Page 14 of The Wishing Tree Beside the Shor
I look out at the sun-bleached ruins of an old stone castle on the hills in the distance, while simultaneously trying to sneak glances at Ryan. He looks exactly the same. A little older, a little more rough-around-the-edges, like he’s spent the past few years outdoors, but like there might be a Dorian Gray-style painting in his attic that we should be concerned about. His dark hair is short at the back and soft and wavy on top, at just the length that it’ll start to curl if it grows any longer.
‘Are you staying?’ he asks quietly, facing the sea instead of looking my way.
I should leave; I know that. Abandon plan. I can’t stay here with Ryan Sullivan running the place. But at the same time, the idea that he’s still single makes something flitter through me that has no right to be flittering anywhere near me, and it feels a little bit like fate has had a hand in us meeting again, and in this exact spot too.
And aside from Ryan, I get the feeling there’s something going on with Dad, something Cheryl hasn’t said in as many words, and it feels wrong to walk away. And now I know where the hotel’s going, I can’t just stand back and let them destroy this place.
‘For a while.’ Those are the words I hear come out of my mouth, but I’m pretty sure I didn’t really say them, because I’m not, am I? I can’t stay here and infiltrate this protest withhimleading it.
He’s smiling when he looks at me. ‘I was hoping you were going to say that.’
A smile that does a stellar job of taking my breath away. It’s the first one that hasn’t seemed hesitant so far today, and it makes me feel better – like he could be genuinely happy to see me.
‘I want to help. The prospect of a hotel going here isunthinkable.’ I’m not lying as I say that. He’s right – they’reallright. How could anyone want to ruin this place by plonking a hotel here? This tree is visible for miles across the ocean, guiding sailors home. No one wants to be guided home by a hotel on a cliff, do they? Well, Sat Nav and Google Maps probably do a better job these days, but still. ‘Do people still come to visit the tree?’
‘They used to, but … Look at how overgrown it is. Until a couple of weeks ago, this tree hadn’t been accessible for years. The weeds and brambles had taken over.Havetaken over. All I did was cut a path through. The rest of it is …’ He sighs and glances behind him.
He doesn’t need to say anything. The land is a disaster zone. Between the thorny brambles and spiky gorse, there are clumps of stinging nettles and other unsavoury-looking weeds that seem like they’re about to burst forth and attack you at any given moment. It doesn’t look like anyone’s set foot here for at least a decade.
‘What happened? Why did people stop coming here?’
‘The tree ran out of space for carving.’ He takes a step back and reaches across to pat the big old trunk. ‘You couldn’t fit another thing on here if you tried. The care home lost their gardener. I think the residents agreed to do it between them, but it only takes a few months for weeds to take over, and it was too much for them. And as for visitors, well, one look at this place is enough to make anyone turn back.’
He leans his elbows on the barrier again and rests his chin in his hands. ‘Sycamores only live for four hundred years, and this one has had three hundred already. Can you imagine standing somewhere for that long to be cut down in the last quarter of your life? For someone to see you as being “in the way” instead of for the magic you bring to the area?’
I look up into the boughs high above our heads as huge five-lobed leaves rustle in the sea breeze.
‘I think the residents have an affinity with it. They look happy now, but when they go back to their rooms at night, they’re on their own. Some of them have no family to visit. They look out at this tree, standing here by itself, and they feel less alone. That sort of significance can’t be understood by property developers. See that man on the bench?’ He ducks his head closer to mine and points to a man drinking a cup of tea, but sitting alone, away from the rest of the group. ‘That’s Godfrey. His wife of seventy years has got severe dementia and lives in a nursing home forty miles away. Visits are few and far between because it’s slim-to-impossible to arrange the ambulance for transportation, and he has no idea if she’s going to recognise him when he goes there. Nine times out of ten, she doesn’t.’
I bite down on my lip to stop it wobbling.
‘They have no children and no other family. Most of their friends have passed away or moved away. He’s alone.’
‘Wait … Godfrey … I know that name.’ I also know the wobble in my voice is audible.
‘His great-great-grandfather started the strawberry patch in the late 1800s. It was just a farm then. The care home hadn’t been built, but pick-your-own was big in Victorian times. It passed down through the family for generations. There are strawberries carved into the tree trunk with the names and dates of each couple taking over. He and his wife were the last ones in the 1960s. They ran it together for over forty years. Before that, they got married under this tree in 1951. All they wanted was to grow old together here, looking out over it every day while future generations ran it. They were unable to have children and she needs more specialist care than they can provide here, so they’ve been split up at the very end of their lives.’
‘Flipping ’eck, Ry.’ I can’t hide the fact I’m crying. Stories like this have always got to me. When I was younger, I used to love coming here and running my hands over the bark of the tree and imagining what stories were behind each carving.
He inches nearer and drops an arm around my shoulder and tugs me closer to him like fifteen years haven’t passed between us.
Instead of saying anything disparaging like some men would, he squeezes my shoulders tighter. ‘I was a mess when he first talked to me. We’re talking, like, snot everywhere and serious consideration of buying a shareholder stake in Kleenex.’
It makes me snort amidst the tears, which doesn’t end well, and I have to turn away to hide the snot bubble and surreptitiously swipe my hands over my face.
‘Look.’ He uses the arm around my shoulder to turn me towards the tree, and his arm falls away as he gives me a bit of privacy to compose myself. ‘I know where it is because he puts his palm over it when he wants to feel close to his wife.’
I follow his finger as he points out a carving of a heart with the names Godfrey and Henrietta in it and the date 21st September 1951. Right above it is a carved strawberry and a faded date in May 1962, the day he and his wife took over.
‘For some of these residents, that view is the only reason to get out of bed in the mornings. The social aspect of the garden is important for them. It might not look like much to an outsider, but it’s alotto them. For some people here, this is the only thing they’ve got left.’
No sooner have I stopped crying, than a lump forms in my throat again.
‘Think of the amount of life that’s gone past under this tree. This sycamore has seeneverything. In a few years’ time, future generations aren’t even going toknowit once stood here. Can you imagine what growing up in Lemmon Cove would’ve been like if this tree hadn’t been here? If the strawberry patch wasn’t a part of our lives? Our summers would’ve been different. Our autumns would’ve been void of the magic of sycamore wishes. We can’t stand by and let that be erased.’
‘We?’
‘You said you wanted to help, didn’t you?’
