Page 36 of The Wishing Tree Beside the Shor
Suddenly, inspiration strikes, and it has nothing to do with strawberry recipes.
Goose bumps break out across my entire body and I shiver at the possibility. I don’t want to move or even speak too loudly in case it scares the idea away. ‘Ry, I know how to save the tree.’
The thought snowballs through my brain, picking up speed and getting bigger as it moves. Like he always used to, he knows exactly what I need, and without saying a word, he holds his hand out and my fingers automatically curl around his, scrunching them as I think it through. ‘This is a wishing tree. It has to grant a wish.’
‘Any wish? I mean, I wish to save the tree – there you go, job done.’
‘No. Henrietta’s wish, the one you wrote about in the flyer. She wished to see this place as it was again. And Godfrey was telling me yesterday that when she came here, the tree was inaccessible but she so desperately wanted to see it that one of the wardens put down boards to make a pathway for her wheelchair, so I wouldn’t mind betting that was the last ever wish made on this tree. Wouldn’t it be incredible if the tree granted the last ever wish made on one its seeds? We could do that – you and me. We could make this place like it was again.’
‘Go on …’ The tone in his voice is instantly recognisable – barely contained excitement.
‘We’re already halfway there with the strawberries,’ I say eagerly, not sure if it’s the idea or the inhalation of Ryan’s cologne that’s making me feel so giddy. He smells like sea salt and herbs today. ‘All we’d have to do is clear the rest of the brambles away …’
‘Are you talking about reopening the strawberry patch?’
‘Yes!’ Somehow, he still hasn’t let go of my hand and I squeeze his fingers again. ‘Look at all these plants. There aresomany of them, more than when it was open before, and they’resmotheredin fruit that’s still to ripen and flowers that are still to form berries. Strawberry season is going to run for another couple of months yet. They’re not in the neat rows they used to be, but if we clean up the ground around them and get rid of the last of the brambles, whycouldn’twe let the public come in to pick their own again?’
‘It doesn’t belong to us. It’s not Godfrey’s land anymore – it belongs to the care home.’
‘So any money that’s earned goes there. Even Steffan isn’t going to complain about that. He hasn’t sold the land yet – he wanted to because it’s just dead space sitting here. If we could use it for its intended purposeandbring in a little bit of money, maybe he could be persuaded to keep it.’
‘I don’t know what the hotel have offered him, but it’s going to beslightlymore than a couple of £2.50 punnets of strawberries.’
I don’t know how much they’re offering either, but he’s surely got a point. ‘Yeah, but how incredible would it be to see families strawberry picking here again? Even if it’s one last time. Even if it doesn’t work and he still sells it. The tree will still have granted that wish. For just this summer, we could make this place like it used to be.’
‘Are you staying for the summer then?’
I look over and meet his bright eyes. Why does he look so hopeful? He looks eager, like he’s anticipating my answer, and it makes that fluttering come again. ‘Guess I’ll have to, won’t I?’ The words are out there before I’ve thought them through. I can’t stay for the summer. I can’t stay for the rest of theweek, never mind the summer. As soon as Harrison knows this protest isn’t going away, I’ll be back in the office in London. Which is where I should’ve gone the moment I realised there was a conflict of interests and the only man I’ve ever loved was running the show.
I mean, no, that’s wrong. He’s not theonlyman I’ve ever been in love with. I think. Probably. There was the guy I dated for a few years in my twenties that I kind of convinced myself I’d end up marrying, until he realised there was no passion between us and left, which was fair enough because I had a more exciting relationship with the microwave.
‘There’s something else. Tree of the Year competition.’
He snorts. ‘There’s no way that’s a thing.’
‘It is.’ I can’t tell him I know because my life is so empty that I spend my free time watching obscure documentaries on channels no one’s ever heard of about weird things like tree competitions. ‘It’s saved trees before. Every year, people submit nominations, a panel of judges do a shortlist and that goes to a public vote. If we tell the story of Godfrey and Henrietta’s last wish, and of the tree granting it … There’s no other tree like that in Britain.’
‘Call me sceptical, but Ithinkpeople are going to realise it’s us and not the tree. I doubt they’ll think it uproots itself at night and moseys about digging up blackberry bushes.’
The mental image makes me giggle. ‘It’s not about that. It’s about making people believe in hope. This tree has always felt magical and otherworldly. We grew up thinking it could make our dreams come true. All we need is for people to know about it. Even being shortlisted would garner attention that no hotel company is going to want heaped on them with the stigma of cutting it down. People will boycott them. Environmental protestors will go for their jugular. And if it wins Tree of the Year, there’s bound to be something we can do about getting it protected status.’ I suddenly realise I’m clasping his hand with both of mine and my nails have left indents in his skin, and I release him quickly and pull away, shuffling back to sit up straighter.
He goes to say something, but there’s a rustle above us, and we both look up to see a sycamore leaf floating down towards us. Neither of us breathes as it sways back and forth on the wind while it falls, eventually drifting underneath the canopy and coming to rest on the bark between us.
I look at the leaf and then up at Ryan’s eyes, and I can see the same thought reflected back at me.
I reach over and pick it up carefully. ‘Do you think that might be the tree’s way of letting us know it approves?’
‘I think it might,’ he murmurs.
The whole world has gone silent as I turn the sycamore leaf over in my fingers. It doesn’t have any signs of anything wrong with it, and it’s way too early in the summer for the leaves to start falling.
Ryan reaches out and touches a fingertip to the toothed edge of the leaf as I spin it between thumb and forefinger. ‘Do you really think we can do this?’
‘Yes.’ For the first time in a really long time, I have no doubts about what I’m doing.
‘Then so do I.’ He looks up and meets my eyes again. ‘You always made me feel likewecould do anything.’ He shakes himself and pulls his hand away. ‘You’re unbe-leaf-able, Fee.’
In the midst of all the seriousness, it makes me cackle with laughter. ‘Oh God, don’t you start. We’ve got enough problems with “Guess the Gadget” and naughty political gnomes.’
