Page 13 of The Wishing Tree Beside the Shor
His fingers squeeze around mine as he tugs me with him. Brambles scrape my legs at either side, and the ground underneath my feet is stony and green with a mixture of moss and grass, but nothing registers except for his hand in mine. His skin is warm and his hands are somehow bigger and even more solid than they used to be. The kind of hands that make you feel everything’s going to be all right whenever they’re near you.
The sheep baas as we approach the tree, not sounding very happy at having her grass-munching interrupted again. ‘Do you know there’s a sheep tied to your tree?’
‘Yeah, she’s my sheep.’
‘You have a pet sheep?’ I give the white fluffy thing a wide berth as she takes an inquisitive step towards me. She’s wearing one of those hefty dog harnesses with “SECURITY” embroidered in capital letters across either side, and attached to a dog lead that’s tied onto the chain that criss-crosses the tree trunk.
Ryan looks back at me with a shrug, like this too is not at all unusual.
‘Aren’t they herd animals that live in fields? Generally quite a lot of them?’
‘Well, I did have two sheep that lived in a field and kept each other company, but one sadly died. They came with the campsite land. The guy who sold it to me couldn’t take them with him, so I offered to rehome them for him, but no one wanted two extra sheep so I kept them.’
‘Does she have a name?’
‘Baaabra Streisand.’
I let out such a loud bark of laughter at the name that it makes Ryan, myself,andthe sheep jump.
‘You can’t have sheep and not give them funny names,’ he says incredulously. ‘The other one was called Dolly Baa-ton. And I have a long list of sheep puns in case any more come along. I nearly got two more just so I could call them Meryl Sheep and Lady BaaBaa. And yes, Iamvery proud of my sheep-naming skills.’
I howl with laughter again and it eases some of the awkwardness between us. I’ve forgotten how funny he is. I’ve forgotten his poker face that I used to recognise in an instant, even though it drove others up the wall because they could never tell if he was serious or not.
‘She’s a comedic sheep – you’ll see.’
I’m so distracted by the hand-holding and trying to avoid the sheep that I haven’t realised how close to the sycamore tree we’ve got, and I have to duck sharply as a low branch threatens to decapitate me.
Ryan looks around at the sudden movement and then glances at our still-joined hands. ‘I’m so sorry. I have no right to hold your hand. You must have a husband who’ll want to punch me for that.’
‘I’m not married,’ I say, my words coming out at a pitch that only mice can hear. Maybe I should go the whole hog on the lies front and tell him I am. I’m a successful chef whohasn’thad a string of failed relationships because she wants just one man to make her feel even a fraction of how you did. Happily married, thank you very much, just like you undoubtedly are.
‘Good.’ He coughs. ‘I mean, me neither. At least we’re old spinsters together. Er, can men be spinsters?’
My hand falls out of his in surprise. There isnoway he can be single.Lookat him. The sheep would probably marry him given half a chance, never mind the rest of the female population of South Wales. I’ve imagined running into him again hundreds of times, and in every single impossible, ridiculous, unlikely scenario, he’s happily married. It doesn’t make sense that he wouldn’t be in real life.
‘I’ve just realised I’ve called you old too.’ He smacks his forehead. ‘What agreatfirst impression I’m making. Well, second impression. Well, we saw each other every day for more than three years, so I suppose nine-hundredth-and-something impression. To clarify, I meant thatI’mold; you’re not. You’re young, beautiful, and strapping. Oh good God, now I’ve made it worse by calling you strapping.Notstrapping. Just as perfect as you always were. I’m going to shut up now.’
I can’t stop giggling. Ryan’s nervous rambling really hasn’t changed. He’s just as adorably awkward as he always was, and I clearly remember the time we went for a meeting with suppliers and he tried to tell one of the farmers that her cows were a credit to her but accidentally rambled that she was just as lovely as her cows before realising it hadnotcome out as the compliment he’d intended.
I try to concentrate on the tree instead. There’s a blue and white striped deckchair secured to the chain around the trunk too, undoubtedly a seat for whoever takes over because I doubt they’re up to scaling the branches like Ryan does.
The towering tree’s huge trunk is covered with the carvings of thousands of visitors over the years. You’d probably need seven or eight people to put their arms around its circumference. It’s a tree full of nooks and crannies and foot-holds, probably easy to climb if you’re as fit as Ryan obviously is. The trunk goes up and then splits off into several directions, leaving a big space in the middle that every child in Lemmon Cove has climbed up to at some point in their lives.
There’s a canopy of blue tarpaulin to keep the rain off, held taut where it’s tied to the branches above, and I can see a rucksack and sleeping bag rolled up to one side. It’s the sort of magical treehouse den that any child would love, but I can’t believe he’s reallylivinghere.
It’s shady under the branches and the wind has picked up the closer we’ve got to the sea, giving a welcome break from the blazing August sun. I avoid Baaabra Streisand when she doubles back and appears from the opposite side of the tree and trots over to me. I’ve never known a sheep that didn’t run away from humans before.
I let my hand trail across the etched bark, my fingers crossing the dips of carving after carving, not a space left anywhere after so many years. There is so much history in this tree. This big old thing has seen everything happen beneath its branches, from first kisses to marriage proposals to weddings and ashes being scattered, and everything in between.
I glance at Ryan, who’s now leaning on the sturdy metal barrier looking out at the sea. Does he remember the “Ry + Fee” he carved in a love heart to commemorate my leaving day? Does he know that heart was what made me kiss him?
Local legend has it that when a couple carve their names into the tree, it cements their relationship and if a carving stays strong then the relationship will too, but if a carving fades then so will the relationship, so it’s safe to say that Ryan’s carving ofournames is long gone by now.
He’s leaning on the metal fence, a strong and secure barrier between the land above and the sand below, and I go to stand next to him. I’ve stood here so many times and watched sycamore seeds twirl down to the sea. When I was growing up, another local belief was that in the autumn when the sycamore seeds were falling, if you threw one over the cliff when the tide was high and made a wish before it twizzled into the sea below, it would come true. Kids flocked here in October when the helicopter seeds turned brown and started to fall.
‘It’s been a long time, huh?’ He shifts closer until his warm arm presses against mine. ‘It’s good to see you.’
‘Good to see you too,’ I stutter, feeling like I need a drink of water. It sounds like I’m lying. Itisgood to see him in a way, but it’s also absolutely horrendous to see him.
