commission, for example.”

  “Do you need a bac for that?”

  Sylvia had decided to be a sports teacher because she was crazy about sport. Everything was straightforward for Sylvia. The other schoolchildren found Rainbow bizarre because she lived in the commune, but Sylvia accepted her gift and treated her like anyone else.

  “I don’t know what qualifications I need. That’s what I’m about to find out. Don’t mention it to anyone from the commune though.” Rainbow grimaced. “Domi wants me to be a palm-reader and live in the commune for ever.”

  “Oh, can you?”

  Rainbow glanced sideways at Sylvia. “Can I what? Read palms?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Of course. There’s nothing spiritual in that. It’s just a question of learning what the lines mean and tuning in to your client. It’s not like healing.”

  They walked towards the library. Sylvia often ran or cycled to the commune on her training circuit and had become an extension of the family. She’d been the only one to show any signs of disappointment when Christophe had left. The other commune members, after a few months of adapting to only seeing him once a week when he popped in, were pleased he’d found his vocation and was building his own life. Sylvia had admitted that she found him cute and missed him. She was tall, blonde and pretty, and although her sporty aura attracted lots of boys, she never noticed them. You had to say things straight to Sylvia. Rainbow had never met anyone with such a limited field of perception. Sylvia didn’t get vibes. Rainbow, who depended on vibes, could tell that Christophe wasn’t romantically interested in Sylvia. He was more likely to want a mysterious, secretive girlfriend; someone weak who needed his strength and stability.

  “So Domi’s given up on trees?” said Sylvia.

  “I think he’s lost. He’s been waiting for a sign for so long that he’s finally decided I should heal one tree at a time, for free.”

  She looked at Sylvia to see if she was really listening, and decided she was.

  “I need to do something more than healing the odd tree here and there. I’m sure I’ve got a bigger destiny than that. But I’m not going to find it by sitting in the commune and waiting.”

  “Bravo,” said Sylvia. She applauded and then ducked into the library to avoid Rainbow’s punch.

  Back at Le Logis, Rainbow took the librarian’s documents out of her bag and slid them into the top drawer of her desk. There was no chance anyone would find them in her bedroom. One of the useful aspects of having Christophe’s old room was that people had already established the habit of not entering.

  The commune people were so entrenched in their habits. Time passed slowly here and nothing exciting ever happened. She had to get away and begin her real life. Christophe had gone through this phase too. As for Sylvia, she had always been restless. She’d talked about leaving home the whole time Rainbow had known her.

  Rainbow didn’t want to waste her life, not like Mum, whose life had been completely pointless. She still wrote songs, sold some and sang with bands in the surrounding towns, but she wasn’t growing. Domi was the same: he wasn’t advancing in his quest to save the world. If anything, he was retreating. The commune, which had seemed to be a stepping stone to her destiny, now felt like a broken bridge. She wanted to do something important, to make something of her life and her gift. She had to do it for Michael. She closed her eyes and saw his face as if the accident had been yesterday and not four years ago.

  That evening in bed she took out the Forestry Commission leaflets. Her excitement mounted as she read through the possible career paths. At the end they listed the necessary qualifications. Her heart plummeted. You needed science to work with trees, for some reason. They wanted a scientific or specific agricultural baccalaureate. You also had to be French. The only baccalaureate stream possible for her had been literary, given her dread of science and numbers. A career with the French Forestry Commission was out of reach.

  Each attempt to find a job in which she could use her gift finished in failure. Her tree business had scared people away. A month ago, she’d managed to organise an interview with the journalist from the local newspaper. She’d planned to publicise her work in the paper and invite offers to hire her. But the meeting with the journalist had ended in disaster. She was never going to succeed.

  That weekend, Christophe took Rainbow into the motorbike shop below his flat. There was an object shrouded by a bed-sheet in the middle of the oily workshop. He whisked the sheet into the air and exposed the project that had obsessed him for the whole summer. Rainbow drew in a breath and whistled. The motorbike was red, chrome and black. It was beautiful in its glossy cleanliness: silent and powerful. She mistrusted its perfection.

  “It’s yours,” he said.

  Rainbow turned slowly away from the motorbike and looked up at him.

  “What? You can’t give it to me.”

  “It’s an early present for your eighteenth birthday.”

  “I can’t accept it. It’s far too big a present. I haven’t even got a licence.”

  “I’ll drive you around on it until you get one.”

  “But you’ve spent so much time rebuilding it.”

  Christophe reddened.“It’s a present, okay? You don’t refuse presents.”

  “Sorry. I mean, thanks.” Rainbow’s cheek colour matched his. “Thanks loads. Shall we go out on it now?”

  He grinned, eager to demonstrate its prowess. “Of course. The beach?”

  He knew she loved the coast in September, and she knew he loved the stretches of road leading to it. They knew a lot about each other. But since he’d moved away from the commune the year before, she found it difficult to read him. It had been novel to visit her ‘brother’ in his independent life at first. Then she began to feel awkward with him, and he seemed less brotherly. They were no longer the kids who’d grown up together. They still saw each other regularly, at parties in his flat and at the Cognac festivals, but she hadn’t expected this present. The weight of it squashed her intestines flat.

  He threw her the leathers he’d borrowed and opened the garage door while she pulled them on. Then he started up the engine. He ran his hands over the bike’s body and examined the chrome tubes lovingly before beckoning her to sit behind him. She hesitated, then slipped her arms around his waist.

  It was a perfect Sunday. The sun warmed her back as he steered the bike through the streets of Cognac and onto the main roads. He liked speed. So did she, and the exhilaration dispelled her uneasiness. Unlike Domi, Christophe rode with abandon. He was part of the bike, a predator, weaving and racing through forest and plain.

  When they pulled into an empty car park under the pine trees an hour later, she was high on recklessness. She slid off the warm leather, aware of his eyes on her, and stretched her legs. Then she unfastened her helmet and shook out her long, brown hair. The nerves throughout her body were still vibrating.

  “That was brilliant,” she said.

  The bike looked less threatening now. Dust and heat had softened its shining expectations.

  Christophe remained silent. He was staring in her direction. She glanced over her shoulder to see if something behind her had captured his attention. There was nothing obvious.

  “What is it?”

  He picked up a spiral bike lock and held out his hand for Rainbow’s helmet.

  “Nothing.”

  She made sure their hands didn’t touch when she passed it to him. And she kept a step ahead of him when they crossed the road and walked towards the dune that separated them from the sea.

  “Let’s dune-jump,” she said.

  “Okay. First one to the top can choose the dune.”

  She raced up the shifting slope of warm sand, but he overtook her and reached the summit first. Rather than admiring the expanse of the Atlantic, as Rainbow always did, he turned and taunted her as she puffed towards him. She collapsed a few metres away. He laughed.

  �
�You should do more sport, Rainette.”

  “I climb with Sylvia. That’s sport.”

  She refused the hand he offered to help her up. The view captivated her, and she reached for the sketch pad in her pocket.

  “Come on, daydreamer. We’re jumping from that one.” Christophe pointed to the lip of a dune with a huge drop beneath it.

  “No way. It’s too dangerous.”

  “I’ll jump first. If I break a leg you needn’t follow.”

  “Why do you always choose the biggest ones? We’d have loads more fun doing lots of smaller ones.”

  “I like watching your face when you’re on the edge.”

  He turned and led the way. She stuck her tongue out at his back and followed him.

  “This time I’ll jump straightaway. You’ll see.”

  He reached the edge, waved at her and then flung himself into the air with characteristic disregard for the danger. Her chest constricted and she rushed forwards to watch. He landed, rolled and whooped.

  “Enorme! Your turn now.”

  Despite her intentions, Rainbow hesitated. “You’re in the way. I might land on you.”

  He grinned up at her and slithered to the left.

  “Is that a log sticking out of the sand?”

  He pulled out a knobble of driftwood and threw it to one side.

  “There aren’t any bottles, are there?” she asked.

  “Not that I can see. There are probably lots of broken ones under the surface, though.”

  “Shut up! Right, I’m coming.”

  “Really?”

  She ignored his laugh. With a frown of concentration, she stepped over the edge.

  Thud! Her eyes sprang open on impact and she rolled into him.

  “Congratulations. That was record time,” he said.

  He was sitting on his heels, his back to the sea. She looked up at him. His brown eyes were fixed on hers. She couldn’t look away. This wasn’t the Christophe she’d grown up with. She had no idea who this man was.

  “Rainbow,” he whispered.

  He took her hands to pull her up and leaned forwards. Their lips met. The crash of ocean waves was the clash of cymbals at the climax of a symphony. Rainbow cringed at her clichéd thought and opened her eyes.

  The mysterious stranger had disappeared. All she could see was the vulnerable fifteen year old she’d met years before. She drew back. He was watching her. The soft brown of his irises turned brittle. She stood up. A heavy pain pulsed beneath her breasts.

  “I’m sorry,” she said.

  He winced. Then he turned his back to her and pulled his knees up to his chest. She placed a hand on his shoulder. He shrugged it off.

  “Is there someone else?” he asked.

  “No. It just doesn’t feel right. I’m sorry.”

  “Stop apologising. It’s not your fault.”

  She sighed. “You know I really like you–”

  “But only as a friend. I’m not your type and all that.” He stood up. “Come on, let’s walk.”

  As much as she wanted to console him, she knew the subject was closed. They started to walk along the sand. She felt as if her centre of gravity was in her ankles.

  After ten minutes, they turned in silent consensus and returned to the motorbike. It stood, lonely, under a pine tree, its optimistic brightness out of place among the greens and browns of the forest.

  Chapter 31

  Mary

  Spring always has this effect on Mary. Sap rises in her bloodstream and swells her energy levels until she feels the need to blossom. But she doesn’t know how to blossom, and so the pressure builds up. For nearly two years she has retained a polite veneer with Graham. She must prevent it from cracking at all costs.

  He’d promised not to act as a father. Yet the minute he and Mother were married, his stale presence bloated until it filled the atmosphere at home. He has started having talks with her: talks about her future (pretend to listen); talks about drugs (nod and look suitably impressed); and talks about boys (control that snigger).

  The worst talks are those about Mother. He lectures Mary about being respectful and then advises her to humour Mother’s literary dreams. It’s all right for her to ridicule Mother’s writing but she bristles with annoyance when Graham says Mother needs her ‘little scribbling activities’ to keep her healthy. He’s never heard her sing properly. He’s never seen her surrounded by admiring fans. Does he say this to gain popularity with Mary, to pretend he’s on her side? If so, he has miscalculated.

  She’s now on the lookout for any other slyness concerning Mother, and is more determined than ever to keep her distance from greasy Graham.

  One Saturday night in April, she switches on the television to see if any French films are being shown. She’s been revising for her A levels, which are in a month’s time, and deserves a treat.

  She is lucky. Manon is running across arid scrubland with her goats. Mary turns up the volume and lies back on her floor cushion. She props her head against the settee and closes her eyes. She knows Manon des Sources by heart, and wants to avoid cheating by unconsciously reading the subtitles. There should be a village scene now. But Mary can hear someone knocking hard on wood.

  She opens her eyes. No one on the television is knocking. It’s her front door.

  She jumps up, flicks off the television and hurries towards the frantic banging. The panic she can sense through the heavy wooden door is contagious. She wrenches it open without checking the spy hole.

  Trish bursts into the room.

  “Shit! Oh shit!” She paces around the settee.

  Mary closes the door.

  “What is it?”

  Trish doesn’t seem to hear her. On her third tour of the settee, Mary grabs her arms and forces her to stop. Trish glares at her. Then she sinks onto the settee and drags her fingers through her unusually dishevelled hair.

  “Shit, shit, shit!” she moans.

  She slumps forward, her head in her hands. Mary drops to her knees in front of her. “Tell me, Trish. What’s happened?”

  Trish groans, wails “Shit!” and bursts into tears.

  Mary sits beside her and squeezes her clenched shoulders. She feels inadequate. Her “there, there” sounds ridiculous. She waits. Eventually, Trish’s wails calm to sobs. Mary pours her a glass of water.

  “Tha-anks,” hiccups Trish.

  She takes a gulp, chokes and then goggles wild-eyed at the ceiling as she gasps for breath. Mary snatches back the glass and thumps her on the back until she recovers. Trish takes another sip.

  “It’s Mam,” she says.

  “What? Has she had an accident?”

  “No.”

  Mary lets out the breath she’d held.

  “It’s worse,” says Trish.

  “What could be worse? She’s not … dead, is she?”

  “No, but I wish she was.”

  Mary bites her lip. She thinks she knows what’s coming.

  “She’s having an affair,” says Trish.

  Mary isn’t sure how to react. She decides not to feign surprise.

  “What makes you say that?”

  “I’ve just seen her. In the pub.” Trish shudders. “With a horrible salesman-like bloke.”

  “Maybe he’s just a friend.”

  Trish looks scornful. “They were snogging, Mary.”

  “Oh.” There’s a silence. “Which pub?”

  “Who cares which pub?” Trish sniffs and snatches the tissue Mary offers her. “The Queen’s Arms. We don’t usually go there because it’s full of oldies. But Helen wanted to try it out tonight.”

  “Where’s Helen now?”

  “At home. She’s got a horse show tomorrow. She spotted them snogging when she went out to the toilets.”

  Typical Helen. She could have kept her big mouth shut.

  “Did your mum see you?”

  Trish shook her head. “How could she do it? What about us? Don’t we count for her anymore?”

  “Of cours
e you do. You know she loves you all.”

  “Yeah, right. Not Dad though. Do you think she’ll leave him, like Helen’s mum did? And will she take Jimmy and me with her, or will she leave us too?”

  “You should ask your mum. Tell her you saw her in the pub.”

  “No. I’m never, ever going to talk to her again.”

  Trish picks up a cushion and hugs it.

  “You poor thing. I can guess how terrible you must feel,” says Mary.

  “No, you can’t.”

  Mary remembers how she felt when she saw Mrs Bellamy with Philip. She can’t explain that to Trish. But if she can get Trish to talk to her mum then at least Trish will know her mum has no intention of leaving her family.

  “I really think you should talk to her.”

  “What if she says she’s going to run off with him?”

  “She won’t do that.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Because she’s not like that; she’s not like Helen’s mum.”

  “Maybe she is, after all. How can I ever trust her again? I thought I knew her, but she’s not the same person anymore.” Tears reappear in Trish’s eyes and she blows her nose.

  Mary stands up. “Look, you won’t know if you don’t speak to her.”

  “Thanks for your sympathy.” Trish’s voice is sarcastic.

  “I am sympathetic. But there’s no point speculating about what may happen when you could simply ask her outright.”

  “It’s all right for you. It’s second nature for you to demand explanations,” retorts Trish. She narrows her eyes. “You ask her. Then you can tell me what she says.”

  “Trish! I can’t do that. This is between you and your mum.”

  Trish sighs and looks around the sitting room. “Let me stay here tonight and I’ll talk to her tomorrow.”

  “Well … All right, then.”

  She makes up a bed for Trish on the settee and offers to sleep in the room with her. Trish says she wants to be alone. She turns on the television and climbs into the sleeping bag. Mary creeps up to bed.

  That night she debates whether to be completely honest with Trish. She doesn’t want to make things more difficult for her. As she drops into a fitful sleep, she wonders whether Mother had the same debate with herself before.