Page 33 of The Wishing Tree Beside the Shor
It’s raining the next morning, which is much more like the Welsh weather I’ve come to expect over the years. I throw my laptop into a backpack and put it on my shoulders, which are a bit sore from yesterday’s scythe wielding, and head down to the strawberry patch anyway. Even if clearing weeds is out in this weather, at least Ryan will be there. There’s plenty to be getting on with for the website, and Tonya sent me three phone numbers of people who might have stories connected to the tree, so it’s not like there’s nothing to do.
‘Say hello to Cynthia for me,’ Dad calls as I open the door.
‘Oh, Iwill,’ I say, sad he can’t see the raised eyebrows.
‘And don’t violate Ryan too much, I think we all saw enough of that yesterday.’
‘You’re hilarious,’ I call back as I put my umbrella up and step outside.
Dad sticks his head out of the upstairs window and calls down to me. ‘If it helps, it didn’t look like he minded too much.’
‘Neither did I,’ I mutter to the sparrows eating from the neighbour’s bird feeder once I’m well out of Dad’s earshot.
The rain hammers down on the umbrella as I walk down the residential street and turn onto the coastal road that leads to Seaview Heights. On the gate to the coastal path, the cardboard sign is now hanging limply by one corner and looks like it might drop down with a wet plop at any moment. The campsite is busy though, and most of the tents and caravans have lights glowing from inside, brightening up the dull greyness of the morning, along with people in neon anoraks trying to save campfires in the foggy fields.
The gate to the strawberry patch is undone and I let myself in, not expecting to find any residents out in this weather. Ryan’s got a camping lantern glowing beside him in the tree and he lifts a hand in greeting. I wave back, unable to stop the smile that spreads across my face.
The only other person here is Godfrey, who’s still sitting on the same bench with an umbrella open above him, held by an attachment clipped onto the back of the bench leaving his hands free to read the newspaper that’s spread across his lap.
‘Good morning, Fliss,’ he calls when he sees me. He doesn’t particularly look like he wants company, and even the gnomes aren’t doing anything dodgy today. Instead, there’s a gnome painted like Prince Charles holding up a sign that reads “Free beer this way” along with an arrow pointing to a row of slug traps buried in the soil and filled with beer. At the end of the row of traps, there’s a sheet of cardboard that Mr Barley has drawn a maze on in permanent marker and covered the lines with walls of salt, and written,“Drunken Slug Maze: may the odds be in your slimy favour.”
It makes me laugh out loud.
‘Those slithering slime-goblins aren’t having our strawberries,’ Godfrey says. ‘Mr Barley is taking up my vendetta against them. They were always our biggest pest when Henrietta and I worked here.’
Just when you think you’ve heard it all, you have an octogenarian referring to slugs as slime-goblins.
I ask Godfrey if he needs anything before I head down towards the tree. The path is wider now after all the brambles we’ve taken down in the past few days, and the uncovered strawberry plants are hanging their heads under the onslaught of rain as water drips from their pale berries.
Baaabra Streisand is under the cover of the sycamore’s branches, dense enough to keep her dry as she stands looking out at the rain, giving it a displeased glare. ‘Good morning, Baaabra.’ I go to give her a stroke, but she looks like she might want to eat me so my hand shrinks back before she decides for definite.
Ryan grins down at me from where he’s sitting cross-legged in the tree, kept dry by the canopy of tarpaulin spread above him. ‘You’re early.’
I hadn’t even looked at the time until now, but it’s before nine. Iamearly. I can’t remember the last time I voluntarily got anywhere before nine a.m.
Everything feels different here though. Like I’m doing something good. Something healthy. Something that benefits the community. And it makes me think way too much about the other projects I’ve been involved with. The other land where I’ve done admin on Harrison’s acquisitions and sales, and I start thinking about the communities behind those too, and if Landoperty Developments were always as welcome as Harrison would have people believe.
‘Come up, it’s nice and dry here.’ He pats the wood beside him.
I flap my umbrella a few times to shake the water off and leave it leaning against the tree. Baaabra will probably eat it before the morning’s out.
I go around to the side of the tree where he showed me the other night, pass my backpack up to him, fit my foot against the dip in the trunk and hoist myself up. His hand closes around my forearm and he hauls me into the branches.
‘Thanks, I could’ve managed,’ I say, breathless from the exertion, or possibly from Ryan’s hand around my arm. His hands are big and warm and make me realise how cold I am. I’m only wearing a T-shirt – my usual summer attire because it’s always so hot in London, even when it rains.
‘Hi.’ He’s smiling as he shuffles backwards, giving me space to sort myself out.
‘Hi.’ I stop in the middle of moving when his bright eyes meet mine and I’m smiling almost as widely as he is.
He’s wearing trainers and short trousers today, and a charcoal grey T-shirt underneath a cobalt blue hoodie with the sleeves rolled up, showing off forearms that I really want to lick.
Where didthatcome from? I donotwant tolickhis arms. That’s just wrong. And would be really, really weird. Thank God I didn’t say that out loud.
The chain around his waist jangles as he moves, going back to sitting with his legs crossed and pulling sketchbooks into his lap to make room for me to sit down beside him.
‘Did I ever tell you I love your hair?’
I freeze mid-movement and my stomach turns over and twists itself into a pretzel. ‘You did.’
