Love Among the Treetops

by Catherine Ferguson

  Anyway, overnight, my life changed. I was dizzily, ecstatically in love for the first time and Jason felt the same way. At fifteen, I was happy and confident at school for the very first time and my grades improved in leaps and bounds – enough to make university a possibility.

  I thought Jason and I would be together forever …

  I’ve tried hard over the years to play down the bullying and put the taunts and the painful attacks behind me. But coming back to Hart’s End always makes the dark days of my past loom a hundred times more vividly.

  Sometimes I wonder if that will ever really change.

  *****

  The house feels shivery and bleak without Mum and Dad, so I go around turning on table lamps and radiators to make it cosy – even though it’s the middle of May and it won’t be dark for a few hours yet.

  Then I make a cup of tea and sit in Dad’s old armchair, smoothing the arm and trying to look on the bright side. It’s going to be fine. The café will be a success and I’ll be able to pay off the mortgage arrears so we won’t have to sell the house. They don’t have a big mortgage, but the illness forced Dad to stop working and close down the business. They lived off savings for a while but for the past few months, they’ve been sliding slowly into debt.

  The treatment he’s about to undergo sounds horribly invasive but my dad has always been strong – in body and in spirit. He’ll take the discomfort in his stride – I know he will. I try to ignore the nagging little whisper in my head that says, What if the treatment doesn’t work?

  We have to be positive. The doctors wouldn’t have recommended Dad for the trial if they didn’t think he stood a big chance of benefiting from it, would they?

  The bond I have with my dad is special.

  When I was little, he’d take me fly fishing, usually right after tea, and we’d sit there, side by side, watching the surface of the river for any slight movement, Dad making me laugh with his daft jokes. (He didn’t seem to mind that my giggles probably scared the fish away.)

  Fishing as it grew dark was the way to go, Dad said, because fish loved evenings, especially after a hot summer’s day spent lazing around. As a child, I loved this image of lazy fish getting their groove on as dusk fell. And of course, whatever we caught, we always returned to the water to swim another day.

  Mum used to go fishing with Dad when they first met. I tend to picture it as quite romantic, the two of them sitting together on the river bank, talking about their lives and waiting for a bite – but Mum always laughs and says she was only there for Dad and that, actually, she hated the cold and the wet and all the fishy smells! (Prawns make the best ever bait, according to Dad.) I think Mum was quite glad when he started taking me fishing instead.

  When they were thinking of a name for me, Mum joked they should call me Dusk or Twilight because that was the time of day they did a lot of their courting, right there by the river. Even before I arrived in the world, they were apparently patting her swelling tummy and talking to ‘Baby Twilight’, and the name just stuck.

  They’re well matched as a couple. Mum is the practical one, while Dad has a more reflective, dreamy nature, like me. I love that he believes in following your dreams, whatever the cost. When I was little and we sat on that riverbank, he’d tell me that life was precious and should be lived to the full. He’d encourage me to smell the rain and feel the wind, and throw my dreams into space to see what came back to me.

  It was Dad who first gave me the idea about switching careers and studying to become a pastry chef. When he said it, I laughed, wondering why I hadn’t thought of it first. I sometimes think Dad knows me better than I know myself.

  He’d always been in great health. Never went to the doctor. His other hobby, apart from the fishing and wood carving, was walking. He and Mum both loved the holidays they spent in the Lake District, getting hot and breathless scaling the peaks and enjoying the panoramic views from the top. At home, when he wasn’t busy with the shop, he’d often walk for miles in the country lanes around the village. He was a fit man. Everyone said that. So I didn’t have to worry about him.

  Then, a month after I started at catering college, Mum phoned to say she’d have to cancel our forthcoming weekend in Amsterdam because Dad was feeling a bit under the weather. I remember thinking it must be a really bad dose of cold or flu to make Dad give up a trip to one of his favourite cities. We’d been looking forward to it, all three of us, for ages.

  Then came the news that Dad had diabetes.

  I was quite shocked because Dad lived such a healthy life. Okay, he usually had the sticky toffee pudding when he and Mum went out for dinner about once a month, but that was hardly sugar overload.

  But after the initial bombshell, I got used to the idea. Dad had diabetes, which wasn’t good. But it wasn’t the end of the world, either.

  Then Mum phoned and mentioned he was going into hospital for more tests, and that was when I started to really worry. If diabetes had been diagnosed, why the need for further tests?

  It turned out the diabetes was an underlying symptom of something much more serious.

  Mum very rarely cried. But that night, when I took the train back to Sussex and Dad was in bed, too exhausted from the effects of the cancer to even stay up to greet me, we clung to each other and she sobbed her heart out.

  Now, the only thing keeping us all going is the thought that this revolutionary new treatment will somehow make a difference. His age – fifty-nine – meant it was touch and go whether he would even be accepted on the trial, but their lovely GP was adamant he was a good candidate for the treatment. The day we heard it was full steam ahead – two months ago, in March – we cracked open a bottle of champagne Mum had been saving for their anniversary, and even Dad managed a glass.

  Dad’s sister, my Auntie June, lives in North London, so hers was the obvious place for them to stay while Dad underwent his three months of treatment.

  But their financial situation was becoming more urgent by the day. Dad had closed the business three months earlier, finally accepting he wasn’t well enough to continue working. It broke my heart when he had to sell off his stock just to continue paying the mortgage.

  And now it’s up to me to save Honey Cottage.

  The pressure makes me feel as if I’m carrying a boulder on my shoulders. I know Dad feels utterly useless, not being able to work and provide for them, and that can’t be good for his health.

  So it’s up to me to take the load off his shoulders.

  Whatever happens, I can’t let my lovely dad down …

  The phone rings and it’s Mum. ‘We’re just back from our appointment with the consultant,’ she says, ‘so I thought I’d ring. Make sure you’d settled in.’

  ‘I’m fine, Mum. What about you? Both of you?’

  ‘Us? Oh, yes, we’re okay, Twilly love. And listen, your dad thinks what you’re doing is wonderful. Coming back home to open a café.’ She lowers her voice. I assume Dad must be somewhere in earshot. ‘He hates the thought of that shop unit of his lying empty. It makes him feel completely useless, bless him. So when I told him the news that you wanted to do something with the space, it brought the biggest smile I’ve seen on his face in weeks. He’s so proud of you, love.’

  A lump rises in my throat, making it painful to swallow. ‘I’m really glad, Mum. Tell him I’m going to do my best to make it work.’

  ‘Yes, but are you sure that’s what you really want to do? You were halfway through your pastry course and you seemed to be loving it.’

  ‘I was. And I’ll finish the course some time in the future.’

  ‘Have you talked to your tutors? Have they said you can do that?’

  ‘Yes, Mum. Honestly. It’s fine.’

  ‘Well, just as long as you’re sure.’

  I smile. Mum’s the worrier: the sensible one. She always has been. Dad is the adventurer: the risk-taker. Mum manages for the most part to keep his feet on the ground. They complement each other perfectly. I’ve always
regarded their relationship as something to aspire to, although so far, I’ve failed spectacularly in my quest to find a member of the opposite sex to share that same magical togetherness with. Perhaps I’ll just get a rabbit instead.

  ‘Betty and Doreen will definitely be regular customers at your café,’ Mum’s saying, referring to her two best friends in the village. ‘You know how they love their cream teas. And I’ll get the Women’s Institute on side as well.’

  ‘Great! Thanks, Mum.’

  She sighs. ‘Well, we’re all in this together, aren’t we, love?’

  ‘Yes, we are.’ My heart feels heavy. I appreciate Mum’s support but it’s going to take a lot more than Mum’s best friends, and Winnie and Rose from the WI to make this venture a success! I’ll need to get word out to all of Hart’s End and the surrounding villages, too. And I’ll have to attract the passing tourist trade – but how do I do that? I’ll need some signage, directing potential customers from the main through-road into our quiet cul-de-sac. Fortunately, it’s the beginning of May so the holiday season is only just starting …

  Oh God, am I completely deluding myself, thinking I can actually pull this off?

  ‘Are you still there, love?’

  ‘Yes. Sorry. I was just – thinking. About the café.’

  ‘Ah, yes. We’ve been trying to come up with a good name for it. I was thinking, “The Twilight Café”.’

  ‘Mum, that’s perfect!’

  ‘Do you think so? Oh, it’s such a tonic, talking to you, love.’

  ‘You, too.’ I pause. ‘How’s Dad feeling?’ There’s always an element of fear in the question these days.

  ‘Your dad? Oh, yes. According to him, he’ll be back in his garden by the autumn. He’s got great plans to pull out the hedge and build a rockery with a pond and a waterfall, no less!’

  ‘That’s great, Mum.’ I’m gripping my phone really tightly. ‘Honestly, if anyone can get through these next few months, it’s Dad with his positive attitude. ‘Everything’s going to be fine, I’m sure of it.’

  There’s a tiny pause and my heart lurches into my throat.

  ‘Of course it is, love.’ Mum’s forced cheeriness is like a stab in the heart. ‘We’ll be home and fighting fit by Christmas. You can count on it!’

  Chapter 3

  At eleven, I switch off the TV and head upstairs to my old room with the single bed and the complete works of J. K. Rowling dominating the bookshelves.

  The house phone rings by the bed and I dive on it, knowing who it will be. No one else would call so late and expect me to answer.

  It’s my old school friend, Paloma, who’s been in a state of high excitement ever since I phoned to tell her I was coming back to live in Hart’s End. Paloma always cheers me up, and we’ve been the best of friends ever since the day I discovered she was using the same trick as me to get out of PE at school – faking a twisted ankle. We both got away with it and spent the rest of the day trying to outdo each other on the hobbling front and escaping to the loos to squeal with laughter.

  ‘You’ve arrived!’ she cheers. ‘When can I come round?’

  I laugh. ‘Not now. And not because I don’t want to see you, but because I’m planning on being fast asleep in about – ooh – three minutes.’

  Paloma is very much a night owl, still full of life in the late evening when most people are drifting off in front of the TV. (Mornings, she resembles a creature from the deep. Silent but scary.)

  ‘I didn’t mean tonight. You must be absolutely shattered. How was your journey? Boring, I imagine.’

  A memory flashes into my head. Theo making his comment about celery being one hundred per cent not pizza and winking at me.

  ‘Actually, no, it was okay,’ I muse. ‘There was this bloke called Theo who helped me off with my case. Otherwise I’d have missed the stop.’

  ‘Theo, eh? Tell me more.’

  Her tone is loaded with innuendo and heat floods into my cheeks. ‘Nothing to tell. He’s just … um … nice.’

  ‘Nice? Is that all?’

  ‘And quirky. He was reading a book about crochet.’

  She laughs. ‘He sounds fascinating. And how’s your dad?’

  ‘Oh, you know. Putting on a brave face, I think. They both are,’ I say, relieved she’s dropped the subject of Theo.

  ‘Your dad is just the best. Remember he used to cut sticks of rhubarb from the garden and give us a little bag of sugar each to dip it in? We must have been about ten.’ She sighs. ‘Those were the days.’

  I laugh. ‘Yeah, and when you crunched it, you felt like you were stripping the enamel off your teeth. And if you ate too much you were awake all night with a sore stomach. Those “good old days” had a lot to answer for!’

  Paloma gets quite sentimental over her childhood, but as my own memories tend to feature a lot of Lucy Slater in a starring role, I much prefer to look to the future.

  We decide to meet for brunch at eleven, and I switch off the light, feeling so much better for having spoken to her. Coming back to Hart’s End alone, without Paloma in my corner, would have been a whole lot more difficult …

  Paloma was there for me through my darkest days at school. She made me laugh through my tears and even squared up to Lucy sometimes on my behalf, although I knew she hated fighting – was against it on principle. She’s much more resilient than me. Refuses to let anything get her down. And it’s not as if her own childhood was exactly a walk in the park, either.

  Born in Hart’s End, she was given away at birth and moved soon after, with her new family, to Scotland. But her adoptive dad, Bill, died when Paloma was only six, and her heartbroken mum, Linda, decided to move them both back to the familiar surroundings of Hart’s End. Then, last year, Linda – who Paloma adored – died after a short battle with breast cancer.

  I came back to Hart’s End for the funeral, then offered to stay on a few days to help Paloma clear out her mum’s house because I knew she had no relatives to rely on. But she wanted to do it herself. It would help her draw one phase of her life to a close, ready to start the next, she explained. There was something about the calm, logical way she said it that made me uneasy, but I told myself people coped with bereavement in all sorts of different ways.

  Then something happened that made me realise Paloma was far from okay.

  Six months after Linda’s death, she had what I later realised was a sort of breakdown.

  I was at her flat one morning when the doorbell rang, and listening from the living room, I gathered it was one of her female clients. After a minute, Paloma’s voice started to rise and to my alarm, I heard her shout, ‘And never come to my home with your stupid questions!’ before slamming the door.

  I rushed to the window. The poor, bemused woman was hurrying away as if a psychopath was after her.

  When I questioned Paloma, she insisted she was in the right. The woman shouldn’t have come to her flat, no matter how urgent the matter was and however many emails were bouncing right back to her. I asked her if she’d managed to get a new broadband provider (she’d thrown the router at the wall in a fit of annoyance over a weak signal a few days before). She hadn’t.

  Retreating to the kitchen, I put the kettle on and stood there worrying about how to help my best friend. With no email contact, it was no wonder the poor client felt she had no option but to pay Paloma a visit in person to discuss her account. But Paloma wasn’t thinking clearly. She was missing Linda so much but refusing to give in to the feeling and actually grieve for her mum.

  The next day – a warm and sunny Saturday in early August – I told Paloma we were going on a mystery tour, down to the south coast, and I took her to Bournemouth, where she’d spent many happy holidays with Linda in a little B&B there called The Bay View Guest House. I was nervous about how she’d react. But when she realised where we were heading, she fell silent, staring out at scenery that must have been heartbreakingly familiar.

  We sat on the sand and shared the picnic I’d brought,
and I could tell she was growing emotional because she kept losing track of the conversation and staring out to sea, a wistful look on her face. The memories, I could tell, were flooding back.

  In the end, her shoulders started to shake, and she dropped her head on her knees and wept for the mother she’d lost. We sat there for a long time, my own throat hurting in empathy with her sobs, as I rubbed her back gently from time to time.

  At last, she stopped crying and looked up at me with red, swollen eyes and asked if I had a hanky.

  ‘No, but you can use my sleeve if you like,’ I joked, and was rewarded with a watery smile.

  She gave a giant sniff and lifted her T-shirt to dab her eyes. ‘I need something to drink.’

  I dug in the bag for the flask of coffee and started unscrewing the lid.

  She shook her head. ‘I want to get plastered.’

  So we gathered our things and went to the nearest pub as the light was fading and drank far too much for our own good. Then we walked back to the beach, arm in arm (mainly because we’d have fallen down otherwise), kicked off our shoes and went for a paddle in the sea, which we both found hysterically funny.

  Next day, over breakfast at The Bay View Guest House, Paloma was subdued. But she talked a bit about Linda and the fun times they’d had in Bournemouth. And when we were leaving, before she got into the car, she stared out across the blue sea that glittered with diamonds in the sunshine, and said softly, ‘I miss you so much, Mum.’

  On the journey home, she said the first thing she was going to do when she got back was telephone her client and apologise for her outburst.

  That’s when I knew Paloma was going to be all right …

  Chapter 4

  ‘Use the pulley! Go on, please. For old times’ sake.’

  It’s the following day – a sunny morning in early May – and we’re in the garden of Honey Cottage, Paloma beaming down at me from the open window of the treehouse.

  She lowers the basket on a string, a remnant from when we were kids, and I plonk the box of freshly baked cookies inside, along with the two portable coffees I’ve made. Then I stand back, arms folded, grinning as she makes a big ceremony of hauling up the goodies.