Tree Magic

by Harriet Springbett

“Agnès. I’m a Parisian like Katia, nowadays. I used to be Frédéric’s neighbour.”

  “So are you down from Paris for the end of–?”

  “For the weekend?” she finishes. “Yes, I’m going back tomorrow. How are you finding farm life?”

  She indicates the dusty paw marks Mary hadn’t noticed on her sequinned jacket. Mary brushes them away self-consciously.

  “Those dogs. Always jumping up,” she says.

  “Yeah. They’re cute though. I remember them well.”

  “I’m more of a cat–” Mary starts.

  “Lover? Frédéric’s family aren’t, though, are they? He’s more into dogs. What about his mum? She’s a real one.”

  Mary giggles. Katia’s aunt hasn’t improved over the weeks, and Mary has seen no sign of the angel beneath her grumpy exterior.

  “Yes, she is a bit.”

  “A bit what?” Agnès looks puzzled.

  “Well, a bit of a dog.”

  “Is she? I always got on brilliantly with her. She’s a real character.”

  That makes seventeen misunderstandings on Mary’s mental list. Before she can explain her mistake, Agnès turns away and walks into the lounge. Mary is alone once again.

  Agnès pulls Fred onto the dance floor. Mary watches her weave like a sleek panther and wonders how the carefree, popular, rebellious Mary in England could have turned into this uncertain, spurned Marie. She needs to move, to get away from her thoughts.

  “I’m going to the loo,” she says to no one in particular. She goes into the entrance hall to search for the toilet.

  Away from the noise and the covert glances, she climbs three steps up the staircase and sits down. She drops her chin onto her arms and counts the paw scratches on the inside of the front door.

  The doorbell rings. It startles her out of her counting. She waits for Nathalie to prance out of the kitchen and reply. No one appears, so she answers it herself.

  An attractive boy she has never seen is standing on the step.

  “Come in,” she says in French. “Nathalie is inside.”

  The boy’s mouth drops open. He stares at her.

  Mary clears her throat, mentally cursing her accent, and repeats her invitation. He remains motionless. Perhaps he is deaf. She indicates the hall with a sweep of her hand. He takes a step back. The hands that clutch his motorbike helmet are white-knuckled. He looks as if he’s seen a ghost.

  “You’re British too,” he says, in lightly accented English.

  A surge of eagerness mixes with her confusion.

  “Too? Are you British?”

  “No, I’m French.”

  Mary shivers in the swirl of cool September air. The boy apologises and enters, closing the door behind him. She rubs her shoulders with her hands, warming herself. She’s excited. It must be the prospect of a proper conversation in English.

  “How come you speak such good English?” she asks.

  “I live with an English girl.”

  “Oh.”

  “I mean, I don’t live with her, but we grew up together,” he adds. He smiles and frowns alternately. “This is incredible.”

  The slight dip in her excitement at his mention of another girl is replaced by a thrill. She has a premonition that this meeting is going to change her evening. Maybe even her life! He’s obviously keen to speak English too.

  “Well, I’m Mary,” she says.

  He has an aura of sensitivity coupled with Gus’s self-confidence.

  “Mary? I’m Christophe,” he replies.

  He takes her hand to shake and holds it tight. She feels herself begin to blur around the edges, as if she’s evaporating in the heat of his touch. It’s a comforting sensation. She searches for something to say that won’t splinter the electric atmosphere between them.

  The lounge door opens and Fred appears. Christophe drops her hand. Fred stares at her and then glares at Christophe.

  “Ah, here you are, Marie,” Fred says. He turns his back to Christophe. “Will you dance with me?”

  Mary peers around him to check Christophe isn’t about to leave the house. He’s pushing the lounge door open with his back. He looks sad. She’s hit by a sudden panic that she’s going to lose him.

  “Sorry, Fred. I’ve just promised Christophe a dance.”

  Christophe stops. Fred pushes past him and returns into the lounge. Mary blushes.

  “I hope you don’t mind–”

  “On the contrary.”

  Christophe smiles at her. She knows she has an idiotic grin on her face, but is powerless to play it cool. For several seconds, they simply look at each other. Then Christophe holds out his hand.

  “Let’s dance.”

  Chapter 42

  Rainbow

  It was a dull and windy evening in September. Rainbow’s final lycée year had just started, and it had been three weeks since she dropped art and Nico. Every day she regretted declining her place at the art school in Lyon. She knew she’d made the right decision, but it wasn’t easy to go back to her depressing search for a tree destiny.

  She lay alone on her double bed under the creaking roof. The beginning of autumn was thickening her blood. Soon it would be winter, her hibernation period, and she would curl up and let routine drag her through the short days and long nights. Then the rising sap of spring would bring her new ideas and energise her into action. But spring was a lifetime away.

  This year the chill had arrived early and she found it impossible to protect herself from the seeping cold. She lay flatly exposed, waiting for its numbing onslaught. She was eighteen and still had no idea what to do with her life. She would spend hours hunched in one tree or another, her ear pressed against the hush of its pulsing bark, and let it lull her into frozen listlessness. Her former energy had been replaced by the heaviness of despondency.

  Christophe had suggested working for a tree doctor. A biker acquaintance of his had a tree-surgery business, and he’d been interested when Christophe had mentioned Rainbow. She’d made a list of local tree surgeons and then written to them, mentioning a talent for working with trees without saying more. The idea was that the tree doctors would be curious enough to want to meet her. Last week, she had ridden on her moped to meet the only one who’d responded to her letters. He immediately told her she was too small. She’d demonstrated her gift, nevertheless, only to be told to go back to ‘Mutant Land’.

  She sat up on her bed and stretched. She was waiting for Christophe. He’d said he would call into Le Logis this evening to tell her whether his tree-doctor friend would see her. If the tree doctor wasn’t interested, she would go to agricultural college after her bac and get a forestry qualification.

  She had started to supplement her occasional palm-reading work by reading tarot cards, which demanded an equally low level of talent. Luckily, there was some leeway for perspicacity in both techniques. The clients could feel their own personal questions had been answered and were motivated in one direction or another by the time they left. She’d even developed a couple of regulars. They fed off her confidence in their futures and sucked her dry.

  Domi advised her to note everything she told her clients, along with their reactions, so she could revise prior to a subsequent sitting. He thought this would make up for her lack of ability to see the future and tune into humans in the same way she tuned into trees.

  She never noted a word. The work disheartened her. And, since she’d discovered Domi wasn’t her father, she’d noticed a new obstreperous streak in her personality that made her want to do the opposite of whatever he said. She wanted to punish him for posing as her father for the last four years. But she couldn’t say anything to him because he’d never claimed the role.

  She stood up and glanced out of the window. There was still no sign of Christophe’s motorbike outside. She lay back down with her copy of The Alchemist in the hope that Santiago would show her some sign of her own destiny.

  Darkness was falling when she eventually heard Christophe say hello t
o the people in the commune kitchen. The sound of his running feet on the stairs made her sit up. There was excitement in his approach. It had to be good news.

  He opened the door. He looked pleased with himself as he kissed her. Then he stood back and studied her.

  “You’ve got your winter blues early this year. Never mind, I’ve got something to cheer you up.”

  “Really? He wants to take me on at his tree surgery?”

  “Thierry? No, he wasn’t in when I phoned. He hasn’t called back yet.”

  Rainbow slumped back down onto the bed. “What’s the good news, then?”

  “I’ve got a client for you. Palm-reading.”

  “And that’s supposed to cheer me up?”

  “It may be fun. She’s your double.”

  She felt a pulse of curiosity. “My double?”

  “I told you last month I’d seen a girl who looked just like you.”

  “Oh yes. Have you met her, then?”

  Christophe grinned and ran his hands through his hair. He looked shy and happy. Rainbow gasped. He was in love. The realisation was like the blow of an axe through her bark. She struggled to understand. She had rejected his love last year. She should be happy for him. So why did she feel this agonising disorientation?

  He seemed oblivious to her distress. “I met her at a party yesterday. We talked all night. She needs some answers, so I suggested she came to you for a reading. I didn’t tell her she’s your double in case it frightened her away.”

  Christophe was like a brother. She couldn’t be jealous of his girlfriend. She shook herself. It would be intriguing to meet her double.

  “Do we look exactly the same?”

  “Her hair’s short and black rather than long and brown like yours. But she’s small and skinny like you, and her features are identical. She could be your twin. Her name’s Mary.”

  Given his terrible reputation for faces, Rainbow wasn’t sure his idea of identical was reliable. He smiled again. In fact, he hadn’t stopped smiling since he arrived.

  “So, will you read her palm?”

  “I guess I could. When can she come?”

  “Actually, she’s outside.”

  Rainbow leapt to her feet and looked out of the window. In the dim light she could make out the figure of a girl perched on the back of the red motorbike. Rainbow’s bike, her birthday present that she’d still not learnt to ride. The girl had a helmet on and was huddled into the leather jacket Christophe lent Rainbow when he took her out on her bike.

  The old tingling sensation started to caress her spine. It hadn’t felt so strong since the day she’d met Nico. There was an ominous sense of anticipation in the air around her. She shivered.

  Christophe looked expectantly at her. “Please?”

  She ignored the negative vibes, took a deep breath and smiled at him. “Let’s go and bring her in.”

  Part VII

  Leaves

  Rainbow and Mary, Autumn 1995

  Chapter 43

  Rainbow and Mary

  Mary

  Mary sits on Christophe’s motorbike and pulls the borrowed leather jacket closer around her shoulders. She eyes the dilapidated house with suspicion. The spiritualists have chosen a predictably spooky place for their business. She can feel the hairs on the back of her neck rising. The buildings are close to whispering trees and she shudders to think how the greenery would encroach in springtime. Doesn’t Christophe’s friend feel threatened by the creeping vines, the skeleton branches and the roots burrowing beneath her feet? Does she ever think the fate of Sleeping Beauty may befall her?

  Yesterday, despite its inauspicious beginnings, had been one of the best evenings of her life. Fred had finally got the message that she wasn’t interested in him, and spent the evening snogging Agnès. Mary spent the rest of the party in Christophe’s arms.

  She smiles as she visualises his honest features. He may not be classically good-looking like Fred, but she’s far more attracted to him. He has a deep strength. She loves the leathery, engine-oil smell of him and the way he moves with such assurance. They talked non-stop last night. Katia had to drag her away from him at five in the morning. Then, this afternoon, he picked her up on his gleaming motorbike. They picnicked beside the river, on a rug, and lounged side by side in the cool September air. And they talked even more. Mary has never said so many words to one person. Not even before.

  There’s something enigmatic about him. He seems to know her better than she knows herself, as if he can sense her essential core. She wonders whether he’s the key to help her face who she really is: not the Mary she became after the accident; nor the Marie she has become in France. No, something older: the missing part of her life; the buried side of before.

  A dizzy lightness engulfs her. It’s like the whirling sensation she had in the Eiffel Tower. She shivers. It must be the thought of before. She’s not ready yet. She counts the grip-marks on the handles of Christophe’s motorbike.

  It’s a stunning bike, a perfect example of Christophe’s talent for anything concrete. Jed had taught her to ride his motorbike in the college car park in England, and so Christophe had let her drive this beauty along the track before they arrived. She wants to disappear into the evening sun on the bike, her arms around Christophe. How can she go back to Paris now? If only she’d met him when she first arrived in Cognac.

  She rubs her arms in an effort to warm herself. She mustn’t get carried away. Christophe may be less smitten than her. After all, he had suggested the palm-reading. Will his friend see a future with Christophe in Cognac, or at university in Paris? Or is she a fake who will see nothing at all? He hasn’t told her his friend’s name. He’s not said much about her at all, except that she’s English. And he’s taking a long time to persuade her. Night has almost fallen.

  At last she hears a door open and he appears around the side of the house. The girl is with him. She has long brown hair and is dressed in loose jeans and a baggy green jumper. Mary had expected dramatic, spangled purples and oranges. She slides off the motorbike seat and takes a step towards them. Then she stops. She’s looking into a mirror.

  Her head begins to spin. She reaches behind her for the solidity of the bike. It’s worse than a simple mirror; she’s looking into a mirror of the past. She’s looking into before.

  There’s a scream. By the time she realises the voice is her own, she’s astride the bike. She revs up the engine, kicks off and streaks away along the track.

  Rainbow

  Rainbow had stopped walking towards the girl as soon as she saw her shocked expression. She thought the girl’s reaction was rather dramatic, even though her face could have been Rainbow’s own. Her features were identical. Rainbow had grabbed Christophe’s arm and forced him to stop too. The familiar tingling sensation ran riot up and down her spine. She suddenly knew it was connected to this girl Mary. Then the girl had screamed – a long drawn-out howl of animal pain. Before Christophe could react, the girl had roared away on the motorbike. There was a gaping hole in the atmosphere where she’d been.

  “Merde!” Christophe pulled himself free and raced along the track after her.

  The roar dimmed to a hum. He stopped, bent to catch his breath, and then walked back to Rainbow.

  “You should have warned her. She freaked,” said Rainbow.

  “I didn’t want to put her off. She’s incredibly sensitive.”

  “You idiot! That’s even more of a reason to warn her. Well, I guess you’ll never see your bike again.”

  She kicked a shower of stones along the track. The idiot had given her a glimpse of something intriguing, only to handle it so badly that it was immediately snatched away. She could strangle him. The girl really was identical. And now she had a furious need to get close to her. She had to hear her voice. She was desperate to touch her. Unfortunately, the girl – Mary, she must call her – seemed to feel the opposite.

  Christophe swore and punched his hand into the trunk of the silver maple tree.
>
  “She’ll never trust me now,” he said.

  “We’ll probably never see her again.”

  She pushed his hand off the maple and glanced up into its creepy, asymmetrical branches. The image of Mary’s face and the texture of the maple’s bark blurred together in her mind. A distant memory lay on the edge of her thoughts, just out of reach. All she could grasp was a vision of Amrita in her red and pink sari. She shook the thought away. She had to concentrate on what was happening here and now.

  “Do you know where she lives?” she asked.

  Christophe nodded.

  “Come on then. We’re going to find her.”

  She dashed back into the house, picked up a coat and shouted to Mum that Christophe was driving her to his flat. It would take too long if they took her little moped. Without listening to the reply, she rushed back out and joined him beside the Renault. He was leaning against it, his forehead resting against the roof. She squeezed his arm.

  “She’s more than a palm-reading client, isn’t she?” she said.

  He nodded.

  “Come on then. Spill.”

  They climbed into the car and she listened to his tale about the party the previous night as he drove off. She smiled when he said Mary was lost. Christophe liked lost causes. She waited for a pause so she could ask the important things about Mary – like where she came from and what she was doing in France. But he was in full flow about his feelings for her and she didn’t want to interrupt. He hadn’t spoken so much since the unhappy day when he’d given her the motorbike last year. Even if they never saw Mary again, she’d at least re-established her closeness to him. She was determined, however, that they would see Mary again.

  Mary had disappeared. The bike wasn’t parked at the farm where she was staying, nor was it at Christophe’s flat. They drove around the streets of Cognac, hoping to catch a glimpse of her. Christophe, for all his raving about how deeply he knew her, had no idea where she might be. After an hour of kerb-crawling, he dropped Rainbow off at the commune and went to wait for Mary at his flat. He promised to ring as soon as he had some news.