Page 35 of The Wishing Tree Beside the Shor
His deadpan tone makes me burst out laughing. ‘Probably, but she seemed quite happy about it. She loved the suggestion that the kids could draw the tree, and offered to ask the headmistress if they could get every class in the infant school involved – a project to draw a picture of the tree and write a paragraph about what it means to them and how the village would be different without it. There could be a class trip here too. And I thought about how young kids these days don’t even know about the wishing aspect that our generation grew up with, so we were thinking another aspect of the project could be the kids thinking about what wish they’d make – what they’d ask the tree for if it’s still here in autumn when the seeds fall. And if you get that many kids talking about the tree, they’re going to talk to parents and grandparents who might know something about the carvings.’
He shivers, but I get the feeling it’s nothing to do with the weather. ‘Can you believe we live in a reality where we’ve even got to think that?Ifit’s still here in a couple of months’ time …’
I nudge my knee into his. ‘It’s stood here for three hundred years – it’s not being cut down on our watch.’
He gives me a soft smile. ‘You were always a force to be reckoned with.’
Me? Does he really think that? I don’t feel like I’m anything to be reckoned with these days. I work so much that I don’t have time to feel anything. My life is a constant rush, from my flat to the office and back again. This is the longest I’ve sat still other than waiting for Harrison’s lunch of choice to be prepared at the deli down the road from work, which he’s too busy and important to go and get himself.
‘How things change,’ I mutter. I’ve forgotten what it’s like to work with someone who treats you as an equal and makes you feel valued and important to the company.
Ryan cocks his head to the side, looking like he wants to prod for more information, but I speak again before he has a chance. ‘How about the flyers you were going to design?’
He shoves his pile of papers at me and jumps up to retrieve his laptop from a bag under the canopy and sits back down, somehow closer this time. He rests the open laptop on both our knees where they’re pressed together and leans across me to use the mouse pad. ‘What do you think of this?’
There’s a photo of the tree taken from the beach below, and a call to arms mentioning the hotel and Seaview Heights, the social media accounts and website, and how we want to hear from anyone who’s carved something into the tree and wants the world to know how special it is.
On the back, there’s an illustration he’s drawn of the sycamore tree, and a paragraph about Godfrey and Henrietta. It ends with the line ~When Henrietta was lucid a couple of years ago, we returned here, and she threw a sycamore seed from the cliff and made a wish to see this place as it was one last time.
I’m blinking back tears again and have to turn away, and Ryan switches to his left arm supporting the laptop and drops his right one around my shoulders.
‘I’ve done nothing but cry since I came here.’
His arm tightens. ‘Proof of how much we need to share this story.’
‘These are perfect.’ I sniffle. ‘You’rethe force to be reckoned with, Ry.’
‘You inspired the idea.’ He squeezes me tighter and then lets his arm drop away. ‘Do you think it’s going to do any good?’
‘What the property developers want is no one to make a fuss. They sought out Steffan because they thought it would be an easy buy, another bit of land they could spirit away when no one was watching. None of them banked on this little protest.’
‘How do you know that?’
Oh, bollocks. ‘I, er, ran into him yesterday,’ I mumble, feeling like the worst person in existence. This is getting worse with every passing second. I can’t even keep track of things I’m supposed to know and not know. ‘This looks bad for the hotel company. The heartless hotel magnates who want to take joy from care home residents and destroy this gorgeous monument to times gone by and all the people who have left their mark on it over the years … It’s bad press, and the more people who are talking about it, the worse it’s going to be.’ I lean my elbows on my knees and rest my chin in my hands, looking out across the vast expanse of land, now mostly cut brambles dotted with sprays of tangled strawberry plants, the hanging red berries creating spots of colour in the otherwise green landscape.
‘The residents want strawberry recipes to use them up.’ Ryan nods towards the plants, which will soon start ripening. ‘I was given strict instructions to ask my favourite chef what the best ones were.’
‘I didn’t realise you knew James Martin …’
He laughs. ‘Go on, Fee, what’s your best strawberry recipe? The residents are worried they’ll all ripen at once and we’ll have a glut of them. I’m more concerned that Baaabra Streisand will eat the lot and then we’ll have a glut of something far less pleasant.’
I think I’ve had enough close encounters of the sheep poo kind to last a lifetime, but strawberry recipes? Comeon. ‘I think classic is best when it comes to strawberries. With cream and sugar and a glass of Pimm’s when the tennis is on. Did you know there are 28,000 kilograms of strawberries consumed at Wimbledon every year?’ I attempt to distract him with random facts rather than admit that when it comes to strawberry recipes, there is nothing but a tumbleweed blowing around my brain.
‘Nah, most of the folks here only find fruit acceptable if it’s disguised by cake. You must have something better than that. What strawberry-based dishes do you do at Riscaldar? They’d get such a kick out of having a dish prepared for them by a world-class chef.’
‘I’mnota world-class chef, Ry.’ Never has a truer word been spoken. A world-class chef would have me in prison for the kitchen-based crimes I’ve been known to commit.
‘You always were too modest, but you forget how well I know you, Fee. You’re world-class ateverythingyou do.’
That faith in me. No one haseverbelieved in me the way he did, and guilt prickles at the back of my neck. I’m the worst person to believe in.
He’s still looking at me expectantly, and I can’t eventhinkof a cake that contains strawberries. My mind is blank when it comes to recipes anyway, but now it’s as blank as a question onBlankety Blank.
‘Strawberry crumble?’ I suggest. I’ve never actually heard of a strawberry crumble, but my mum used to make apple crumbles, so surely the same principle could apply to our heart-shaped red friends?
He wrinkles his nose. ‘That’s a bit basic, isn’t it? Even I could make a strawberry crumble and the most complicated thing I do in a kitchen is chuck vegetables into the soup maker – a present from Alys after it had come up on “Guess the Gadget”. You must have something fancier than that.’
Oh God. ‘Okay, my favourite strawberry recipes are …’ I look around for divine inspiration. A cow moos in the distance. Quite fitting. I’d appear more chef-like if I sat here mooing.
