Tree Magic

by Harriet Springbett

  Sunday is the only day Graham doesn’t work. He likes to have his Sunday roast at lunchtime, and calls it the family moment of the week. For Mary, it highlights everything her family lacks. She tries to have an activity planned so she doesn’t have to eat with them.

  Today, with Trish lying red-eyed on her settee, she cancels her planned trip to the ice rink and encourages Trish to go home and face her mum. Trish looks miserable as she leaves. Mary silently wishes Mrs Bellamy luck as she watches Trish stumble through the rain to her car. When Trish has gone, Mary wanders into the kitchen.

  “Isn’t Trish staying for lunch?” asks Mother.

  Mary shakes her head and avoids further questions by asking Graham if he needs any help with the cooking.

  “No, thanks, it’s all in hand. Go and sit down.”

  She pours herself a glass of water and forces herself to take it to the table rather than following her instinct to disobey him and drink it at the kitchen sink. She mustn’t antagonise him. She wants to broach the subject of funding her gap year in France.

  She’s received details from several universities that advertise ‘FLE’ courses: “Français langue étrangère,” she says to herself. The words set off a buzz of anticipation. It’ll be another new beginning. She’ll be a new Mary. “Marie,” she whispers, lingering over the husk of the ‘r’. She’ll shed her Englishness with her clothes when she arrives in Paris and become a French Marie, with a French haircut, French friends and French clothes. Katia Murville won’t recognise her.

  Graham and Mother join her at the table. Mother says how nice it is to be together for a meal, and Mary sighs. Sometimes she thinks she preferred the dizzy mother to this Graham-friendly version of her. She waits until both Graham and her mother have their mouths full, and then launches into her mission.

  “I’m going to take a year out before I start uni.”

  There are surprised noises in reply. Neither of them would speak with their mouths full, so she’s able to explain her plans without interruption. She doesn’t stop until she gets to the delicate part about money.

  “If you’d like to support me, you could fund my year. Otherwise I’ll get a job to pay for it myself,” she finishes.

  She’s not used to asking for help, and doesn’t think her words sound particularly persuasive. She hopes they’ll finance her. If they don’t, she’ll need to work for a year to save enough.

  “Can we see the details?” asks Graham.

  “Of course we’ll pay, love,” says Mother.

  “But we’d like to see the paperwork first,” insists Graham.

  Mary jumps up from the table. She ignores Graham’s suggestion to wait until they’ve finished eating, and runs upstairs to her bedroom. She pulls the brochures from her bedside table, hurries back to the table with them and sits down again. She hands them to Graham.

  “We’ll look through them over coffee,” he says.

  He tosses them onto a chair behind him. One slips to the floor. Mary controls her urge to slam it back onto the chair with the others. Let Graham play his power games; she doesn’t care as long as he pays.

  The meal drags on forever. Graham chews at least sixteen times on each mouthful. Mother talks about a new character that has arrived in a story she’s either writing or reading – Mary can’t tell which. Graham nods at Mother and manages to ask Mary questions about her studies without interrupting the flow of Mother’s monologue.

  “Do stop tapping against the table leg,” he says to Mary at one point.

  Mary stills her leg. She concentrates on the gobs of rain slithering down the windowpanes to distract her from her forced state of obedience.

  At last the meal is over. Mother makes coffee while Graham and Mary go into the sitting room. The brochures remain unopened on Graham’s lap. He launches into one of his talks, this time about the increase in teenage clinical depression and the possible link with drugs (nod from time to time). He’s so interested in teenage downfalls that she wonders whether he only married Mother so he could study Mary’s behaviour and compare it to his statistics.

  She pulls back her sleeve as if glancing at a watch. Graham reacts to the hint. He looks at the covers of the three brochures and then stretches out his wrinkled neck to look at her.

  “Paris, eh? Did I ever tell you about my time there?”

  “No. Do you know the universities?”

  Graham shakes his head and opens the top brochure with his scaly hands. He studies the first page. He intends to read every single word of each brochure. She closes her eyes and takes a deep breath.

  “Shall I come back when you’ve finished?”

  “No, stay there. I may have some questions as I read.” He looks up and smiles humourlessly at her. “Patience is a virtue, young lady.”

  She waits. Rain drums against the new, double-glazed windows. Mother washes up and listens to classical music in the kitchen, probably swigging from the sherry bottle in secret. Graham sits and plays with Mary’s future, his legs crossed effeminately and his glasses barnacled to his nose by his perpetual frown. She criss-crosses her nails on the leather armrest in series of eights and waits for his verdict.

  She won’t be surprised if he refuses to pay. He’s bound to believe that young people should work to pay their way. He thinks she’s flighty, impatient, rude and spoilt, all of which can be cured by his life lessons and good, hard work. And probably a war. She hates this feeling of dependence, especially when it ties her to someone she doesn’t like.

  It takes an hour for Graham to satisfy himself that she’s serious about studying in France. He suggests she should find a university in a small town, where day-to-day life is cheaper than in Paris, and agrees to pay.

  “I’ll increase your monthly allowance to pay for lodgings, food and books. It’ll only just be enough to live on. You’ll have to be careful. Money doesn’t grow on trees,” he says.

  Mary agrees to look into other destinations, thanks him and pulls her stiff body from the armchair. She can’t remember ever having sat still for so long.

  Her heart is set on Paris. She’ll wait for a few weeks and then tell him that only Parisian universities teach French to foreign students. She stretches, picks up the brochures and leaves him to his Sunday afternoon snooze. It’s time to call Trish to see how she fared with her mum.

  Chapter 32

  Mary

  Mary rings Trish straight after leaving Graham to his Sunday afternoon nap. James Bellamy answers and tells her that Trish is at Helen’s that afternoon and is staying the night. Mary doesn’t trust herself to keep her temper with Helen. She decides she’ll skive her English class the following afternoon so she can catch Trish at her school gates.

  Monday passes slowly, with Mary’s thoughts circling around Trish and Mrs Bellamy. Her lecturers spoon out advice in preparation for A levels, using the same words she heard for her GCSEs two years earlier. At school the teachers had said that GCSEs were the most important exams for their futures. Now, the lecturers are telling them it’s their A levels that really count. More lies. More twisting of facts to suit themselves. No doubt at university they’ll be told their degree exams are the only ones that mean anything. She’s sick of being continually tested to prove she exists.

  She’s eating lunch with Jed when Mrs Bellamy walks into the refectory and looks around. Mary slips out of her chair and hides behind the tray trolley. Jed raises his eyebrows, but he doesn’t ask any questions. As soon as Mrs Bellamy has gone, she sits back down. Jed knows Mrs Bellamy is Trish’s mum, and he tells Mary he saw Trish in town last night. She was crying her eyes out and looked drunk. A blonde chick was holding her up. Mary curses Helen. Who needs a friend like that?

  At four o’clock she arrives at the gates of her hated school. The bell rings, and children push and shove their way out of the doors. She retreats across the road to sit on a wall and flattens herself into the brickwork. She dreads seeing Mr Higgins.

  The younger classes, in strict school uniform, leave
first. The Year 11s, boasting customised touches to their navy and white, saunter out after them. The Year 12s and 13s, who have no uniform, leave a suitable interval before revealing their fashionably dressed selves.

  Mary spots Trish. She jumps off the wall and dashes across the road between the buses. Trish’s top is crumpled, there are stains on her jeans, and her denim jacket has a rip at the elbow. As for her hair, it’s loose and hangs in dank, ginger rats’ tails. The way she’s walking shocks Mary the most: her shoulders are slumped, and her face, which is usually fixed on the horizon, is turned miserably to the ground. Mary calls out her name. Trish looks up and manages a pathetic smile. There are dark circles under her eyes.

  “What are you doing here? Haven’t you got lectures?”

  “Not this afternoon,” lies Mary. “I’ve come to see how you are.”

  They walk towards Trish’s car. Mary links arms with her, and she stoops a little less.

  “Where’s Helen?” asks Mary.

  “That bitch? Who cares?”

  Mary rubs her arm, overwhelmed by a rush of protectiveness.

  Trish drives them to Mary’s flat in her Fiesta. As soon as they’re inside, Trish drops her bag, puts Brothers in Arms in the CD player and collapses onto the settee. She squashes a cushion in her arms.

  Mary doesn’t listen to music anymore. Not since Gus. She prefers silence. In silence you can feel things happening around you. There’s potential in silence. People are more attentive and quicker to react. She doesn’t need this aural drug that hides possibilities like make-up. She only puts on CDs when visiting friends insist. Most of them are ill at ease in silence.

  She makes two cups of tea and then sits on a floor cushion opposite Trish.

  “So? What did your mum say?”

  Trish closes her eyes.

  Mary sighs. “You didn’t even go home, did you?”

  “Not exactly,” says Trish.

  No wonder Mrs Bellamy was looking for Mary at college today.

  “So you haven’t said anything to her yet? You didn’t ring her?”

  Trish shakes her head. “I told you: I’m never going to speak to her again.”

  “You won’t get anything sorted by burying your head in the sand.”

  “There’s nothing to get sorted. She’s cheating on us. She doesn’t deserve to have a chance to explain herself.”

  “You can’t live with someone and not speak to them–”

  She stops. It’s what she did with her own mother for years. The thought of Trish treating Mrs Bellamy as she has treated her own mother shocks her. Then her shock shocks her again. Why should she feel differently towards Mrs Bellamy? There’s really no difference. Mrs Bellamy has done the same thing as her own mother. She has lied; lied by not telling the truth. Mary pinches her thigh in anticipation of the usual bitter wave of hate.

  There’s nothing. She thinks about Mother’s words when she was unconscious. Still nothing. No bitterness. No reaction at all.

  Trish is staring at her. Mary releases her thigh and rubs her forehead.

  “Sorry? What did you say?”

  Absolutely nothing. No emotion, not even a trickle of acid. This authentic nothingness is new and strange.

  “I said I’m not going to live with her,” repeats Trish. “I’m going to move in with you.”

  “But–”

  Trish stands up. She is taller, heavier and more determined than Mary has ever seen her.

  “I don’t give a toss about what Mum and Dad will or won’t let me do. I’m eighteen. I can do what I want. I’m not going back there to listen to her lies. So can I stay here or do I have to find a doorway to sleep in?”

  There are tears in Trish’s eyes, despite her tough words. She plumps back down onto the settee. Mary comes and sits beside her.

  “Why don’t you listen to what your mum has to say? Then, if you can’t bear to live with her, you can come back here.”

  “I need some time to think about things before I can look at her.” She sniffs and takes a tissue.

  “All right. You can stay here a couple of days. You’d better go home for your toothbrush and school things, though.”

  Trish hugs her. “Thanks, Mary. You’re a true friend. I’ll go now. She won’t be back from work yet.” She squeezes into her coat and grabs her bag. “See you later.”

  Mary follows her to the door. So much for not getting involved.

  “Don’t forget to leave a note saying where you are,” she adds.

  Trish is already running towards her car, her energy restored.

  Mary sighs and leans her head against the door. Its solid wood is strangely comforting.

  Mary’s flat changes appearance overnight, and by Tuesday afternoon the atmosphere is no longer one of empty secrecy. Trish’s clothes drape over cushions, a sleeping bag curls up on the settee and books and pens are wedged between candles on the shelf. Make-up spills over the surfaces in the bathroom. Even Mary’s bedroom has altered: she has fixed up the old wallpapering board on two trestles in a corner to give herself a place to study away from Trish’s noise. Her flat has come to life.

  On Tuesday evening they rush to eat in the shared kitchen with Mother before Graham gets home from work. Mary warns Trish that she won’t be able to avoid Mrs Bellamy at college for much longer, and Trish promises to talk to her the following evening after school.

  Graham arrives from work. They stop whispering and stand up to leave. He kisses Mother on the cheek and then lays his scaly hand on Mary’s arm.

  “I want to speak to you. Alone.”

  Trish goes into Mary’s sitting room and Mary sits back down at the kitchen table.

  “If it’s about the universities, I haven’t had a chance to find other towns yet.”

  “No, it’s about your friend.”

  “Trish? What about her?”

  “May I ask how long she intends to stay?”

  Mother looks up. “Has she been sleeping here?”

  Mary raises her eyes to the ceiling. Some things never change.

  “She’s going home tomorrow.”

  Graham loads his fork with a little carrot slice, a tiny dollop of mashed potato and a cube of lamb chop. “I presume her parents know what’s going on?”

  “Of course.”

  “I hope so, Mary. I don’t want to harbour any runaways under my roof.”

  How can Mother stand such a pompous git?

  “She’s not a runaway.”

  “Indeed? If she’s still here after tomorrow, I’ll consider her a runaway. And I’ll have to think again about France.”

  Mary clamps her lips shut, squashing the insult before it leaps from her mouth. She pushes back her chair and walks out of the room. It doesn’t hurt him to have Trish in the house. He’s mean and manipulative and power-crazy.

  There are no lessons on Wednesday afternoons at college. Mary hurries to the library to write an English essay in her favourite corner. She doesn’t like English much. There’s no connection between the poems they study and real life. And the novels were written so long ago that they’re irrelevant to today’s problems. Her lecturer gives her Bs. He says she lacks the zest of passion to bring her up to an A. She doesn’t care. Who can feel passionate about girls in long skirts who didn’t dare speak their minds? She’s only taken English because she passed the GCSE and she needs two A levels to study French at university. It’s a means to an end. University is a means to an end too. The end is a life in France, far away from before. If she finds work in Paris, she may not even bother with university.

  It’s difficult to concentrate once she starts thinking about Paris. She stares out of the window. Twenty-four students are lounging on the college lawn. Mary squints to see if she can recognise anyone, but she’s too high up. She wishes she were back in the Eiffel Tower, looking down over the Champ de Mars and its precise green shapes. The French know about keeping nature in order: their public gardens are nicely under control. She turns back to her English folder and gasps
. Mrs Bellamy is standing there, her hands on her hips.

  “I thought I’d find you here. Do you mind?”

  She lowers herself into a chair without waiting for an answer. Mary fixes her eyes on her folder.

  “I must talk to you about Trish,” says Mrs Bellamy. “She hasn’t been home since Sunday. Is she really staying with you?”

  Mary nods.

  “Is she in some sort of trouble?”

  “No.”

  A student nearby makes an annoyed ‘tut’. Mrs Bellamy leans forward.

  “She’s guessed about Philip, hasn’t she?”

  “I can’t say anything,” whispers Mary.

  “Has someone told her?”

  “Can’t you see the difficult position you’re putting me in? She’s coming to talk to you this evening. You can ask her then.”

  A ripple of ‘shushes’ riles Mary. She stands up and strides into an empty aisle of books. Mrs Bellamy follows.

  “If the problem’s Philip, and she refuses to understand when I tell her about him, will you look out for her?”

  “Of course. That’s what I’m already doing.”

  Mrs Bellamy looks relieved. She pats Mary’s shoulder.

  “Thank you, Mary.”

  Mary watches her bustle away. Despite Mrs Bellamy’s anxiety, she’s as robust as ever. There are no signs of a breakdown. No tears. Just an admirable ‘let’s get this sorted’ attitude.

  When Mary gets home that evening, Trish has already left. Mary tidies her flat and wonders how Trish and Mrs Bellamy are getting on.

  At 9 p.m. her front door swings open. Trish is back.

  Chapter 33

  Mary

  Out in the garden behind Mary’s house, the grass needs cutting. It’s Saturday, a week after Trish saw her mum and Philip in the pub, and Mary has to do her house jobs. She pushes open the kitchen door and shuts it on Graham’s voice telling her to mind the pear-tree roots. He’s home for lunch.